Nocturne

by Christine Johnson

  Marie sat in front of the fire, and the other wolves fol

  lowed suit.

  Let us return to our human forms.

  There was a flutter of activity as the wolves transformed, dressing in an instant and then fussing around with tying shoes and tucking in shirts.

  Marie stood in front of them, already dressed, down to the last button on her shirt. "This has truly been a remarkable night. Not only has Claire proved that she is a complete wolf, but our pack has grown, and we have had the most successful naming in our remembered history. Thank you, all of you, for your efforts this evening. Go home. Go home and be happy, and I will see all of you when the moon is full again."

  Go home and be happy. Right. Claire's mood deflated like a pin-struck balloon. Going home meant going back into her human world, and her human world was a mess. There was nothing to do about Emily and the party except cross her fingers and hope that Matthew had come through—and that Emily had believed their lies.

  But Matthew . . . she didn't like the way she'd left things with him. She needed to talk to him—figure out a way to smooth things over.

  Once he'd sobered up.

  The women went their separate ways through the woods. Claire trailed a few paces behind her mother, carrying her bag in silence.

  "Why so quiet, chérie?" Her mother's tone was light, but there was an undertone of concern. Uncertainty.

  "I'm just tired is all," Claire said. "There's been a lot today."

  "Of course." Marie smiled. "I am sure that's true." She was all too happy to believe Claire—Claire could see her mother's desire to keep the moment unspoiled. To revel in her victory.

  "I am proud of you, Claire. You have made me very happy to be your mother."

  The words wrapped around Claire like a coat, warming her. Protecting her. She snuggled down inside the praise. If she could do something as impossible as making her mother proud, then maybe she could straighten out the tangle she'd made of her human life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BACK AT THE house, Claire headed straight for her room. She grabbed her phone to send Matthew a text, and found a half-dozen unread messages. They were all from Emily. The first four were all variations of RU OK??? The first one sounded irritated, but the other two were pure worry. Claire wondered exactly what Matthew had told Emily.

  The next one said, WHAT HAPPENED BTWN U AND MATTHEW? Claire's fingertips went tingly. Holding her breath, she clicked through the next two messages.

  TEXT ME BACK AS SOON AS U CAN.

  ARE YOU DEAD OR WHAT??? CALL ME ASAP!

  The three messages went through Claire like an electric shock. What had Matthew said to Emily that could make her freak out like that? She stood, rooted to the spot, staring down at the phone.

  She could feel her fingers twitching toward Emily's number, desperate to know. It was just a little after two—Emily might still be awake, surveying the mess . . . but probably not. And Claire was supposed to be so sick that she'd had to miss the party. If she called, it might look suspicious.

  She knew she'd have to wait until tomorrow. There was no other way.

  Damn.

  Unable to stop herself, Claire opened a new message.

  To Matthew.

  I think we need 2 talk. Call me tomorrow.

  She flipped the phone shut and buried her head in her hands. She'd been looking forward to the dance and the naming for so long, and the night had turned into a total disaster.

  Well, not a total disaster. The naming had been amazing. Trying to hold on to that one bright spot, Claire did the only thing she could think to do. She headed for the bathroom and a hot shower. Claire spent the night tossing and turning, alternately too hot and too cold, slipping in and out of anxious dreams. When morning finally came, she dragged herself out of bed. It was a little after nine thirty. It was too early to call Emily, but she picked up the phone anyway. After the messages Emily had left her last night, it wasn't like she could be mad at Claire for waking her up at the crack of dawn.

  It went to voice mail.

  Claire hesitated. All sorts of horrible things were running through her mind, most of them involving Emily realizing that Claire had never been sick—that there was some other reason she'd skipped the party.

  She got dressed and threw her hair into a ponytail, trying to find a way to make the time pass. She made her bed. She flipped through the channels on the TV. Eventually, she sat on the edge of the bed and watched the clock crawl toward eleven o'clock. She got more and more tense with each minute that passed.

  At two minutes past eleven, she couldn't stand it anymore. She dialed Emily again. This time, Emily answered it.

  "Hello?" Her rough, pained voice reminded Claire that she was supposed to be sick.

  "Sorry," she said, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. It wasn't that hard. She just pretended that the ache in her chest was really in her stomach. "I know it's early. But I woke up and saw your texts and I'm freaking out. What happened?"

  "Oh, God," Emily groaned. "It was—wait. Are you okay? Why didn't you call?"

  "I think it was dinner," Claire lied. "I started feeling bad at the dance, and it got so awful that I had Matthew take me home. I was—it was gross." Even Emily was likely to let her off the hook when it came to details about throwing up. "Eventually, I just sort of passed out. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I really, really am."

  "Me too," said Emily. Claire could hear her rustling around. "It was really fun, except . . ."

  Claire's heart started thudding in her chest. "Except what?" she prompted.

  "Matthew was—I don't know exactly what happened. He was drunk and talking about how the two of you had a fight. A couple of times Amy tried to pull him aside and talk to him, but I think he sort of brushed her off. She was really worried the rest of the night, but she wouldn't tell me why. She said it was private. Which pissed me off a little, 'cause it's not like I'm some stranger to her, but whatever. Anyway, long story short, there was definitely drama, and you probably want to sort that crap out with Matthew before the rumor mill grinds you to a pulp."

  Claire doubled over, feeling like she'd been punched. What had Matthew told Amy that would make her so upset? If he'd let on that she wasn't really sick and Amy told Emily, it would shatter their friendship from the inside out.

  In the background a door clicked and a voice—a guy's voice—rumbled.

  "Okay, I'll be there in a second," Emily said to him. "Who's that?" Claire demanded.

  "Randy," Emily admitted. "He was really sweet last night. A bunch of people stayed over, and even though he could have driven home, he slept on the couch so that he could help clean up this morning."

  Claire had heard that same, wistful-excited sound in Emily's voice before. The one that meant she really, really liked a guy.

  "Listen, I'm sorry, Claire. I've gotta go deal with things here. Just . . . talk to Matthew and then call me back."

  "Okay," Claire whispered. "Thanks."

  "I'm sorry. I'll talk to you soon." Emily's voice was worried, and Claire hung up with a knot of tension growing like wings between her shoulder blades.

  With a stomach-churning chorus of self-doubt pounding in her head, she called Matthew. It went straight to voice mail.

  "It's Claire. Call me. We need to talk." She tried to sound calm, but part of her didn't care if he knew she was freaking out.

  She flipped the phone shut and sat down on the edge of her bed, running her fingers through her tangled ponytail, trying to figure out what to do. She needed coffee. And she needed to get out of the house. If she paced her room any more, she was going to be insane before noon.

  The only place she could think to go was The Cloister, but it was better than nothing. She grabbed her history book and threw on a pair of shoes. Downstairs, her mother was in the darkroom, working. Claire knocked on the door.

  "Yes?" her mother called. "What is it?" She sounded irritated.

  "I want to take the car," Claire said. "To go to the
coffee shop." It wasn't exactly a question. But it was the best Claire could manage, as upset as she was.

  There was a pause from the other side of the door.

  "Fine," her mother said. "The keys are on the hook. Be careful." The 'be careful' was a dismissal.

  Claire scurried up the stairs, snatched up the keys, and hurried out to the car. The Cloister was far from empty, but the late-Sunday-morning crowd didn't involve anyone Claire knew. She ordered an enormous coffee and automatically headed for the little table by the window where she and Emily always sat. With the familiar cup in her hand, the comforting buzz of the coffee grinder, and the sugary smell of the pastries in the glass-fronted case, Claire felt herself calm down the smallest bit.

  Something had happened. Okay. But maybe it wasn't as bad as she thought. After all, maybe Emily was exaggerating. What had happened between Matthew and Amy might not have been any big deal. Maybe Amy wasn't suspicious.

  She checked her phone. Still no call from Matthew. No message. The blank screen smirked at her, and she shoved it back into her pocket.

  She stood up, heading for the pastry case. Maybe an almond croissant would help take her mind off the waiting. The line was insanely long, and she decided to head to the bathroom first. It was a tiny, one-stall bathroom with a faucet that dripped and a mirror that had a chipped gilt frame. Claire stood in front of the sink, adjusting her ponytail.

  The door swung open and Claire moved aside, glancing up to see who was squeezing into the bathroom with her.

  In a halo of blond curls and ginger perfume, Amy walked through the door. Claire froze, her hands still wrapped around her ponytail.

  Amy's eyes widened as she recognized Claire, and her automatic sort of smile slipped off her face. Claire watched her glance around the bathroom, checking to see if they were alone.

  "Hey, Claire. You're . . . here. Are you okay?" Amy looked worried. In more ways than one.

  Claire's breath came in quick, shallow little puffs, and the skin along her spine crawled with an adrenaline-filled warning.

  "I'm feeling a lot better," Claire said carefully, letting go of her ponytail. "I talked to Emily this morning."

  Amy winced, and Claire could see her think about lying, but then she squared her shoulders and took a step toward Claire, her eyebrows settling in a determined line.

  "What did she tell you?"

  Claire swallowed hard, her pulse pounding against the too-delicate walls of her veins. "I heard about what happened at the party."

  Amy's determined expression gave way to sorrow. "I'm sorry. I—I can't imagine how hard all of this is for you, but I can't just keep my mouth shut. . . . After that stuff that happened at the mall and then last night and . . . I wasn't trying to listen in, but I heard you and Matthew talking. . . ." She took a step forward, holding out her hand like she meant to touch Claire but she couldn't figure out how. "I know what's going on with you. Why you're always hiding. I figured it out, Claire, and I want you to know that it's okay. I understand."

  Claire's fear gave way to shock with such speed that she reached out to steady herself on the wall. It was like plunging down the first big hill on a roller coaster without any warning.

  "You . . . know?" she choked out.

  Amy gave her a sad little smile. "Yeah. There was a girl back in Philadelphia—well, I mean, I wasn't sure about her in the beginning, but now that I know what to look for . . . it wasn't that hard to see what you"—she glanced at the thin bathroom door and dropped her voice—"what was making you act so strange. Claire, I know, and I'm worried. You can't hide it much longer. I won't stand by and let you try to cover this up," she finished, her words lead-weighted with meaning.

  The air around them was suddenly too thick to breathe. Claire's lungs had seized in her chest. Spots danced in front of her eyes.

  "Claire? Are you okay?" She slumped against the wall, ignoring the cool, slightly sticky tiles. A breath burned its way though her chest. She couldn't think—her mind was nothing but a seething mass of panic and anger and betrayal. Because Amy knew.

  Amy knew.

  Amy knew.

  Amy knew.

  "I have to go," Claire whispered.

  In one swift motion she turned, whipped open the door, and ran into the coffee shop.

  As quickly as she could without looking inhuman, Claire hurried over to her table, snatched up her history book, and tore out to the parking lot without even looking to see if Amy was behind her.

  She tossed her things into the Mercedes and drove home, running all the yellow lights and rolling through the stop signs on the way. With every second that passed, Claire's fear grew, shredding her from the inside out, howling inside her head until it was impossible to hear, to think. If Amy knew, it put everyone in danger.

  There was no difference between the humans in Claire's life and the werewolves. One word from Amy's lips could destroy them all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE DRIVEWAY WAS empty when Claire pulled up. She left the car in front of the house and raced inside, tossing the keys onto the hall table. Assuming her mother would still be in her darkroom, Claire tore downstairs and pounded frantically at the door.

  "Just a moment!" Claire heard her mother moving through the little anteroom before swinging open the door that stood between them. "What on earth is wrong, chérie? Please tell me you haven't wrecked the car."

  Claire gripped the door frame, her fingers white as marble.

  "I haven't wrecked the car," she whispered. "It's much, much worse than that."

  Marie's expression shifted from irritation to genuine concern. "Come in and sit down," she told Claire, pulling her into the little cubicle of a room that stood between the hallway and her darkroom. Claire felt the tears gathering in her eyes, trembling at the edge of her lashes and making the world around her quavery and insubstantial. She let herself be dragged along by her mother, who pushed her onto one of the high stools around her work table. Marie bent down just slightly, so that she and Claire were eye to eye.

  "Tell me what happened. Whatever it is, Claire, it will be okay. I will fix it." Her mother's voice was quiet and smooth and dark—an inky ribbon. As her words whisked over Claire's skin, she shivered, seeing Judith's disapproving face.

  She knew, with absolute certainty, that she couldn't tell her mother. Not like this. Because Marie would try to fix it, and Claire would look like a guilty little sniveling brat of a kid who had gone running to mommy-in-charge to get her out of a scrape.

  But this was much more than a scrape.

  And Claire was much more than a well-connected kid. She had to take responsibility for what had happened. If she didn't tell the whole pack, she'd never be able to live with herself.

  "I need to tell everyone. Please—can you call a meeting? For tonight?"

  Marie frowned. "Claire, there's no need for that. If I feel the rest of the pack needs to be involved, I will call them. But I'm sure we can work out whatever has happened." Claire shook her head, thinking of her thread-thin relationship with Emily and the scalding argument she'd had with Matthew the night before. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I've already ruined so much in my human life—I can't ruin things with the pack, too." She looked up at her mother. "Don't you understand? If you try to fix this, I'll look horrible." The tears that had been threatening spilled onto her cheeks. "I—I can't. I have to own up to what happened. I have to tell the whole pack. Please."

  Her mother closed her eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath. Gathering herself.

  "I can see that you are serious about this. I still think it is unnecessary, but I am not blind to the way that . . . certain members of the pack view you. I will not force you to tell me. I will call the meeting. Is—" she hesitated. "Whatever it is—are you sure it can wait until tonight?"

  Claire rubbed the bridge of her nose between two fingers. "I think so." Amy hadn't seemed like she was in any great hurry to reveal Claire's identity. If all she wanted was to turn Claire in, Claire
would already be in a cage somewhere. The idea laced her thoughts with panic.

  "I mean, I hope so," she whispered.

  "I will go make the calls." Marie hurried out of the darkroom.

  The adrenaline leaked out of Claire's body. She slumped against the table, still terrified but also exhausted. She didn't know what the pack would say when she told them her identity had been compromised, but she knew what it meant for Amy.

  Shaking with the uncertainty of it all, Claire stumbled up to her room and lay down on her bed, checking her phone one more time, not quite able to believe that Matthew still hadn't called her back. She pulled the pillow tight over her head and lay in the smothering darkness, trying not to think. Sometime later, Marie knocked on Claire's door.