Melee

by Kristy Tate

  “She’s won’t be. She has her own life, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, today she’s working.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  Other than rejoice he wasn’t a werewolf? Other than give thanks that the remedy hadn’t turned him into a dog-headed man? A thought came to him. “I’m going to go and play chess in Seattle.”

  “Chess?” Gloria rocked back in her chair.

  “Yeah. At those giant chessboards in Westlake Park.”

  “I didn’t know you like chess!”

  He didn’t, but Malcolm did and if Declan wanted to find Malcolm, he needed to look where he thought Malcolm might hide.

  “Westlake Park. Isn’t it pretty rough down there?”

  “There’s a lot of homeless people, if that’s what you mean.” Declan poured himself another bowl of cereal. “Supposedly, a lot of the homeless are chess whizzes.” Declan thought about asking his mom what she intended to do that day but since after her accident she’d taken to spending each day in front of the TV with a crossword puzzle book, he decided not to bring it up.

  “Are you going alone?”

  “Why? Do you want to come?”

  Gloria glanced at the clock on the microwave. “No. Actually, Holbrook St. James will be here in a couple of hours.” She twisted her lips. “It’ll take me that long to shower and do my hair.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure you can go over your taxes without doing your hair.”

  “We’re not doing taxes.”

  “Ha.” He pushed his cereal around his bowl. “So, is this like a date?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure what it is.” An embarrassed and shy expression, a look he wasn’t used to seeing on his mom’s face, settled in as she bit her lip. “I have a really bad track record when it comes to men.” She caught herself and lifted her mug at him. “Although, your dad is a good guy.”

  Declan didn’t want a conversation where his mom once again defended her choice of leaving his dad for Godwin. Godwin had turned out to be a monster. Literally. And then, almost immediately following his disappearance, she’d had a brief fling with her attorney, Leo Cabriolet, who had also disappeared—because he’d been a werewolf captured by Lizbet and killed by a bear. Although his mom only knew that Cabriolet had disappeared. Declan hoped to keep it that way. “I like St. James.”

  “He’s kind of a nerd.”

  Declan winked at her. “I like nerds.”

  Gloria shook her head. “You like weirdos.”

  “Mom, she’s not a weirdo.”

  “Well, she’s definitely a free spirit.”

  Declan smiled. “That’s what I like about her.”

  BECAUSE MR. NEAL LIKED to play classical music to his plants, Lizbet had gotten so she could hum along to Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik and Bach’s fugues. She really hated Wagner, and she suspected that the plants did, too. They always looked a little droopy and yellow after one of Wagner’s operas. Or maybe she was just projecting her feelings onto the plants. But on this morning, Nicole Gunner interrupted Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, and because Lizbet minded, she kept her hose trained on the vegetable shelves.

  She knew Nicole partly blamed her for Declan’s decision to ditch his plans to attend Duke and stay local, but Lizbet also knew that Declan would have dropped out of school before he would have left his mom after her accident. If Nicole knew Declan as well as she thought she did, she would know that, too. Still, Lizbet had to concede that it must hurt to have Declan change his mind, leaving her going to Duke alone and friendless.

  Nicole brushed her long blond hair off her shoulder and sent Lizbet a phony smile as she crossed the sawdust-strewn nursery floor.

  “Can I help you find something?” Lizbet asked.

  Nicole placed her hands on her hips. She had a figure like a long blade of grass. Her golden hair added to the image. If Nicole had been shorter, she’d be hard to find in a wheat field. She had pinky-white skin and delicate features. “I think you know who I’m looking for.”

  Lizbet turned off her hose and it dribbled at her side. “Declan quit working here after his grandfather died.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “Then why did you think he’d be here?”

  “Because you are.” Nicole sniffed as if she found something odiferous.

  Lizbet glanced at the bags of fertilizer lining the back wall. She didn’t mind the smell, but she knew most people did.

  “I’m not the only one looking for him. There’s an entire pack.” Nicole paused, letting her words sink in.

  “I’m not Declan’s keeper.”

  “Oh, I know that.” Nicole fingered the silver necklace at her throat. Didn’t there used to be a cross at the end of that chain? And why would Nicole use the word ‘pack’? Was it Lizbet’s imagination, or had Nicole emphasized the word?

  “Then why are you here? I don’t know where Declan is right now.”

  “Maybe right now you don’t, but you will. I need you to tell him something from me.”

  Lizbet turned her hose back on. Her fingers itched to spray Nicole. “Why don’t you just tell him yourself? It’s not like he’s hard to find.”

  “But he has been. Where was he all day yesterday?”

  “Why?” Lizbet didn’t mean to raise her voice, but she must have because Mr. Neal poked his head out of his office.

  “Lizbet, is there a problem?” His gaze ran over Nicole and a flicker of a frown crossed his expression.

  “No problem, Mr. Neal. I just can’t help Nicole find what she’s looking for.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Neal emerged from behind the door and smoothed down his apron. “Is there something in particular you need? We can always special order it.”

  “It’s a who, not an it,” Nicole said.

  This was probably not the wisest thing to say to Mr. Neal, who considered his plants just as important as people—if not more so. He believed that humans, who could defend themselves physically and emotionally, should protect creatures—including plants—who could not. He could talk for hours about the human condition and the sacred roles people possessed, but rarely assumed, as caretakers of the earth and its creations.

  “She’s looking for Declan,” Lizbet told him.

  The frown hovering behind Mr. Neal’s eyes came out of hiding. He clearly considered Declan Lizbet’s concern, not Nicole’s. “Declan left my employ several weeks ago.”

  “Oh, I know,” Nicole said.

  Mr. Neal, a mild-mannered, gentle man, bristled, reminding Lizbet of a Venus flytrap ready to snap. “Then I’m not sure why you think we can help you.”

  “I just wanted to pass along a message.” Nicole narrowed her eyes at Lizbet. “Tell him no one likes a lone wolf.” After that, she turned on her heel and strode away.

  “What was that supposed to mean?” Mr. Neal blinked at Lizbet before shaking his head. “What an unpleasant girl.”

  Lizbet didn’t agree. Mostly because if she had to guess, she’d say that Nicole was no longer a girl. She’d turned into a wolf.

  Those elements which we meet in all the tales are like the fragments of a shattered stone, scattered on the ground amid the flowers and grass: only the most piercing eye can discover them. Their meaning has long been lost, but it can still be felt, and that is what gives the tale its value.

  Wilhelm Grimm

  From Lizbet’s Studies

  CHAPTER 8

  Skyscrapers and clouds shaded Westlake Park in the center of downtown Seattle. A light breeze toyed with the fur of a standard poodle standing sentinel beside his master at a chess table. Businessmen’s ties bounced as they paced across the park on their lunch hour. A group of homeless people and businessmen gathered around a large chessboard painted on the cement with knee-high pawns, but more than one game was going on. Several small tables were set up throughout the park with players frowning in concentration as they sat contemplating their moves and spectators watched in reverent silence. I
t was both a stupid and brilliant place to hide. What was the best hiding place? A city to meld into? Or a wilderness where no one ever goes?

  Declan’s gaze shifted from the weather-beaten faces of the homeless to the smooth shaven chins of the business set as he searched for Malcolm. Of course, he didn’t really expect to find him. Why would he be able to do what the police couldn’t? But, as far as he knew, the police didn’t have his heightened sense of smell.

  Not that he was exactly sure what Malcolm smelled like. After all, they hadn’t known each other all that well, despite the fact that they’d gone to school together since kindergarten.

  Malcolm was small and not at all athletic. He didn’t hang out in the locker room or on the basketball court unless he had to. But he had been captain of the chess team, which was why Declan had decided to look for him at Westlake Park. He’d gone by Malcolm’s house earlier, hoping to catch a whiff of his scent. But the stench of fear overrode everything else on that street.

  Declan was only beginning to understand emotions and how they could cloud and permeate every situation. Including a manhunt. Fear stank like urine with the same pungent repulsion, only worse. Many of the people gathered in the park reeked of marijuana, but there were other smells—a few that he was only beginning to recognize. The businessmen carried secrets, which had their own tang, as did a few of the housewives. The mothers with babies in strollers had their own pressing worries and concerns. Their fears were sweeter than the stench he’d found at Malcolm’s parents’ home.

  A sudden movement caught his eye. A goth girl hunkered at a table and pulled her black hoodie to shield her face. Her hand hovered over a bishop on the board. Her fingers were blunt, thick, too thick for a girl her size. She wore a gypsy-style skirt and a loose lacy blouse beneath her black hoodie. Courtney?

  No. Malcolm.

  Declan dropped to a squat beside the table. “Check,” he said.

  “It ain’t over till it’s over,” the man in dirty battle fatigues opposite Malcolm said.

  “It’s not at all over,” Declan said. He pointed out a move for the man to make.

  The man used his queen as Declan suggested and declared, “Checkmate!” He bounced from his chair to do a victory dance.

  “What are you doing?” Malcolm asked.

  “Ending this game,” Declan said as he slipped into the seat the dancing man had vacated.

  “I’d try to run, but it’d be pretty pointless even if I wasn’t wearing these stupid heels.” Malcolm frowned as he lined the chess pieces back along the edges of the board. “Are you going to turn me in?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. This isn’t much of an existence. My whole life has been smashed to hell.”

  “Your parents are scared.”

  “They should be. I’m scared, too.” Malcolm’s hands shook as he moved his pawns. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

  “What happened?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I probably would.”

  “No. No way.” Malcolm’s shoulder also started twitching and Declan wondered if he was on the verge of tears.

  Declan looked around, wondering if anyone could overhear them, but then decided it didn’t matter. No one would believe him if they could. “I’m a werewolf.”

  Malcolm stopped fussing with the chess pieces and stared at Declan with his coal-rimmed eyes.

  “So I can believe almost anything,” Declan continued.

  Malcolm leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “What do you know?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, but I know on the mornings after a full moon, I wake up outside, naked, sometimes bloodstained, without any memory of what happened during the night.”

  Malcolm nodded. “It was like that for me, too, at first.”

  “What changed?”

  Malcolm’s gaze lingered on the group of yogis across the park balancing on one leg with their hands pressed together in front of their chests as if in prayer. “It’ll sound bizarre, but I really worked on becoming more self-aware.”

  “Self-aware?”

  He slowly nodded. “It’s a head game. Takes a lot of concentration, especially when I’m a wolf and all I can think about is finding something—anything—to eat. But yeah, I’ve gotten so I can remember most nights. Even when the moon is full. Even at midnight, when I think I’m totally losing it. That’s how I know I didn’t kill that deputy.”

  Declan rocked back, surprised. “Do you know who did?”

  Malcolm lifted a shoulder. “Pack members.”

  “Other wolves?”

  “They killed Jason, too.”

  Declan took a moment to let this information sweep through him. Relief, more powerful than a drug, surged. “Are you sure?” he asked in a strangled voice.

  “Yeah. Jason was a,” he made air quotes around the words, “traitorous pack member.” Jason swallowed hard. “And they made it clear the same thing would happen to me if I crossed them.”

  “I guess I’m lucky I haven’t met them.”

  It was Malcolm’s turn to look surprised. “The pack hasn’t reached out to you?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about a pack.” Which wasn’t completely true, since he’d seen Leo Cabriolet as a werewolf.

  Malcolm reached into his hood to scratch his greasy black hair. “That’s weird.”

  “It’s all weird.”

  Malcolm quirked an eyebrow.

  “What are you going to do?” Declan dropped his voice to a whisper. “The police think you’re responsible for killing that deputy and Jason.”

  “I have to find out who did it.” He frowned. “That’s why the pack hates me. They want me to join them, and all I want is my life back. I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of dogs in some house in the woods.”

  “Leo Cabriolet didn’t live with dogs in the woods.”

  Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, stood, and motioned for Declan to follow him. “You never know who’s listening,” he said under his breath as he tottered on his high heels. “You’ve got to be careful. It’s impossible to tell who is who.”

  “There can’t be that many werewolves,” Declan whispered.

  “There’s more than werewolves.”

  “What?” Declan forgot to whisper.

  “You thought werewolves were the only monsters?” He shook his head as if Declan were an especially stupid student. “No. There are witches, wizards, ghosts, vampires, valkyries.”

  Declan glanced around at the briefcase-carrying businesspeople, the moms pushing baby strollers, the teens on skateboards, and the rough and tired-looking homeless.

  “It’s impossible to tell them apart from anyone else,” Malcolm said.

  “Then how did you learn about them?”

  “Well, for one thing, members of the pack introduced themselves the day after I first turned. Then they broke me out jail. That was a nightmare...I can’t believe...” His voice trailed away as he thought. “Why would they reach out to me and not you?”

  “Wait.” A thought occurred to Declan. “Who’s the alpha?”

  “A huge black wolf. I’ve never seen him in human form.”

  “It’s got to be Godwin.”

  “Who?”

  “My stepfather. He hates me. Tried to kill me.”

  “Then it can’t be him,” Malcolm said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if the alpha wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

  ON HER WAY HOME FROM work, Lizbet made two stops. The first at a grocery store for a bag of unshelled raw peanuts. The second in the woods bordering the park behind Nicole’s house.

  Lizbet parked her motorbike against a tree, pulled the helmet off her head, and grabbed the bag of nuts from her backpack. Children ran around the park and climbed up the jungle gym. Mothers and nannies pushed toddlers on the swings. Some boys played soccer in the field while a girl and her dad tried to coax a kite i
nto a windless sky. Lizbet watched the girl and her father for a few minutes. After a moment, she quietly whispered,

  “Gentle breeze, hear my plea,

  Leave thy corners and come to me.”

  A soft wind replied. The kite swelled and lifted. Lizbet whispered, “Thank you.”

  She didn’t know what it meant or what she could do with this newfound power. It humbled and frightened her. She didn’t think anyone, let alone herself, should possess such a gift. But then, if she did, shouldn’t she learn how to use it? Wisely? It should be about more than making kites fly and keeping parties from being rained out. Where had that spell come from? Had she thought it up at just that moment? Or was it something she’d learned long ago and nearly forgotten?

  For one of the first times—that she knew of—she longed for her real mom. Of course, she considered Daugherty her real mom. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than she loved Daugherty, but she missed Rose—the mom she couldn’t remember—because she was sure Rose had things to teach her that Daugherty never could.

  She tried to remember Rose and pulled up flashes of memory. Cuddling in front of flames roaring in the fireplace. Fishing along the banks of the gentle stream near the cottage. Pulling weeds from the garden. Collecting fat, squiggly worms for their fishing hooks. Gathering eggs from the chickens and spreading seeds...

  “What are you doing with those nuts?” a squirrel in a nearby tree chattered at her.

  Lizbet startled out of her memories. “They’re for you,” she said with a smile.

  “Why?” Squirrels were stingy—hoarders by nature—and therefore suspicious of generosity.

  Lizbet glanced around to make sure no one was watching or listening. An old man with a metal detector moved closer to her, swinging his machine, so she motioned for the squirrel to follow as she stepped deeper into the woods. Above her, the squirrel darted through the branches, following.

  “I want to know if the girl in the yellow house behind the hedge is a werewolf,” Lizbet said once she was sure she couldn’t be overheard by the man with his noisy toy.

  “She is,” the squirrel said.