Silver-White (The Great North Woods Pack #1)

by Shawn Underhill

  Evie shook her head. “Just you. Tell me.”

  “All right,” he sighed, “This isn’t my preferred method. But, if you insist, I guess I’ll just … be blunt.”

  “I can handle it,” Evie said, hanging on his words while searching his expressions. “Please.”

  “Here goes,” he said, his tone flat. “First off, obviously some things have been withheld from you. Let me assure you that it was done for good reason. None of the children know, until they’re deemed mature enough to handle such knowledge.”

  Evie nodded without an expression. Her insides were jumping nervously. “Okay …”

  “The most important things you remember growing up are all true. Your grandmother and I love these North Woods, the farm, the animals, and most of all our family. But as far as we go personally … our genes, our history … we are not normal; our family is not normal. I know most teenagers think that at times, but with us, it’s quite true.”

  Now he paused.

  “Go on,” Evie said.

  “We’re wolves,” Joseph Ludlow said plainly and quickly. His eyes were sparkling. “You dreamed of a wolf because you are one. That experience was you coming into your own … your attainment of adulthood.”

  Evie said nothing; she only stared at her white-haired, green-eyed grandfather, remembering the white-faced, green-eyed wolf of her dream.

  “Your Papa Joe is an old wolf,” he continued. “Our whole family, and some others, makes up a large pack. These woods around us for many miles are our territory. We watch over our territory carefully, and do our very best to keep ourselves hidden from outsiders and prying eyes; hence the need for secrecy regarding the children, who can be unintentionally loose with their tongues.” Now he smiled faintly. “How’s that for a quick summary?”

  Evie watched him for a long time before speaking. Her grandfather had loved to tell her stories as a little girl while toasting marshmallows by the fireplace. And for such a serious man in so many ways, he still loved jokes whenever possible. But right then Evie heard only cold facts in his tone; saw only truth in his expression. In her mind one of her many questions suddenly stood forth from the others. “Have you seen the dream wolf, Papa?” she asked.

  “Sure I have,” was his casual reply.

  “How big is he?”

  “Very big. Monstrous. I can’t say his exact dimensions.”

  “What color is he?”

  “Whiter than snow. The whitest thing I’ve ever seen. In the dark he nearly glows.”

  “His eyes?”

  “Oh his eyes are magnificent. Greener than yours and mine together. Ghost green, some call it. They see right through people.”

  “Like night vision,” Evie muttered.

  “Something like it,” her grandfather chuckled. “But much better.”

  Evie sat still, staring at her grandfather as if she’d never fully appreciated all his features before. The memory of the wolf, the green intensity of his eyes, fueled a suspicion she could not shake. “Was it you I dreamed of?” she asked tentatively. “Are you him?”

  “No,” was his honest reply.

  “But you have the same eyes.”

  “Oh no, mine aren’t nearly as wonderful. I am only his descendent. Some of his splendor lives in me. But no, I’m not him.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Evie gave up her questioning for the moment, because all the while the conversation had gone on she had felt the room beginning to wheel, and by now the sensation had grown unbearable. As she sat motionless on the bed, the room spun round her as if she’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. So when she could take no more of the spinning, and could process no more of the strangeness, she slumped down and laid her head on the pillow, muttering, “I’m dizzy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” her grandfather said. “This is a lot to absorb without warning.”

  Evie gave no reply. As she’d fallen back on the bed a clump of her hair had blown over her face, and looking through the clump before she brushed it away, something bright had caught her eye.

  Slowly she lifted the hair between a finger and a thumb, holding it a few inches from her eye. Mixed with her natural deep red color she saw streaks of glittery white mingling sparsely with the red, exaggerated by the sunlight streaming through the window. She took up more clumps, pulled them to her eyes, and found more of the same. This process she repeated several times. More clumps. More white. It was everywhere.

  At that same moment Evie’s mother and grandmother entered the bedroom. After hearing voices they had assumed Evie would be hungry and thirsty, so they were carrying cold water and a snack. As the door swung open they saw Joseph sitting on the corner of the bed trying to console Evie, whose hands were flying through her hair in a fury, like she had a bee caught in it. After drawing handful after handful over her face, she looked as if she’d been taken up into a tornado and then dropped onto the bed in a heap. “My hair,” she kept muttering. “Look at my hair!”

  All that had been said, all that she’d experienced so far, Evie could somewhat deal with. At the very least she could close her eyes and shift her thoughts for a moment’s peace. They were dreams, stories, words … nothing solid; nothing as personal as the hair that’d been growing from her head every day of her life. But no matter how badly she wanted to, she could not ignore her hair. Frosty white, she was surely not seeing sun streaks. And the longer she stared, the more the sight of it seemed to sharpen the words her grandfather had uttered. It seemed to say—almost to accuse, “Wolf.”

  -3-

  In the upstairs bathroom of the Ludlow house stood a large whirlpool tub—a modern tub made to appear antique. As a little girl Evie had loved swimming in this tub, paddling against its churning waters as if swimming against the current of a swift river. Nearing seventeen now, the same tub felt much smaller. She could reach the opposite end with her outstretched toes; its current soothed her.

  Evie didn’t often pitch fits. But that’s exactly what she’d done in the bedroom. The white hair had pushed her over the edge, and it had taken both her mother and grandmother to restrain her when her inclination to running kicked in. Her grandfather had left the room at that point, handing off charge to her grandmother.

  Of course, after not seeing her grandmother in a year, a wrestling match was far from the ideal greeting. But Evelyn Ludlow was strong for an old woman, and she emerged from the minor skirmish no worse for the wear. The power of her grip had surprised Evie—so much so that it had been the deciding factor in convincing her to give up her struggle. Then the two women had steered her to the bathroom and started the hot water in the tub, assuring her over and again that she was okay. When her grandmother left the bathroom, her mother, the nurse, remained.

  “Mom …” Evie began from the tub, as if she was about to ask a question but then trailed off. She had expected another soothing response. Perhaps that was really why she’d spoken—to get the comforting response. But none came. Instead she heard the last sound she expected; her mother began to laugh her funny, high-pitched laugh.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Janie gasped. “It’s just … if I didn’t know better I’d swear you’d been to the party of the century last night. You look so wrecked.”

  Evie turned her head just enough to glare at her, saying with her eyes as clearly as with words, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” her mother said between breaths. “It’s been so tense; I just needed the release. I’m done now, I swear.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” Evie muttered.

  “I am,” she said after composing herself. “Really I am. So will you, very soon.” Her voice bore hints of both fatigue and excitement.

  “Whatever ...”

  “I’m being completely serious now,” Janie said. “It started late last night. It almost always starts at night, when we’re tired and have the least control over our minds.”

  “What starts?” Evie groaned.
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  “The change.”

  Evie shook her head weakly. First she’d laughed at her. Now she was going into more wolf talk.

  “I heard the commotion from your room,” Janie continued, “and I just knew. I called your grandfather before I even got out of bed. I was lucky to catch him home at that hour. He was so excited to hear the news.”

  “My room,” Evie whispered. Her mind at present seemed only capable of grasping singular thoughts. “I remember being in my room. I was mad. Really mad.”

  “It shows,” her mother laughed.

  “What shows?”

  “Your room. You trashed it nicely. Destroyed actually. And by the way, your favorite jeans.” She shook her head. “They didn’t make it.”

  That was right. Evie remembered stepping into her favorite jeans just minutes before Numb Nuts called to cancel. She’d gone straight to bed without even bothering to undress.

  “You honestly can’t remember a thing, can you?”

  Evie gave no answer. She was staring up at the wooden ceiling, at the knots and grains of the boards, trying to recall something—anything more from the prior night. The day before was clearly intact. The phone call was there, and still angered her. Getting dressed was there. Going to bed was there. But nothing between then and waking outdoors would come clear. The dream of meeting the wolf had obscured the earlier dream.

  “It doesn’t matter,” her mother said after a moment. “As far as first shifts go, yours was actually pretty mild.”

  “Shifts,” Evie mumbled. “Mom, talk normal.”

  “Sorry,” Janie said as she stood from the bench. “Don’t stress over it. If you’re okay now, I’ll leave you alone for a while. Maybe a little peace and quiet will help you think clearly.”

  “I’m okay,” Evie assured her, though she wasn’t entirely convinced of it herself.

  “Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Janie said from the doorway.

  Evie nodded and continued staring at the wooden ceiling.

  Alone, Evie kept her eyes out of focus. Lying with her head just out of the warm water, her mind darted a hundred places at once. She felt bad for pitching a fit. But under the circumstances, who wouldn’t? The memory of the dream still lingered in fragments. Then there was her family to consider. If they, as a whole and as individuals, were to be trusted—in sixteen years neither her mother, grandfather or grandmother had ever given her a reason not to trust them—she had no choice but to consider their words as true. Or at least possibly true. And if the story was possibly true, she had no choice but to at least try to come to terms with the inevitable reality of the situation.

  Her head ached with confusion.

  It next occurred to her that her entire life up until that day had been a sham. Every fond memory seemed attached to a question. Even her own personality was under suspicion. Was she a naturally competitive girl who just happened to love running, or was she just living out some predetermined role? Did she adore family and connections because it was her nature, or had it merely been some sort of instinct at play? Or worst of all, was this all merely the early stages of insanity? Perhaps she had finally cracked under the pressure of school and sports and her social life and the hot southern sun?

  Just twenty four hours before, she’d felt quite sure of herself. Evie Brooks was synonymous with confidence. Now she was nothing but questions. Who am I? Worse … what am I?

  Each time she looked down, her hair answered, “Wolf.”

  Her finger tips were tight raisins now. She raised both hands from the water and studied the wrinkles. They were very human-looking hands with typical human fingerprints, exaggerated with moisture. Nothing unusual. Then she noticed her nails.

  Turning her hands for a closer look, without a doubt she remembered getting French Tips Friday afternoon. Now her nails were short, natural, and slightly grubby. According to the calendar on the back of the bathroom door, it was now Saturday. If her memory could be trusted, the dates lined up correctly.

  The bath was no longer a comfort. Evie climbed out and dried off, and wrapping herself in the soft robe set out by her grandmother, she stepped out from the bathroom and went quietly down the hall. Along the way she heard hushed voices carried up into the high ceiling of the great room. Then they ceased.

  “What if she runs wild?” her grandmother had asked just before they all fell silent. For a second Evie was tempted to pause and listen further. But instead she continued into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. They would remain silent until they heard the door, she was sure. And anyway, there was enough on her mind as it was.

  Before the tall antique mirror she stood gazing curiously. Her hair was black-red wet, but still streaked from root to tip with the glittery white. The bath had eased her aches, but clearly it hadn’t resolved the hair issue. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”

  Untying the robe, she let it fall from her shoulders and evaluated her hazy reflection. Nothing else had changed. The same frame, the same milky skin reflected truly. Then she leaned closer.

  With her face near the mirror, she pushed her lips back and inspected her teeth. Her canines were of normal length, though her bottom front teeth did appear a touch straighter. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the distortion of the century-old mirror; she hadn’t seen herself in its antique haze for over a year now. She stared for several minutes without reaching a definitive conclusion … until she noticed her ears.

  Pushing her hair back on one side, she noticed her ear. A closer look revealed a smooth earlobe with barely a dot of a scar where the night before had been an earring—and not a cheap one. She checked the other ear and found the same. “What the …” she thought aloud. “This is getting way beyond funny.”

  Looking up from her ear, she made full eye contact with her reflection for the first time. Her green eyes were still her own, but they were bolder, sharper, greener than ever. For a long time she stared, getting gradually closer to her reflection. It seemed the closer she drew, the deeper she saw into their emerald pools. Deeper, deeper, until …

  With a start she pulled sharply back from the mirror, a panicked gasp escaped her throat, her legs seemed to go away, and in half a second she found herself on the floor in a heap. Her heart had come right up into her throat; a cold shiver rippled through her. For a split second she’d seen—or thought she had seen—the white face and sharp eyes of the wolf from the dark of her dream. She’d felt the same pull and hold of those eyes, felt herself falling into them, almost into the mirror. Then she’d felt the cold rush of the roaring storm against her face. Her hair had blown back.

  Now, as she sat struggling to swallow her heart down into its rightful place, the mirror was simply a mirror once more. She saw only her frightened reflection as she regained her breath. The room was warm, lit by the sinking sun.

  Carefully she got to her feet and moved away from the old mirror, keeping her eyes lowered. Though the blast of cold that had chilled her was gone, still she had goose bumps tickling her arms. “Get it together,” she told herself. “It was just a fever. A really bad fever.”

  On the bed stand she found the glass of water that had been left and drank it down. The water was good in her dry throat, but it was not all that she craved. “You’re hungry,” she told herself. The smell of food was wafting up from downstairs; her stomach churned in response. “Good food fixes everything,” she reminded herself. “That’s what Gram would say, right?”

  In a duffle bag Evie found the clothes packed hastily by her mother. She dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt (Even in September it was much cooler up north than she was accustomed to) and threw her hair back into a ponytail. In passing she avoided making eye contact with the mirror on her way to the hall. As she opened the bedroom door, the quiet conversation from downstairs ceased once more.

  Before the balcony railing Evie hesitated. Looking down over the great room, her eyes moved down the tall stone chimney to the fireplace. On the square-edged stone mantel there st
ood a ceramic statue of a wolf, its head tipped back in a howl. She’d seen this statue hundreds of times—along with the many other decorative relics of nature present in that old house—and had never once given it a second thought. But right then, the sight of that wolf made her heart beat strangely. And though she fought to ignore it, a cold chill crawled slowly up her spine.

  Descending the wide oaken stairway, Evie felt the eyes of her family resting on her. No one spoke. She was the elephant in the room—or gorilla or whatever—that all were thinking of but none were mentioning. She wondered which of them would be the first to break the silence.

  “I’m starving,” she said at the foot of the stairs, surprising even herself. Considering how strange she felt, she was quite proud of her unrehearsed attempt at lightening the mood. She even managed a weak smile. “Something smells really good down here.”

  Instantly the others seemed to relax somewhat.

  “Your grandmother has prepared a feast,” her mother said in her typically sunny tone. “As usual.”

  “Sit here,” her grandmother instructed. “Start with one of your favorite muffins. They’re fresh from the oven.”

  Evie’s spirits rose in spite of everything as she sat up to the big island breakfast bar on a tall stool. The muffins were English muffin dough baked in metal canisters, shaped like old coffee cans, and so named Coffee Can Muffins. Sliced thick along the baked-in ridges and then topped with homemade jam, they were her favorite vacation breakfast.

  “Thanks, Gram,” she said before her first bite. “I didn’t expect you to make special food for me.”

  “Nonsense,” the old but, despite her gray hair, young-looking woman said. “Eat up.”

  Janie pulled up a stool at the bar beside her daughter. “She’s got two chickens roasting in the oven, potatoes, stuffing, biscuits ... the works.”

  “Like Thanksgiving,” Evie whispered.