by WB McKay
"As good a place as any," I told him.
His eyebrows rose and he turned away from me, shaking his head. "You didn't used to give me such bullshit answers," he said. "I don't know what I expected, but not that you'd come back even angrier. Shouldn't surprise me, I guess. You never could let anything go."
I leaned away from him, hardly believing my ears. "You don't want to talk to me about that."
He removed his hat, shuffled his hair around, and stuck it back on his head before hopping up. His eyes were on his feet as he walked out of sight. Once he was well past the back of the cabin, he said, "Good night, Julia." And then he was gone.
The moon traveled across the sky. Insects sang to the night. Bats stole through the dark, unseen by most. Nathaniel was right, there was something that needed cherishing in all of this. I knew I didn't feel like I was supposed to about it though. Beauty like that should fill a soul, provide joy and strength to make folks hardy for the challenges ahead. The night made its way into my chest and carved me out hollow, leaving me breathless with melancholy. I used to think I understood it, I always had a clear reason for the feeling, but the real truth about being grown, as I've found it, is that the things I thought I knew only carried me so far until, one by one, they all left me, clueless and alone in a life neverending.
I was a downer. I knew it. I didn't attempt to ease the pain by shoving it onto others' shoulders. I'd get better about it someday. I'd get my revenge, and then I'd get better about it.
My revenge was the very last thing I had left to believe in, the last thing I truly thought I knew. If it left me like the rest of my certainties, well, as long as I still had it, the ache in my soul remained weatherable. I'd tolerate all of it, as long as I had that.
I tumbled into bed when my eyes were burning and gritty. Exhaustion held me down well past the sunrise. I woke up unrested with a gnawing in my gut.
When I tripped down the three steps off my porch, eyes half open and one hand pulling at the knots in my hair, I noticed the smell of cooking meat drifting around the cabin, from the direction of my new barbecue. "That's my sausage," I said, certain of it. Sure enough, when I stumbled around that way, there stood Nathaniel, cooking my meat.
"Mornin'," he greeted me.
"Son of a bitch," I said.
He tipped the mouth of his beer bottle my way. "Breakfast's cooking, don't you worry little lady."
"I'm no one's little lady," I grumbled.
He raised his eyebrows, but stuck the bottle in his mouth. The pixies were floating all around him and the grill, two of 'em sat on the brim of his hat. They seemed to like him, the traitors.
"Beer for breakfast," I spat.
"It's eleven A.M.," he said. "This is your breakfast. My lunch. And you know, all the rules they have about beer for breakfast are made up by the people drinking mimosas. I have feelings about this."
"You can keep those to yourself."
"If you don't stop gripin' at me, I'll be prone to making jokes about you eating my sausage."
"It's my sausage," I said. "Thief."
"Is this an argument you want to have?" he asked. "Wait. What am I sayin'? Is there any argument you don't want to have?"
I grunted. It was too early for shenanigans. I stalked away from him, over to the outhouse, far off the other side of the cabin, to take care of morning necessities. Two lengths of rope dangled down from a tree, holding a jug of water and a bar of soap. That, and the sealed plastic tub with my toothbrush, made for an almost modern morning. I pulled my hair up into a knot on the back of my head, adjusted my shirt, and stomped my way back to the barbecue. He'd gotten into the back room and hauled out a card table and two wooden chairs, positioned kitty-corner to each other. I didn't recognize the paper plates; he must have brought them with him.
"How did you get the silverware and cups out of my kitchen without waking me?" The sausage had been in a cooler in the back of my truck.
"I'm stealthy," he said. "And your sleeping brain must not recognize me as a threat."
"Hmph."
He smiled at that, but kept it turned toward the ground. Must have been his survival instincts.
He irritated me, but I always woke up hungry, even when I had the sense to eat the evening before. That was one of the many problems with being around Nathaniel; not only did he think he knew everything about me, he knew enough to get me at a disadvantage if he needed to. Putting breakfast in front of me could clearly get him whatever it was he wanted.
When he pulled out the frying pan with the eggs he'd made on a camping stove, well, I almost thought about sayin' something nice to him. A bowl of fruit sat by each of our plates. Meat, eggs, fruit, and a tall glass of water. He knew too much.
I tucked into my meal. He dropped his hat by his plate and joined me. Every time I glared up at him, he seemed a little happier with himself. The pixies weren't talking today, but they seemed amused by the whole thing. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say to him, because I wasn't sure what he was up to, but I knew I didn't like it. I didn't like it one damned bit.
He finished eating before me, rapped his knuckles on the table, put his hat back on, and left. I didn't see a car. He just walked off, down my driveway and out of sight.
"Hmph." The breakfast had been delicious. He hadn't actually bothered me. He was already gone, and I still didn't know what to say about it.
Plan Wake-Up-to-a-New-Day-With-a-Clear-Head-and-Don't-Let-Nathaniel-Get-in-There was already on the wrong foot. I really thought I'd been gone long enough, gone through enough in the interim, that I'd come back a new person. I thought I could handle the memories, handle the cabin, handle Nathaniel. I thought I was tougher than all that.
"That's what I get for thinking I know things," I told the pixies who'd flown off into the trees, leaving me to talk to myself. "This is what I get."
CHAPTER FIVE
I'd done all sorts of stuff for work over the years. I'd been a farmhand. I'd worked on cruise ships. There's a right dumb thing—a werewolf, on a cruise ship? I don't know. It seemed like something new, exotic even. I don't know what I thought exotic meant at the time, but it definitely wasn't that. After so many years of life, there weren't a lot of new experiences left. I thought that it being new would make up for the shortcomings, like cramped living spaces, seasickness I never did get used to, and nowhere to run with the moon. Yeah. Boats weren't my thing, as it turned out.
Trees and dirt and mountain views seemed to be it for me. It was the biggest thing my parents gave me, and though I didn't want it at the time, well, all things being the same, I'm glad they did. My love for the land had carried me through a lot of troubles.
Wood, in particular, was my safe harbor. Woodworking is a broad field, and I had the luxury of time to do it all. I'd whittled, I'd built homes, chainsaw carving provided a special kind of thrill, but mostly, I'd built furniture. In recent days, reclaimed wood furniture had become a hot ticket item, and a passion I'd happily thrown myself into.
When I was busy tracking leads, traveling a lot, I'd go without a workshop. It had been a while, and was one of my top priorities when I decided to go home. It wasn't the best space I'd ever rented, but it would do the job. It was actually someone's summer place. They weren't going to be making it out at all this year so they rented it to me at a steal. There was a two bedroom house I hadn't bothered to go inside, and a large garage I'd made my workshop. It had electricity, running water, and internet—so it was a hundred degrees fancier than home. It had been empty when I arrived, a large space with a cement floor and a long workbench. It was fully insulated, dry. I'd filled my truck bed with good finds on the way there, and they were propped up around the space, ready and waiting for inspiration to strike..
The thing was, I didn't have to go to the workshop. That was a promise I'd made myself. Once I'd decided I wasn't simply following the best lead I'd ever had, but moving back home, I'd chosen to slow down the business for a while. Many of my pieces were currently on commission in s
hops, some in Sacramento, some in San Francisco, and my assistant, Sandra, was handling incoming inquiries. I was on a creative sabbatical as far as any humans were concerned. Chasing my muse, chasing the murderers of my family—close enough to the truth, I figured.
My hands traced the lines of the wood I hadn't been able to get out of my head since I'd found it. It was the last piece I'd recovered on the way to Lassen, and therefore, the one I'd found closest to home. I wanted the first thing I designed to be from there. It was a perfect find. The homestead had been half burned down, long forgotten in a field. The grass had grown up around it, hid it from the view of everyone but the most curious. This wood had survived. It had gone from sapling, to a robust tree, felled, made into a home, abandoned, escaped the fire and who knew what other possible catastrophes, only to sit in my workshop, hopeful for new life.
To me, all wood looked hopeful. Burnt up or gouged made no difference. Wood was life, and it strained to survive.
I found meaning in mountains and trees. It was odd, I supposed. If I brought it up to another wolf, I was sure I'd get that look—concerned puzzlement. Saying I was a lone wolf was enough to drag that one up, I had no desire to share more.
I knew they meant well. Wolves, as a community, discussed mental health more than most anything else. The transition from human to something new was the first big shock. Life as a wolf. Procreation. Aging. There are many common age points where wolves go into crisis, and anytime around that first century is a big one. A century was the point where no one could deny they'd likely be long dead if they were human. I liked to think when I hit one hundred fifty everyone would relax, but it would probably not happen until two hundred, and even then, I'd still get extra looks, because I was single, and a lone wolf. "It's just not right," they'd say, and I'd reply, "It must be nice, always knowin' what's right."
I did my best to take care of my own mind. Aging was about perspective, I figured. Woodworking, in my life, was the key. The world changed, everyday, and I was of the mind that it was the biggest problem for a lot of wolves who went through an aging crisis. They were trying to hold onto things they couldn't hold on to. I got nostalgia, of course I did. It was sad seeing an old house torn down, but it was exciting to know the right way to take that old house apart, save the wood, and build something new out of something old. I might have been somewhat removed from what I used to believe was the natural cycle of life, but I held something in my hand and carried it through from one state of being to the next. I was the force behind its life cycle. There was something wonderful about that.
Trees, I figured, were the perfect picture of adaptability. They grew in harsh conditions, they often survived fires or lightning strikes—I had a tree in the center of my land that had been split by one—and they often lived long lives, so they had to endure all manner of torments. Once they did die, they became furniture or homes or adorable carved bears. Trees were the epitome of thriving life.
Hours passed with my hands still tracing the wood, exploring each find. I worked on a few pieces, but never did too much. My mind was turning it all over, exploring the options. I hadn't given myself so much time to simply imagine in months, maybe years. I was feeling the hum of rightness when dusk spilled into the open garage, and a car unknown to me turned up the driveway. I scented the car's owner. Wolf. Familiar, but it had been so long since I'd seen any of the Lassen Pack that I couldn't place it. It wasn't Graham, that much I was sure of.
I knew the pack was keeping tabs on me after my visit the night before, but I was impressed they'd found my studio already. I was sure they didn't following me from my place to the studio. Impressed as I may have been, I wasn't pleased they were back and bothering me already.
Dusting off my hands, I stepped out of the garage to greet my visitor. She stopped suddenly with a sharp twist of the wheel, tires stirring up dust.
"Rachel," I said before she got out of the car. She'd been changed when I met her, which made her ten years a wolf. All things considered, at the time, she'd liked the idea of being a wolf. I remembered her telling me, "It's a life of experiences only few get to have. Of course I love it." I hoped she still felt that way.
"You shot Nathaniel?" she asked with a flick of her rich brown hair over her shoulder. She confessed to me once that she used to tell people she was five foot, eleven and a half inches tall instead of admitting to her six feet of height. It was hard to imagine a version of Rachel that wasn't a hundred percent confidence.
"He jumped on my cattle gate."
"Oh, like you needed the excuse," she said. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," I said, and meant it. As a rule, it's a bad idea to lie to other wolves. We're likely to notice.
"You should have stopped in to say hello, we could have caught up," she said. "We have no time now. Get in. We're in a hurry. We've gotta fight." She tapped her open car door. "Vampires have been murdering humans. We finally got word on a location for some of them. Let's go." She bent to get into her car, like that was that.
"What? No. I'm not pack." I wasn't opposed to killing vampires, but I worked alone. Running with them on the full moon was something a pack might try to make a lone wolf in their territory participate in, but not fights. This wasn't my fight.
"You're here. We can discuss you being pack or not some other time, but we're doing this now."
She shut the car door, expecting I would follow orders, and all things considered, she was right. She'd gotten me good and stuck. If I refused to go with her, if I didn't help them with this fight, they could claim it was as good as being against them. Just because it wasn't customary to force me into fighting with them, didn't mean they couldn't use that as grounds for banning me from their territory, and no one would judge them for it.
I hesitated in front of the closing garage door. The safe hidden in the corner pulled at me like a magnet, tugging harder the further away I got. There was an easier way to fight vampires, but not one the pack would accept. "Fine. Let's go."
I slammed the car door hard enough it might have broken, betraying my indignation. "Sorry I'm an asshole," I told her.
"It's expected," Rachel said as she sped out. "We've got to get to the Salty Snowman in under thirty minutes. They can't wait on us, and they need everyone they can get."
"Are you gonna tell me what's happening?"
Her phone was hooked up next to the wheel. Instead of answering me, she called one pack member after another, making sure they were all caught up on the situation and checking where they were all at for time.
I put it together pretty quick. Salty Snowman was a human bar outside of Redding—the side we were coming from, thankfully. Three vampires were sitting inside that bar, chatting up potential targets. The night was still early, the vamps would likely take their time, but there was no counting on it.
"Where did the vampires come from?" I asked between calls.
"Wherever they ever come from?" She sighed heavily with impatience.
"Sounds like you don't have time to be smart mouthin' me so why don't you provide simple answers and save us both the headache?"
"The three of them are with a larger group," she said. "They killed a family in Redding a little while back. We've been watching for them ever since." I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but she interrupted to say, "I have to make my next call."
A family. In Redding. It was a coincidence. That family hadn't been killed by vampires. It was a coincidence.
My life would be a lot easier if I believed in coincidences.
CHAPTER SIX
The thing about blood drinkers, is that they're creepy as heck. Yeah, they wanna drink blood, but they don't see any reason to go ahead and hunt on a regular basis, or look into blood storage that might fulfill their needs, when they could snatch a person up and hold them as living refrigerators for an indefinite period of time. Blood drinkers came in many forms, but the most common on Earth was the vampire, the kind that looked human, mocked human behavior wh
ile they stalked their prey, and were the mortal enemies of any self-respecting wolf.
The source of the rift between wolves and vampires was a topic I was sure some intellectual fae sat around somewhere talking to death. Wolves, we mostly just killed 'em when we saw 'em. And that's the thing about it—we had to see 'em. The vampires didn't only drink blood because they thought it was tasty; they harvested magic from it. The magic they gained allowed them to enhance their speed and strength and heal real fast, and to glamour their scent, including the fragrance of their magic. The glamour allowed them to keep a lower profile amongst the fae, and it masked them completely from wolves.
The thing about sensing magic, was that it came naturally for most fae, wolves included, though any wolf other than me would insist that wolves aren't good at sensing magic. I'd counter that it's because they never thought to try. The honey scent of pixie magic filled my property, and all the wolves would smell that, but they were ignorant of their own sixth sense, the one that raised the hair on the back of my neck, the one that said magic. The vampire's glamour took advantage of that ignorance. Even so, it only served to make the vampires difficult to track. Once a wolf had eyes on a vampire, the glamour wouldn't save them.
Getting to the bar before the vampires found victims was imperative. For one, we didn't want to lose sight of them. For another thing, freshly fed, the vampires would be throbbing with magic. If we were lucky, and they hadn't drank in a long while, they'd be low on magic. A vampire low enough on blood could be as weak as a human.
Thanks to Rachel's careful coordination, the pack pulled into an abandoned parking lot a mile away from the bar at the same time. After the thirty minute drive, plus the time it had taken for the two wolves at the bar who'd first spotted the vampires to call the pack into action, it had been almost an hour since the vampires had been spotted, and it would be another ten minutes for everyone to shift, plus the mile run to the bar. There was no time for questions, no time for me to learn more about the plan than I'd been able to glean from Rachel's phone calls. It was a miracle the vampires hadn't noticed the two wolves who'd found them originally and run for it already. All they had to do get was escape the wolves' sight, and that would be it.
