Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  Afraid to move in case she woke her, Isabelle lay still and tried to orient herself with the darkened objects in the room. There was a straight-backed chair and a bedside table and lamp. To the left stood the blocky outline of a chest of drawers. She breathed in the comforting scent of Ren’s nakedness.

  How did she get here, and why was Ren nursing her with such care? Isabelle’s thoughts were still a jumbled mass of jagged images, torn-up photographs of monsters and frozen wastes, of forests and blood. They all jostled in her head until it hurt. And with the images came whispers and warnings, half-formed thoughts and ideas that slithered away like snakes before she could grasp them. These were her memories, her life…all frustratingly out of reach. They danced around the edges of her mind and teased her inability to chase them all the way home.

  If she could relax, perhaps they might creep closer? Her eyes grew heavy as the warmth of Ren’s body lured her back into a healing sleep. The arms around her tightened and lips brushed her matted hair where it stuck to her sweat-soaked skin. Ren was surfacing from sleep; she murmured something indistinct against Isabelle’s nape.

  “Why are you doing this?” Isabelle asked quietly. “Are you my friend?”

  Ren lay still for a moment, then moved her mouth away from Isabelle’s neck to whisper, “Something like that.”

  The words breathed past Isabelle’s ear, making her entire body erupt in goose bumps.

  “Why are we naked?” Isabelle asked. Her voice trembled with an embarrassment impossible to conceal.

  “I can heat you better skin to skin.” Ren awkwardly pulled away. Isabelle felt the chill. Ren was a furnace, and she hadn’t realized it until she’d lost contact with her.

  “I didn’t mean to…” Ren trailed off; her voice was brusque and unsure.

  “It’s okay,” Isabelle mumbled. “I’ve got hang-ups.” This little nugget stuck in her chest. She had inadvertently unearthed a bitter truth about herself. She had hang-ups. Well, so what? For the moment, she felt safe and warm, and she hurt less than before. Every time she awoke she felt stronger, more centered, more in control, and that had to be good.

  *

  Ren lay awake and watched her patient for a long time. She breathed in tandem with her, monitoring Isabelle’s sleep pattern, and watched as she slipped further into a dreamless sleep. Only then did she relax against her, allowing their skin to again touch. She lay and drank in Isabelle’s raw scent, sour and unwashed, but it thrilled her. It filled her head with all manner of images. It was a complex scent. Recent fear and old pain pulsed out of Isabelle, making Ren’s chest ache with confusion. Her scent held stories and had a heart of honey underlaid with the solidity of oak moss, as ancient as the forest that surrounded them. Ren closed her eyes and held the scent, allowing it to burst upon her face like sunlight. Isabelle’s tinkling laughter floated toward her through the trees. Lazy bees droned as Ren slipped through fir and alder, compelled to chase her and seek out the laughter.

  She found her by a brook that gurgled over river stones and fallen branches. The silver waters cut through the rich, black earth. Isabelle stood by the riverbank, her camera focused on a fat toad.

  Ren stood motionless and watched as Isabelle took her photos. She raised her head and sucked in the sweet forest air. It was laden with honey and oak moss—Isabelle’s scent. A low growl rumbled in her chest. Ren knew these smells; they belonged to her forest, her home. And Isabelle belonged there, too.

  “Take her.” The urgent whisper came from right behind. She shook her head and scowled at the intrusion.

  “Take her now. She’s yours in every way. Even the forest knows it,” the whisper continued.

  Isabelle looked across; she raised her camera and laughed.

  “Smile, you guys.”

  The camera flash in her memory made Ren blink. The moment was gone. All that was left was this injured woman in her arms, and her scent that told more than Scheherazade. For Ren, the belonging was doubtless and absolute. This woman was hers. They were life bonds. Now and for always. The taking, however, lacked honor. It made her want to snarl and bite and claw entire trees apart in anger. But right here and now, in this bed, all she needed to do was wrap herself around her mate and keep her safe.

  The pull was strong. She settled in, and pushed her face into the nape of Isabelle’s neck, and closed her eyes. Her ears twitched, straining for anything untoward, but all was as it should be. The wind blew down the mountainside and rattled the shingles and shutters. The old cabin complained as it always did on windy nights. The night sky was empty of forest calls. Satisfied all was well and they were secure, Ren finally allowed herself to sleep.

  *

  “Listen up, mutt. This is your mission, and you’d better bite ass at it or you’ll be nothing but a tail sticking out of my next burger bun. Get it?”

  Hope backpedaled up the hall. Jolie’s words snagged her attention from the full laundry basket in her arms. She peeped into the living room wondering what was going on.

  Jolie sat stooped on the couch nose to nose with Tadpole. The little dog bristled with self-importance and excitement. He wasn’t allowed on the furniture, but several times lately Hope had caught him on the couch, and here was clear evidence why. Jolie had sat him beside her for this important pack confab, and he loved it. He’d obviously received a big werewolf promotion somewhere along the way.

  Hope frowned. What on earth was Jolie up to? By rights, she should be getting ready for her business trip. Both Jolie and Andre had been summoned to accompany Leone for the first meeting with the Lykous. The Greek werewolf clan had invited representatives from the ancient werewolf family of Garoul to visit their pack home in Zagoria, high in the mountains of northern Greece. Yet here was Jolie, spending her last few hours in deep conversation with Tadpole?

  “Okay, it’s like this,” Jolie drilled him. “I’m the Alpha and you’re the dog. When I’m away, your job is to protect Hope. You’re my right paw, and between us we have to keep our den mother safe. She’s the cornerstone of the pack, see?” Tadpole’s tail thumped on the cushions. “Because if we don’t have a den mother I’m gonna end up eating you. Understand?”

  Tadpole didn’t seem to understand. His tail thumped faster and more happily despite the dire warning. Jolie shook her head and straightened in her seat with a grunt of disgust.

  “Stupid mutt.”

  “Den mother? Since when am I a den mother?” Hope stepped into the room and Jolie jumped guiltily.

  “And you. Down. Now.” Hope pointed at Tadpole. He skittered under the couch in a blink, leaving Jolie to take the flak. She glared at his disappearing hindquarters.

  “Well, you are. Sort of,” she said, defending her description. “We’re a pack, Hope. A family unit, and he has to protect you when I’m not around. It’s his pack job.”

  “He was already doing that before you came on the scene.”

  Jolie snorted rudely.

  “He did so,” Hope said. “So tell me, what does a den mother do, seeing as how I’ve apparently got the job without even applying for it.” She sat on the couch in Tadpole’s vacated spot.

  “Oh. Mostly the laundry.” Jolie eyed the overflowing basket at Hope’s feet.

  “The laundry?”

  “Yeah, and the cooking. And gardening.”

  “I see. All the things you hate. How convenient. And what does the mighty Alpha bring to the pack?”

  “The mighty Alpha brings home the meat.”

  “I can do that from the grocery run. You’re beginning to sound mighty redundant, mighty Alpha.”

  “The mighty Alpha does all the mighty lovin’.” Jolie slowly spilled Hope over onto her back.

  “Oh?”

  “Right word, wrong delivery.” Jolie growled and began to nibble Hope’s neck, lingering on her pulse point.

  “Oooh,” Hope moaned, then grabbed Jolie by the ears and pulled her back up off her. “No you don’t. We have to get you packed.”

  She pushed them bot
h into an upright position. “Seriously, I’ve never heard of a den mother. Marie isn’t one. She’s the Garoul Alpha.”

  “A den mother is more for the younger cubs. Like at the Little Dip summer camp when the young ones come to learn their wolven skills.”

  “Before they hit puberty and change?”

  “Before and after they change. It’s an ongoing education. In the wild a den mother would also look after the orphans. Or any feral cubs adopted by the pack. That sort of thing.”

  “You sound very vague about it.”

  Jolie shrugged. “I was brought up in a strong, well-organized pack. I had Aunt Marie as my Alpha and Dad as our trainer. I suppose in some ways he took over the role of den mother. After all, he’s the one who taught us all how to lick our paws and clean behind our ears.”

  “I’d like to see you tell Claude he’s a den mother. You’d be licking more than your paws,” Hope said.

  “Of course he’s not called a den mother. But his role is more or less the same. He counsels the young ones.”

  “So the Garouls have all the pack components, but not necessarily assigned as gendered roles?”

  “Yeah. We’re a matriarchal clan, but after we have our Alpha in place, then the other ranks go to who’s best suited for them. We do everything a wild pack does, only better,” Jolie said with pride. “That’s why other packs envy and respect us. We’re the best.”

  “Well.” Hope lifted the laundry basket. “As den mother of a mini Garoul pack, I think you should lick your paws and get ironing. You’ll need these shirts for your Lykous meet and greet,” she said as she unceremoniously dumped the basket on Jolie’s lap.

  Chapter Four

  Isabelle awoke refreshed, with only the dullest of aches in her shoulder. The room was bathed in murky gray light, making her unsure if it was dawn or dusk. She was in bed alone.

  She blushed furiously remembering the heat of Ren’s bare body pressed against her. Who was Ren? Who was this woman who cradled her through nightmares and injury? Isabelle struggled to recall the shadowed features; all she could remember were midnight eyes that burned right through her. No amount of effort could bring Ren into clear focus.

  Isabelle’s head was heavy. Her sleep had been deep and drug-induced, laced with more bad dreams. But she had also slept through her earlier pain. How long had she been out for? How many hours, days? She flicked at the curtain and peered outside at the snow. Trees loomed in the descending shadow. The winter light had a gloomy quality, quiet and mournful.

  Isabelle lay back and stared at the wood plank ceiling and made a quick assessment. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea who her host was, apart from the fact she called herself Ren. Her shoulder throbbed in its tight bandages but was less painful than before. The rest of her ached all over, and she had a thumping headache, but again, she felt better than she had earlier. All her belongings were apparently destroyed. Did that include her documents? She’d need those, especially her passport. She knew she had to cross the border into America…assuming she was still in Canada. Was she? Isabelle frowned. The longer she thought about it, the more complicated and insurmountable everything became. So what else did she know? Oh, yes, her bladder was full and she smelled rank.

  She looked around the room and didn’t recognize anything. She had no idea where she was. She concentrated, trying to pick out reality from tattered nightmare. Nothing concrete came to mind, nothing at all. She was Isabelle, and she’d maybe hit some deer and crashed her car. That was all she could remember at this point. Deer and blood and glass shattered all around her…and pure, unimaginable fear. Yes. Lots and lots of fear. It still lay coiled in her belly, tight and cold…right next to her full bladder.

  She eased upright and propped herself against the headboard. The ache in her shoulder intensified with each movement but was bearable. She was in a small bedroom with plain wooden walls and simple furniture. The Spartan contents left her unsettled. There were no clues to where she was, no insight to who lived here. No books, clothes, or knickknacks whatsoever. Isabelle decided she liked clues. She liked to use her mind to work things out, to situate herself in the world. This room gave nothing away. The room was as minimalist as a convent cell.

  She threw off the bed covers and cautiously rose to her feet. She was naked, but a blue cotton dressing gown hung behind the door. She wrapped herself in it and went exploring for the bathroom.

  Barefoot, on shaky legs, she padded down a long, shadowy corridor lined with closed doors, except for one at the end. It lay ajar and she could see the lure of white porcelain bathroom fittings. She made straight for it.

  So she was in a log cabin. How had she got here? She had no answers. She couldn’t even recall her own name in full; her surname was still a mystery. Then again, she knew she was called Isabelle only because Ren used that name. Ren. Her rescuer? Her nurse? Who was she and why did she seem so strangely familiar? Was this cabin Ren’s home? It was all crazy. She had to know something about herself. How else to prove she existed?

  She tried not to panic and to stay objective. She’d been in a car crash and now she was here, somewhere, being looked after. Being well looked after, if the neat, clean bandage on her shoulder was anything to go by. She needed to use her wits, to think, to solve this puzzle, and concentrate on the immediate things…like the bathroom mirror.

  Her bruised and battered face looked back in shock. She had a shiner of a black eye, almost cartoonish in appearance with its slit of bright blue iris shining through the puffy discoloration. Her nose had a small bump from an older injury.

  So, she had blue eyes—well, black-and-blue eyes now—and a bumpy nose. Her hair was glued to her head, and there was a blood-encrusted cut running about three inches along her hairline. There was another older scar, thin and white, intersecting the corner of her mouth.

  She was not looking at the face of a friend. This was a face she did not appreciate, or even like…perhaps had never liked? Dark rings circled her good eye; the other was a puffy mess. She was underweight, her face pale and peaky. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her nose too pinched despite its earlier break, and her mouth a tight, tired line. Dirty-blond hair hung in strings around scrawny shoulders. It was a bad haircut, much too long for her thin features. She had a lackluster, plain face with a dry, sallow complexion underneath all the bruising. Isabelle shivered. She was chilled, although her cheeks held two bright spots of color, round and red, like clown paint.

  “Well, hello, Isabelle. Pleased to meet you, I think,” she said to her reflection, then turned away abruptly. “Jesus, you’re one ugly bitch.”

  No. No, that’s negative thinking. I need to see something good. Something affirming. The thought came out of nowhere, but it was so strong it stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to the mirror and forced a smile. Deep inside she knew it was important to look for the good in her. As if she had spent too long hearing only the bad. The scar on the corner of her mouth creased into a lopsided grin that she sort of liked.

  “And I have great teeth!” she proclaimed. Affirmation concluded and job done, another personality trait kicked in. Isabelle discovered she loved snooping.

  Hungry for information, she explored everything around her. In contrast to the bedroom, the bathroom was bright and cheerful, with a wealth of personal items for examination. A faintly remembered scent lingered in the air, spicy and enticing. Homemade shampoos, soaps, and bath salts littered every ledge, but the alluring smell did not come from them. She snooped in the bathroom cabinet, rifling through razors, nail files, oils, creams. A linen hamper overflowed with fluffy, damp towels. Someone loved an indulgent bath time.

  Glossy-leaved plants in brightly painted pots lined the windowsill. A few cacti even managed to bloom in hot pinks and oranges. Isabelle picked up a small pot, hand-painted in a cheerful, childish daub. Little brown foxes, or maybe wolves, chased bright yellow chickens round and round the rim.

  A stack of clean white towels lured her to the bath
tub, and she checked the shower faucet for hot water. It ran full and scalding and she almost cried with relief. She shed her robe and stepped in, enraptured with the simple act of washing away the grime of God knew how long. Not caring her bandage would get wet, she let the hot water race over her. It took several shampoos before she was satisfied her hair was finally clean.

  The bandage on her shoulder was soaked and she peeled it away, curious to see her wound. A row of stitches curved in a wide crescent across her shoulder. The blood-scabbed knots wavered irregularly across her skin like a sordid smile.

  I’ve never had stitches before, not even for my lip, and that bled and bled. Curious how the oddest facts popped into her head while the important stuff eluded her. She could vividly remember a blood-soaked dishcloth wrapped around a bag of frozen peas pressed to her split lip. She remembered her fingers tingling from the frozen packaging and adrenaline pumping through her. And nearby, just out of her line of vision, someone was saying, “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” over and over again. “Sorry, sorry.” She could recall his voice so clearly. She paused over this flashback. Who had hit her?

  These were recalled emotions rather than actual fully fledged events, she reminded herself. It could be dangerous to accept such things at face value. She could inadvertently rewrite her own past to suit this blank of a present. She had facial wounds that were old; that did not mean she was a beaten wife, did it? She had to be careful.

  The stitches felt alien to her tender flesh, and they nipped her skin in a burning itch. Some of the puncture marks did not need stitches at all and were healing quickly. Others went deeper into the muscle, causing her discomfort and stiffness. It looked like a painful injury, and Isabelle was glad she had slept through most of her recovery. She guessed she’d been heavily medicated, remembering the ill-tasting liquid she’d gulped down. What had caused the puncture wounds in the first place? Broken glass? Rent metal? Her dreams were littered with it.