Howling Shadows

by C. N. Owens

  Holy shit. She’s not pregnant. “Don’t worry about it; you’re looking like you feel a lot better,” I say, trying to keep my cool and hide my inner sigh of relief.

  “Yeah, my arms don’t look that bad anymore, either.” She stretches her forearms out for me, and aside from a few bruises, her veins are beginning to turn green, and the sores are scabbing over and beginning to shrink.

  “That’s excellent. Never again, right?”

  “Never.”

  “Good,” I say with a yawn and take another big sip of coffee.

  “So, Cassie talked to me about what I am, but not what you two plan on doing with me. Does this mean I have to live with you guys forever?”

  “Well, that’s up to you.”

  She shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Times have changed, so we don’t rightly know everything either. You would be safest with us, that’s for sure. Alphas are more at risk than betas. A beta can plan a little, and during a weak moon, they can live as a human. If you aren’t careful, you could shift at any time and slaughter a hundred people before you realize what happened.”

  She shakes her head again and lets out a long sigh. “Trade one person controlling me for another. I just want to be normal.”

  “No one here is trying to control you, and you can forget the other part of that. You’ll never be normal.” I take another sip of coffee and stand. “What would you like to do?”

  “I just don’t want to be around people who think they need to fix me. I’m not broken.”

  “Okay then. Again, what do you want?”

  “There’s nothing I really want. I’d just like to be able to make decisions for myself without someone doing what they think is best for me.” She stands and walks closer, stopping at arm’s length. “I’m capable of a lot. I’ll take care of you, too… if I’m given a chance,” she says, cutting her eyes at me.

  “Sounds like were gonna make quite the team.” I smile. “I know you’re strong; I could tell when you tried to kill me.” I reach for her hair and push it back behind her ear. She smiles and cups the back of my hand, pressing it to her cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me; thank the sleeping demon inside you.”

  She looks away and rocks forward on the balls of her tiny bare feet. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know, you don’t have to apologize.”

  She looks back again and her smile grows, face flushing red, but I don’t know why. I look away, my attention going back to my coffee, but I notice something. It’s on her neck, just below her left ear.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pushing away a lock of hair, but feel silly after I do. It’s just a shitty tattoo.

  She jerks away and covers it back up. “I’m a supreme being, didn’t you know?” Her eyes shoot to me, and she smirks before walking the sink.

  “That’s funny,” I say. She’s referring to how the orange, squiggly-lined barcode on her neck looks like Leeloo’s wrist tattoo from a movie—The Fifth Element. I wouldn’t have caught the reference if it wasn’t an old favorite.

  “Ever heard of a brand?”

  “Like a cattle brand?”

  “Yeah, that’s what my tattoo’s called. Pimps mark their property.” She drops a plate in the sink and leans on the counter. “No one owns me anymore. Now I get to walk around with this stupid thing on my neck.” She hangs her head.

  Feeling her pain from across the room, I tiptoe toward her, but stop short. I don’t know what to do, I can’t see her face. Her tiny hands clutch the edge of the sink. She grips it hard, and for a second, I think I hear the wood creak and flex under her grip.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for her.

  She recoils the moment I touch her shoulder and turns to look at me through her wild hair, teeth clenched, scowling, for only a second before it melts into a frown and she leaps into my arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “It’s okay, you did good. See what I mean about learning control?” I ask with a soothing voice, praying she keeps herself under control.

  She nods, her face still buried in my chest. “I hate this… I’m so scared.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, and pull her thin, track-marked arms up around my trunk.

  She clings to me, soapy hands and all, as if I were the only thing in the world keeping her from floating away.

  “Listen to me”—I cup the back of her head with my hand—“everything is going to be okay, I promise. We’re going to make things right.”

  “I believe you,” she says, still refusing to look up at me.

  “I need to get my day started.” I try to gently pull away.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I work at Lone Palm, a golf resort, on the side. I maintain their computer equipment.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A few hours.”

  She sighs. “Can I come with you?”

  “No, I have to work, and you shouldn’t be in large groups of people just yet.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. “Please don’t leave me.” She almost recoils when I take her by the shoulders.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Andrea is here, she’ll keep you company.”

  “That’s fine, but she’s not you,” Leila says.

  I laugh and push her hair again behind her ear. She doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that I can’t stop touching her hair. “I’ve got to work, sweetheart. Just watch TV or something. When I come back, I’ll bring some food. Maybe we can grill out this evening.”

  She waits a moment and then grasps my forearm. “That sounds like fun.” She apprehensively smiles and then takes the rest of plates away and carries them to the sink. “Is this for your job with the government?” she asks with her back to me.

  “No. I’m on the government’s payroll, but jobs don’t come through very often,” I reply as I watch her, feeling out of place. The house seems different with her here, brighter… more alive. I bask in this good feeling for a moment, fearing it will be short-lived.

  “So is that how you afford all of this?”

  “Is that a jab?”

  “No! I love your house. It’s beautiful here, but it’s definitely a man’s house.” She looks back and smiles.

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” she says, obviously stringing me along.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  ***

  After a shower and a much-needed shave, I dry off and look at my reflection in the mirror, then notice a pregnancy test sitting in the garbage can by the toilet. Beside that is a small silver box. The name Mifeprex is printed on it in a modern font.

  The test is unused and judging by the vague image of a graceful woman on the silver box, I can only assume it contained abortion pills. “Well, that’ll do it,” I say aloud, and set it on the counter, trying to decide how I should handle this, but choose to throw it out again, relieved enough to let her keep it a secret if that’s what she wants.

  Pulling on a white tank top and a polo shirt over that, I belt on a pair of jeans and head out with a laptop and a small toolbox in hand, pulling my favorite ball cap on my head.

  Leila stands from the couch, approaching me, as I get ready to leave. “If someone comes over—”

  “Just let Andrea deal with that stuff. I don’t think it would be any trouble, anyway.”

  She nods in response. “Is there any way I can call you if something happens?”

  “I won’t be gone long, but there’s a number on the white board in the kitchen.” I hand her my phone. “Call me if you need anything.”

  She nods again, but pauses, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Trent?”

  “Yeah?” I say, confused. She’s had my attention the whole time.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” she asks and pulls my hat off and drops it on her head with a scrunch-nose
d smile.

  “You don’t like the hat?” I chuckle at the faded, worn-out hat swallowing the top of her head.

  “Not for work,” she says and peeks out from under the bill with a single gray eye.

  “You win,” I say with a laugh. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “See you soon then.” She smiles and touches my forearm before I turn away and walk out the door.

  Chapter 23

  Trent

  The first week was uneventful. Leila started out timid and quiet, but just below the surface, I could tell she was suffering. Her skin was clammy, she shivered nonstop, she couldn’t hold any food down, and she barely had the energy to get out of bed. It was odd how she acted around me, seeming too proud to show me her weakness. At least, that’s how it began.

  Four days have passed, I’m heading to my room; I had completely forgotten about that junk I recovered from the Cadillac she arrived in, so I’m on my way to toss it now. As I open the bottom drawer in my dresser, the first thing that catches my eye is the gaudy blood-covered pistol she had. The muzzle pokes out of the bag, sparkling annoyingly.

  I open the bag for a quick inventory. The gun, bullets, and credit cards are all there, but the eyeglass case with the drugs is missing. Suddenly, all the time she’s been spending in her room makes sense. And to think, I thought it was cute when she started wearing my sweatshirts around the house. Now, I understand why she’s doing it—she’s using them to cover up the fresh needle marks on her arms.

  I walk out of my room, feeling the heat building in my face from my surging blood pressure. I take a deep breath and knock on the door, knowing how irrational addicts are. I’ve seen it a million times with friends in the past. They’ll sell their soul to get high, I remind myself as I turn the knob and walk into the room.

  Leila is laying on her stomach, her face obscured by her hair. I walk over to the side of the bed and nudge her with my good arm. “Hey, we need to talk.”

  She rolls onto her back and pushes her greasy hair out of her face. “Hi,” she says, slurring, only irritating me more.

  “You don’t want people treating you like a kid, so I need you to make a decision for me, the right one.”

  “Okay.” Her expression grows serious but quickly softens in her delirium.

  “Show me where the drugs are and give them to me, right now, and I’ll let this go.”

  She stretches, and I want to lean down and shake her. She’s not taking me seriously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I sigh. “Leila, you’re high right now.” I fight the urge to start yelling. I’m so pissed; I don’t even want to look at her. I wish with all my heart that she would do the right thing, but that never happens. “I’m trying to stay even-keeled with you right now. You can ask anyone that knows me, and they’ll tell you I’m horrible at self-control; so that must mean you’re special to me. Please, Leila, please. I’ll find it regardless; why not just make it easy on the both of us? I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing. Just give it to me and I’ll cook us some dinner.”

  “Trent.” She sits up and pulls the sweatshirt down over her waist. “I swear to you I’m not getting high.”

  I step back from the bed. “You’re insulting me now. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  She squeaks when I grab one of her wrists. She tries to resist, but whether too high or not wanting to fight, she gives in without a struggle. I roll up her sleeve and sigh when I see the new injection sites.

  “Want to start talking now?” I ask and let go of her wrist, disappointed.

  She frowns and covers her arm back up. After a moment, she shakes her head, refusing to look at me.

  “All right.”

  The next ten minutes are spent pulling the room apart while she sits silent on the edge of the bed, watching me. All I can think is that I must have killed her buzz as I pull the drawers out of her dresser and dump them out on the floor. “Are you ready to tell me?”

  She stands from the bed and ambles toward me. “You’re bleeding. Please just stop this.” My shoulder has been so sore; I didn’t realize that I’m bleeding again. “You need to rest,” she says with desperation in her voice.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say and lightly shove her away, realizing why she has been sitting on the bed this whole time. I walk to the bed and lift the mattress, propping it up on the far wall. There, sitting on the box springs is everything she took.

  “I’m not ready to quit. Please listen to me, you know how serious this is.”

  “Drug addicts are never ready to quit.” I grab everything and take it to the bathroom. She reaches for me, but I can tell she is trying to be gentle.

  “Please don’t, it hurts so bad.” She begins to weep. “Please don’t do this. I didn’t lie to hurt you, I need it.” She drops to her knees, wailing, while I dump the product into the toilet and destroy the needle.

  “Do you know where this needle came from? Do you care? Do you know how disgusting it is to use needles?” I drop the remnants into the garbage can. “You’re cleaning up, sweetheart. You are cleaning up, or you can find another place to stay.” The sad look in her reddened, gray eyes breaks my heart, but I know it’s not shame, it’s addiction. Addicts couldn’t care less about anyone else, just the next fix.

  “You drink until you pass out every night. How does that make you any better than me?” Like Jekyll and Hyde, her sadness transitions to anger in a flash.

  “I have a job, I don’t rely on anyone to take care of me, and I don’t shoot heroin—pretty big difference.”

  “I can take care of myself!” she yells and stands again, wobbling in place.

  “Sure you can.”

  “Don’t mock me!”

  I take a step out of her way and, with my good arm, show her the door. “You can take care of yourself, but not in a way that I’ll tolerate. If this is how you want to live, do it somewhere else.”

  Silence fills the room as we stare each other down. I want so badly for her to think about what she’s doing and realize that she’s killing herself. I just wish she would swallow her fucking pride and admit that she needs help. But if addiction and addicts weren’t so predictable, I’d be psychic.

  With a growl, she turns around and storms back into her room.

  I walk into the kitchen and sit, hearing things banging as she tosses them around in the heat of her tantrum. I sit back in the chair and wipe my hair out of my eyes with a shaky hand. Andrea tiptoes in and mouths the words what the fuck? But I just shake my head. Not now, I think. My blood is boiling, but I’m thankful I didn’t lose control.

  Moments later, Leila walks into the kitchen wearing the same sweatshirt and gym shorts; a white shirt peeks out from underneath. She stops at the door and looks at me, taunting me or waiting for me to beg her to stay, I can’t tell.

  “You can’t take my favorite sweatshirt,” I say.

  With a growl, she pulls it off and slams it on the floor, then walks out of the house.

  “She’s using again,” I say, my voice trembling at the very thought of her deception.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Andrea asks.

  What a strange question. Cassie must have talked to her. “Yeah, I’m good. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes pass, and even after several shots of Cuervo, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ll have to do to get her to come back home. In my mind, I continuously test that fine line between doing something against her will because it’s what she needs, versus letting her kill herself because it’s her decision. The debate goes on, and still I have no right answer.

  She’s a grown woman. I’m not one to preach to anybody how they need to clean up. I wonder for a moment what I would do for my daughter were she in this same situation. That answer is simple. I’d tie her to a chair, lock her in a jail cell until she cleaned up, whatever it took. But Leila is not my daughter; she’s j
ust some girl in trouble, she’s suffering, and I’m all she’s got. She needs me; she needs this from me, I decide.

  Mind made up, I grab my keys and hurry out the door.

  ***

  Leila

  I walk down the dusty, rutted driveway heading back toward the house. Maybe thirty minutes have passed. By the time I stormed off and made it to the corner, I wasn’t even angry anymore, and shame began to creep in at the thought of how I acted toward a man who only wants to take care of me.

  Trent is bent over his car, half of his body stuck under the dull-black hood. I scuff my shoes on the driveway to let him know I’m here.

  “Shit,” he says when something falls through the engine compartment and hits the ground below.

  I tiptoe toward him and reach under the car to grab the screwdriver that he dropped.

  “Thanks,” he says under his breath, not bothering to make eye contact with me. He jams the screwdriver into a screw and twists, but fumbles again. I catch his hand before he drops anything.

  “Trent, you’re scaring me.”

  He shoves the tool into my hand. “Those four screws. Loosen them up for me.”

  I nod and do as he says, and then watch as he pulls the contraption apart the rest of the way. “Are you going to talk to me?”

  He sighs and curses again when gasoline splashes everywhere. “Fucking stupid car. I was coming for you, but the damn thing wouldn’t start. This is what I get for not replacing the gas tank when it was all taken apart, now I have nonstop issues with the carburetor.”

  “Was it in bad shape when you bought it?”

  “It was a shell, had no engine, no interior. I collected all the parts and put it back together. I built this engine for it. The old girl just needed a little love is all,” he says, his mood seeming to soften when he thinks back on everything he did to get it running.

  Collect all the pieces… a little love… repeats in my mind. “What was your plan, I mean, when you were coming for me?” I ask.

  He jams a rag into the cavity that was once full of gas, and then tosses the sopping rag off to the side. “To bring you home.” He grumbles a few more curses when he drops a screw.