Hunter's Moon (The Wolves of Wellsboro Book 1)

by Sarah M. Awa

  The bed in the Butterfly Room was as soft and inviting as the pajamas. Cocooned within its cotton sheets, she drifted off almost instantly . . .

  . . . and entered a shadowy world. An even darker shadow was stalking her, its eyes two pinpricks of yellow against black. It chased her down empty streets, through narrow alleys, between tall buildings like the legs of giants.

  The pinpricks broadened into a pair of headlights. The shadow took on the shape of a police cruiser and gained speed. She ran from it, gasping and stumbling, searching for a place to hide.

  All the doors were locked. She pounded on them and yelled. Nobody came.

  The shadows dispersed, and a world of brilliant light burst in upon her. The radiance had no source; it sparkled everywhere like multifaceted gems casting rainbows. She stood before huge, gleaming gates wrought of gold and pearl. A man with a long white beard sat on a gilded chair. A book lay open on a table in front of him.

  “S-St. Peter,” tumbled from her mouth. Her jaw had dropped. “How did I get here? How’d I die?” Had the cop run her over?

  The bearded figure gazed sternly at her but didn’t utter a word. Her apprehension grew. Come on—say something! Tell me it’s all right, and you’re letting me in!

  When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she asked meekly, “Y-you’re going to let me into heaven, right? I got baptized. I did my confirmation.”

  St. Peter’s eyes filled with sadness. He lifted a hand and pointed at her chest. She looked down and saw a sludgy black substance oozing through her shirt, above her heart. The stain spread, and thick droplets splattered onto her feet—which were morphing into paws with sharp claws.

  “You are unclean and unfit to enter,” the saint said in a deep, resonant voice.

  “No!” she cried, watching in horror as her legs sprouted fur. The transformation worked its way up her body.

  “You are damned, werewolf . . .” echoed in her mind as she fell, spiraling down into a bottomless black pit.

  Bright daylight streamed in through the translucent curtains. Melanie jerked awake, a scream tearing from her throat. Her breath was quick and ragged, her heart thumping crazily. Only a dream. Only a dream, she told herself. Calm down. You’re safe. You’re alive.

  She heard footsteps, and Gavin poked his head in, eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sitting up and letting out a long sigh. “I had a nightmare.”

  “Oh. That sucks.”

  “You can say that again.”

  He stood there in the doorway, looking unsure about whether he should enter or not. She wished he would, but the right words eluded her, and she didn’t want to pat the bed in invitation and make things awkward. So she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “Guess it’s time for lunch.” The clock on the nightstand said it was getting close to 1:00.

  Gavin nodded and moved back into the hall. Melanie grabbed a change of clothes and went to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time she emerged, she could hear him opening and closing cabinet doors in the kitchen.

  The dream preoccupied her, and she couldn’t shake off the unsettling questions it raised: Is there a spiritual element to this? Are we under a curse? Are werewolves . . . damned?

  She wanted to ask Gavin what he thought, but she felt self-conscious about it. What if he was an atheist and scoffed at her concerns?

  Entering the kitchen, Mel found him spreading peanut butter on slices of bread. “Sometimes you just want a PBJ,” he said, and grinned. He was making four sandwiches.

  She gave him a smile back, but it soon faded.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “What? Oh. Yeah. Fine.”

  “Still thinking about the nightmare?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A pause. “You want to talk about it?”

  Yes. Maybe. “Um . . . if you want to hear about it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She sat down at the table and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. Cara must stock this place right before full moons, she thought, absently twirling the crimson fruit between her fingers.

  Gavin set two sandwiches in front of her. Before he began eating, he bowed his head briefly. Did he just pray? That gave Melanie the courage she’d needed. “Do you believe in heaven and hell?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Do you?”

  “I think so. I’m Catholic, but I don’t really go to church anymore,” she admitted. “Too busy with school and everything, you know?”

  He nodded and waited.

  “Anyway, my dream. I dreamed that . . .” It was hard to say aloud. “That I died and was at the gates of heaven. And St. Peter, he wouldn’t let me in. He said werewolves are damned.”

  “Ah,” said Gavin as if unsurprised. He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully.

  At last, she said in a small voice, “Do you think we are?”

  His eyes looked clouded, his expression uncertain. Hesitant. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “If you believe the legends . . . but they don’t all agree on details. No holy book mentions our kind, as far as I know.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t know any better than he did.

  They continued their meal in silence. Well, what did you expect? Mel thought. A miraculous revelation? Indisputable evidence?

  She tried to push the disquiet from her mind and think about other things, but that was difficult.

  Gavin brought up a new topic—but it wasn’t a cheerful one. “I keep wondering about that car that was tailing us.”

  Crap. Yeah. Although they’d lost the guy, Melanie didn’t feel a hundred percent safe. Maybe it was just paranoia stemming from her dreams. Or maybe the paranoia had caused her dreams. Whatever the case, it seemed like their stalker could have found them, could be lurking in this forest somewhere, spying on them.

  The hairs on the back of Mel’s neck prickled. Her eyes went to the window, half expecting a face to be pressed against it. She saw only trees and blue sky.

  “Did you go outside and take a look around?” she asked Gavin.

  “Not yet, but I’m going to.”

  “I’ll come too.”

  They threw away their empty paper plates and put on shoes and jackets. Stepping out the back door, they scanned the calm green forest. They studied the trees, the underbrush, the grass in the clearing around the cabin. No figures perched in the treetops. No binocular lenses were visible in the scraggly bushes. No footprints or tire tracks marred the earth. Not even their own; they had been washed away by the night’s rain. A few muddy puddles lingered in the shadows of the towering pines. Except for the usual birdsong, all was still and quiet.

  Heading around to check the front of the cabin, they passed Cara’s car. The passenger side faced them, and Melanie’s gaze strayed in the window . . . and then became riveted on the driver’s seat.

  Something white sat on it. A folded piece of paper.

  Her stomach lurched. “G-Gavin, did you leave a piece of paper on the seat of your mom’s car?”

  “No,” he said, moving closer to look inside the Nissan. His eyes grew wide.

  They turned in slow motion and met each other’s frightened stare. “How . . . ?” Mel’s voice withered away in a surge of panic.

  “This is . . . not good.” Gavin’s tone was level, but his hands trembled. He swallowed and said, “I know I locked it.”

  Melanie stood, rooted to the spot, but Gavin tried the passenger door. Locked. The other three were, too. No evidence that the car had been tampered with. Gavin let himself in with the key, grabbed the paper, and held it as gingerly as if it were covered in thorns.

  Once back in the kitchen, Gavin unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the tabletop. Mel scooted close to him—so close she could feel his body heat and smell his Old Spice—and they scanned the message at the same time.

  Melanie and Gavin,

  We know what you are. We know all about you. You’re like us.

 
Strength lies in numbers, and people like us should protect one another. Welcome to our Organization.

  We will be in touch.

  P.S. We take our privacy very seriously and will take steps if you divulge any information about our Organization to humans.

  There was no signature. It was written in cramped, angular handwriting—not sloppy, but not immaculate either. Most likely masculine.

  When Mel and Gavin finished reading, they stared at each other again, slack-jawed. Melanie moved a foot or two away, embarrassed at how close they’d been. Her heart was pounding, and not only from the letter’s contents. But the warm tingle quickly faded. Confusion, lingering fear, and astonishment jockeyed for position in her mind.

  Gavin spoke first, his voice husky. “They know quite a bit about us.”

  She nodded. “It has to be from whoever followed us.”

  “Shit. Didn’t matter that we lost him at the hospital. I should’ve known he’d find us another way. If he is that cop from my vision, he might’ve run plates—”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think of that either. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  Gavin sighed. “You’re right. No sense dwelling on what-ifs. We need to focus on how to deal with this.”

  “Exactly.”

  After a thoughtful pause, he said, “So, he’s not working alone. This is . . . much more than I expected.”

  “Me too. Do you think they’re trustworthy?”

  “That’s not the impression I got from my vision.”

  Oh, yeah. The vision, Mel recalled. How do those work, anyway? “What about it—I mean, what details gave you that feeling?”

  “I . . . can’t really say. Just intuition. A sense of wrongness, of warning.”

  “You didn’t see him doing anything bad?”

  “No. But I’ve learned to trust my instinct, Melanie. It hasn’t been wrong yet.”

  “Okay.” He was right about me, and he saved me. Saved Pam and Jocelyn and everyone in my dorm. That’s a good track record. I guess I should trust him on this too. Not blindly, though. “So we know the cop in your vision was bad. But what if that wasn’t him tracking us? Maybe the Organization’s his enemy.”

  Frowning at the note, Gavin said, “Maybe, but . . . no, it doesn’t feel right. Look, the Organization’s made up of werewolves. But this guy who tracked us down can’t be one. If he is, he took a big risk chasing us so close to moonrise. Maybe he’s crazy and didn’t care? No, he seems too calculating for that. And he may have needed all night to track us down. And he did track us down. An ordinary person couldn’t have done that, but a cop could. It fits.”

  Melanie agreed. Why’s he working with, well, monsters? she wondered. She hated the sound of the “M” word; it was more accurate than she cared to admit. Gavin and I aren’t dangerous most of the time. In human form, we’re not much of a threat to anyone. But who’s to say that about them? What if the Organization’s human personalities and goals were not so different from their wolfish ones?

  A prickle formed at the base of her scalp.

  But the note mentioned protecting one another. Protecting from what, or whom? Is there another enemy—and these guys are actually allies? Someone else could be after us? That was an unnerving thought.

  “‘Strength in numbers,’” Gavin was saying. “I wonder how many werewolves are in the group. A handful? A couple dozen?”

  The possibility that there were that many local werewolves sent a jolt of lightning down Mel’s spine.

  I’ve been living in a bubble, she thought. Sheltered and naïve, wearing rose-tinted glasses. How many other clichés could she use to describe her life before the past month—or until the last few minutes?

  She picked up the note and studied it more closely to see if anything else popped out at her—about the words, the handwriting, the ink, the paper itself. Nothing did. No new clues surfaced, even after she sniffed the page. (The mix of coffee, leather, and aftershave was hardly incriminating.)

  Gavin’s focus had returned to their stalker. “How’d that cop I saw get tangled up with these people? They sound like a gang, and why would any good cop help a gang? Either they’re threatening him and forcing him to work with them, or he’s crooked and he’s getting something from them—money, perks, whatever.”

  Melanie frowned. “There’s a third option, y’know: He’s just a good guy helping other good guys. Maybe he’s related to one of them, and his job has nothing to do with his involvement.”

  “I’m not convinced,” said Gavin, crossing his arms. “There’s something fishy about this whole situation.”

  There was. But what happened to you to make you so suspicious of everyone? Mel wanted to ask, but she bit her lip. An adopted werewolf must have plenty of trauma, and this wasn’t the time to pry.

  “I still think they’re a gang and they’re up to no good,” he continued. “But I do concede that they’re not as aggressive as a typical gang would be. Why’d they only leave us a note? Why not break in here and confront us? Why are they hanging back?”

  “See—evidence for option three,” said Mel, bobbing her head vigorously. She wanted these people to be good; she wanted everyone to be good.

  “Maybe,” Gavin said doubtfully, and left it at that.

  Mind still churning, Melanie shifted in her seat. The refrigerator hummed; the wind sighed; clouds shifted over the sun, dimming the room. Fatigue washed over Mel, and the chair’s spindle back pressed against her spine like iron bars. Her body urged her to lie down and get some rest, but she resisted. What if she had another nightmare?

  She could at least sit in a more comfortable place. She headed to the living room, settled on the couch, and hugged a pillow.

  Gavin followed and sat on the chair nearest to her. Slumping back with a sigh, he massaged his temples. His face was pinched, forehead creased in pain. But before long, his brow smoothed and his eyelids drooped. Then they closed.

  Melanie couldn’t help but study his face—the thin, angular features; straight, perfectly proportioned nose; pale, clear, almost luminescent skin; hint of dark blond stubble on his chin; tousled bangs reaching nearly to his eyes.

  His lips moved, and his voice came out softly, words half-slurred: “Whoever these people are, I don’t want anything to do with them. How do we know they’re even werewolves? They could be humans planning to use us as weapons or play Dr. Frankenstein.”

  Those were two possibilities Mel hadn’t considered. But that kind of stuff only happened in books and movies—right? Grip tightening on the pillow, she said, “Maybe.”

  The mantle clock ticked away the passing seconds and minutes. Gavin’s eyes stayed shut, and his breathing became deep and even. He must be really worn out. Ten years of full moons taking a toll on his body . . . How long can we live like this?

  She thought of death again, and of St. Peter. His stern face, his sad eyes, his words.

  Damned.

  Her eyes jerked down to her chest, where she’d seen the black ooze in her dream. Moving the pillow, she saw that her sapphire-colored sweater was clean, unstained. But that wasn’t much reassurance.

  Whether the Organization was good or bad, trustworthy or not, paled in comparison with a much greater uncertainty: that of her eternal destiny.

  13

  Confrontation

  November 15–16, Waning Gibbous Moon

  It took longer for her to move today, on the third morning. Though she was cold and longing to climb into bed, sheer exhaustion and pain pinned her down like a wrestler three weight classes above hers. When she finally crawled to the door, she shivered and shook so much that it took her a couple of minutes to undo the five deadbolts.

  “Gavin,” she croaked around the edge of her door. “You all right?”

  There was no response. She cleared her throat and called his name again.

  Nothing. Fear flashed through her. What if—?

  Pulling on her clothes as quickly as her stiff limbs would allow, Mel staggered into the hallw
ay. She tried opening Gavin’s safe-room door, but it wouldn’t budge. She pounded on the door, wincing at the pain that shot through her hand. “Gavin! Please answer me!”

  The faint groan and rasping voice that responded were the most welcome, reassuring sounds she’d heard in a long time. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.

  She trudged to the Butterfly Room, craving but dreading sleep. Please no nightmares, she prayed as she pulled the covers up to her chin.

  Melanie awoke hours later to a quiet, peaceful house—almost too quiet and peaceful. Not much light filtered through her window. It was overcast outside, and she couldn’t tell the time of day without referencing the clock.

  Nearly two p.m. Whoa. We gotta get back.

  Gavin wasn’t in the hall, bathroom, kitchen, or living room. The door to his bedroom was shut. She didn’t want to barge in, but they needed to go soon to avoid driving after dark.

  An idea occurred to her, and a grin blossomed on her face. She went back to the kitchen and hunted through the cupboards and fridge. She selected a box of macaroni and cheese, then grabbed a package of hot dogs for protein.

  When the food was cooked, Mel chopped the hot dogs into small chunks and mixed them into the mac and cheese. It looked fancier. She breathed in the savory smells of the steaming food, and her stomach growled.

  “Gavin,” she called, knocking on his door, “I made lunch. It’s late. We need to get going.”

  Hearing him stir, she padded back to the kitchen and spooned their meal into two bowls. She set them on the table and sat down to wait for him. She had to restrain herself from digging in before he arrived.

  “Oh,” he said upon entering the room. His hair and shirt were rumpled, and he rubbed grit out of his eyes. “Cool. That looks pretty good. Thanks.”

  They inhaled their food and then packed up to leave. It was almost three o’clock, and Mel knew the sun would be setting by the time she got back to Wellsboro.