by Sarah M. Awa
What if he sent it to her already, separately?
This couldn’t be happening.
How did Timmy know? How had he figured it out?
The room spun. She closed her eyes, gripped the arms of her chair. A moan escaped her throat.
“Mel? Are you okay?” she heard through the buzzing in her ears, as if from far away down a long tunnel.
Shit. Mel’s eyes snapped open, and she scrambled to close Timmy’s article. The sudden motion sent a wash of nausea through her. Her hand fumbled, flailed, but managed its task. The computer screen and the room were overly bright, lights wavering and dancing drunkenly. The floor seemed to lurch—how was she not falling out of her chair? She felt seasick.
A hand grasped her shoulder, and (still from a distance) came, “Mel? Say something. What’s wrong?”
Her mouth was full of sandpaper. She thought she opened it, but nothing came out. Her arms were growing weak, her dizziness more intense.
Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew it wasn’t only Timmy’s article that had sent her into this state. Something else had to be contributing.
But her awareness, her experience, knew nothing but fear and woozy confusion and dread that Pam would . . .
Footsteps pounded out of the room. Then two sets of footsteps pounded back into the room. Another voice joined Pam’s, and the two voices were growing fainter and farther away. Mel thought her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see anything. She was floating in a deep black pool . . .
And then she was gone.
Gentle taps on her face—growing more insistent. “Melanie! Wake up!”
She floated toward the surface. Shari?
“Should we call the nurse or take her to the hospital?”
Pam.
“Not necessarily. People do pass out sometimes, whether from anemia or because they haven’t eaten recently enough or because they stood up too fast. Let’s wait and talk to her before—”
“She was sitting in her chair!”
“I know. That rules out the third option.”
Shari sounded quite calm and steady against Pam’s whirl of emotion.
Slowly, Mel opened her eyes, and the room came into focus. The white ceiling with its glaring fluorescent light. Pam’s and Shari’s worried faces hovering above her, one to each side. She lay on the floor on her back. It was hard, and she felt stiff. She shifted and groaned.
“Honey, you passed out,” said Shari, giving her right hand a squeeze.
“I . . .” Mel licked her lips. She’d figured that out herself. But why?
“Can you get her a glass of water?” Shari asked Pam. The tall girl hurried off to do so.
While she was gone, Shari helped Mel to carefully sit up. She scooted her backward and propped her against her bed. “Thanks,” croaked Mel.
Shari’s cool hand rested on Mel’s forehead for a moment. “You don’t have a fever. You’re super pale, though. Do you think you’re coming down with something? Could be the flu; it is that time of year.”
Mel shrugged. She’d felt fine up until she’d read Timmy’s article. Hadn’t she? Brushing away the remaining cobwebs in her brain, she tried to review her day. “Maybe . . . my throat’s been kinda sore today,” she recalled.
Pam returned with the water, and she helped Melanie hold the glass to her lips. Mel took a few swallows, and her throat did hurt in the process. Must be the flu, she decided. Or possibly strep.
The girls made her take a ton of vitamin C and promise to take it easy tomorrow. “Skip classes if you don’t feel any better,” said Shari.
Obediently, Mel nodded. As her head bobbed, she felt not dizzy again but another sensation—something warm sliding down through her nose. Her hand came up instinctively and caught a large drop of blood. “Aw, maan.” Just what she needed.
Pam handed her a tissue, and Mel climbed to her feet, cautiously, holding on to the bed. No more wooziness, thank goodness. She hurried off to the bathroom and let her nose drip into the sink. Wow, that’s a lot of blood. It kept flowing, splattering like starbursts, for minutes and minutes. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew she should tilt her head backward but didn’t want the blood to gush down the back of her throat.
Five minutes later, her nosebleed showed no signs of stopping.
Mel glanced up at her reflection, which was paper-white and wide-eyed with fear. Crimson smears around her nose and mouth and chin, combined with the paleness, gave her a vampiric appearance.
She ran the water and tried to wipe herself clean, but the blood kept coming, and the water made it look like there was even more blood, a fountain of it.
Please, please stop! She was growing exhausted and achy all over. She longed to sit down, but if she sat on the toilet, she couldn’t keep her face over the sink. If only there were a stool or something to kneel on.
Knees trembling, elbows sore from resting on cold hard porcelain, she closed her eyes. God, please, she prayed. She hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe a long time. She was still mad at Him, if He existed. But maybe . . . maybe He’d hear, and maybe He’d help.
After a moment of silent pleading, she reopened her eyes and looked in the mirror again.
She nearly choked on blood. Her eyes burned yellow.
But—but it’s almost new moon. That shouldn’t be possible!
Something was seriously wrong with her.
Whom could she ask? Definitely not Chandra. Gavin? She hadn’t talked to him in a week; she hadn’t felt like it. He’d been a werewolf for such a long time, maybe he knew about illnesses unique to their kind. Had she contracted something like that? Canine flu?
Or could it be a coincidence that she’d caught the (normal) flu and had a terrible nosebleed at the same time? But she’d been getting quite a few nosebleeds lately, which wasn’t normal—she’d never been prone to them. And human ailments didn’t explain the eyes. Unless that was what happened to sick werewolves.
I’ll ask him tomorrow.
Pam knocked on the door. “Mel, you all right?”
“Still bleeding,” Mel called back.
“Wow.” The worry was clear in Pam’s voice.
Eventually, the blood flow diminished to a trickle and then stopped. Her eyes returned to brown. Melanie rinsed the last of the blood down the drain and collapsed onto the toilet. She hoped she wasn’t developing anemia. You’d better take iron, her mom’s voice urged.
She rested for a while before washing her face and brushing her teeth. Pam was waiting when Mel staggered into their room, and she fussed like a mother hen and practically pushed Mel into bed. “Stay in bed tomorrow. I’ll bring you meals.”
“A good night’s sleep might be all I need,” Mel mumbled, fidgeting to get comfortable under the covers.
The clock showed a quarter to midnight. Fantastic. The computer, which had gone into hibernate mode, whirred softly.
23
Libel
January 25, Waning Crescent Moon
The shrill rings of Mel’s alarm dragged her up from a deep, dreamless sleep. She groaned. Gradually, bits and pieces of last night returned to her. Timmy’s article. Her fainting spell. The nosebleed. Her eyes glowing during the wrong part of the lunar cycle.
So many problems.
Slowly, Mel climbed out of bed. Her limbs felt heavy and sluggish, the air thick as water. A queasy dread gripped her, but the dizziness had gone. Her throat hurt worse than yesterday; her mouth was dry like she’d been breathing through it all night; and her nose was congested, though not in a drippy way. A steamy shower helped expel a dried blood clot.
Pam fussed and tried to make her go back to bed. “I feel a lot better,” Melanie protested, willing it to be true. After another minute or two of failed persuasion, Pam relented. She headed off to breakfast while Mel dressed and dried her hair.
Once she was alone, Mel texted Gavin, explaining her physical symptoms. She asked if he had any idea of what could be wrong with her. Then she woke her computer and reread
Timmy’s article, to make sure she hadn’t dreamed it. Damn, no such luck.
Heart pounding, she closed the document and buried it deep in folders. She was definitely not ready to reply to his email or confront him. She needed time to calm down and think things through rationally. Formulate a strategy.
Why was Timmy doing this? What did he want from her?
Gavin responded to her message as she was pulling on her boots.
“Sounds like the flu and dry air, except for the eyes. I don’t think that has ever happened to me. I rarely get sick. I’ll ask Mom if she remembers my eyes turning yellow when I was sick. If you feel better now, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Keep me updated.”
Mel thanked him, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders.
But the nausea persisted through her morning classes, along with growing fatigue and, by lunchtime, a mild throbbing in her forehead. She could barely eat. Her mind and pulse alternated between racing and lagging.
When it was time to head to the Sentinel office, fear escalated into panic. She couldn’t set foot in the newsroom. What if Timmy was there? Most likely he will be, if only to torment me.
There was no rule that said she had to proofread in the office. She could do it in her room.
Go on, hide like a coward, said a voice. Her absence could be seen as an admission of guilt. Besides, Mel wanted to figure out if Dawn had received and read Timmy’s article. If only she could hack into Dawn’s email and delete anything from him before the editor saw it.
Miserably, Mel trudged to the communication building. Of course Timmy was there—and alone. He lounged at the layout table, his feet up on it, his fingers laced behind his short, thick neck. Light glinted off his glasses so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his smirk was impossible to miss.
“You—” she started, fury mounting. “How dare you spread lies about me—”
“Lies? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know anything!”
“I know enough to put two and two together. Pine Groves. That creature. The moon was full. Need I say more?”
The blood drained from Mel’s face. She swayed and steadied herself, mouth working wordlessly. But wait—Pam and Timmy hadn’t glimpsed the wolf, much less the wolf biting her. The nick was so small it could be from anything; surely no one realized what it was. She spread her hands. “Where was I bitten, then, huh? Do you see any big, nasty fang marks on me?”
He shrugged, put his feet down, and leaned forward. “There’s a lot of your skin that I can’t see.”
“PERVERT!” She leapt at him and, before she knew what was happening, walloped him smack-dab in the middle of the face. Blood gushed from his nose; his glasses were knocked askew.
Holy crap! She staggered back, shocked at herself, hand stinging. Her knuckles felt greasy, and she wiped them on her jeans, disgusted.
“You—you—” Timmy sputtered, fumbling with his face.
Mel fled the office, tearing down the empty hall and out into the bracing air. She had to slow her pace because of the patches of ice, but she jogged all the way to her dorm without looking back.
Panting, she slammed the front door behind her, leaned against it, and clutched at her burning chest. Thank goodness her housemates were in class.
I am so screwed. She moaned and sank to the floor. Somehow, smart, sensible Melanie Caldwell had managed to idiotically make her situation even worse! What is wrong with me?
If Dawn found out—when she found out—Mel was in trouble. How much, she didn’t know. But Dawn had told her to ignore Timmy, to learn how to deal with him. Mel was clearly failing dismally at that.
She drew her knees up to her chin in the position she usually assumed while waiting to transform. Transforming was almost less painful than this. . . . No, it’s not. Quit thinking that way.
Deep, slow breaths. Her life wasn’t over. Yet.
But how could she stop Timmy’s article from being published? He was sure to show it to Dawn now, if he hadn’t already, and to do much, much worse. . . .
The nasty YouTube comments replayed in her head. Then Vanessa’s anguished voice saying, “They really hate us.” Almost everyone at the meeting had a story to tell of prejudice or a near escape. Soon Mel would have her own.
She imagined seeing fear and loathing in Pam, Jos, Shari, her mom, her dad, her brother, Luis, Dawn, everybody . . . Pam moving out, or her housemates kicking Mel out . . . people steering clear of her around campus, switching tables in the cafeteria or seats in the classroom . . . the sneers, the whispers . . . the gossip crew would have a heyday. . . . What if a werewolf hunter found out about Mel and—
No! She shook her head, trying hard to dispel the bloody images she’d seen on hunter websites. Enough. Focus. Time to make a plan.
Did she dare return to the office? Timmy was probably still there. Dawn might also be there now, getting an earful. Would she believe Timmy?
Maybe she won’t. Plenty of people want to punch him and could have. But if she does believe it was me, she might suspend me. Or am I back to no strikes since it’s a new semester?
As for the werewolf part: Mel got the impression Dawn was skeptical of the supernatural, although she rarely heard Dawn voice opinions—the editor strove to take a neutral, unbiased stance in both her writing and her speech. It was hard to tell what Dawn thought about a lot of things.
Timmy doesn’t have tangible evidence. But what if he waited until full moon and followed her off campus? With a camera? Please, please no! She’d have to be extra careful and maybe leave a day early. What day was the next full moon? She pulled out her phone and checked. February ninth, tenth, and eleventh. A Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Great, leaving on Wednesday would make her miss three days of classes.
In the end, she decided not to go back to the Sentinel office. That might look guilty. Returning to plead her case to Dawn meant she had a case to plead. If she were human, she shouldn’t care so much what Timmy published about her.
What am I thinking? It’s slander—libel. Dawn won’t publish that, whether it’s true or not. She’ll cut out the last paragraph.
Mel unfolded her knees and relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief.
Then her heart clenched again. Timmy could find another way to distribute his entire article, like running copies and sticking them in everyone’s mailbox.
Would he go that far?
Maybe he’d threaten to unless she paid him or did something for him. Eww, she thought, remembering his comment about not seeing all her skin. Creepy-crawlies raced up and down her limbs and spine; she scrunched back into a protective ball. She felt so alone, vulnerable, surrounded by enemies.
She wasn’t alone. The Organization.
Though she was still miffed at Chandra, she texted her: “I have a serious problem.”
Now, there’s an understatement. Mel sniffled, and tears welled up. She swallowed back a lump in her throat.
While she waited for a reply, she climbed shakily to her feet. Her housemates could return at any minute, and she didn’t want them seeing her like this. She dragged herself upstairs and flopped on her bed like a ragdoll.
Moments later, her phone rang. Chandra. “Hello?” said Mel—her voice quavering, to her annoyance.
Chandra’s tone, in contrast, was clipped and direct, like that of a drill sergeant. “What kind of problem? What happened?”
Mel sat up, swiped at her eyes, then described Timmy’s article and her confrontation with him.
“So this little shit knows your secret and is either going to spill the beans or use it to blackmail you?”
“Yeah, and I—I have no idea what to do.” A tiny sob escaped.
More gently, Chandra said, “First off, stay calm, and be proud of what you are.”
“O-okay,” said Mel, and steadied her breathing.
“He can’t really publish that article, can he?”
“No. Dawn, the editor-in-chief, will cut out the part about me
. It’s libel.”
“But Timmy can run his mouth off to anyone at any time,” Chandra said grimly. “Not that they’ll necessarily believe him, but some could become curious. And you don’t need that kind of attention.”
Melanie shook her head sharply. “No.” Biting her lip, she played with the hem of her shirt and tried not to imagine what would happen if Timmy spread rumors.
“All right, well,” said Chandra, “your editor is going to—or maybe already has—read the article, yes? Can’t help that. Do you think she’ll believe it?”
“Probably not.”
“Good. Is Timmy the kind of person people take seriously? Is he popular?”
Mel snorted. “No. He’s an egotistical twerp who believes professional wrestling is real.”
Chuckling, Chandra said, “Even better. Whether he blabs or not, hold your head high and do everything you normally do. Right now with the moon’s pull so weak, you don’t have to worry about glowing eyes or other giveaways.”
“Um . . . actually . . .” Mel bit her lip harder and twisted her shirt even more tightly.
“What is it?” Tension edged into Chandra’s voice.
Hesitantly, Melanie told about her fainting spell, nosebleed, and glowing eyes.
“Last night? But that shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know,” moaned Melanie, “which is why I’m so worried. Plus, I’ve been feeling sick all day, though not as bad.”
Now Chandra sounded really concerned: “I think you should go see Dr. Sokoloff. Have him draw your blood, test it for contaminants, illness—”
Mel cringed, and a small whimper slipped out.
“Melanie, this might be very serious. What if you get worse? What if you get too sick to lock yourself away at full moon, and you hurt people? Your secret will really be out then.”
Horror washed over Mel at the thought.
“Y-you’re right.” She took slow, shuddering breaths. “I’ll go see him. Is he still at that place where Gavin and I delivered the package? Cedarwood, I think?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go there any time, or do I have to make an appointment?”
