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

by Sarah M. Awa

  “Your dad’s never researched a way to help you stay yourself as a wolf?”

  “A little. But he’s an anesthesiologist, not a geneticist or whatever. He’s mostly tried to help with the pain.”

  “I know I asked you this kind of question my first time here, but what if we were able to find a way to keep our minds without the Organization?”

  “I’d love that. It’d be wonderful. I just don’t see how. I gave up my search years ago.”

  And mine has failed dismally so far, thought Mel. She’d pored over websites every few days, whenever she got spare time and was alone. Nothing.

  But I can’t quit. I won’t.

  The next morning, Melanie woke to find the deepest, most prolific gouges her wolf had ever put in the walls. Did it know who was outside, or at least who had been the other night?

  Agony hit her body full force, paralyzing her with a thousand stinging wasps. Blurrily, Mel saw that her arms were as scratched as the walls. Blood filled her hair and stained her flesh. Hints of white bone gaped sickeningly between the ravaged remains of skin.

  This felt a lot more like a third full-moon morning than a second full-moon morning.

  Or maybe like a seventh.

  This had to stop. She couldn’t keep doing this. How on earth had Gavin put up with this for more than a decade?

  Unconsciousness beckoned her, and she willingly succumbed.

  The sun was higher when she woke again. Her wounds had healed, light pink lines all that remained under crusted blood, and the pain had dulled to stiffness. She dragged herself into the Butterfly Room, fully intending to nap for another few hours. Then she thought of the paw prints and the offer of freedom. Could she ever be free of this curse? Not just her mind but her body too?

  She had to talk to others. She and Gavin were only two people, and young ones at that. They needed access to a broader range of knowledge and experience. The Organization had a doctor researching a cure.

  Doesn’t mean they’ll share it with us for free, echoed Gavin’s words from yesterday.

  It would be worth the price.

  I have to leave them a message.

  Mind made up, Mel sank onto the bed. How would she do it? Leave her own prints in the snow, or write in it with a finger? The snow could melt or the message get buried in further snowfall. Gavin might see it and trample it out. He’s so stubborn, she thought, her hands balling into fists.

  Pen and paper were much safer. But where could she put the note?

  The Butterfly Room had a small desk, and Melanie opened its drawer. A steno pad lay inside under an assortment of other office supplies. Perfect. She sat down at the desk, thinking. Her hand shook a little as it gripped a pen, more from fatigue than fear.

  “I’m interested,” she wrote. “Let’s keep in touch. – Melanie”. She’d almost written “Let’s meet” but decided against it for now.

  There were no envelopes in the drawer. She folded the note several times and then considered where to hide it. It couldn’t be fully hidden, or the Organization wouldn’t find it. Did the cabin have a doormat?

  Opening her door as quietly as possible, Mel padded into the hallway and listened for Gavin. She peeked in the kitchen and the living room—no sign of him. Most likely, he was fast asleep. She put her ear to his bedroom door and thought she heard a soft snore.

  Mel tiptoed to the back door and cracked it. Wind gusted in, and she shivered. Looking down, she saw a fuzzy brown mat half buried in snow. All right, here goes, she thought, heart fluttering. She crouched down and lifted a corner of the mat, then slid the note under and made sure a corner of it was sticking out. What if more snow fell and covered it? What if the note became soaked and unreadable?

  The kitchen had Ziploc sandwich baggies. Mel retrieved one, sealed the note inside, and slipped it back under the mat. She’d check closer to moonrise this evening and brush the note off, if need be.

  Satisfied, she returned to her room and snuggled under the covers for a nap.

  Her alarm woke her at three p.m. Stomach growling, Mel went to the kitchen and fixed herself a sandwich, munching on an apple as she did so.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” Gavin called from the living room.

  She started, feeling somewhat guilty, but suppressed the feeling. “Rough night,” she said, glancing at her hands—the pink lines were all gone now. That’s a darn good thing. If I had to return to school covered in scratches . . .

  “You mean rougher than usual, right?” said Gavin with a sardonic smile.

  “Well, yeah.” She grinned wryly back at him, though resentment lay underneath.

  They passed the afternoon studying. When moonrise drew near, they retreated to their safe rooms. Mel waited until she heard the sound of Gavin’s five deadbolts, let a few more moments pass, and then eased her door open as silently as she could. A floorboard creaked as she padded down the hallway, and Mel froze. She glanced back at Gavin’s door. It remained shut.

  Hand on the knob of the back door, Mel knew the wind was going to gust in again and Gavin would probably hear it. She had to risk it.

  Sure enough, the wind howled as it blew in. Don’t hear it. Don’t hear it.

  She could still see the corner of the note; it hadn’t snowed further. Mel prayed the weather would stay clear overnight.

  She closed the door and heard another one groan open. Crap!

  “What are you doing?” Gavin asked, poking his head into the hallway.

  “Oh, um, just . . . making sure that . . . Well, I thought I heard—”

  “Is someone out there?” His tone was sharp, fearful.

  “No.” Mel flushed and looked away.

  Gavin’s hand reached down and grabbed his clothes, which he’d left outside his door. After dressing, he joined Mel at the back door. He sniffed, frowned, and narrowed his eyes at her. Can he smell my guilt?

  Most likely.

  Gavin opened the door. Despite the chill and his bare feet, he stepped outside and peered around. Darkness had fallen; the snow lit the forest with a ghostly gleam. He cocked his head, listening. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Yeah, guess it was the wind,” Mel said weakly. Her eyes strayed down to the mat.

  Unfortunately, Gavin chose that moment to turn and look at her. He followed her gaze. “What’s that?” Bending, he picked up the note.

  Melanie cringed as he read it, anger spreading across his face.

  His eyes were golden when he turned their fierce gaze on her. “You’re sneaking around behind my back again?! I told you to wait!” he growled. “What part of that didn’t you understand?”

  Indignation rose. “Who put you in charge of my life?!”

  “Maybe if you were a little more careful and sensible—”

  “Excuse me?” Mel jammed her hands on her hips. “I am one of the most cautious, reasonable, and intelligent pe—what are you doing?!”

  Before she could snatch it away, he’d ripped the note into pieces.

  “You have no right!” she screamed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to claw his eyes out. She wanted to—

  “I’m just trying to help—augh!” Gavin groaned, doubling over and clutching the doorframe.

  Shit. Moonrise. “This conversation isn’t over,” Mel growled, as sparks of pain shot up her own spine.

  But it was for the time being. She and Gavin raced back to their safe rooms and shut themselves in. That jerk! thought Mel as she collapsed, panting, in a corner. A few tears fell, leaving hot, wet streaks down her face.

  18

  Impasse

  December 15, Waning Gibbous Moon

  The silence on the return drive felt less than companionable. Melanie spent most of the trip staring out at the snow-dusted pine trees and fields—not really seeing them, instead focusing on how to persuade Gavin to give the Organization a chance. He’d apologized this morning, but Melanie still felt upset. I hope he’s not always that controlling.

  She could understand Gavin’s anger t
oward the Organization; it sucked that they had felt they had to resort to kidnapping. She herself had been plenty steamed about the doctor invading their veins. But it was all for a good reason, right?

  The ends don’t justify the means, Gavin had said. Mel had thought she believed that too, but nothing in her life was clear or easy anymore.

  Why oh why won’t Gavin listen to me? I’ve got to find some way to thaw him out.

  Covertly, she studied his profile. Dark smudges underscored his tired hazel eyes. His shoulders slumped. Light-brown stubble lined his tensely set jaw. He seemed to be held together by fraying string, animated by sheer willpower.

  He’s had a difficult life, Mel thought, softening. Can’t wash away that kind of hurt quickly or easily.

  That was the trouble. She couldn’t heal his heart; no one could. Words couldn’t. Time, maybe, but they didn’t have that. What else?

  Experience. Gavin needed to have some positive experiences with the Organization. How could she contact them now, though? If only he hadn’t ripped up her note, or she’d had time to write another. Jerk, she fumed again. It was too bad the paw prints hadn’t spelled out an address or phone number.

  Briefly, she considered returning to 3545 Cedarwood—but no, that neighborhood was too dangerous.

  Maybe someone will approach me on campus. That was the only possibility she could hope for. She prayed that someone from the Organization would confront her face to face.

  As they drew nearer to Melanie’s car, she thought ahead to the next full moon: January tenth to twelfth. She and Gavin planned to use the cabin, even though winter break wouldn’t be over yet. She’d have to devise an excuse to drive back early.

  Gavin dropped her off, and they said a terse goodbye. A frigid wind shoved Mel, bullying her into her Honda. The engine coughed and wheezed but rumbled to life. This old rust bucket needs a tune-up when I get home.

  The car had better make it to Indiana.

  It made it to her dorm at least, and she slogged upstairs, backpack feeling much heavier than it had on Monday. Without even unpacking, she climbed into bed and fell fast asleep.

  Hours later, Pam shook her awake. “You’re missing dinner,” she said flatly before walking away. Her shoulders were as rigid as steel girders, her back a brick wall.

  Groggily, Mel grunted her thanks. She shifted, stretched, and stumbled out of bed. Blood rushed to her head and pounded in her ears; pain stabbed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the bed frame.

  Pam left for dinner without offering to wait. Mel preferred that to an interrogation. She was dressed but took her time freshening up in the bathroom. A trickle of blood issued from her nose, splattering a red bouquet across the white sink.

  As she cleaned up, she remembered the rose Luis had been holding the evening she’d hurt Jos. I think I may have hurt him too. Guilt swelled, and she scowled, fed up with the feeling. If only she could wash it down the sink.

  Fortunately, she didn’t encounter Luis outside or in the cafeteria. Jos, Shari, and a few other friends were at the table with Pam, and Shari steered the conversation down a cheerful avenue. If she noticed the tension between her roommate and suitemates, she didn’t let on.

  Pam headed off to the music building, and Mel trudged back to Hartman, shivering with every blast of wind. Her joints ached from both her recent transformation and the glacial air. She climbed into bed with her European history textbook, intending to cram but knowing the inevitable. Soon she was fast asleep, drooling on an illustration of Lenin leading the Bolshevik Revolution.

  When Pam returned to her room, the door was unlocked and the light on, but Melanie was out cold. Why’s she always so tired when she gets back? She frowned at Mel, then crept closer and leaned over her, listening to her deep, even breathing. Okay, I’m acting like a creepy stalker here. She backed away but continued watching Mel’s pale face.

  Mel, do you have cancer? HIV? Hepatitis? Are you going away to get treatments? Why won’t you tell me? She doubted Mel was getting chemotherapy, because her hair wasn’t falling out. It looked like the same silky auburn hair—same length, same style—that Melanie had always had, not a wig. Pam resisted the urge to tug at it.

  Something small and silver caught her eye: Mel’s phone, which rested on her nightstand.

  No. Don’t even think about it, Pamela Jane. That’s just wrong.

  But Mel could be in some kind of trouble, and I might find out something that could allow me to help her.

  Pam’s fingers twitched, and she battled with her conscience for several minutes. The phone was right there, easily accessible, and Pam guessed Melanie would sleep soundly and long . . . like she always did when she came back from who-knew-where.

  One step closer. Two steps. Three soft steps brought her within reach of the phone and whatever secrets it might hold. Her hand hovered . . . retreated . . . returned . . . grabbed. Her eyes darted to Mel. No sign of waking. Pam tiptoed to her bed and turned the phone’s volume off to prevent it from making any unexpected noises. She opened the text-messaging app and perused the list of conversations.

  Gavin Doyle’s name was near the top of the list. Pam opened that thread and began to read.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. They’ve been meeting up? They go away together? A cabin?

  Were Mel and Gavin shacking up? Strange days for romantic rendezvouses, since some of them interfered with school. The timing didn’t make sense, especially since Mel had always been such a serious student. She wouldn’t jeopardize her grades for a boy.

  More baffled than ever, Pam scrolled to earlier messages. There was something about a package . . . and about a “them.” “What do they want us to do?” Mel had asked (meaning with the package). Gavin had texted her an address, which Pam committed to memory before continuing to read about Jeff (whoever he was) being held hostage.

  This can’t be good. Melanie, what the heck have you gotten yourself into?

  A quiet knock at the door made Pam jump and nearly drop the phone. She whisked it behind her back as her gaze flew to Mel. Her roommate didn’t stir. Pam replaced the phone on the nightstand, padded to the door, and cracked it. Jocelyn stood on the other side.

  Putting a finger over her lips, Pam slipped out into the hallway and shut the door behind her. “What’s up?” she whispered.

  Jos’s green eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you? You look like you’ve got a secret.”

  “Shhh. Let’s talk downstairs. I just found out some stuff that I have to tell you.”

  December 16

  The next day, after her history exam itself became history, Melanie grabbed lunch and began the ten-hour drive home. With the help of four cans of Red Bull, she reached the eastern suburbs of Indianapolis before midnight (and without falling asleep at the wheel).

  Her parents’ weathered white bungalow looked the same as ever in the streetlamp’s pool of soft yellow light. Well, maybe a bit more paint than before was flaking off the front porch’s round columns; her dad worked long hours at a lumberyard to keep up with the bills and had little energy left for home improvements. Mel wondered how her current exhaustion compared to his day-to-day fatigue.

  She climbed the creaky, uneven wooden steps and pushed open the door to fall into her mom’s warm embrace. Her dad was next in line, and then her brother, Matt, who emerged from his dark cave of a room to give her a sloppy teenage side-hug. Mel noticed with surprise that his voice had changed and his height had surpassed hers. After the hug, he loped back to his room to resume whatever RPG he was currently obsessed with.

  Fortunately, her mom only fussed over her for five minutes—though a long five minutes. That was what you got when your mom was a former nurse. “Sit down. You’re so pale.” She felt Mel’s forehead and frowned. “You’re running a slight fever. Did you stay up too late studying for exams?”

  “Not really. No all-nighters,” she half-lied.

  “Hmmm. Well, chop-chop! Off to bed. We can catch up in the morning.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Mom.” Mel didn’t need to be told twice. She bade her family goodnight and hurried off to brush her teeth. Minutes later, she was climbing the stairs to her room and snuggling under her covers. Inhaling deeply, she sighed with pleasure. The sheets were fresh and fragrant, smelling of ocean breeze laundry detergent.

  It was good to be back with her family. Home. Surrounded by walls that, though a bit aged and cracked, were saturated with love.

  A dense forest shrouded in the gloom of night. She was running, being chased. Branches slashed at her face—

  No, her muzzle.

  She looked down and saw large paws pounding along a dirt path. Powerful front and hind leg muscles propelled her at inhuman speed. A thrill rushed through her, but fear soon returned. Who—or what—pursued her?

  After bursting into a clearing, she slowed and spun around. A few heartbeats later, another wolf bounded into the clearing. He was a male—she could tell by scent. Lean, light brown, and a bit larger than she was. He stared at her, hackles raised, but made no move to attack.

  She squinted and took a step toward him. Hazel eyes burned with an eerie golden glow.

  Gavin.

  She knew him, but did he know her? She searched for intelligence, for humanity, in the eyes.

  They narrowed. The skin bunched on his muzzle. Fangs bared, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

  It’s me! she tried to tell him, but he lunged at her, claws extended.

  The impact knocked the wind out of her. She panted and fought for breath as they rolled in dewy grass. Snarling, biting, kicking, clawing.

  Stop! she screamed.

  He didn’t stop. Scratches opened and bled on her front legs. More thick, warm blood oozed down her neck and flanks. She stayed on the defensive, blocking blows, trying not to inflict serious injuries. But how long could she hold back? If he didn’t let up soon, she’d have to strike back hard or be killed.

  Gavin, please! It’s me! It’s Mel!

  His teeth flashed toward her jugular. She twisted away just in time, and he bit deeply into her shoulder. She howled in pain. Kicked and thrashed wildly until she shook him off. He leaped backward, all four paws braced against the soft grass. Before she could react, he came at her again, snarling and foaming.