by Naomi Clark
“Oui,” the vendor nodded, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You take my advice, cherie, you stay at home after dark, non? Le Monstre, he likes wolves just as good as humans.”
***
“What do you think it is really?” I asked Shannon as we strolled down by the Seine an hour later. Le Monstre screamed from the headlines at every newspaper stand we passed and people grabbed copies with exclamations and soft curses. Funny how swearing sounded so much more eloquent in French. “A feral wolf? Or maybe Silver Kiss has found its way to France.” Sly had forced some of the drug on me the night Eddie was shot; I found it all too easy to believe it could turn an average werewolf into a monstrous killer.
“It’s probably all just tabloid speculation,” Shannon said. “I don’t know enough French to be sure, but the paper looked like a red top, so it’s probably a stray dog mangling pet rabbits or something.”
That wasn’t as exciting a theory as monsters, or even ferals—werewolves that had given themselves completely to the wolf. The paper man, I decided, was probably playing the whole thing up to spook us silly tourists. No amount of blood-and-guts headlines were going to keep me inside after dark. Paris was the city of light, after all.
I shook off visions of a scarlet-lit Moulin Rouge pinwheel. We still had an hour or two of daylight to spend. The Seine was flat and dark, its banks lined with street artists and more souvenir stands. No mimes, I noted with disappointment. The vendors were already starting to close for the day, packing up their wares and shaking their heads when people approached. The sun was sinking slowly, spreading patches of gold light across the streets and the river. Couples of all ages wandered up and down the bank, hand-in-hand, talking in low murmurs and a mix of languages. It was all exactly as peaceful and romantic as I’d hoped and I pulled Shannon to a halt to kiss her.
She responded warmly, cupping my face in her hands. Someone across the street wolf-whistled and we broke apart with a laugh, Shannon’s cheeks glowing from the brief, hot kiss. “We’ll never get to Notre Dame if you keep this up,” she scolded me lightly, taking my hand again.
“Well there’s no rush, is there? We won’t be able to go to the top at this time of day anyway, I shouldn’t think.”
Shannon was keen to see the famous gargoyles. I was a little dubious about trekking to the top of the cathedral. I’m not scared of heights, not exactly. My wolf just doesn’t like being so far away from the ground. I fully intended to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe during our stay, but I knew it would be easier said than done. Notre Dame, I thought, would be a good first test for my animal side.
It was a long walk down the Seine to Notre Dame and a dusky spring evening had fallen over the city by the time we got there. It was a beautiful sight, rising up out of the darkening street in a blaze of pale light, the sandy brickwork glowing. The Gothic arches were dramatic, the sheer size of the cathedral awe-inspiring. I wondered how long it had taken to build that, how many people had worked to carve those arches and pillars. There was an evening service just finishing as we arrived. People were streaming out of the doors and making it almost impossible for us to squeeze past and get inside.
Once inside though, it was as if the street outside vanished completely. The silence was heavy. People crept around the rows of pews mutely, gazing upwards at the bluish-purple stained glass windows with almost reverential awe. I found myself doing the same, as Shannon and I wandered around. Stone statues of saints and the Virgin Mary stood in every corner, proud and dignified. Every curve of stone, every kaleidoscope of rainbow glass was elegant and beautiful, almost overwhelming in their splendor. I’d imagined the cathedral would smell like a library—all dust and old paper—instead I smelled melting candle wax and floor polish and a cool, plastery scent wafting from the walls.
“It’s beautiful,” Shannon breathed in my ear as we paused before a tall orange-brown statue of Louis XII. “I can’t wait to get up there and see the gargoyles.”
I stared at the vaulted ceiling and my stomach twinged at the thought of being all the way up there. It felt like an impossible feat to my wolf. I pushed the pinch of fear aside. I’d be fine. I’d been higher than that in planes and I’d been fine, so...I’d be fine.
Hungry again, with my wolf restless and eager to be free after a long day of confined spaces, I dragged Shannon from Notre Dame. I promised her we’d be back for the gargoyles later in the week and we headed back the way we came. Darkness had truly fallen. Although the streets were still busy, I got the sense that the crowds were thinning out, that nobody planned to linger and watch the lights of the cathedral or sit by the river. People were moving, determined to get wherever they were going as fast as possible.
I wondered again about Le Monstre, wondered if a body had been found nearby. I hadn’t seen any police cars or even police officers and my wolf-senses weren’t picking up anything weird or unusual. I figured Shannon and I were safe enough walking back to Montmartre.
I hadn’t quite realized how long a walk it was though and by the time we were back on Rue de Clichy I was ravenous and Shannon was exhausted. “We’ll take the Metro next time,” she announced as we trudged up the stairs to our flat. “I’m not ruining my heels trekking across Paris every day.”
I was about to tell her she was far too soft when I heard weeping from up the stairwell, on our floor. Not just sobbing, but hysterical, breathless crying, like somebody was in real gut-wrenching pain. There was shouting too, a male voice. Not really angry, but exasperated and tired. Shannon heard it too and frowned at me.
“Sounds like the neighbors are home.”
“What do we do?” I whispered, suddenly feeling awkward. It sounded like they were out in the hall and I didn’t want to have to creep past some domestic dispute to get to our flat. On the other hand, if the crier—a woman—was in trouble, I wasn’t going to ignore it either.
Ever decisive, Shannon marched up the stairs, making sure to stomp her heels as she did so the arguing couple couldn’t possibly ignore our arrival. Sure enough, as we reached the hallway, the argument stopped. I rounded the corner of the stairwell to see a heavily-pregnant Asian woman leaning against the wall between our flat and another that I took to be her own. A man with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips stood in the doorway of the other flat, looking guilty and embarrassed. The woman smelled of Pack, the man like a human.
There was only a narrow space between our front door and theirs and it felt smaller with the pressure of his anger and her misery. They stared at us in uneasy silence and my wolf reacted like it was a challenge to us being there, my inner hackles going up. I edged closer to Shannon, trusting her to diffuse the tension.
“Bonsoir,” Shannon said brightly as we moved past the woman. “Excuse us, please. We didn’t mean to eavesdrop...”
The man swore violently, his accent American rather than French like I’d been expecting. “This is exactly what I’m talking about!” he told the woman, who stared at him with trembling lips, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. “There’s no privacy, there’s always an audience, isn’t there? Fuck this. I can’t live like this, Sun.” He stormed past me, down the stairs, without a backwards glance.
The woman burst into tears and my wolf’s mood switched, suddenly eager to comfort a Pack mate. Pack was Pack wherever you were—one of the things I liked least about it, sometimes—and a pregnant wolf was an especially precious creature. “Oh hey, don’t cry, it’s okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. She fell into my embrace without hesitation, recognizing a fellow wolf and reaching for the comfort that represented. “Come on, come into our place,” I told her, glancing at Shannon, who opened the door and ushered me and the woman inside.
We sat her down on the sofa and I fixed her a cup of tea while Shannon sat with her and talked her out of her tears. Shannon was much better at that kind of thing than me. By the time I presented Sun with her tea, Shannon had her talking without sobbing.
“Feeling better?” Shannon asked her as I sat
down to join them.
Sun nodded, then shook her head and shrugged. “Mike’s not a bad guy,” she said. “I mean, it’s hard for him, you know?” She had an American accent too, the sort of middle-of-the-road nowhere accent that you heard on TV. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, smearing mascara and shimmery purple eye shadow down her cheeks. “This holiday was supposed to fix everything!”
I winced; her words struck close to home.
“What happened?” Shannon asked, taking Sun’s hand and rubbing her back. Shannon saw a lot of weeping women working as a PI. Adulterous spouses had been her biggest source of income for years.
Sun stroked her bump absently. “He’s human,” she said simply, as if that explained it all.
And it did explain some of it. Shannon and I knew as well as anyone all the problems that came with being a human-werewolf couple. I think Sun was too distraught to realize it was a human woman holding her hand, otherwise she might not have spoken so bluntly. Shannon stiffened almost imperceptibly and loosened her grip.
Sun didn’t notice, just carried on petting her bump and wiping her eyes. “I don’t blame him,” she said. “The whole situation is just so...fucked!” She began crying again then, burying her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Shannon glanced at me, looking helpless, probably wondering how on earth we dealt with Sun. Crying women were one thing, but heavily pregnant, hysterical women were well outside my experience. Part of me just wanted to send her on her way, as cruel as that sounded. This was supposed to be mine and Shannon’s holiday. I didn’t want us to spend our first night in Paris comforting a babbling mother-to-be. We couldn’t do that though and not just because she was Pack. Stifling a sigh, I knelt down in front of Sun.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” I suggested. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems.”
Sun sucked in a deep breath, shaking her head. “No, I don’t want to waste your time, really. He’ll be back once he’s calmed down, it’s fine. He always comes back.” She stood, pushing her untouched tea into my hands. “Thank you, really, but it’s fine. It is.”
“Well, look,” I said, rising with her, “we’ll be in all evening if you want a friendly ear or anything, okay? I’m Ayla and this is Shannon.”
“Sun Jung Nam,” she said, managing an unconvincing smile through her tears. “And thank you guys. I didn’t mean...” She waved her hands in a vague way that could have meant anything.
I smiled and patted her gently on the back as she left. “We’re just across the hall if you need anything.”
As soon as the door fell shut, Shannon sighed heavily, reaching for the abandoned tea. “I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but I really hope she doesn’t come back.”
I curled up beside her, resting my head on her shoulder. “She’s probably very nice when she’s not in the middle of a domestic.”
“I don’t care if she is. I’m not spending our holiday playing agony aunt to some stranger.”
“Grouch.” I poked her affectionately. “What about love thy neighbor and all that?”
“I don’t think that counts on holidays,” she replied.
“Either way,” I admitted, “I hope she doesn’t have any more domestics tonight at least.”
“Who’s the grouch now?” Shannon teased, “I thought you’d be pleased to have a wolf neighbor to play with.”
I shook my head. “She won’t be shapeshifting any time soon. She looks ready to pop.” Shapeshifting during pregnancy was mostly risk-free for the first three months or so, but after that the strain it put on the body and the baby made it too dangerous. The shifting instinct faded as the pregnancy went on and the market was full of potions to help suppress it—teas loaded with Jamaica dogwood, creams made with valerian and skullcap. My mum had taken lavender and lemon balm when she was pregnant with me, which sounded vile, but apparently did the trick. Mum swore she hadn’t even wanted to shift during the whole pregnancy.
I couldn’t imagine how anyone lasted for six months without changing. The frustration must be unbearable. Just the idea of it made my wolf scratch and claw for freedom. It gave me a lot of sympathy for those poor Tudor noblewomen who were forced to stay in darkened rooms for the whole of their pregnancies. It sounded like total hell.
Too worn out to think about eating out now, we raided the surprisingly well-stocked kitchen—I saw Vince’s hand at work there—and threw together a quick cheesy pasta dish. Afterwards, we curled up on the sofa again, flicking through TV channels and giggling at the surreal French adverts. Despite my earlier words, I listened for any sign of trouble from Sun’s apartment. I heard nothing and eventually we drifted off to sleep, tangled together too tightly to think about moving to the bed.
The screams woke us.
Two
I leapt off the sofa, knocking Shannon to the floor, and rushed to the window. As I flung it open, warm night air hit me, carrying a scent like rotting fruit with it. I sneezed and stuck my head out, trying to find the source of the noise. A single streetlight flickered nearby, casting patchy light over the narrow cobbled street. Directly opposite our building was a small newsstand, the neon sign casting green and red light over the staff leaning out the door, looking around for the screamer.
It only took me another second to find her. A few feet further up the street, kneeling beside a shadowy form, hands clutching thick black hair as she rocked back and forth, was Sun. Her high-pitched, wordless scream bounced off the stone walls all around her.
“Shit.” I ran for the door, my wolf on red alert. Pack in danger, nothing else mattered.
Shannon grabbed me before I reached the door, pulling me back. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Sun.”
Eyes wide, Shannon joined my dash for the door. All my earlier bitchy thoughts disappeared as we ran down the stairs to the street. What could cause those bloodcurdling shrieks? My stomach lurched. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.
Out on the street, the shop staff and customers surrounded Sun. One man was trying to pull her away from whatever she knelt beside, others were shouting and waving. A woman fiddled with her mobile phone. The scent of rotting fruit was stronger, a salty tang of blood coupled with it. I wanted to gag, both from the smell and the dread gnawing at my stomach. I grabbed Shannon’s hand to slow her down, gut instinct telling me she didn’t want to see this.
As I pushed my way past the people with a mumbled excuse moi I knew that the fallen form Sun screamed over had to be Mike, but knowing it didn’t prepare me for seeing him. Sun cradled him in her arms, his body limp and pale. His eyes looked so dark against paper-white skin, like black holes. The sickly-sweet smell pulsed off him, sticking in my throat. The killing wound was at his throat—a rough, vicious bite that had pierced the artery. Blood still ran in thick rivulets down his neck and shoulders, soaking into his dark shirt and Sun’s white skirt.
My wolf’s reaction was fast and visceral: fear so sharp and bitter it left me frozen and useless.
“My God,” Shannon breathed, dropping down beside Sun to pry her hands away from Mike. “Sun, come on, let him go,” she said gently. “You don’t want to get all upset and risk the baby—”
“Fuck the baby!” Sun shrieked, throwing her off. “I am upset!”
Upset was hardly the word. As much as I admired Shannon for keeping her cool and trying to help, there was no way I’d get between Sun and the dead man right now. I noticed one of the onlookers, a wolf, hanging back too. His eyes glowed green in the streetlight, wide with the same weird fear that gripped me. I wanted to ask him why he was so scared, see if he could explain my own reaction to me, but I didn’t know how.
Instead I watched as Shannon and another waiter gently forced Sun away from Mike’s body, pulling her to her feet and dragging her back. My wolf whimpered and whined in my head. It took all my willpower not to turn and flee the scene. That sweet, bitter scent hanging over Mike touched some primal part of me, triggering a deep terror that shot past
my human, logical side and hit the animal hard.
I’d never wanted to run away so much in my life and I had no idea why.
Shannon marched Sun over to the doorstep of our apartment building, sitting her down with a firm order. “Ayla,” she called me.
Turning my back on Mike, shamed by my sense of relief, I hurried over to them. “What happened?” I asked Sun, crouching down in front of her.
She stared at me blankly, tears streaming down her face, thick black hair in tangled disarray. She clutched her bump fiercely, rocking slightly on the step. “He didn’t come back,” she sobbed breathlessly. “I waited and he didn’t come back. He always comes back, or he calls me, he lets me know where he is, but he didn’t and I just knew there was something wrong—”
“Stop.” Shannon knelt next to me, taking Sun’s hands in her own. “Take a deep breath, Sun. You have to calm down.”
How could she possibly calm down with her dead boyfriend only a few feet away and that smell seeping through the air? We needed to get Sun away from here, far away from here.
