Crouched behind the metal bulk of the car, Claire squeezed herself back into her human form and yanked on her clothes. She kept one shocked eye trained on the woods as she stood. Her hands trembled.
What the hell just happened?
The wolf who’d just threatened her was nothing like the person—the friend—that Claire had trusted so much. She’d been sure Zahlia would understand, that she would want to help.
And she threatened Matthew, too. Crap.
“Matthew?” she called, hurrying back to the blanket where he lay on his back in the pale glow from the lantern.
“Yeah, you okay? You were gone awhile. I was starting to worry.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.”
Claire stared at the trees, thinking she saw Zahlia lurking in every shadow.
She leaned in and kissed him.
“Claire,” he whispered.
Claire cut him off with another kiss before he could say anything else.
“Let’s get out of here,” she murmured against his lips. She looked over his shoulder at the woods, wondering where Zahlia was. Had she gone? Claire scanned the trees. No eyes flashed in the lantern light, but the black wolf was a master at hiding from her prey.
“Sure, no problem.”
Together they wadded up the blanket and headed for the car. The drive home was quiet, with Matthew focused on the dark roads and Claire scanning the ground on each side, looking for wolves. It was too soon to press him anymore about getting in to see the lab. She knew that. She could smell it. But all the same, the words “please take me to see my mother” were ready to leap out of her mouth, and she struggled to keep them contained.
“Now you’re the one who seems quiet,” said Matthew.
Claire shrugged. Yeah, if you only knew how hard I was working to stay quiet. “A little, I guess. Hey, um, are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Yeah—I have soccer practice until late. I’m not free again until Saturday.”
Claire swallowed her disappointment. Saturday seemed like a year away. “Okay,” she said finally. “Saturday sounds great.”
Matthew lit up like a struck match. “Great! I have soccer practice until five, but after that, I’m all yours. Was there something special you wanted to do?” He squeezed her hand.
“I don’t know. Let’s just see how it goes.” Claire squeezed back.
That’s the understatement of the year.
The feel of his palm, warm against hers, sent a little ribbon of excitement sliding between her shoulder blades.
When he kissed her good night, guilt and desire and the sinking feeling that she was in too deep with Matthew spun together inside her. It would all be so much easier if she didn’t actually care about him, if he hadn’t just admitted that he thought his father was wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
CLAIRE SLIPPED INTO the house and found Lisbeth on the couch, curled up around an enormous bowl of ice cream. “I’m home and I’m not late, and I’m going to go take a shower now, okay?”
Lisbeth squinted at her. “You haven’t been smoking, have you?”
“Huh?”
“Well, you’re rushing to take a shower … ,” Lisbeth said pointedly.
For one second, Claire felt like every other sixteen-year-old on earth. “Lisbeeeth, that’s crazy. It’s hot outside. I got sweaty. I want to take a shower. I don’t smoke! God.” . … dess, she added silently.
“Well, good. You’d better not. I mean, the toxins they put into those death-sticks …” She wrinkled her nose.
Claire rolled her eyes and stalked upstairs to her bathroom. She pulled off her shirt, examining the bruise on her ribs where Zahlia had crashed into her. Why would Zahlia have threatened to attack Matthew? It could have been her idea of revenge—Dr. Engle’s son in exchange for Marie. “An eye for an eye” sort of thing. But then, why would she have charged at Claire like that? And her creepy apartment … Claire couldn’t make sense of it all, but whatever was going on with Zahlia, she needed to be stopped before she got captured too. Or before she kills a human.
Her phone rang and Claire flipped open the phone without even looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Claaaaaaaire!!! Guess what? I’m coming HOME!”
It was Emily. A very excited Emily.
“I—really? Already?”
“I know I said I’d call, but when I talked to my mom, she said she’d come right out to get me, and then my battery died—anyway, long story short, I’m coming back! And in time for Drama Club tryouts, too! I’m absolutely dying to see you, Claire. I’ll be home Friday. When can we get together? What about Saturday?”
Claire felt a half smile twitch across her mouth. She could imagine it—Emily lounging on Claire’s bed, painting her toenails, digging through Claire’s closet to try on anything new she found there.
Except that I can’t let her in my closet—not with the stuff I’ve got hidden there. The bloodstains from her hunts had refused to come out of two shirts and one pair of pants. They were wadded up in the back corner of her closet, but Emily would find them.
And I can’t exactly try to find Mom and give myself a pedicure at the same time. Dammit.
There was no way she could hang out with Emily. In a flash, Claire understood why her mother had never had any real friends. Their lives were too different, and it hurt too much to have it constantly thrown in your face like that.
“I wish I could, but I have plans with Matthew.” At least it wasn’t a lie.
“Hey, that’s fantastic! You guys are getting pretty serious, huh?”
“Yeah, we are, actually.”
“Fine, then I’ll let you off the hook for Saturday on one condition: I. Want. Details. And I mean, like, boxers-or-briefs details.” There was a wicked edge to Emily’s voice. “When can I see you?”
“Um, actually, my phone’s about to die and I’m totally exhausted, but I’ll call you, okay?”
“Oh, uh, sure.” Emily sounded let down and Claire felt responsible.
Claire hung up and flopped back on her bed. The truth of who she was, what she was, hung over her like a lead umbrella. Her mother had told her over and over that it would get easier, that Claire would become like an oyster. “The truth, chérie , the secret—it is like a grain of sand. You must hold it inside the way an oyster does, smoothing it over and over until it becomes a jewel that makes you stronger, more valuable, even though no one can see it inside you. It will only hurt at first.”
But I’m not a damn oyster, Mother. This truth was much bigger than a grain of sand, and it grew every day. Claire could feel herself straining at the edges, stretched to the point of explosion with the effort of keeping it contained. For what felt like the twelve millionth time, she went from feeling like being a werewolf made her superior to being certain that her condition was a curse.
She curled up on her comforter. Outside the window, the moon rose, pale against the darkening sky. She was running out of time—in only a few weeks the moon would be full, and Dr. Engle would take her mother away from her forever.
Claire pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle her whimpers and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She was so alone that she ached with it.
Hours later, Claire rolled herself up in her covers and closed her swollen eyes. She slept fitfully. Nightmares jolted her awake again and again.
Shortly after dawn finally broke, Claire stumbled downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She wrapped her hands around the hot mug and wandered down the quiet hall.
Without exactly meaning to, she ended up in front of her mother’s darkroom. Even with Marie sitting in a cage at Dr. Engle’s lab, Claire couldn’t bring herself to break the cardinal rule about food or drink in her mother’s workspace. She set the coffee on the little table next to the door and went in. The computer screen stared across the room at her, like a giant eye. Claire sat down in front of it and pulled up the same file she’d tried to get into the day
before.
She missed her mother. Terribly. I wonder if she misses me as much. Claire stared at the password box on the screen, just as an idea crept into her head. Was it possible?
Slowly, she typed the letters into the blank field and hit ENTER. The file opened immediately. All the words she’d tried before, and she’d never once thought that her mother would have used her own daughter’s name. The password was Claire, after all.
Claire blinked back the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes and focused on the image of the forest at night that had appeared on the screen. It wasn’t like her mother’s usual work—the photo looked rushed, unprofessional. Claire let the slideshow run, squinting at the screen. It looked like her mother had been in the woods, taking pictures from behind the protective curtain of pines. There was something out past the tree line, but it was hard to make out. The pictures had been taken without a flash, but her mother had obviously been using a slow shutter speed so that whatever she was aiming at would show up on the photo.
But her subject had been moving.
Claire stared at the blur in front of her. A jolt of recognition shot through her and Claire whimpered. She’d seen pictures of that same house before. It was where the man had been killed and left right out on his lawn. The man the seule had killed. In front of the house was a half-light, half-dark blur. Oh, Jesus. Mom saw it happen—she was photographing the whole thing! The pictures darkened and sharpened as Marie tried to get a clearer shot of the struggle in front of the house. Claire could only make out the indistinct shape of a very dark wolf.
As the slideshow flicked forward, the man’s body suddenly stood out as clearly as the bricks on his house. He lay perfectly still, his mangled torso hideous against the cheerful daisies that bloomed behind him. Next to her victim, the wolf blurred as she moved away from the body.
The last two photos showed the wolf clearly. In the first she stared down at the mess in front of her, but her back was to the camera. The next photo showed her at the man’s back gate, her face mostly obscured by one of the sunflowers growing next to the fence. A dark lupine chin and a few gleaming teeth were clearly visible beneath one of the blooms, but that was it. Claire watched the two photos play over and over again, her frustration building higher with each flash of the screen. Something seemed so familiar about the pictures, the last one especially.
Claire stared at the sunflower, blocking the seule’s face with its too-big center and fringe of petals. She’d never really liked that particular flower. They were corny, somehow. The image of the sunflower in Zahlia’s apartment jumped into her mind.
Zahlia never seemed like someone who would keep sunflowers around.
Wait—why would she … ?
Oh. Shit.
Maybe it was a coincidence. It could be a coincidence. Claire sat frozen at the computer, remembering the other things in Zahlia’s weird little office. With her stomach churning, she clicked open the Internet and looked up the name of the editor who’d been killed.
The search engine found it instantly. Dave McKinney. The briefcase on Zahlia’s office floor—the initials on it had been DRM.
Claire pushed away from the desk, her hands clenched so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms.
The dog. The one on Zahlia’s bed. One of the victim’s dogs had gone missing when they’d been murdered.
It had been Zahlia. She’d killed every one of those poor people.
Claire turned and vomited all over the darkroom floor.
When she quit heaving, Claire snapped off the monitor and put her head down on the desk.
How could Zahlia have killed all those people? The same werewolf who had helped her when no one else would, practiced with her in the woods—how could she be so savage? Oh, God, and she’d threatened Matthew.
After Claire wiped up the mess on the floor, she picked up the phone and dialed Matthew’s cell.
“Hello?” Sleep thickened his voice, but Claire was more focused on the fact that he was still breathing.
She glanced at the little clock on the computer. It wasn’t even eight o’ clock yet. “Oh, crap, I didn’t realize it was so early, Matthew. I’m sorry—I’ll call—I mean, why don’t you just call me later?”
“No, Claire, it’s fine. Really. The reporters start calling my dad at eight, anyway. I can’t sleep with the house phone ringing off the hook like that. I’d much rather wake up to you than to the Daily Herald.”
Claire blushed.
“Hey, do you still want to do something Saturday night?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
What I have in mind is probably not what you’re planning, though.
“Cool. Listen, I should get showered before the reporters start breaking down the front door. Is six o’clock okay?”
The idea of Matthew showering made it hard for Claire to focus on her answer.
“Sure. I’ll have Lisbeth bring me over on her way to yoga.”
Claire tried to focus on the thought of seeing Matthew, instead of dwelling on the fact that she’d be lying like hell the entire time.
On Saturday, Claire had Lisbeth drop her off two blocks away from the Engles’, in front of Yolanda Adams’s house. Fortunately, Lisbeth was running late enough that she didn’t wait to see if Claire got into the house before she drove away. Once the car was out of sight, Claire walked over to the Engles’. As she paced up the front walk she noticed the front flowerbeds were dotted here and there with little statues.
Garden gnomes. Exactly like the one on Zahlia’s desk. The rage that filled Claire stopped her, gluing her feet to the cracked concrete path. Zahlia hadn’t just threatened Matthew. She’d been here. Watching. Planning. Claire struggled to control herself, to unclench her jaw. She was already late—if Matthew saw her like this, it could throw off the whole night. She’d deal with Zahlia later. And as long as she and Matthew were together, she’d make damn sure that no out-of-her-mind werewolf came within swiping distance of him.
Claire took a couple of deep breaths and walked up to the door, which had been left ajar. It was six fifteen on the nose when Claire walked into the Engles’ kitchen. At the table, Matthew and his dad sat eating sandwiches and what smelled to Claire like canned soup. Dr. Engle smiled at her with too many teeth and waved to an empty chair.
“Claire, welcome. Please, sit and have a little bite with us.” He was clearly trying to be hospitable, but he still creeped Claire out. “I made enough for three, but Mrs. Engle isn’t feeling well.”
The look on Matthew’s face said that she had interrupted something—Dr. Engle’s expression said he was glad that she had.
Claire slid into the chair. “I’ve already eaten, thanks.” Under the table, she clenched her hands into tight fists. The urge to throttle the egotistical jerk until he admitted he’d been wrong about her mother was almost more than she could bear. The effort of holding herself in check made her bones hurt.
“We can go as soon as I’m done.” Matthew’s voice was acidic. He shoved a large corner of sandwich into his mouth and chewed like he wanted to hurt it.
Claire looked from Matthew to Dr. Engle.
“Ah, actually”—Dr. Engle stirred his soup, focusing on the letter-shaped noodles that floated to the surface—“Channel Six will be here in a few minutes. They’d like a family member to be in the story, and I think it’s a good angle. I was hoping your mother would be able to participate, but that’s obviously not a possibility. It won’t take long—I’ll just need a few minutes from you, and then you and Claire can go. I’m sure Claire won’t mind waiting a bit, will you?” He turned the piranha-smile on her again, and Claire felt her lip curl in response.
I know how to play you.
She turned the curled lip into a simper and tilted her head to one side. “Oh, Dr. Engle, I couldn’t possibly say. Whatever Matthew wants will be just fine with me.” Gag.
He beamed and licked his lips. “See? What a help she is! So, it’s settled. You’ll do the in
terview.”
Matthew tossed his sandwich crust back onto his plate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure, I’ll do it.” He shot Claire the tiniest look. “But you know what I’ll be telling them.”
“Wha—now. Matthew. I thought we were finished discussing the issue.”
The look in Dr. Engle’s eyes chilled Claire. The fury of the self-righteous nestled there like ice.
“You’re right. I am done discussing it. You’re wrong about the werewolf, Dad. You’re not going to listen to me and I’m not going to listen to you. But I’m sure the thousands of people watching Channel Six tonight will be very interested to hear what I have to say. And I bet that someone from Lycanthropy Researchers will be watching too.”
Dr. Engle stood up. “I will not tolerate you defending that soulless creature for one more second. It doesn’t have the right to live among humans—it’s a mistake, a mutation. It should never have existed at all!”
The snarl rose in Claire’s throat before she could stop it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stood and faced him, nostrils flared.
Matthew’s mouth fell open.
Dr. Engle gave a short, hard laugh. “Of course not. I’m only one of the most innovative lycanthropy researchers in the nation. I’m part of the Federal Human Protection Agency. Why would I know what I’m talking about?” He looked up at the ceiling as though he could find patience in its smooth, white expanse.
Claire bit her lip. Oh, crap. I really should have kept my mouth shut. What if he figures out that my mom is the wolf that he captured? From underneath her lowered eyelids, she scanned his face. It held plenty of anger, but no suspicion.
“And you”—Dr. Engle turned to Matthew—“would do well to remember that it is never wise to bite the hand that feeds you.” He threw his napkin down onto the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go prepare for the news crew.”
He stalked out of the room, and Claire heard a door slam in another part of the house.
Claire de Lune Page 19
