I exhaled deeply, pushing my lunch bag away from me. I couldn’t eat. “He’s mad at me,” I sulked.
Lacey’s eyes just about popped out of her head. “I’m sorry,” she said as if she hadn’t heard me correctly. “Harlow is mad at you?”
“Yep,” I replied shortly. “Because I’m an idiot,” I said, slapping my hands down on the table.
“I’m sure whatever happened between you two is fixable.” Arianna offered, trying to brighten my mood.
“That’s up to him to decide.”
The rest of the school day dragged on. Harlow ignored me during French class. He avoided me during passing periods, and by the time I made it out to my car after school I was pretty sure he was never going to speak to me again. My confession was only meant to make things easier on him—or so I thought—but it seemed to have the opposite effect.
The passenger door of my car opened, and Dalyn got in. She threw her backpack over the back of her seat and stared at me in silence. “You look like you’re going to cry.”
“Shut up!” I hissed at her.
“Are people still giving you a hard time?”
I whipped my head in her direction and said firmly, “Give it a rest, Dalyn!” And with that, we tore out of the parking lot.
chapter eleven
AFTER CAREFUL CONSIDERATION, I MADE THE TREK, through the light dusting of fresh snow, out to the clearing. Even if Harlow never wanted to speak to me again, I at least owed him a formal apology.
When I arrived, Harlow was waiting for me with a green backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really have to stop meeting like this,” I teased, trying to make light of the situation as I approached him.
Harlow’s face remained expressionless. “I’m still mad at you,” he informed me, not holding back his dislike.
My stomach churned a little. “Harlow, I’m—”
“I know,” he replied, not allowing me to finish. Taking my hand, Harlow said, “Come on, I want to show you something.” He led me east through the underbrush, and a short time later we happened upon a little wooden shed.
“Well, this is random,” I commented conversationally. “How did you find this place?”
“Well for starters, I may have helped build it.”
“Impressive,” I commented, still confused about why he'd brought me here.
Unlatching the door Harlow said, “I can explain,” and gestured for me to enter ahead of him.
The shed was unexpectedly cozy. I couldn’t imagine more than maybe eight people max fit in here comfortably at one time. A vintage printed rug covered a small amount of the floor space. And just off-center of the rug sat an electric heater, surrounded by three folding chairs. A pile of logs had been stacked in the nearest corner, and an armoire sat adjacent to a mini-fridge at the far end of the shed.
“Wow…” I said, amazed at how much fit in the small space. My nose wrinkled at a musty scent, but I didn't comment on it.
Harlow busied himself getting the electric heater running. “It should start to warm up in a minute,” he told me, heading for the armoire and pulling out a blanket. “Rayna, sit,” he instructed, gesturing to one of the empty chairs. Once I'd settled in, Harlow handed me the blanket he was still holding. Taking the seat beside me, he huddled deeper into his jacket, rubbing his hands together and blowing into his fists.
I offered him some of the blanket, but he shook his head. “So what is all this?” I asked, breaking the silence between us.
Harlow let out a deep breath, rubbing his palms against his jeans. “That depends on what you think you saw.”
I hadn’t anticipated him asking this. The words just felt so wrong in my mouth that I was afraid to speak them aloud. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I saw you, your brother, and Ivy too. You were talking about the necklace, and looking at a page in some book Ivy had with her. Nick got mad,” I paused hesitantly—this was the part I was dreading.
“Go on...” Harlow encouraged, wanting to hear more.
Staring down at my hands I continued. “And then he wasn’t himself, and then you weren’t you...” I rehashed the details to him vaguely.
“You’re not giving me much to work with here, Rayna.”
He genuinely wanted me to say werewolf. But I couldn't bring myself to. If any of this was true I couldn't be sure where the truth would leave us. “A wolf,” I muttered quietly.
“A what?” Harlow asked, scrutinizing my face as if he hadn’t heard me correctly.
I sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “A wolf, Harlow,” I replied louder, annoyed with him. “You and Nick; you guys started fighting, and then you were both replaced by two gray wolves.” My cheeks flushed in embarrassment. I couldn’t believe I had said the words out loud.
“Rayna,” Harlow said my name softly.
Slowly, I cast my gaze from the ceiling of the shed back to his face.
Harlow nodded twice.
My stomach ached at the confirmation, and after a long silence passed between us, I managed to ask, “How is any of this possible?”
Harlow stood and adjusted his chair so we faced each other. “There are a lot of things in this world people find impossible; that doesn't mean they're right. For starters, werewolfism isn't contagious. We can't just change people with a bite. Werewolf-ism is a curse.”
Considering anything I knew about werewolves came from movies, this bit of insight sent a wave of relief through me. “Oh...”
Harlow pulled his green backpack onto the floor between our feet. He reached into the bag, pulled out an old, leather journal and offered it to me. “No one outside of my family has ever seen these apart from Ivy.”
My mind flashed back to the day Harlow had properly introduced Ivy and me. The box on the kitchen table was full of journals like this one, not books. I studied the thick—and by the looks of it handmade—leather journal; turning it over in my hands, I ran my palm over its worn surface. The pages were starting to pull away from the binding. I set the journal in my lap and pulled the leather strap from around my neck, offering the necklace to Harlow.
“I don’t understand,” he said with a bewildered expression.
“Nick wants this back, doesn’t he?”
“Keep it.”
“Harlow!” I objected, shoving the necklace toward him once more.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Rayna. Keep it,” Harlow insisted, guiding my hand back toward my body.
“Fine,” I mumbled. “It's your funeral.” Having given up, I settled back in the chair and opened the journal again to a page that had been dog-eared. I studied the curvy, feminine handwriting for a moment before reading the passage aloud.
10 December 1650, England.
Today has been the coldest day of the year, and I mean that in many ways. I’m writing this now because I'm unsure I’ll have another opportunity. There is a terrible epidemic plaguing this town, neighbor accusing neighbor of either being a witch or a werewolf. The accused are being ripped from their families and taken away in the night without warning. Each day brings about a new trial and more death.
Francis Glen, the man I thought I knew—the man I loved—was put on trial this morning. They accused him of being a werewolf. Jonathan swears he saw Francis shift from man to wolf in the woods three nights ago. But he's a liar! Francis was innocent! Jonathan betrayed us.
I feared for Francis’ safety this morning. And now I fear for my own. The judge asked Francis if he was, in fact, a werewolf and against my wishes, he did not deny it. No! Instead, he pointed his finger at me. He confessed to the jury the untold truth—that I am a witch—in an effort to save his skin. He told them I turned him into a monster. My heart broke. I did not recognize the man on that podium. He was a monster indeed.
I ran from that horrid place before they could catch me. I don’t know where Francis is now or if his last-minute attempt to win his life worked. I am now in hiding. The town has started a witch-hunt. If they catch me, I will burn at the stake like
so many of my sisters have before me.
15 December 1650, England.
I have been in hiding for days. I am running out of rations. With each passing day, my hatred for Francis burns deeper and hotter. I must exact my revenge.
17 December 1650, England.
I have engineered a spell to make Francis pay for what he has done. He has told our town my secret. I will make his accusations against me true. Francis must have forgotten that I have something that belonged to him. A necklace. He left it with me before the trial and told me to keep it close to my heart. That was a mistake he will regret now until the day they drop his casket into the ground. I will tie a werewolf curse to the pendant, using the power of the full moon tonight. With each full moon, he and all of his descendants will suffer a slow, excruciating transition from man to wolf very much against their will. Francis lost his freedom the second he turned against me. He will surely go running to the first witch he can find for help, but he cannot be helped so simply. I have the original witches dagger. No witch will be able to undo this curse without it.
Dear, Francis, may you burn in hell.
Cecily Till
“The journal just ends there?” I said, mostly to myself.
“This one does. But we have hundreds of journals like this one. And they didn't all belong to Cecily Till.”
I touched the pendant where it rested on the pages of the journal before my eyes locked on Harlow’s again.
“I realize this is a lot to take in. The important thing is, this entry proves Cecily created our family curse, the curse that forced my ancestors to shift into wolves at the full moon and the objects she used to do it.”
“So werewolves were created by magic.”
Harlow nodded. “Originally, yes. But Cecily’s line wasn’t the first. There are many lines of werewolfism, most of which are much older than ours. What we all share in common is that magic created our curse.”
My lips pursed, trying to understand everything Harlow was telling me. “So what happened to Cecily?”
“According to the stories passed down by generations, Cecily escaped the hunt for her life to the Americas. She never laid eyes on Francis again. During her journey, she discovered she was pregnant with his child.” Harlow leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“But she cursed Francis and all of his descendants.”
“Exactly,” Harlow acknowledged. “So began our long line of werewolfism. Cecily gave birth to the child, but couldn’t bear to kill him. Her love became her weakness. Her son passed on werewolfism to his children, and his children to their children. Over three-hundred years later, the Till werewolf curse lives on.”
“You don’t shift at every full moon, though,” I pointed out, slightly confused. “Wasn’t there a full moon the night of winter formal?”
“Yes, but we are not bound to the moon.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. So this passage is wrong?”
“It’s not wrong, Rayna,” he began to explain. “Some of the details are just outdated. Cecily loved her son so much she couldn’t bear to see him a slave to the moon. She used the original spell to lift the full moon curse and unburden her son. So, as it stands, we have the freedom to shift at will.”
I flipped back and forth through the pages searching for an entry that reflected Harlow’s words.
He reached over and placed his hand on top of mine just as I turned another page. “You won’t find anything about Cecily’s son in her journals. It’s an undocumented family legend passed on like so.”
“So what do you mean when you say you have the freedom to shift as it stands?” I probed, noting the way he said it didn’t sound promising. “As in it can change back?”
“Magic is constantly changing and evolving. If a witch were to reenact the binding spell, we wouldn’t have a choice anymore.”
“If that’s true, then why didn’t she just lift the werewolf curse altogether?” I asked, inquisitively.
“According to Ivy, curses and hexes aren’t easy to undo. If they were, it would defeat their purpose. Any magic can be altered, though. She’s told us that all spells have a loophole because nature has to have a balance. The loophole just has to be discovered, and I’ve known Ivy long enough to know that finding a loophole is no small task.”
“But wouldn’t lifting the werewolf curse be a loophole? I mean you’re either a wolf or you’re not. Loophole, right?”
“Maybe,” Harlow chuckled. “I think we all wish it were that simple! Nick believes Cecily was powerful enough to lift the curse if she was powerful enough to create it. Some think she didn’t lift it because she still harbored feelings of hatred toward Francis, and she partially resented her son for it. Others say that Cecily believed man should be punished for their weakness, which Francis showed in his betrayal to her at the trial. We'll never know the reason. All we can be sure of is that werewolfism remains an inescapable curse.”
“Sounds like Cecily had it rough,” I said with a flicker of sympathy in my voice. “How many werewolves are there?”
“Not many. Werewolves and witches lived mostly in harmony until eighteen thirty-nine. Territory disputes pitted the gray wolves of New Brunswick—like Nick and me—against the red wolves of Aroostook County. The Aroostook War was a great cover for the dispute between the two groups of wolves. Eventually, the witches got involved, and it wasn’t pretty. By the time an agreement was reached, The gray wolves had nearly wiped out the red wolf population. Now only a few remain of both species in the area.”
I bit my bottom lip in thought. “But the Aroostook War saw no actual combat. There weren’t any casualties,” I pointed out.
“History books don’t account for werewolf casualties. We’re like Harbor Glenn’s dirty little secret.”
“No, I guess they wouldn’t, would they.” I replied in under-standing, pondering my next question. “Is it painful?”
“The transformation? In the beginning. The first year as a werewolf is rough,” Harlow's expression pained at the memory. “Now shifting is as easy as breathing, but that's not to say it doesn't hurt like hell on occasion.”
“How old were you when the curse took hold?”
Harlow’s eyes were distant, like he was recalling not-so-fond memories. “Eleven.”
“Wow,” I murmured to myself. While other kids his age were going through puberty, Harlow had to face becoming a werewolf. And his parents wouldn’t have been around much longer to help him cope.
“We come to this place after we’ve shifted back. We keep extra sets of clothes here to change into, food and use it as a place to warm up and ease back into our normal selves. In wolf form, we can withstand the cold no problem, but coming back is rough—especially during the winter months.”
I nodded my head in understanding before asking, “So, how does the whole werewolf thing work? I mean when you shift are you still… you? Are you even aware you’re a wolf?” I realized these were loaded questions.
“It’s hard to say,” Harlow answered, considering my questions. “I’m still me. But I’m not me—if that makes sense. Shifting is a strange thing. It’s like blacking out. I remember bits and pieces of my time as a wolf on occasion and vice versa, but it’s mostly just flashes of random images. Nothing too concrete.”
“But in wolf form, you seem to recognize Ivy,” I pointed out
He nodded. “But I don’t recognize her as Ivy like you and I do. It’s hard to explain how my werewolf side interprets things when I’m me. I think it’s a weird trust thing because witches and werewolves have a history together. I’d like to assume my werewolf self can sense that Ivy is a witch. I wish I could offer a better answer…”
His response fueled my next question. “If you're not bound to the moon, do you even have to shift at all?” Maybe the question was silly, but why would he shift if he didn’t have to?
“Yes,” Harlow said, not to my surprise. “That's what makes it a curse. We have the freedom to shift at will and
we’re not tied to the moon, but the transition still has to happen. We can’t fight it off, it’s part of who we are.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Our bodies shut down and pain sets in until the shift happens. We have to shift at least once a month and remain in wolf form for seventy-two hours.”
“So all those times I ran into you out here—” I began as the truth of our encounters dawned on me.
“Not quite a coincidence,” Harlow admitted matter-of-factly.
I pointed a knowing finger at him. “And at Rider’s party!”
“That wasn’t my fault,” he began, slightly humiliated. “Some wolves from my pack were in the vicinity. I didn’t want them to catch your scent.” He paused. “Not that I feared for your safety, but I didn’t need your curious mind asking questions.”
“Well, that plan backfired,” I laughed at the irony as a smile played on Harlow's lips.
“Who else is in your pack? Besides Nick I mean—” After I said it I paused, unsure. “Nick is in your pack, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Harlow confirmed. “And three others aside from myself. You’ve encountered two of them before.”
After thinking it over, I said, “You mean the guys around your brother's age I saw in the woods that day with Ivy and Nick?” I vaguely recalled her mentioning their names during one of our brief interactions.
He nodded. “Dean and Blake. And there’s also Sloan. She and Nick are together,” he revealed, sounding indifferent about the relationship. “Don’t expect to meet her, though. Sloan only comes around the house when she has to. Rayna,” he addressed me gently, “these people who stole the witches' dagger—”
“Hunters, you mean.”
A troubled smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I almost forgot how much you overheard.”
I ducked my head, embarrassed.
“Here,” Harlow said, getting to his feet. He pulled a folded newspaper clipping from his back pocket and offered it to me.
“What's this?” I asked, taking the paper from him.
Iron Moon Page 12
