Moonglow

by Michael Griffo

  “Don’t be afraid,” she orders. “I told you I’d always protect you.”

  Slowly the girl, this Dominy, relents, and my body quiets. Jess kneels in front of me and strokes my fur. Her touch is gentle and humbling, because I remember that this is the first girl I took; my first victim has come back to me. But she hasn’t come back for vengeance. She has accepted her fate; she understands that I was only doing what I was put on this earth to do. She’s merely come back to speak with her friend.

  “Look at me, Dominy,” she says. “If you want to see who you really are, look at me.”

  Through my eyes, Dominy looks at the girl kneeling before me, and it’s as if we’re trying to exchange places.

  “Jess?”

  The words are unspoken, but I can hear the voice in my brain. The other girl, the one kneeling, her face smiling, her body shimmering, can hear her too.

  “I know my hair’s back to its natural color,” she says, her voice buoyant and light. “But do not tell me you can’t recognize me. Didn’t I always say I was a walking ray of sunshine?”

  “Jess, don’t look at me.”

  Dominy’s voice is filled with self-loathing and shame, but the sound is not to be pitied; it’s to be admired. She’s hardly a coward; this girl is as strong as I am. Jess agrees.

  “You think you look different?” Jess asks. “Look into my spirit and you’ll see your true self.”

  I feel my snout rise up, and I know that Dominy is in control; we share this body now. We look into the golden light of this Jess girl, and the layers of shame and guilt and fear start to peel away.

  “You’re my best friend,” Jess says. “Nothing will ever change that.”

  “How can you say that after what I’ve done?” Dominy asks, her voice cracking.

  The light emanating from Jess explodes into a huge yellow flame, and for a moment she disappears. But then a sound erupts from out of the emptiness, loud and crass and familiar. The sound of deep, heartfelt laughter.

  “What’s done is done, Dom,” Jess says. “It was my time to go; you just made sure I wasn’t late.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve come back to me,” Dominy cries from deep within my body. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” Jess replies. “All this glamour is fab, but not if I can’t share it with my best friend.”

  “Jess . . . I’m so sorry,” Dominy says, her voice weeping.

  “I know you are,” Jess replies. “But it’s time we let all of that go and move forward.”

  I feel drowsy as Dominy starts to take over, as her tears turn to laughter, as she begins to connect with this spirit. Jess touches the top of my head, and a feeling of tranquility spreads throughout my body like a sweet breeze. Together we walk back to the cage, Jess showing us the way, and when I hear the click of the lock behind me, I know that for the first time in months, after all the turmoil and all the suffering and all the pain we’ve gone through, Dominy and I will finally get a peaceful night’s sleep.

  Chapter 23

  SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE

  I’m certain the headline in the Three W is referring to me. When I read the rest of the article I’m not so sure. There’s no way that I could have killed this Elliot Aldersen vagrant person even though it says that his mutilated body was found near the low hills and several of his limbs were torn off or are missing. Sure sounds like a werewolf’s MO, but I spent last night locked in a cage. Unless Psycho Squaw put a curse on some other girl’s head, this has to be a super bizarre coincidence.

  Thanks to Dumbleavy and his attempts to channel the student body’s fear and sadness into a constructive, teachable moment, we have a two-hour assembly during lunch where he and his team of crackerjack guidance counselors remind us not to take candy or a free ride from strangers, so the first time we get to discuss Lars Svenson’s latest editorial scoop in private is after school. Collectively, my friends and I decide to rebel and skip our various practices and meetings and walk home instead of taking the bus so we can talk about this latest mysterious death without worrying that anyone will overhear us and think we’re trying to organize our very own Scooby Gang.

  “What was Aldersen doing out near the hills last night anyway?” Caleb asks. “It was freezing.”

  “The hills were his home,” Arla answers.

  “Like the Waterfall Hills condos? I’d love to live there,” Archie gushes. “They have a community center with a pool and an 18-hole golf course.”

  Caleb sets it up. “Dude, only old men and lesbians play golf.”

  And Archie hits it out of the park. “Someday, Bells, I may be both.”

  “My dad said Aldersen was homeless and passing through town,” Arla answers, ignoring the boys. “Got citations for loitering and panhandling, but disappeared a few days ago, and when something disappears, Louis Bergeron does not go looking for it. Just ask my mother.”

  Then Caleb takes the bat from Archie and swings. “Does she play golf?”

  Arla and I slap opposite sides of Caleb’s head at the same time, my slap followed by a question. “Didn’t the article mention that he had a heart condition?”

  “Thoracic aortic dissection,” Nadine replies. “Which can often lead to an aneurysm that tears the aorta.”

  “The a-who-ta?” Arla asks.

  “The tissuey membrane wall around the heart,” Nadine, the wannabe nurse, explains. “Rips it apart without warning, resulting in sudden death.”

  “So maybe this homeless guy was already dead before his body was dismembered,” Archie suggests.

  “Or he got too close to some starving mountain lion?” Caleb adds.

  “Or a hungry werewolf,” I say.

  Let’s hear it for Debbie Downer! My spoken comment—which, let’s face it, was on the tip of everybody’s unspoken tongue—stops us in our tracks.

  “Domgirl, you were locked up last night,” Caleb says.

  “And your father played watch guard,” Archie adds. “If you escaped to go a-hunting, don’t you think your father would’ve said something?”

  “My father didn’t tell me there was a curse on my head for sixteen years,” I remind him. “He’s a bit close-mouthed if you haven’t noticed.”

  Caleb might know my father better than I do. “True, but he wouldn’t keep something this important a secret.”

  “Is a-hunting like real hunting?” Arla asks.

  “Kind of,” Archie replies. “Except that you do it in slow motion.”

  Archie, like Dumbleavy, is always looking for a teachable moment, so he turns Arla’s question into an opportunity to demonstrate the art of slow-mo a-hunting. Crouching low to the ground, stretching out his arms, and taking long strides as he walks, he scans the area for imaginary prey. With his white hair and hands jutting out from his silver parka, he looks like a snowman on the prowl. Picking up a fallen branch he exclaims, “I found a leg!” Only he would find humor in death and dismemberment.

  He takes another wide stride and karma strikes back as Archie slips on an ice patch and lands flat on his back.

  “Albino down!” he shouts.

  It feels amazing to laugh hysterically with the rest of my friends. It feels like we haven’t done this in forever. Together, we try to help him stand, but of course only wind up suffering the same fate. Sprawled on the ice I look up and see the sun shining behind The Weeping Lady; she may still be trapped within one moment in time, but I get the feeling that I’m about to be set free. Rolling over, I push onto the ice to stand up and see my reflection. I’m right. The Weeping Lady may be stuck in limbo for eternity, but not me. I remember exactly what happened.

  “I killed that homeless man.”

  And once again Debbie Downer brings the party to a halt.

  “Domgirl, not every unexplained death is your fault.”

  Caleb’s words are sweet but ineffective, because last night comes back to me in a flash. I remember the cage door swinging open; I remember leaving the cage; I remember ro
aming, killing, seeing sunshine in the night, and best of all I remember Jess.

  “I saw Jess.”

  This really quiets my pack. Archie is so shocked by this announcement that he gives up trying to get vertical and plops back down on the ice. Four faces stare at me, begging for me to continue.

  “I saw a bright yellow light in the darkness come toward me, and when it got closer it was like the sun was rising in the middle of the night,” I remember. “And standing right in that light was Jess.”

  Arla starts to cry. “It’s like Jess turned into what she always was, a ray of sunshine.”

  “That’s exactly what she said!” I cry out. “Before I saw her I couldn’t see very well. It was like someone had put a plastic bag over my head. Nothing was clear; everything was hazy and distorted, and my body was moving around, but somebody else was doing it. I didn’t know what direction I was going in.”

  “That’s what it feels like when you transform?” Archie asks.

  “Yes. I know that I’m moving, I know that I’m alive, but I’m someone else or, I don’t know, some other part of me has control. All that changed when I saw Jess.”

  “Sounds like Jess came to your rescue,” Arla says.

  Now I start to cry. Could that be possible? “But how can that be? Jess is dead.”

  “Dom, you’re a werewolf,” Archie replies. “We’ve officially made a left onto Supernatural Boulevard.”

  We can almost feel our friend’s spirit join the group as I tell them how amazing it was to see Jess again, to have her pull the plastic bag off my head, make me aware of what was happening to me. I also tell them that it’s only because of Jess that I returned to the cage.

  “I followed her light back to safety,” I say.

  “But how did you get out?” Caleb rightfully asks.

  “Someone must have opened the door,” I surmise.

  Archie, Arla, and Nadine have the same answer at the same time.

  “Luba.”

  That name. It’s a thousand times worse now that I can attach a real person to it. Eerily smooth, pale face, long, black stringy hair, emaciated body. Evil on a stick. Luba must have let me out of the cage; the only other culprit could be my father, and there’s no way he would’ve done that. I mull it over and realize Luba’s actually done something good.

  “At least we know the witch hasn’t left town,” I say.

  “Why would she leave?” Archie asks. “She waited how many years for the show to start? Of course she’s going to hang around to watch it play out.”

  Archie’s comment leaves me almost as cold as the ice I’m sitting on. How long will this curse play out? How long will I have to hide this secret? How many months will pass, bringing with them yet another and another and another transformation? And how many times will I have to be reminded that I’m not only a werewolf, but I’m a murderer?

  Later on in my bedroom I confess all this to Caleb. I don’t want him to have to bear the weight of my conscience, but it’s becoming so heavy I can barely lift my head. When I do, I see one of Jess’s stuffed animals lying on the floor, and it hits me that she’s the real reason these questions plague me. More than wanting Luba to remove this curse, I want Jess to be alive. But wait a second? Maybe being able to see her as a ghost or whatever she’s become is a small consolation. Then again maybe it will just be a constant reminder that I killed her in the first place.

  “Do you think that her coming to me last night is proof that she forgives me?”

  “Of course she forgives you,” Caleb says. “Now that she’s turned into this sunshiny spirit girl, she’s got to know all about the hex job and that you had nothing to do with her death.”

  He’s got a point, but . . .

  “Even still, Caleb, I really don’t know if I’ll ever . . . if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”

  “Tug.”

  I’m in no mood to play Caleb’s dumb invisible string game, but I stop myself from acting like a mean girl gone totally nasty. “Tug.”

  “Only you can forgive yourself,” he says. “But I can help figure out who’s to blame for letting you out of your cage. Next full moon, we videotape.”

  Will I ever learn to trust my boyfriend as completely as I do my father?

  “I knew you’d come up with another great idea.”

  My father appears in the doorway unexpectedly, the way fathers often do. His sudden presence makes me uncomfortable, and I’m not exactly sure why. Could be because it reminds me that Caleb and I have to censor our conversations in case Barnaby is the one lurking around every corner, but there’s something else. It’s like when I used to look at the moon and thought it was a premonition, a warning that something bad was going to happen. Maybe my father’s like the moon, a living, breathing clue that even more bad stuff is just around the corner. Not a very comforting thought to have about your father.

  To the best of my ability I push all bad thoughts out of my head over the next few weeks. I concentrate on cheerleading, try to embrace my increased strength and flexibility by showing off my improved gymnastic skills during practice. Rayna, for one, is incredibly impressed that I can now do a twisting front handspring and a Russian split.

  “Has Caleb been tutoring you in flexibility too?” she asks after practice one day.

  “Unlike you, Ms. Delgado,” I reply, “I don’t kiss-and-tell.”

  “Dominy, I think you and your bf have been doing lots more than just kissing!”

  I let the girls laugh and think whatever they want. My close friends know the truth—about my newfound athletic prowess as well as my old-fashioned approach to dating—so if the rest of the school thinks Caleb is hitting a homer every Saturday night, makes no difference to me.

  I’m improving academically as well. So well that Mrs. Gallagher declared it a holiday last week when I got a B+ on a pop quiz in geometry. I can’t imagine that it’s a side effect of the curse, but maybe I’m so preoccupied with full moons and werewolves and trying to find Luba and her son Thorne, I’m no longer stressing about school, so my mind can actually absorb the stuff I’m being taught. Whatever the reason, my father put my test on the fridge. It’s being held there by a magnet in the shape of our school mascot—the timberwolf—which, I believe, would be the perfect illustration of irony.

  Once again luck is on our side because tomorrow Barnaby has a super-early out-of-town track meet at some new indoor arena over in Grand Island, so tonight he’s sleeping over at Arla’s, and Louis will drive them to the school bus in the morning, so we don’t have to worry about leaving him alone while we head over to the old Animal Protection Center for another evening of the watchdog and the werewolf. Which sounds like the Robineau family version of the bee and the butterfly.

  On the drive over, my father asks me questions about school, complains about the police-sponsored leap year party in Lincoln tomorrow night that he’s not at all thrilled about going to, tells me that he heard some reality TV star checked herself into rehab so she could escape the enormous pressure cooker that is Hollywood—anything to keep the conversation light and convince me that we’re just a normal father and daughter trying to make a connection. It has the opposite effect. It reminds me that we’re so far from normal we may never be able to find our way back again. But I keep that knowledge to myself and keep up my end of the conversation, so my father thinks he’s succeeded in tricking me into thinking we’re just going for a drive on a Friday night. To an abandoned building with cages that is now equipped with a video surveillance camera.

  “Caleb’s father is a techie,” I say. “Loves this stuff.”

  “Looks like his son takes after him,” my father adds.

  Hidden in the corner of the room in the center of a stack of boxes, Caleb’s set up a small video camera aimed directly at the door of the cage. My father got an extra key made to the building so Caleb could come early and have everything ready for us when we arrived. The only clue that he was here is the note taped to the box directly above the
camera—Just hit Record, C.

  “Let’s hope your boyfriend’s idea works,” my father says, hitting the Record button. “Because I have absolutely no memory of what happened the night you got out. It’s a complete blank.”

  And that’s why Caleb’s idea has to work. We want proof that Luba is the one who let me out of the cage, because if we can catch her on video maybe we can learn more about her and the curse. Maybe she’ll do something that we can use against her to trap her. It’s a long shot, but at least we’ll know for certain that she’s working alone and that we don’t have to worry about another psychopath.

  The transformation feels different this time. It’s still excruciatingly painful; I still feel like my limbs are being ripped out of their sockets; I still feel the fur growing from underneath my skin as it envelopes my body, but this time right before I pass out I feel hopeful. I see my father looking at me. His back isn’t turned; he’s looking right into my eyes, and I can see him forcing himself to remember that I’m his little girl. It’s comforting to know he’ll always be there for me even when I disappear.

  When the plastic bag is pulled over my head, I hold on to the image of my father’s face. His compassion and devotion and unconditional love help me remember that I’m not alone, and it gives me strength. This time, instead of feeling like someone has taken over my body and I’m nothing more than cargo, I feel like I’m sharing the controls. This wolf spirit is still stronger than me, still calling the shots, but at least I don’t feel as lost, and I definitely don’t feel trapped. How could I when the cage door opens with a loud creak to announce my freedom?

  A rush of wind passes over me; the front door must be opened too. The plastic bag around my face billows, making it even harder to see. My eyes are cast downward, and I can only see feet as I leave the cage. I look up only once, not to see who’s standing next to me, but to try and figure out why there’s a red light blinking a few feet away. But just as I do, the smells from outside become too enticing and I’m distracted. Anyway, wrapped tightly within the skin of the wolf, it doesn’t matter who came to my rescue or why there’s a strange red light nearby; the only thing that matters is that I’m free to feed.