by Sonja Bair
6. The official contact for werewolves in the United States was the Alpha mates in Colorado.
There was only one person to blame for the lack of new information: that would be me. After graduation from college and a couple years working the bottom rungs of the USN, I was promoted to Information Officer over the Associate Members. After my fifth month, I quit, and they never filled the position again. But that was neither here nor there since I doubt I would have ever gotten around to even asking the question, “What to do with a lone werewolf when he is living in the city you recently moved to?”
I slammed the binder shut. That’s it. I needed to warn my sister and I needed to work off some of this excess energy. Good thing there was a perfect place for both—my sister’s new ranch about forty minutes over the grade.
Chapter 2
The Eagle needed reminding that it really could make it over the grade (SLO code for a small mountain pass), but in time, the AMC and I exited off the expressway and entered ranch land. I turned on the Eagle’s air conditioning by rolling down the window and felt the hot, dry air roll past my face. The land around me had turned from Mediterranean to dry plains merely by going over the fifteen-hundred-foot pass. Lone oaks dotted the land around me. Sage bushes seemed to scent the air slightly green, but the hard-baked earth overrode it and scented it back to khaki. Here were cattle grazing lazily in the shadow of the scrub brush while falcons lazily circled in the air currents above. I love SLO, but I also love Elin’s ranch.
I turned down the Double L Ranch road and curved and twisted until I got to Drew and Elin’s new home. There were no cars in the driveway and, after a quick peek into the garage, discovered that no one was home at all. I punched in the six-digit access code which opened the garage door and parked the Eagle inside. Did I mention that I like to subtly push people’s buttons? Drew did not share the same affection toward Eagles as I do and, therefore, upon opening the door, may not appreciate the sight of it in his brand new garage, and in his parking spot in particular. Perfect set-up for meddling with someone I love but who also is fun to bother.
I took one last scan of my surroundings to assure that no one was around and then stripped off my t-shirt while leaving my custom-made halter top on. Within a blink of the eye, two five-foot-by-four-foot wings now graced my back. They were not, however, covered with feathers. I am not a bird, I am a mammal, and mammals by definition do not have feathers. My wings are much like the rest of the human body. There is a light layer of hair over the skin, which is covering the bones and muscles that make the wings. Simple. But what is not so simple is the science behind them. Why can I instantly pop two huge appendages out of nothing? Why do x-rays show no extra bones when I am in completely human shape? Why does my weight stay the same between forms? Do the physics of my ability for flight even compute? I certainly don’t know, even with my science background. I try to use this conundrum to remind myself not to take myself, or in fact anything, too seriously. Life likes to play little jokes on us all, so we might as well laugh along.
With two down sweeps of my wings, I was airborne. The closest thing to describe unaided human flight, in my opinion, would be a child’s swing. When swinging, there is that feeling after the first big pump of legs that one is unhitched from the earth. The stomach remains two feet behind the swinger and the air swooshes past, blowing all the hair back. Then, at the top of the arc, there is that millisecond pause where the swinger doubts that gravity alone will be strong enough to pull her back to earth. Of course, the great part of my flight is that gravity doesn’t pull me down. With another sweep of my wings, I was above the roof line. Another sweep, and I was past Elin’s new pool. Another sweep, and I was past the steep slope in their backyard. Another sweep, and I saw my first group of cattle. The cattle never seem to look up. I wondered what I would have to do to capture their attention. I scanned the horizon and picked a distant hill as my destination. The air currents can carry me for awhile, much like the other birds of prey, and I let them. I pulled up on my wings to gain elevation, and the cattle became ants.
Life was grand.
I didn’t quite make it to the distant hill before I spotted the glare of Elin’s car heading down the mile-long driveway. I banked my flight and returned to her house. Although I’d gladly annoy Drew for the fun of it anytime, I decided not to do the same with my sister right now, so I gradually came to a landing, giving her plenty of time to spot me. When my feet hit the ground, I wiggled into my t-shirt and approached the oncoming car. Elin’s face broke into a huge grin, which told me my unannounced visit was appreciated. She pulled her car in next to my Eagle and sprang out.
“I’m so glad you are here. I was about to call you anyway. You are not going to believe the phone call I got from Dad. Okay, you’ll believe it, but I hope you are as ticked off as I am. I moved all the way across the country and yet still they manage to squirm into my life. Bah! Help me with the packages and I’ll continue to tell you about the latest travesty.” Elin’s face had two red spots over the cheekbones, which told me she was indeed angry. My face does the same thing when I’m feeling extreme about any emotion. I can’t hide emotions very well for that very reason.
The flushing of the cheeks isn’t the only thing that my sister and I have in common. We both have straight, very blonde hair—the type of hair that people often mistake as white at first glance. And of course, to go with the Scandinavian blonde theme, we have ice blue eyes and pale, pale skin. Elin, however, got the beautiful, clear skin. I got the spray of freckles that looked like I forgot to turn off the blender before putting it into a bowl of butterscotch pudding. She also got the interesting bone structure, the height, and the artistic flair for dressing. In my opinion, Elin could have easily gotten into modeling, but our family situation did not allow us to be in the public eye. So although she didn’t inherit the Alva gene of flight, she got all the rest of the good stuff. Growing up, I always got to be measured up to my stunning older sister at school, but at Flock gatherings, she always got to be overlooked in favor of the Alvas. So we evened out, I guess. And maybe because of the mutual inadequacies, she and I have always been close.
I grabbed a box and meekly followed her inside.
“Did I mention what a scheming, plotting, conniving family we have? This took planning on their part. How long? How long have they had this plan up their sleeves? And did they ask me? Did they even bother to mention they may want something from me when we started to build this house a year ago? Maybe I have opinions about what I want to do with my own place. Nope, just let me go on my merry way, thinking that my life was my own.” Elin dropped a strangely heavy-sounding brown box on the kitchen counter and turned to glare at me.
“They want you to turn your place into a secret underground breeding sanctuary for genetically modified evil squirrels?” I asked in a sweet voice.
Elin let off a string of inappropriate words and flopped onto one of her new oak barstools. “No. At least that would be fun. Imagine what sorts of evil plots to dominate the world we could come up with if it was evil squirrels Nope. Dad asked in the most innocent voice possible if the guest house was free next week. The innocent voice should have tipped me off, but I thought that maybe they were coming out to check on their baby girl who moved out into the scary city of San Luis Obispo.”
It was my turn to shudder. “Now, I would have called that an evil plot.”
“They would have been your problem, not mine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “So I told them, ‘Sure, it’s free.’ And then Dad asks, so pleasantly, if the USN could borrow it for an official function. They would be glad to pay us for a week’s rent and cleaning afterward.” She stopped, crossed her arms, and stuck out her chin in anger.
I was a bit puzzled at this point. What was the big deal? So they wanted to borrow it. It wasn’t like it was going to cramp their living style; it was the guest house. I raised an eyebrow to indicate she needed to go on.
“Oh come on. Do you really thi
nk that they just happen to think of the guest house right now? That it never occurred to them as we were building this place that they could have a purpose for an out-of-the-way retreat where all sorts of spooks and scary monsters could come and never have to interact with the local population? They were planning on co-opting my guest house all along.”
“First of all, I take offense at spooks and scary monsters. I would hardly call myself spooky. Second, so what? You aren’t using it anyway. Charge them through the nose and then treat yourself to something nice. You’re the innkeeper here. If you don’t want some particularly scary monster hanging out in your backyard, tell them no. They don’t have control over your house.”
Elin’s shoulders deflated and her chin retreated. “That’s what Dad said, too. And he said that this particular set of guests would be very tame. It’s the principle of it, I guess. I thought I left the controlling when I fled Chicago, and then I thought that I left the controlling when I started my own little family with Drew, but still, it continues.”
I sat down on another stool and started fidgeting with the odd-looking packages. “Doesn’t sound like controlling to me. It sounds like they are politely asking to rent your guest house.”
Elin raised her own eyebrow in imitation of my earlier look and retorted, “I’ll repeat that line to you the next time they try to oh-so-subtly influence you.”
I was almost to the point of opening the box in front of me but decided, given the last conversation, to be polite and ask, “So what’s in the boxes?”
For the first time since she came inside, a smile lit up her face. “I went to the new reuse center down in SLO and made some serious scores. Take a look at these.” She pulled out a molted green window frame followed by a scrubby-looking glass chandelier. Out of the other box, she pulled out three door handles of various shapes and vintages, two bags of drywall screws, and a very small bathroom sink. Elin looked like a cat in the cream.
I stared dubiously at the pile of what seemed to me to be thoroughly used-up household junk. “Redecorating already?”
“Of course not. Don’t you see the potential? I’m moving away from the salvaged fabrics and into hardware. Etsy is getting swamped with those half-rate sweater rugs and sad little stuffed animals made of vests. Non-organic shapes mixed with self-reflective pieces used in a traditional way are going to be the next big thing.”
I picked up the green window frame, framed my head with it, and quipped, “When one door closes, somewhere God opens a window?”
I may poke fun at my sister, but in truth, she knows what she’s talking about. Before it became the latest craze, my sister had been creating and selling repurposed clothing. Unraveled sweaters became intricate landscape artwork. Old shoes organized in an unexpected way became stunning vertical planters. And believe it or not, they sold. They sold quickly and for a lot of money. Nobody was supposed to be able to support themselves by doing art, especially art which was considered crafty. But my sister did and so, much to my parents’ chagrin, she did not get a Masters’ degree or pursue a nice, steady career. Instead, she quit college halfway through and bumped around the country, making art, selling art, and meeting interesting people like her now-husband, Drew. Drew had steadied her, and the draw of the land on which we were currently sitting grounded her. She even was learning to ride horses, which actually is a still-used method of working the cattle on Drew’s family ranch. I was betting with her about how long it would be before she broke down and started branding cows.
Elin snatched back the window frame with a smile. “Now that you have talked me off the ledge, let’s discuss something else. How’s the new digs? How’s prepping for classes? Meet any interesting boys?”
I snorted. “I guess you could say I met an interesting boy.”
Elin sat up straight and looked intrigued. Once someone gets married, for some bizarre reason, they think everyone else should be happily coupled off as well.
“He was tall, dark, and handsome... and a lone werewolf currently living in San Luis Obispo. Werewolves are iffy to begin with, but a lone werewolf is guaranteed trouble.”
Elin frowned. “Why is a lone werewolf trouble? Aren’t they supposed to follow the USN code?”
“Don’t think that USN code is law. Mom and her group are trying to set up a code which would allow supernaturals and naturals to exist together in relative harmony. But not all supernaturals agree, and there is no one to force them to.”
Elin nodded absently. She knew the background of the USN, but not being a supernatural herself, she didn’t pay as much attention as I did to Mom’s work. I thought that the USN had the potential to change the world, but too often got tied up with their own bureaucracy and patting each other on the back.
“But get back to the werewolf. Why is his presence such a problem?” Elin started to organize her non-organic, self-reflective pieces in an order that seemed random to me.
“Werewolves are Associate Members, not even pledged to follow USN codes. And lone werewolves don’t even follow werewolf code. So, all told, this particular lone werewolf is a big question mark. I met him at the grocery store and he seemed nice enough. He did let me have the lentils.”
Elin looked confused, but I didn’t feel the need to explain so I continued. “But the biggest mystery is: why is he a lone werewolf? From what I know of werewolves, they only exist in packs. They become unstable or violent without a pack, and their powers can fluctuate wildly. Maybe this guy is more powerful by being a loner; maybe he has lost most of his powers. And did he get kicked out of a pack or did he leave on his own? I don’t know,” I finished with a sigh.
“So what are you going to do?” Elin’s forehead was wrinkled in worry. I’m sure I probably had a similar look on my face.
“We have a coffee date on Friday to discuss the situation. He wasn’t too pleased to see me, either. In fact, he seemed pretty pissed off that there were two supernaturals living in SLO now.” I found myself chewing my cuticles, one of the many bad habits I have.
“I don’t get it. Why is it a problem that there are two supernaturals in SLO?”
“It’s only a problem because of archaic traditions. Until recently, there was the completely unwavering belief that a single supernatural group could live in a territory. It was thought that if there was too much supernatural weirdness in one area, the naturals would notice and make life hard. And if two groups moved too close to each other, the one had to leave or there would be an all-out war.”
“So is this guy challenging you to a fight over coffee?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Are you going to go?”
“I don’t think I have a choice. But I’m not going to tell Mom about this until after the meeting. I don’t want to start the habit of running to her every time a spook or scary monster shows up on my doorstep. Obviously, don’t share this with them until after the meeting.”
Elin looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. “I guess not,” she conceded. “You seem to get in a lot of scrapes, but amazingly, you seem to get out of them just fine. Do you know the guy’s name so we can cyber-stalk him?”
Chapter 3
I dressed with care on Friday morning. I put on my navy silk button-up shirt with the lightly textured knee-length grey pencil skirt. I needed the makeup case still packed away in one of my moving boxes. After searching through the second box and still not finding it, I rocked back on my heels and reconsidered. Screw it. I am not a silk-shirt-with-makeup kind of girl. I’m a jeans and bad-science-pun t-shirt kind of girl. My makeup probably has never-before-discovered lifeforms growing in it, it’s so old. Putting on the costume of a sophisticated woman wasn’t going to make me any more comfortable or confident. And David Waterstone didn’t seem to be the type to be thrown off his game by a pair of high heels. Jeans and the Springfield Isotopes t-shirt, it was.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed the Lentil and Spinach Stew container I had packed last nig
ht and threw it in a brown lunch bag. Luckily, the stew had turned out well and was something I would feel confident about when facing David Waterstone. Time check: 8:45. I might as well start walking downtown, and I could get there a few minutes early.
My garden cottage is about a ten-minute walk to downtown, and there were so many conveniences within walking distance, my poor Eagle was probably getting lonely. On my way to the coffee shop, I went over the plan in my head: convince him that the two of us did not have to run into each other much and therefore we could remain distant and unaffected by each other. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I almost didn’t see Gary walking down the street. Gary and I had met my second day in San Luis. He was a homeless man and probably mentally ill, but he tried to earn money by playing his battered violin on the street instead of begging. The music he played was wretched, but as a fellow musician, I respected his effort. I had made it a point to talk to him when our paths crossed. No deep conversations, but something to remind him that someone still saw his humanity. Most of our conversations made little sense.
Our walking chat took me to the front of the coffee shop. David Waterstone was sitting there already. My heart started to race. From his appearance, I guessed he had decided to use the clothing intimidation technique since he was sporting finely tailored dark pants and a dark blue dress shirt. I waved and smiled at him, momentarily grateful for Gary’s wandering monologue. I could use these next few seconds to get a hold of myself. I inwardly tried to steel myself. This was one lone werewolf. I had faced down a pack of nasty witches with very bad intentions and had escaped unharmed... basically. This was not as scary. I finished up with Gary, shook his hand as was our tradition, and walked over to the werewolf.
“Let me grab a coffee and I’ll be right out,” I said as I strolled by him. All of a sudden, I felt better. David was not someone to be feared. He may be a lone werewolf, but he was trying to fit into society. Who knew what lurked in his past, but he was a supernatural who discussed problems over coffee downtown, for goodness sake. I can deal with all sorts of people in the daylight; thank you Gary for reminding me of that. It’s the monsters hiding in the dark that continue to terrify me.
