by Sarah M. Awa
Roy sat back and crossed his arms, listening, allowing the group members to let off steam. Simon whispered something in his ear, and he nodded.
To Mel’s immediate right, Janae and Vanessa were discussing the nasty comments to the video. “They really hate us,” said Vanessa, her pretty features pinched with anxiety.
The man on her other side (Brad, Mel recalled) squeezed Vanessa’s hand. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you, baby.”
Vanessa gave him a starry-eyed look. Ugh, please don’t start making out, thought Mel. She met Janae’s eyes, and the woman rolled hers. Mel snickered softly.
After five or ten minutes, Roy cleared his throat and called the group to order. “All right, everyone, yeh’ve had yer chance to share stories. Seems many of us’ve had close calls with hunters or the law. But we survived, and we will keep on doin’ so. We will not run in fear; we are better than that.
“In times like these, it is imperative that the lot of us—werewolves across the country, across the world—band together. Support one another. Strengthen our bonds. A cord o’ three strands, and all that. We are a pack, a brotherhood—and sisterhood.” He nodded toward Melanie and the other ladies.
Mel gave a small smile, and Janae bobbed her head emphatically. “Mm-hmm.”
“The weak, cowardly humans who hunt us for sport, hunt us to kill us—they are the monsters. They deserve what they would inflict upon us. Now, I’m not callin’ fer retaliation.”
The man with the unibrow frowned, looking disappointed.
“That’s not our style. We’re simply tryin’ to live in peace, to coexist. Every one of us has human family and friends and used to be human, ourselves.”
Used to be human. Used to be.
“We’re not against them, but we do condemn the hatred and violence that some o’ them practice. As fer this Caleb Connor . . . he was wrong and selfish and foolish to expose himself and, by extension, our community. I’ve no doubt he’s signed his own death warrant; the hunters will catch up to him in a jiffy. He’ll reap his reward. Our job is not to seek vengeance on him but to support each other.”
Murmurs of “Yes” and “You’re right” floated around the room. Mel agreed silently.
“That bein’ said, most humans still don’t believe we exist, chalkin’ it up to special effects an’ all that. No need to be paranoid that hunters are lurkin’ around ev’ry corner, but it goes without sayin’ that we should remain cautious and vigilant.”
“We’re not going to take a more active approach?” said Unibrow Man, almost petulantly.
Simon shot him a warning look, but Roy said smoothly, “Glad yeh brought it up, Todd. That was the next item on the agenda—findin’ and makin’ alliances with other packs.”
Eyes lit up, and excited whispers flew back and forth. Todd folded his arms but inclined his head in grudging approval.
“Have we found any others yet?” said the man with dreadlocks.
“We’ve got a couple o’ promisin’ leads.” The springs of Roy’s armchair shrieked, and he grunted as he grabbed a clipboard from under the chair. Passing the clipboard to his right, he said, “Maybe some of yeh can help. If anyone knows of any groups or even individual werewolves, anywhere in the country, please write down their name, location, and any pertinent information yeh might know about them.”
While the clipboard went around, Roy answered questions about what an alliance would entail. “We’d alert each other of danger, o’ course. We’d share ideas, experience, and . . . well, there’s somethin’ we’re workin’ on, which I’ll tell yeh about when it’s ready. Somethin’ that should be quite helpful to us.”
He moved on with the Q&A session, but Mel tuned it out as she wondered, Something helpful? Is he talking about a full cure? Her eyes roved the circle of werewolves again, though she already knew (to both her disappointment and her relief) that the old doctor wasn’t in attendance. She’d have to ask after him later.
Dave caught her eye, five seats to her right, and gave her a smile. She gave him one of her own and thought, This isn’t so bad. It’s not just a bunch of weirdos. Well, maybe that guy with the elaborately braided beard over there . . .
She wasn’t fond of Todd, but Dave and the three women seemed all right. As for the leaders—Mel couldn’t read Simon, but Roy was making a lot of sense. His words about peaceful coexistence and looking out for one another resonated deeply with her.
A series of six knocks interrupted Mel’s thoughts. “Come in,” Roy called gruffly.
The man who entered the room was ordinary looking in every way—average height and build with a face that was neither handsome nor ugly, framed by a haircut she’d seen on scores of men. Roy nodded at him, and he inclined his head respectfully before taking a seat.
Mel turned her attention back to Roy, who picked up where he’d left off, but then peered at the newcomer again. There was something familiar about him. Had she seen him before?
For the rest of the meeting, she half listened while her mind wandered between several puzzling topics: Where was Chandra and what was she doing? Who was the man who’d arrived late? And—the idea suddenly occurred to her—was the person who’d bit her in this room?
Could it be Sheila, Dave, or even (yuck) Todd? Did all these people keep their wolves safely locked up? Did one of them own the RV?
Shooting surreptitious glances at Late Guy, Mel bit her lip and frowned. She felt pretty sure this was not her first time seeing him. He wasn’t talking, just listening, his eyes tracking from speaker to speaker. Janae put in her two cents’ worth, and Late Guy’s attention stayed on her for a moment, then shifted to Mel. He looked straight into her eyes, and his widened slightly. Did he recognize her?
He couldn’t be the one who bit me, could he?
22
Op-Ed
January 19, continued, Waning Crescent Moon
After the meeting, Melanie got caught up in conversation with Sheila, Dave, and Janae. Vanessa said goodbye and left holding hands with Brad. Mel noticed Late Guy slip out just before the couple.
At least she could ask someone what his name was. She turned to Sheila, but before she could pose the question, the woman grabbed her arm. “C’mon, I’ll introduce ya to Roy and Simon.”
“Okay,” said Mel, stomach fluttering nervously.
The brothers were conferring near the bar, Roy tossing back a shot of whiskey. He and Simon turned to greet the women. “So this is the lass Chandra was tellin’ us about,” said Roy. “Pleasure t’ meet yeh.” He offered his hand and, instead of shaking hers, raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“Nice to meet you,” said Mel, blushing. Her eyes flitted from his to Simon’s, which were a cold, pale blue. The taller man inclined his head wordlessly.
“I trust that after this meetin’, yeh’ve gained some idea of what we’re about,” said Roy. “We’re a pack, a family—here to protect one another.”
Mel nodded.
“D’ya have any questions, comments, or concerns?”
She opened her mouth to ask Late Guy’s name, but thought that would probably come off as nosy or strange. Then she remembered someone more important to her right now. “Actually, I was wondering about, um, that doctor. The one who drew my blood after Thanksgiving. He is a doctor, isn’t he?”
“Elderly gent, ya mean?” Roy clarified. “Yeah, that’d be Sokoloff. Brilliant physician. One o’ the top geneticists in the world.” Simon shot Roy an icy glare. Roy cleared his throat and shifted his weight to his other leg. “He would’ve been here tonight, but he said he’s got loads o’ work to do.”
Disappointed, Mel pressed on: “I was hoping I could talk to him about his research—the cure?” She prayed that her desperation wasn’t too obvious. “Can you tell me anything about it?”
A strange glint entered the McCullough brothers’ eyes, and they gave each other a brief, meaningful look. “Well, that’s a wee bit beyond my understandin’,” said Roy, waving a hand over his head. �
�But yeh could talk to Dave about it. He’s the good doctor’s assistant. Appreciate it if yeh didn’t mention it to anyone else just yet. Sheila knows, though.”
The woman bobbed her head in agreement. Mel’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the secrecy. Why . . . ? Don’t they all . . . ? But she simply said, “Oh. Okay,” and glanced over at the muscular redhead. “Thank you.”
Roy raised the shot glass he’d just refilled. “My pleasure. Hope t’ see yeh again next meetin’.”
“Oh, yes—of course. Um, when’s that?”
“Chandra’ll pass that information along, soon ’s we decide.” He tossed back the burning whiskey as if it were water.
Sheila waved and headed out as Melanie made her way over to where Dave was chatting with Janae. Janae looked up at almost the same moment. “Hey, girl,” she said. “What’d you think of the alphas?”
“Oh, uh . . .”
Dave laughed. “She’s teasing. We don’t really call them that. Just ‘Roy’ and ‘Simon.’”
Melanie sidled up beside Janae, smiling. “They seem all right. They told me to ask you, Dave, about, uh, Dr. Sokoloff.” She wasn’t about to waste time on subtle hints. It was nearing 8:30, and Mel had an early class tomorrow.
“I see,” said Dave, his expression growing serious.
Janae’s smile also waned. “It’s been real, but I gotta go. See you guys. Melanie, it was nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
The room had mostly cleared out; only a handful remained. Dave motioned to a chair, and Mel sat. He straddled the one next to her and rested his arms on top of the back.
“So are you a doctor, or a nurse or something?” she asked him.
“Nah, I’m just a lowly phlebotomist.”
Mel cringed, then said, “Sorry—needle phobia.”
Dave chuckled. “You’re definitely not the only one.”
“Actually, I took you for a military guy.”
“Good instincts. Ex-army,” he said. “I was in the service, in Afghanistan, until . . .” He scooted backward and lifted his shirt, making Mel blush. He was hairier than she’d expected, but sculpted abs were visible underneath the red fuzz. Then she noticed the wicked-looking bite scar on his left side and winced. “Yeah, there was a werewolf living in those mountains, and I was on patrol the night of the full moon.”
“Do all you guys like to show off your bite marks?” Mel said offhandedly, trying to lighten the mood.
“Who else showed you theirs?”
“Sheila.”
“Ah, from her fiancé.”
“Husband.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“You don’t know what happened to him, do you? She said, ‘Rest his soul.’”
“Afraid not.”
Realizing she’d gotten distracted, Mel uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, and said, “About this cure. Or partial cure? How does it . . . What is it? A drug?”
“Yeah, it’s a chemical compound we’re synthesizing—well, he’s synthesizing; I just help with sample collection and running tests. And procuring the supplies we need.”
A chill weight settled in Mel’s abdomen. “Wait, what?” she stammered. “It’s still in the works? Not finished?”
“Not yet. We’re close, though.”
“But—but the paw prints in the snow. They spelled a message.”
“That must have been Chandra,” Dave explained. “She has the natural ability to keep her mind during a transformation. Dr. Sokoloff’s been studying her DNA to try and replicate the effect.”
Though she and Chandra weren’t close, weren’t friends, Mel felt betrayed. “She made it seem like . . .”
A look of sympathy crossed Dave’s face. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to—”
“What, lie? She would never do that?” Mel’s eyes flashed.
He sighed. “Everyone lies now and then. Or leaves out an important piece of the truth. But sometimes we have good reasons for doing so.”
“I wouldn’t call giving someone false hope ‘good’!”
“Melanie, we’re getting there. We’re so close. The doc believes he’s on the verge of a breakthrough.”
Quietly, slumping a bit, Mel said, “Why . . . why couldn’t you guys wait a little longer, till it was ready, and then contact me?” She stared down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap as if comforting each other.
Dave touched her shoulder. “If it had been up to me, I would have waited. Or waited to mention the drug, in any case.”
“I wish it had been up to you.” Mel drew in a long breath and slowly released it. “I should go. It’s getting late,” she said, standing and pulling on her coat.
He rose, too. “Here, let me walk you out.”
They exited the hazy meeting room and crossed the overstimulating, dark-and-bright main room. Mel donned gloves as she wove between crowded tables, thankful that none of the patrons leered or whistled at her—thanks to her muscular escort, she was sure.
Dave held open the front door for her, and she smiled at him and stepped out into the windy, cloudy night. All the way back to Wellsboro, Mel replayed her conversation with Dave in her mind.
“Verge of a breakthrough,” she muttered, frowning. “They sure as heck better be.”
Five days later, January 24, Waning Crescent Moon
The night before the Wednesday deadline, the first few submissions for Sentinel Issue One trickled into Mel’s inbox. People were more on top of their game at the beginning of semester. She printed the articles to proofread later. She simply didn’t have time right now, not with the werewolf op-ed looming before her, still frustratingly incomplete.
I won’t let down Dawn again. Ever. It’s a new semester, a fresh start.
She felt anything but fresh.
Miserably, Mel remembered hearing a priest or someone saying that it was much harder to disprove something’s existence than to prove it. Though he’d been talking about God, the same principle could apply to werewolves and other mythical (or not-so-mythical) creatures. Sure, she’d gathered plenty of quotes—but they were only speculation, not proof. She’d have to rely on her persuasive prose to power-up her article.
As the clock ticked inexorably toward ten, and Pam changed into pajamas and brushed her teeth, Mel sweated and stared and frowned at the words on her computer screen. They were far from satisfying, but in a week she’d failed to make them any better. The main body paragraphs, the arguments, were fleshed out. All that remained was to tie things off, to finish with flair.
She drummed her fingers, then typed:
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I urge you not to let paranoia and hysteria overcome your common sense. This is just another War of the Worlds, whether or not Caleb Connor ever comes forward and admits it. Why exactly did he cry wolf? We may never know, but the esteemed mental-health professionals quoted here all agree that Connor shows the classic signs of PTSD, depression, and abuse. He is to be pitied, but his video (a sad cry for help) is not to be believed or feared.
Mel hit Save one last time, then sighed and leaned back in her chair. That’s as good as I can do. She closed the document; tomorrow she’d give it a quick review before sending it to Dawn.
Humming “The Point of No Return” from The Phantom of the Opera, Pam walked back into the room. She smelled of minty toothpaste and lavender lotion and was hand-combing her hair, which had grown an inch or two since September and now almost brushed her shoulders. Pam seemed lost in thought as she sat on her bed and picked up her phone to start a text-message conversation.
It was 10:15. Mel yawned and stretched. She was about to log out of her email account and take her turn in the bathroom when a new email popped up.
The sender was Timmy Simmons. His op-ed, companion to hers, was attached.
Ice slid into Mel’s stomach. She definitely didn’t want to read his article now—or ever. She just wanted to sleep, long and deeply, but she knew she wouldn’t catch any winks with the suspense of not knowing what Timmy
had written.
Subconsciously holding her breath, she downloaded the document. It was two pages double-spaced and was titled “Monsters in Our Midst.” She made a face and read:
On January twelfth, our lives were changed forever. The world as we thought we knew it expanded when a young man named Caleb Conor revealed that werewolves exist. The video he made showing his monthly transfomation has been hotly debated, but most experts in special affects agree that the footage has not been doctored. Every grusome detail you see, is real.
Timmy went on to quote three experts, the magic number they’d been taught in composition class. Intro paragraph, three body paragraphs, and a concluding summary and call to action. Very by-the-book and unimaginative, thought Mel, a bit snootily. Never mind that she’d also quoted three people.
But as she read Timmy’s typo-riddled final paragraph, her eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
If Caleb Connors video is genuine—which the three experts above have clearly shown—then their have to be other werewolves out there. How many more? Unfortunately we can’t know the answer. However through stealthy investigation, I have managed to uncover the identity of one that is living right here; on our own campus. Yes: tiny Wellsboro University, nestled so safely in the beautiful Appalachian foothills; is not as safe as you think, for one of our very own students holds a dark, dangerous, secret. One of my fellow journalists in fact. You don’t need to look any further than the other editorial for her name. Yes! Melanie Caldwell is a wolf in sheeps-clothing trying her very best to soothe you; to lull you into the false belief that werewolves are just makebelieve and she isn’t a murderous raving beast, once a month. The signs are there if you look for them, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
No . . . he can’t . . . they can’t publish . . . Dawn can’t approve this. Dawn can’t read this—I can’t let her see it.
