“Leave,” Zinnie said, as pieces of her age-old house wafted through the air like mist.
Sam knew of only one other place in the world where he had always been safe, one constant point where Sam felt the evil could not go.
He pulled Sarah back through the fence, then lifted her as he ran, past his neighbors’ trailers, around his front porch, and to his father’s old van.
His dad was waiting there in the darkness, sunglasses on, leaning against the van, keys in hand.
Sam opened the door and tossed the basket in. He could hear a police car as it sped its way toward the trailer park, turning in. “Go,” Sam said, lifting Sarah into the backseat and gently buckling her in. She wiggled and pushed against Sam.
“They’ve gone up the east road,” Sam said.
“I know,” his father replied, starting the van, which Sam now realized was surprisingly quiet for an old van.
“Keep her safe,” Sam said.
“Get in son,” his father said.
“No.”
Sarah kicked Sam hard in the shin. He gently put her leg back into the car and shut the door.
Robert Calhoun kept his sunglasses on and drove slowly, silently, through the west exit and into the night.
Jones had arrived at the door to the enormous kitchen with thirty of his slaughtered chickens that afternoon. He couldn’t exactly care for the chickens now that he had left the farm, so it made sense to donate them to the party.
Except that it didn’t make sense at all because this was the last place where Mitchell Jones wanted to be.
Still, Jones had lingered near the kitchen after they had taken the plucked and gutted chickens into the house. He’d waited for the old cook to come back and then offered to help her. She’d taken his offer gladly—the birds would need to be prepared and she was behind.
Together they had spent the last several hours chatting. Jones told her stories from his travelling days—stories of Bigfoot that he’d heard at almost every campsite in the hills of Montana. The cook had laughed as they’d seasoned and basted, roasted and braised until each bird was cooked, until the sun had sunk into its evening sleep.
The orchestra was playing now—an opening sonata in the ballroom while the tuxedoed wait staff stood at attention, ready to carry out plates and goblets, appetizers and drinks.
The old cook wiped her forehead and helped herself to a glass of amber champagne while Jones took a seat by the window and watched. Guests were arriving in fancy cars and limousines. And then there she was—stepping out of a black snake of a limo with a tall, attractive woman following close behind.
The dogs, he knew, would come. Jones wasn’t quite sure what was going on. But he was sure of this: Napper was a man with not one face, but two. And you couldn’t trust a man like that.
So he would trust his dogs. And his dogs cared about Ella.
Whatever Ella was to do, the dogs would help her. He wasn’t sure how to help the girl, but he knew what he could do to help his dogs. He wouldn’t leave them to battle their way through whatever dangers lurked on this hill when he could easily let them in through the kitchen door.
He stood near the door as the cook nodded off. Through the darkness of the trees, he watched, waiting for the moment when one of his dogs would rise up over the hill, waiting for the moment when he would take out his own silver whistle, and blow.
When Witten arrived at the entrance to Napper’s mansion, his car was taken by the valet and Witten took the hand of his tiny niece, wrapping her fingers protectively in his own. He paused at the entrance, not eager to go in; and after a few minutes he could smell the old beggar come up behind him. He could also smell the quiet creature that hid in the shadows—the black wolf that might have become the alpha female if her front leg hadn’t been maimed in a human trap. It was a cruel world for the wolves—Witten had to admit that.
“Tonight,” the old man said.
Witten turned halfway, not meeting the old man’s gaze. The young girl looked at the homeless man with wide eyes.
“Tonight what, oncle?” the small girl said.
“Tonight we find out how your dear red cap turns out,” Witten said, a sad smile turning up his lips.
“Will you be reading?” she asked with excitement.
“No, but another will. A student of mine just a few years older than you.”
Emmaline clapped her hands.
The beggar stared at the girl, stepping closer. “Your sister’s child?” he asked.
Witten nodded.
“She looks just like my deceased wife,” he said, squatting to get a better look at the girl who hid from him behind Witten’s legs and waist.
Witten looked to the mansion, about to step forward.
“By the laws of the old world, she would be killed as a half-breed,” the old man said.
“Don’t frighten the child with your crazy talk,” Witten replied sharply.
“I can help,” the old man said.
“Then do,” Witten said without looking back.
Chapter 61
The Festival of the Red Candle was not a casual event. What struck Ella most when they arrived was that the windowed walls of the atrium had been draped with long, thick curtains that fell from ceiling to floor while the ceiling windows remained uncovered. The stars shown down on the party-goers like hundreds of tiny white Christmas lights, but the moon had not yet risen high enough to be seen through the glass.
Ella felt, in fact, that she was in an entirely different place than she had been the morning before. The room was lit with candles and small twinkling lights. Long tables were draped with shimmering red clothes that reached to the ground and then spread out like petals onto the floor. Live plants had been brought in—vases and pots with peonies and roses as well as several native trees on which living birds perched—cardinals and chickadees, goldfinches and sparrows.
In the center of the floor, couples danced in clothes that would have fit well on any Hollywood red carpet. But what the pictures in magazines could never capture was the soft flow of the fabrics as women brushed past, the glitter and shine of the gemstones on necks and ears, the sweet muted smell of perfumes and money. It was bedazzling.
Jack came up behind Ella and tapped her shoulder. “Want to dance?” he said, holding out an arm. “I should have let Brandt have the first shot at you, but he’s over at the bar trying to convince them he’s twenty-one.”
Ella smiled and took Jack’s arm. He was wearing a deeply black tux that made his blue eyes stand out like an ocean. Ella thought she might drown.
Jack took her hand, moving her across the floor like she was a doll, a puppet, an appendage to his own graceful movements.
When the song ended, Ella felt not like she had stopped, but like she had landed. Jack held her close to him still—one hand pressed lightly against her back, the other cupping her small hand in his long, soft fingers, gently stroking the scar on her wrist—all that was left from the attack in the corn maze. His face was only inches from hers—fair-skinned and clean shaven. He smelled like soap and cologne and new tuxedo fabric. Jack pulled her hand against his chest and held it there for a moment before moving a stray lock of Ella’s hair from the side of her face.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he said, leaning his face down so that his lips were so close to hers she could feel their warmth. His fingers grazed her cheek, then gently touched the side of her neck.
Just then Brandt came up and tapped his brother’s shoulder. “Do I get the next dance?” he said.
Jack stepped back, laughing, and Ella tried to smile, though she could feel the blush spread across her collarbone and up her face.
“You look great, Ella,” Brandt said, his breath just a little boozy.
“Thanks,” Ella said as Brandt took her hand in his.
“How crazy is this?” Brandt said, gesturing around them. Several tuxedoed servers were bringing out a large pig on a platter as well as several roast birds that looked like chick
ens. Tiny plates of pate and chicken hearts, a leg of lamb.
“I know, right,” Ella said, following Brandt’s movements through the dance. Ella had to admit that he was so tall and big that it made her feel small and feminine in a way that might have made her swoony, except that right now all she could do was look past Brandt’s shoulder to see where Jack had gone.
In one year and three months, she would be eighteen—a legal adult, just a few years younger than Jack. She stumbled over Brandt’s foot just a bit.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No problem,” Brandt said, pulling her a little closer. Her left hand was on his shoulder and he turned her right wrist over to look at it. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Just an accident a few months ago,” Ella mumbled.
“Ouch,” Brandt said. “At least it didn’t get your face. Could have been way worse.” He smiled.
Ella nodded, stumbling and blushing. She knew it was meant to be a compliment, but something about the conversation was bothering her.
They finished the dance and Brandt took a step back. “You wanna drink?” he asked. “I can get you something from the bar.”
“Um, no, that’s okay,” Ella said. Brandt shrugged and walked away.
Ella held her wrist where both Jack and Brandt had just touched her scar. Two months ago after the corn maze, Ella had told Jack about the attack. He had immediately looked at her wrist. So sympathetic. So kind.
But she hadn’t told him which wrist, and she’d been wearing long sleeves. She remembered because Jack had had to move her sleeve up to see the cut.
How had he known which wrist had been cut? It could have been a fluke, a lucky guess, a coincidence—a reaction where he pulled her arm forward and it just happened to be the right one.
Or not.
Ella looked up at the windowed ceiling—at the cold first night of official winter. In the arctic when the dark winter pressed across the land, some travelers, so struck by the bright moon over the snow would follow it—often walking into snowstorms or falling into icy waters just to catch the moon—the moon that neither noticed, nor cared when they fell.
In her purse, Ella carried two silver cufflinks. Jones had given them to her after that first week of helping out on the farm. She’d brought them tonight as a gift for Jack. He’d seemed so perfect; he’d smelled so good. She didn’t want him to be anything more than she thought he was.
But she had to know. She had to find Jack. And give him his present.
They were almost an hour out of town when Sarah’s head was clear enough to really think.
“Turn around,” she said, tapping the seat in front of her. “We have to go back.”
Robert Calhoun ignored her.
“Seriously,” she said, her voice rising. “You can’t take a person against her will like this.”
“I’ve texted your mother. She’ll be at the meeting place,” Calhoun said calmly.
“Well, text her again and say we won’t. We’re going back. She can turn around, same as you.” Sarah didn’t really want to be rude, only to be heard. And she was feeling kind of cranky after being drugged for two weeks.
Sam’s father sighed, but he didn’t slow down or turn around. “Listen,” he said. “My son has lived in a lot of places and known a lot of people. But until we came here, he hasn’t had someone to care about. I can’t risk letting him lose that.” Calhoun’s throat caught on the last two words—just a small pinch, but Sarah heard it.
“But caring,” she said. “It doesn’t only go one way. It has to go two.”
Calhoun nodded, barely. “So you do not care?”
Sarah took a deep breath. It was all so awkward and embarrassing. “No, I care enough to go back. Caring doesn’t run off and leave someone.”
“Sometimes it does,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it dies a quick death in a hospital bed before you’ve even have time to say a real good-bye.”
“Not on purpose,” Sarah replied just as softly. “People who care don’t leave on purpose; people who care don’t run away.”
Calhoun pulled to a stoplight, silent as silk. And then, without waiting for the light to turn green, he spun the car into the other lane and started to drive back to Napper, tossing Sarah his phone. “Text your mother.”
“No,” Sarah said. “Not yet. I think it’d be better if she waited for a while before coming.”
“She might call the cops if we don’t show up.”
“After the last two weeks,” Sarah said. “I doubt it.” She turned to look out the window at the empty winter hills which blew past them in a brown blur. They were driving home. And fast.
Ten minutes outside of town, Calhoun took off his sunglasses and pulled into a dimly lit taco drive through. He pulled a $100 bill out of his wallet and asked the kid at the window, “How many grilled steak tacos will this get me—just the meat?”
Thirty piles of taco meat later, they stood outside The Property, listening to the music which crept from the mansion on cold breezes. Robert Calhoun was breathing deeply, his breath catching in raspy licks up and down his throat. It had been a long time.
Sam’s dad was huge. Sarah had thought when she first saw Sam in his changed condition that he was the largest creature she’d ever seen. But now that his father had shifted, it was clear that Sam was only a boy, and not a full-bred werewolf.
Sam hadn’t smelled so bad for one thing. Sarah took a perverse kind of pride in that; and Sam’s facial features had not been so feral or pronounced. His father’s ears were several inches long and hairy, the eyes deep brown, but not as wide as Sam’s had been. Mr. Calhoun’s hands were yellowed with chalky nails that were long and smelly. Against her will, Sarah shuddered.
Mr. Calhoun smiled. “You see then, why I haven’t shifted for so many years. Stinky business, this whole thing.”
Sarah smiled weakly. This terrifying creature, this man-wolf in front of her was one of the good guys.
Maybe it had been a bad idea to come back. But having bad ideas had never stopped Sarah before.
Chapter 62
Ella wandered to the refreshment table. Most of it was meat and foreign cheeses, and Ella didn’t feel hungry. Even so she chose a small mascarpone pastry and set it on a crystal plate, breaking it into pieces as she drifted into a dark corner. There she set the plate down and took the tiny whistle from her clutch, fingering the silver chain like a rosary. Quietly, she put the whistle to her mouth and blew.
Nothing.
Not so much as a tiny, tinny sound came out of it, much less a high, shrill blast that would call the dogs to her. The darkness of the hall, the soundless emptiness of the whistle—they made her feel lonelier than ever.
It was then that she saw Mr. Witten seated at a nearby table with a young girl instead of a date. He was wearing the ugliest brown suit that Ella had ever seen with an olive and chartreuse colored tie. The outfit would have been pretty awful anywhere, but here in a sea of black and gray tuxedos, he looked like a moth in a swarm of exotic butterflies. Ella stared at Witten for several minutes before she caught his eye. He nodded at her and stood, bringing the child over to meet her. The girl was the youngest at the party—eight or nine years old with dark, delicate features.
“Hello, Ella,” Mr. Witten said. “I’d like you to meet my niece, Emmaline. Emmaline, this is Ella. I teach her at the school.”
“How do you do,” the girl replied with a tidy French accent.
“Hello,” Ella replied, charmed in spite of the circumstances. “Are you here for the holidays?”
“Yes,” Witten said evenly. “It was quite the surprise when she showed up. Napper was kind enough to escort her here from Paris.”
And then Ella knew—the girl was not a guest, but a prisoner; and because of that Witten was captive too. The girl was a ransom note and, watching them together, Ella knew Witten would pay the ransom, whatever it was.
Ezazh stood with the ancient one by the altar in the wood. Both faced toward t
he atrium-encased hill. In the woods all around that hill, the wolves were gathering. None of them had accepted Ezazh back into their packs. She had her infirmity; she had the lingering scent of human and medicine in her wounds.
And so she had found the old one. Together they had scavenged for food and eaten—sitting around a campfire at night as the ancient one cooked the food that she tore from the bones of her prey. Ezazh was not the hunter she had once been, but her wounds had healed well and she could still catch pheasants and small rodents.
Occasionally, the cat Gabby dragged a rabbit to their circle and the three would eat together. Tonight the cat was with her mistress—keeping vigil over the crumbling house, staying by the side of the dissolving woman. If the old woman had access to her staff, the witch’s powers might surge one last time before she returned to the dust.
Ezazh looked to the altar. At the top of the stones and sticks lay a long piece of archaic wood—the staff the Alpha had taken from the witch. Tonight, Napper had traded the old staff for a gentleman’s cane. Ezazh stepped toward the altar where the staff lay, waiting to be burned after midnight. Ezazh took the staff in her mouth and then, following the scent of the small cat through the forest, the deformed wolf thundered through the cold woods to the old woman’s crumpling house.
Jack was easy to find—dancing a sultry foxtrot with a tall blond who was wearing an incredibly short dress and the spikiest heels Ella had ever seen.
A wave of jealousy nipped at Ella’s stomach—ridiculous and irrational. Supposing Jack was actually not a werewolf, he was still an adult. And she wasn’t.
Jack smiled at her and Ella smiled weakly in return, waiting for the lingering blonde to move away, which after a brief, but significant look from Jack, she did. That didn’t help Ella’s stomach at all, but it did give her the courage to pull out the cufflinks.
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