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

by Sarah M. Awa

  The chatter skittered down the hall like marbles flung from the Sentinel office doorway, ricocheting straight into Melanie’s reluctant ears. Wednesday afternoon had arrived and with it the first news huddle of the semester.

  Never before had Mel dreaded a meeting so intensely.

  The Caleb Connor video had skyrocketed in popularity over the weekend, zooming past two million views. It was all anyone could talk about. Mel hadn’t watched the video again, but she had read a bunch of the comments—which swiftly reminded her why she rarely did that:

  >I almost pissed myself. This better not be real.

  >This ***** cuold be dating your daugther. Hope she likes doggie style.

  >Someone find this ***** and lock him up.

  >No--shoot em dead!

  >We can’t let monsters like this roam our streets.

  Sure, not all the comments had run along this vein, but a shocking number of them had. They’re the ones who are monsters, she’d thought, seething.

  Them . . . and those hunters.

  She hadn’t heard paranoid, prejudiced, or violent talk about werewolves around campus, but people were a lot braver in the relative anonymity of the internet. Her friends and classmates could be harboring similar thoughts, just not expressing them aloud.

  Outside the Sentinel door, Mel clenched her fists and fumed again. I hate that stupid kid for posting that stupid video.

  Thinking of people she despised . . .

  “Hey, Melody,” called Timmy Simmons as she failed to slink into the room unobserved. “What happened to your car? Looks like the scrapyard forgot to finish junking it.”

  Mel rolled her eyes and found a seat as far away as possible.

  Timmy pointed at his nose and continued, “What’s with the new look? Trying to start a trend?”

  Getting desperate, are we? She’d just come from the bathroom, where she’d dealt with another nosebleed, and had left little scraps of tissue in her nostrils to catch the last of the drips. “It’s called a nosebleed. People get them. Can’t believe you don’t all the time, since you’re so nosy.”

  A girl sitting next to her snickered, and Timmy made a face. Okay, that was a pretty stupid pun, thought Mel, grimacing. Usually, the retorts stayed tucked safely inside her head.

  Before Timmy could fire back, Dawn Fincher strode into the room.

  “Welcome back, everyone,” she said briskly. “Hope the holiday fun didn’t dull your minds too much. Vacation’s over, and you are once more my slaves. So, who’s got the first story idea?”

  Timmy’s hand shot into the air. “Caleb Connor,” he said. As whispers broke out around the room, he sat back and crossed his arms proudly.

  Although Melanie had expected this, she groaned inwardly. If only she could sink through the floor!

  “I suppose it’s too big a news piece to ignore,” said Dawn, scribbling on the board. “We need an angle, though. I smell an opinion piece.”

  “How about two?” said Timmy. “We could have someone argue for the video being real—for werewolves being real—and someone argue against it.”

  “Hmm, I like it, Simmons. You want to write one of the articles?”

  “Sure. I’ll take the position that werewolves are real.”

  Dawn’s eyebrow lifted. “Okay. Who wants to take the opposing view?”

  Nobody volunteered, and Dawn’s gaze shifted to Melanie. “How about it, Caldwell? Care to take a shot at this one?”

  Mel felt like she’d just been shot. Or stabbed in the gut. Heat crept into her cheeks; she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Almost everyone was staring at her expectantly. She opened her mouth, but no words made it past her dry throat.

  Risking a look at Timmy, she saw him narrow his eyes at her. Her heart rate sped up, and sweat beaded along her hairline. Had he figured out her secret? Was he going to use the Sentinel to expose her?

  “Melanie?” Dawn tapped a foot impatiently, hand hovering below Timmy’s name on the chalkboard. “Do you want to write it or not?”

  Mel swallowed and licked her lips. “Oh, uh, sure. Sorry. Just thinking about what kind of research I’ll have to do.”

  Nodding, the editor-in-chief scrawled her name and moved on to taking other story suggestions.

  Mel only half listened as people talked sports, local, and national news, and Dawn’s ever-shortening piece of chalk went clack, clack, scrape. Her stomach felt sour, churning with the bitter gall of defeat. She was trapped. Turning down the article might have raised suspicion, and that was the last thing she needed.

  What she did need was to find an unassailable argument that werewolves couldn’t—didn’t—exist.

  Good luck with that, wolf girl.

  January 19, Waning Crescent Moon

  Melanie woke the next morning and immediately remembered that today—Thursday—was the meeting. Of the Organization. Her chest felt tight, and her hands trembled slightly as she pawed through her closet.

  After she’d showered and dressed, her phone chimed. Chandra had texted her the address for a place called McCullough’s Tavern in Blossburg. It was almost a half hour’s drive from Wellsboro.

  “Walk straight through to the door at the back, next to the bar. Tell the bartender you’re in the club. Knock six times.

  “Don’t forget to delete these messages.”

  I’m “in”? Wait, a bar? I’m not twenty-one yet. Definitely don’t look that old, either. Okay, she would be of legal age in two months, but until then, was she allowed on the premises? Maybe she could walk in but only order food and soft drinks. She wasn’t about to expose her inexperience by asking Chandra.

  “Okay,” she typed. “See you there.”

  “Actually, something came up and I can’t make it.”

  Mel’s stomach dropped. What? I’m not going to know a single soul there.

  Should she skip out? When would the next meeting be?

  You have to go. Do you want the cure or what?

  Once again, she was trapped. Were any of her decisions hers anymore?

  The morning and afternoon gusted by in a frosty haze. Mel picked at her breakfast and lunch and zoned out during classes. At dinner, she tried to eat more but barely tasted anything. She scooted out before her friends had finished their food.

  Out in the student center lobby, she bumped into Luis—figuratively, this time. “Hey, Melanie, how was your vacation?”

  “Relaxing. How about yours?”

  “Best one I’ve had so far. We celebrated my abuela’s eightieth birthday, and some of my relatives from Honduras were able to come.”

  “Cool.”

  There was an awkward pause. Mel shifted her weight to her other foot.

  “Well,” said Luis at last, “see you in the library?”

  “Tutoring starts up next week.”

  “Oh, yeah. Oops. I’m glad you told me, so I won’t show up and waste my time.” His deeply dimpled, pearly white grin appeared.

  For a second, Mel forgot her trepidation about the meeting. “No problem. See you later; I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “Got a hot date?” he teased.

  Heat crept into her cheeks. “No. Just . . . a thing.”

  His brow furrowed, but before he had a chance to say any more, Mel muttered a hurried goodbye. She strode out of the student center and into the cold, windy night.

  Her Honda was waiting for her in a corner of the back lot, away from the glow of streetlamps. She was so embarrassed by the dents and dings that she’d been parking as inconspicuously as possible—and walking everywhere unless she had to drive. The shop couldn’t take the car until Monday. At least the snowfall hid some of the damage.

  GPS ready, Mel rumbled off campus and headed east on a different highway than she usually took. She’d never been to Blossburg before and knew nothing about it. Should’ve looked it up. Pleeease don’t let it be anything like that neighborhood where the creepy doctor’s lab was!

  Reaching the town half an hour later, she sighed in relie
f. What she saw was much pleasanter than what she’d imagined. She passed elegant Victorian homes and drove through a quaint shopping district with striped canvas awnings and old-fashioned lampposts. Signs declared a nearby castle. Too bad she wasn’t going that way.

  McCullough’s was a few blocks behind the downtown area of Main Street. The two-story tavern was pale beige, crisscrossed by dark brown Tudor-style woodwork, and the sign above the door sported an Irish harp. Elaborate knots in green and gold snaked around the windows. A couple dozen cars, trucks, and motorcycles occupied the smallish lot, filling it about halfway. Additional parking was available in the rear, but this wasn’t Melanie’s safe, familiar campus, so she swallowed her pride and chose a spot not far from the entrance.

  For nearly five minutes, she sat behind the wheel, psyching herself up. You can do this. You’ve got this. Walk in there like you own the place. Chin up, head high.

  Even before she opened the car door, she could hear (and feel the thumping beat of) the Celtic rock music blasting from the pub. It was a genre she loved, and upbeat rock always set her blood and courage pumping.

  “Let’s do this,” she told herself through clenched teeth, and strode into the tavern.

  “Where’d Mel run off to?” asked Jocelyn as she and Pam walked back to Hartman together. “Tutoring?”

  “Doesn’t start till next week, I think.”

  “Huh. She might be there anyway.”

  The girls changed direction and hiked over to the library, then searched both floors with no success. “Guess I was right about next week,” said Pam.

  When she and Jos returned to their dorm at last, they saw that Mel’s car wasn’t in the parking lot. “She went into town or something. Maybe she’s out with a guy.” Jos waggled her eyebrows suggestively and grinned.

  “Probably Gavin. I saw Luis come into the cafeteria after Mel left.”

  “Gavin,” said Jos. “Do you think he’s trustworthy or shady?”

  Pam shrugged. “He seems okay, but after reading that stuff on Mel’s phone . . .”

  “Yeah.” Both girls fell into a sober silence as they climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked their doors.

  After removing her soggy boots and coat, Jos joined Pam in her room. “Hey, have you checked Mel’s browser history?” she asked, on a sudden whim.

  Pam’s gray eyes widened. “No.”

  “You’ve already snooped through her phone—might as well invade her computer too.”

  “Well . . . all right.”

  They woke the machine, thankful that Mel hadn’t set a password. Jos got the feeling Mel would be brilliant at making up one they’d never guess. Pam, who sat in Mel’s chair, opened the web browser. Jos leaned over her shoulder as she pulled down the history list.

  “Wow, she’s been looking up special effects, werewolves, and Caleb Connor like crazy,” said Jos.

  Pam shuddered. “I almost threw up after watching that video.”

  “Can’t blame you.” Jos wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Caleb’s transformation had given her more than one nightmare.

  Suppressing the memory of gruesome images, Jos rubbed her arm—which seemed to be better now, less painful and red. Seating herself on Mel’s bed, she asked in all seriousness, “Do you believe in werewolves, Pam?”

  Acrid, stale-tasting cigarette smoke filled her nose and mouth, burned in her throat. Her stomach dipped and rolled like a cruise liner caught in a tropical storm; her heart fluttered like a flag about to fly off its mast. Tingles raced up and down her spine, shooting to her extremities, numbing them. The whole effect mimicked the beginnings of a transformation. Normally, she’d take deep, slow breaths to calm herself; but in air like this, that might trigger a coughing fit.

  Mel pushed through the haze, which clung to her like spider webs. It was so noisy in here, so dark, and so bright—focused beams of light glaring from various places around the ceiling, and dark corners and dark scattered patches. The whole place was a riotous jumble of sight and sound heightened by her nervous state.

  She forced herself to keep walking through it, to ignore the stares of men she passed. A few grinned or winked at her; she averted her gaze and strode on. Reaching the bar and the door at the back, she hesitated. The bartender, tall and balding, approached and gave her a scrutinizing look.

  “I . . . I’m in the club,” she finally remembered to say.

  He nodded toward the door, then walked away to serve a patron requesting a refill.

  The moment of truth. If she knocked, if she opened that door, if she went in . . .

  It swung open before she could raise her hand. A blonde woman stepped over the threshold and stopped in surprise when she saw Melanie. The woman’s skin had the dry, sallow appearance of a longtime smoker; her hair was thin and stringy, her eyes sunken and dead looking. She raised an eyebrow at Mel and said, with a raspy Appalachian twang, “You lost or somethin’, honey?”

  She thinks I’m a kid. “I’m in the club,” was all Mel could think to say, feeling like a broken record.

  The blonde woman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so. You got a scar to prove it?”

  Heat rose into Mel’s cheeks. A pathetically small one. She showed the tiny, triangular fang mark on the side of her left hand. The woman squinted and leaned in close. “That thing? Looks like a papercut!”

  “It was enough to change—to ruin—my life,” Mel said defensively.

  The woman sighed, softening. “I’m Sheila,” she offered, then rolled up her right sleeve and showed Melanie a ring of jagged tooth marks on her upper arm. “Hurt like hell when my newlywed husband, rest his soul, did that.”

  Mel’s eyes widened in shock. She had no idea what to say.

  “You gonna tell me your name too?” asked Sheila after an uncomfortable pause.

  “M-Melanie.”

  “Well, Melanie, I’m off to the little girls’ room. You wanna join, be my guest, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the riffraff when we get back.”

  “Okay,” said Mel, trailing behind her, not liking the label Sheila had given the others. Does “riffraff” include her? And me?

  While Sheila occupied a stall, Melanie stood in front of a dingy mirror, trying not to breathe through her nose. She frowned at her reflection and shook her head. What if Mom and Dad knew I was here? Or Pam, or Jos . . . anyone who cares about me?

  Sheila washed her hands quickly and sloppily, soaking the cuffs of her flannel shirt. She wiped her hands on her ripped jeans and said, “Don’t worry; I’ll keep the boys from buggin’ ya too much.”

  This woman sure knew how to make Mel edgier than she already was.

  They headed back across the raucous bar front. Sheila pushed the rear door open, Mel following. The room beyond was the size of a large living room and had its own small bar in a corner. Tattered sofas and armchairs, along with some rusty folding chairs, lined the walls. More than a dozen people—almost all of them male—sat or stood around in clusters, talking, laughing, and drinking. Through the haze of smoke, Mel saw that they represented a variety of ages and ethnicities. Tall, short, thin, husky. Some were dressed like bikers in black leather, some in suits and ties, and others in normal street clothes. It was a lot for Melanie to take in.

  Sheila led her over to the only two other women present, who stood chatting with a muscular, red-haired young man. “Vanessa, Janae, Dave. This is Melanie.”

  The trio turned to size up the newcomer. “Welcome,” said Dave. He smiled and stuck out a hand. His grip was firm and warm, his bicep rippling under the sleeve of his tight shirt. He appeared to be about twenty-five, had a crewcut, and gave off military vibes.

  The women, one black and one white, nodded and smiled at Mel. “Best stick with us, hon,” said Janae. “Some of these guys can be a bit rough around the edges.” She grinned at Dave, who gave an offended huff and folded his arms.

  “Hey, I’m not one of those.”

  “Yeah, you’re our Steve McGarrett,” Vanessa teased.


  “Careful—don’t let Brad hear you say that,” Dave warned with a twinkle in his eye. Vanessa tossed her hair and laughed.

  Melanie pictured the handsome commander from Hawaii Five-O and thought Dave bore some resemblance to him, except for the flaming red hair. She already liked the man. His smile had settled her nerves somewhat. And his broad shoulders and well-developed pectorals certainly weren’t unpleasant to look at.

  After another few minutes of small talk, a loud voice—a thick Irish brogue—cut through all the others. “Time to get down to business, ladies an’ gents. Take yer seats, please.”

  The crowd shuffled around, obeying. Melanie stuck close to the three other women. They sank onto folding chairs directly opposite the man who’d called them to order. “That’s Roy McCullough,” Sheila whispered, catching Mel studying him. “And his brother, Simon.”

  The pub owners were middle-aged, Roy broader and hairier, Simon darker and wirier. Chandra had told Mel the McCulloughs were the leaders of the Organization but hadn’t said much else about them. Hope they don’t call on me to introduce myself. “Hi, my name is Melanie, and I’m a werewolf.” “Hi, Melanie.” “It’s been seven days since my last transformation.”

  . . . Same for them.

  Roy was speaking again, and just like at the Sentinel meeting, the first topic on the agenda was the Caleb Connor video.

  Angry, fearful murmurs filled the room, and Roy waved a hand to silence them. “Well, there’s no denyin’ the seriousness or the implications o’ this situation—”

  “Hell, yeah, it’s serious!” barked a short, thin man with a unibrow. “That damn kid’s gotta be out of his mind, drawing attention to all of us like that! Does he want the hunters out in full force?”

  “I just barely escaped one—real crazy dude—last year in Colorado,” said a man with dreadlocks next to him. “Haven’t noticed any here yet. Have you guys?”

  “No, but when I lived down near Birmingham . . .” A grizzled biker described his close encounter with a pair of fanatical, redneck werewolf-hunters. The men in that corner listened raptly. Mel caught about half of the story, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.