by Sarah M. Awa
“We’ll tell you later.”
“How do I know he’s really there with you?”
“His wristwatch has an engraving. ‘Yours for all time. CAD.’ It’s a gold-and-blue Invicta diver’s watch. Very nice.”
“That’s not proof. I want to talk to him.”
“You’re in no position to be giving me orders, kid.”
Gavin growled. “He’d better come back, unharmed, with that watch, and soon.”
The man tsked. “You take us for killers or thieves? We’re not after a ransom. We don’t want your money—we want you. And Melanie Caldwell.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. The knots that had formed in Gavin’s midsection tightened as if he were about to transform. He wrapped his free arm protectively around his stomach and glanced at Cara and Melanie. They stared at him, frozen in shock. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Gavin tried to focus his jumbled, racing thoughts, to form another coherent sentence.
“This is not the way we would have preferred to do things,” the man continued. “We would rather cooperate and enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“I’m having a hard time believing that.”
A longsuffering sigh. “Mr. Doyle. I admire your caution and your resolve. I urge you to reconsider your stance. When your father comes back to you safe and sound, perhaps you will realize our good will toward you and—”
“When will he be back?”
“That is up to my superior.”
Gavin snarled in frustration. “Well, put him on, would you?”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible at this time.”
“For someone who’s been talking about cooperating, you sure aren’t doing much of it yourself.”
“Quick to make accusations, hmm?” The voice now had a sharper edge. “If you’re feeling self-righteous, remember that it was you who transgressed our conditions and set this unfortunate scenario in motion.”
“I never agreed to—”
“Nonetheless, consequences remain. Good day, Mr. Doyle.”
Beep. The call ended.
For a long minute, Gavin and Melanie and Cara stared at each other, openmouthed and speechless. Then Cara clutched at Melanie’s arm, and the two women sank to the couch. Melanie put a comforting hand over Cara’s.
“Please . . . explain,” said Cara, looking up at her son with wet eyes. “Who was that? Jeff—is he okay?”
“Yes, I think so.” Gavin related what the man had said, surprised at how calmly he was able to speak. Rage and fear were duking it out inside him, but guilt pushed up between them like tree roots cracking pavement open. When he was finished explaining, he found that he was having trouble staying on his feet, so he lowered himself onto a chair. He put his face in his hands. “This is all my fault.”
“Honey,” said Cara, wiping her eyes, “you know it isn’t.”
“If I hadn’t told Melanie in the car that I was going to tell you—”
“There’s no guarantee they wouldn’t have done something like this sooner or later.”
Gavin let out a muffled noise halfway between a groan and a snarl, furiously calculating his next move. Should we go to the police about this? The cops can’t all be working with the Organization. Or would that make things worse?
I need a vision showing me what to do.
“I’m so sorry,” said Melanie, timidly drawing him out of his miserable thoughts. “But I wonder what that favor is.”
Dread settled like a heavy cloak over Gavin’s shoulders at the reminder. Whatever the Organization was going to order them to do, he figured it wouldn’t be something he’d want to do. “Who knows.” He imagined himself refusing flat out, but that might mean not seeing his dad again. He clenched his fists and seethed. Damn them. Damn them.
Looking at Cara, he saw that her head was bowed, her eyes closed, her lips moving in inaudible prayer.
Oh. He should probably give that a try, too. He threw up a quick, silent cry for help in case it might make any difference.
He had his doubts.
15
Task
November 24, continued, Waning Crescent Moon
Well, that’s the first time I’ve felt guilty for eating Thanksgiving dinner, reflected Melanie as she returned to her dorm that evening.
After the Organization’s phone call, she and Gavin and Cara had sat around numbly. Then Cara had stood up and strode to the kitchen. “He wouldn’t want us to waste all this food,” she’d said simply, carrying the loaded platters back to the dining table. Mel had rushed to help, but Gavin had taken a while to stand up and follow.
Hours later, under tenebrous twilight clouds, Gavin had dropped her off at Hartman Cottage and then headed back to his parents’ house to wait for another phone call. A call telling Gavin and Melanie what the Organization wanted them to do.
Mel closed the front door behind her, turned to head upstairs, and felt her foot squash something thin and papery into the living room carpet. She bent down and picked up a plain white envelope—now crinkled—marked with her name.
She didn’t open it until she’d gotten up to her room, removed her coat and shoes, and settled comfortably on her bed.
Dear Melanie:
Safety relies on security. Members of our organization are vulnerable, just as you are. Imagine how you would feel if you knew we were telling strangers about you, about your secret.
We reached out to you and Gavin in good faith, risking our lives and freedom to help you, and Gavin betrayed us. We understand that it is tempting to tell things to our families, but people talk. Even well-intentioned people slip up and make mistakes . . . and a mistake on the part of Gavin’s parents would hurt more than him: It would hurt all of us, too.
Holding Gavin’s father is an extreme measure, but we haven’t hurt him and we won’t. We just need Gavin to understand that this is serious. He has betrayed us and risked our lives for purely selfish reasons when we were only trying to help! Realize that, if you are part of our organization, we’ll protect your secrecy and security as zealously as we’re now protecting ours.
We’re afraid that Gavin didn’t react well to our call and may have given you a false impression of our intentions. That’s why we decided to write to you. We hope this letter clears things up.
It was unsigned. The handwriting appeared to be the same masculine scrawl as the note Mel and Gavin had received at the cabin. Mel folded the letter closed with a sigh that turned into a groan. Now what am I supposed to think? This was all so confusing.
While she understood Gavin’s fear, mistrust, and concern for his father’s safety—she worried about Jeff, too, of course—the letter opened a different set of eyes inside her. The view through them was strange and uncomfortable, like trying on someone else’s glasses, but she was adjusting, and some blurry shapes were coming into focus.
I believe them, she realized. The Organization might have acted forcefully, and its members clearly wouldn’t tolerate disrespect, but she believed they’d do what they said and return Jeff unharmed if she and Gavin cooperated.
Still, she knew next to nothing about the Organization, which kept her wary. What was its goal? What would their task be? When would they receive it? Mel was dying to find out, although apprehension niggled.
What if the Organization asked them to do something bad, and she and Gavin refused? What would become of Jeff Doyle?
Images flashed through her mind: Jeff sprawled broken in a ditch, blood pooling black under the moonlight. Jeff on his knees, begging for mercy. Jeff thrashing as they—
She shuddered. Stop it! she told her overactive imagination. They said they wouldn’t hurt him.
A scraping noise punctuated the silence and made her jump. Her heart pounded, and her eyes darted around the room. Then she recognized the semi-familiar sound. It was a tree branch, whipped by the wind, scratching against her window like a cat asking to come in.
Melanie flopped backward on her bed, then star
ed up at the ceiling. The light fixture gave off a wan, yellowish glow, jaundicing her spirits. She was alone in an empty house at night, and—she’d locked the door, right?
Yes. She remembered doing so after waving goodbye to Gavin, right before stepping on the letter. She’d also locked her bedroom door.
She sat up and tucked the letter back into its envelope, then buried it under old socks at the back of her underwear drawer. Stop thinking about it, she ordered herself. I need a distraction. This place is gonna creep me out otherwise.
Might as well do some more werewolf-cure research since there was no chance of being caught right now. Because looking at gruesome images of werewolves mauling people or being skinned alive was sure to lift her spirits.
A little research, and then funny videos on YouTube, she compromised, scooting into her desk chair.
As she moved the mouse to wake the computer, her phone blasted “Mama Said Knock You Out.” Grinning, Mel answered the call. Her mother was a better distraction than anything.
November 25, Waning Crescent Moon
Erickson didn’t get out of bed until two o’clock the next afternoon, his head splitting and his bladder threatening to burst. Yesterday was a blur—he’d spent it drunk, as he did with all major holidays since his family had broken up.
After vomiting copiously, he downed coffee and aspirin, then nibbled on a piece of toast. He managed to keep that down, so he ate another before climbing back into bed.
He might not remember yesterday, but he clearly recalled Monday night—the Organization’s meeting. It had been held in the smoky back room of a raucous pub called McCullough’s Tavern. Chandra had driven him there and introduced him to a dozen other werewolves (that many!) including the McCulloughs: Roy and Simon, middle-aged brothers from Ireland and the head honchos.
For an awkward twenty minutes, Erickson had sat and listened to a spiel about helping and protecting your fellow wolves, blah blah, nearly identical to the malarkey that Saddler had spouted at Pine Groves.
But after the meeting . . . his conversation with Chandra was what really stuck in his mind. It was the crux, the lynchpin, the only thing drawing him back.
He’d finally found out her secret. And it had opened up a whole new world of possibilities for him.
She was a werewolf—but a different breed, or whatever you wanted to call it. One that possessed a distinct advantage.
And if Erickson joined the Organization, there was a good chance that someday he might gain that advantage for himself.
November 29, New Moon
The weekend limped past in a dreary haze. Mel’s housemates returned Sunday afternoon and evening, chattering about their delightful holiday and all the amazing food they’d eaten. When Pam questioned Mel about how the cafeteria’s Thanksgiving dinner had tasted, Mel shrugged and said, “Not much different from the rest of their gourmet cuisine.”
“That bad, huh? Did you at least get to talk to your family?”
“Yes.” Melanie didn’t have to lie there. Her mom had passed the phone around. She’d also chatted with Gavin on Sunday; he’d called to report no news from the Organization and no Jeff. She hadn’t told him of the Organization’s letter.
“How’s Cara holding up?” she’d asked him.
“Amazingly well. Never met a more peaceful woman in my life.”
“She’s quite something.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Tuesday morning, Melanie woke feeling particularly rested because the moon was new—her favorite of its phases. No lingering headaches or joint pain; no violent urges, restlessness, or hypersensitivity to smells and sounds. She almost felt like a normal person again. Almost.
On her way to breakfast, she stopped and checked her post office box. In it she found a parcel delivery slip. Hmm, another care package from Mom? She’d eat first and then pick it up. She headed into the cafeteria and wolfed down eggs and toast, anticipating a large box full of homemade baked goods or other treats—maybe a crisp twenty-dollar bill—although her mom hadn’t mentioned putting anything in the mail.
The middle-aged woman who ran the package center had a witch’s lock that was starting to blend into her graying hair. She apathetically eyed Mel’s slip over thick tortoiseshell glasses and produced a plain brown box the size of a dozen stacked magazines. Nodding gruffly, she handed the parcel to Mel, who lifted it easily; it was lighter than she’d expected. Much lighter than magazines. Probably a pound or less.
It was also not postmarked from her mom. In fact, there was no return address at all.
Hiking back to her dorm, Mel grew more apprehensive with each step. She cradled the package gingerly, as though it would explode from too much pressure. What the heck is this? Who sent it?
She shut the door of her room behind her and sat down on her bed, then examined all six sides of the mysterious box. Aside from her name and address and postage, there were no other markings—no Fragile, no This Side Up.
She dredged the depths of her purse and found her pocket knife. Carefully, she slit the tape across the top of the parcel and lifted the four flaps. Inside, under some packing peanuts, was another plain brown box. A note was folded on top of it: “Do not open, for Jeff’s sake. Wait for further instructions. Destroy this paper.”
Her heart rate sped up. The Organization. The task.
Omigosh, what if there’s a top-secret document in here that they want us to deliver?
But surely the Organization wouldn’t trust them with anything too important. What would the Organization think an appropriate test—or punishment? Maybe this was even a trap, a test within a test designed to check whether they could be trusted with something as simple as delivering a package.
She pulled out her phone and texted Gavin about the box.
“They haven’t called me back yet,” he replied. “I would just hide it for now.”
Great. Another lovely delivery from the Organization hidden in my room. Sighing, Mel closed the parcel back up. She stashed it deep beneath her bed, sandwiched between storage bins.
Out of sight, but far from out of mind.
During dinner that evening, Mel’s phone chimed with another text from Gavin: “They called.”
Mel scarfed down the rest of her food and then hurried out into the frigid night air.
“What do they want us to do?” she typed, hiking back to her dorm.
“Take it to this address: 3545 Cedarwood Rd.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow after classes.”
All through tutoring hours, she couldn’t focus on anything but the package and what might be in it. It was even more distracting than Luis’s white teeth and dimples, which kept flashing at her as he talked about the holiday weekend and his family. When he asked about Mel’s Thanksgiving, she shrugged and said, “It was fine.” Her eyes darted around, hoping for someone to approach them for tutoring so she didn’t have to keep lying.
“You okay? You seem kind of preocupada,” said Luis.
“Oh. Lo siento. I just . . .”
“No hay problema. I understand. The end of semester’s getting close, and you’ve probably got a lot of homework and papers like I do.”
“Exactamente.” Melanie smiled in relief and gratitude, but guilt lurked underneath.
Luis opened the book he’d brought and flipped to a section near the end. Mel returned to reading her European history textbook. The Cold War was a state of military and political tension following World War II. . . . “Living in the shadow of a threat” . . . espionage and many secrets . . . I know a thing or two about secrets—and secret errands—now.
“Hey, um,” Luis broke into her thoughts.
“Huh?” Mel looked up and saw that his cheeks were flushed.
“Do you want to . . . well, uh, sometime, maybe—”
“Excuse me,” said a young-sounding female voice before Luis could stammer another word. “Are you guys the Spanish tutors?”
Melanie turned and saw a thin-faced gi
rl with spiky blonde hair and a diamond stud in her nose; she looked older and tougher than she sounded. “Sí. What level are you taking?”
“Two.”
Glancing at Luis, Mel raised her eyebrows in a silent question: You or me?
“I got this,” he said with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
He and the level-two student moved to a separate table, and Mel watched them with fresh guilt. It was nice of Luis to give her more study time. She hoped she wasn’t treating him coldly. What had he been about to ask?
November 30, Waxing Crescent Moon
The next day, as soon as her last class was over, Melanie drove off campus and turned south onto the main highway. She’d arranged to meet Gavin at the same rendezvous point they’d used for this month’s full moon, since the huge parking lot was on their way to 3545 Cedarwood.
“Hey,” said Gavin when she slid into his passenger seat. “I looked up this place, and it’s a unit in a strip mall. It’s supposed to be vacant and for rent.”
“Fantastic,” said Melanie. “That’s not shady at all.” Shifting the box on her lap, she remarked, “Feels like this could be full of cotton.”
“I doubt it is.”
An icy feeling washed over Melanie although the car’s heat was cranked up. Don’t let him get to you.
The drive took twenty-seven minutes. Mel had never ventured down these roads before. They wove like a needle and thread in and out of small towns—buttons dotting a patchwork quilt of fields and woods.
The green turned to gray, and they entered a drab concrete jungle. Graffiti was scrawled across crumbling brick buildings and rotting clapboard fences. Litter blew past like tumbleweeds. The clouds hung low and leaden. A few more turns, and the strip mall came into view. It had been stripped, all right—of half its tenants. The few that remained, huddling together like cattle in a storm, sold deli sandwiches, cell phones, cigarettes, alcoholic beverages, manicures, tanning services, and tattoos. All you need in life, right here, Mel thought wryly.
