by Jason Starr
“What is wrong with you, Simon? Why are you acting this way?”
Simon could tell that Alison was extremely angry but also on the verge of tears. He wished there were something he could do to reassure her, but trying to talk to her only seemed to be making things worse.
Then he looked at the mirror. His first thought—it wasn’t a mirror, it was a TV screen. He wasn’t looking at himself—it was an actor, playing a role. But this delusion didn’t last for long. He raised his right arm slightly, and sure enough the thing in the mirror moved its arm as well. Still unconvinced—or deep in denial—he flared his nostrils, and the dark, practically black wolflike nostrils of the beast in the mirror flared. Then he tried to touch his face, but he did it awkwardly, with too much force, and he hit himself so hard he stumbled back against the door.
This got another “Simon?!”
He recovered and looked at the mirror again. He’d cut his face with his claws. Claws? He flexed his hands but didn’t have total control of them. It almost felt like he was wearing two catcher’s mitts. The T-shirt he’d been wearing was stretched to its extreme, about to rip, like something out of his old Incredible Hulk comics.
Oh God, how was this possible? Then it finally set in that this was his life now, his new reality. This half-man, half-animal thing was the new him.
The door was still shaking. He could smell Alison’s scent, which turned him on, but he also wanted her in another way. He wanted to dig his fangs into her, to taste her. She smelled so good, she would have to be the ultimate meal.
Craving her uncontrollably, he rammed against the door, practically breaking the hinges. Suddenly the bathroom felt like a cage, and he had to escape, be free. He charged the door again, when a voice inside shouted, No! He didn’t really want to hurt his wife. The other Simon Burns was still inside him somewhere, but this voice was faint, muted, and overwhelmed.
“You’re gonna break the door down!” Alison screamed. “Stop it! Just stop it!”
He rammed the door again, the hinges barely holding, now detecting Jeremy’s scent as well. The scent was extremely strong, and Simon knew this meant fear. The crazy animal part of him wanted to break down the door and attack Jeremy, but the rational Simon voice was screaming, No! Stop!
Instead of ramming the door again, the Simon voice steered him into the shower stall. He wanted to get under water, cold water, but he realized that, like with the door handle, his wolf hands couldn’t turn the faucet, so he bent down and tried to use his tongue. It was much harder to move a faucet, though, and to coordinate the movements of his body, and the combined scents of Alison and Jeremy were extremely tempting, making him ravenous. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to resist busting out of this bathroom/cage and attacking them.
Then the faucet turned—slightly at first, but then he made more progress and water was coming out in a steady stream. Next he used his tongue to push the lever that shifted the water between the tub and shower, and a moment later cold water sprayed all over his head and back. The water felt especially cold, like ice—maybe in his form as a werewolf his skin had become more sensitive?—and the Simon voice wondered if this had been a big mistake. Maybe the shock of the cold water would just antagonize the werewolf part of him more and cause a deeper transformation, and the rational Simon voice would be muted completely.
Simon was leaving the bathtub when he was suddenly in pain again. It wasn’t nearly as bad as before, but it seemed to affect every part of his body and was so intense his legs buckled and he fell onto the floor. Then he started spasming, as if he were having a seizure, and his Simon voice was saying, Hold on, just hold on, and he could hear Alison—he knew she wasn’t right outside the bathroom any longer, because her scent had faded, but her voice was still clear—maybe on the phone, saying, “…think he’s having some kind of attack…” and then it ended. Well, at least the spasming stopped, most of the pains were gone, and he felt almost normal. He looked at his hand and saw the end of it—his claws transforming back into fingernails. What the hell? But he was so happy to have his hands back, and probably in shock, that the total absurdity of what was happening barely occurred to him.
He stood, on his normal feet, and looked in the mirror and thanked God it was him staring back, the real him. He was so happy he actually started laughing, softly at first, but then with more energy, until he was looking in the mirror laughing hysterically. Then he became aware of the scent of Jeremy standing outside the bathroom, but unlike before, he wanted to hold his son and protect him, not hurt him. He opened the door and said, “Hey, kiddo!” and bent down and lifted him up. He was so thrilled to see him, he didn’t notice he was crying right away.
“It’s okay, don’t be sad, everything’s fine,” he said. “See, your daddy’s okay.”
“Put him down.”
Simon looked over and saw Alison at the end of the foyer, near the kitchen. She looked as angry as she’d sounded.
He said, “Everything’s o—” and she cut him off with, “Did you hear what I said?”
He noticed she had one of her hands behind her back; was she holding something?
Not wanting to get Jeremy more upset than he already was, he squatted and let go of him.
“Go play in your room,” Alison said, trying too hard to sound sweet.
Jeremy was smart, could see right through it, and said, “Why are you mad at me, Mommy?”
“I’m not mad at you, sweetie,” she said. “Mommy loves you very, very much, but Mommy wants you to go play in your room now, so please go and play, okay?”
Still wasn’t working; Jeremy was on the verge of tears.
“Listen to Mommy,” Simon said. “I’ll come in and play with you in a few minutes, okay?”
“O-okay, Daddy,” Jeremy managed to say, and then went to his room.
Before Simon could say anything, Alison, fuming, said in a hushed tone, “Get out.”
“Okay,” Simon said, “just calm—”
“I gave you a chance,” she said unsteadily, “and I told you I was serious, so please just leave without making a big scene and scaring Jeremy more than you already have.”
She was still talking in a loud whisper, but Simon looked back to make sure Jeremy wasn’t there, just in case.
“I had a little setback, okay?” Simon said. “But I’m making progress, I’m getting better.”
“Oh, really? Acting totally insane and trying to break down the bathroom door is progress?”
Simon wanted to keep denying it, but noticing the paint chips on the floor from the hinges almost breaking, he knew he couldn’t.
“This was an isolated incident,” he said, “but overall you have to admit I’m getting much better. Yesterday we had a great day, didn’t we?”
He was smiling, trying to win her over, but it wasn’t working.
She stared at him for a few seconds like, well, like she absolutely hated him, then said, “I’m sick of all this Jekyll and Hyde crap. I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Simon caught a glimpse of what she was hiding behind her back. It was something shiny.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Is that a knife?”
He took a step toward her.
Now she held out the knife—the biggest one they had—and said, “Stay back, just stay the hell back.”
“Come on, put the knife down,” Simon said in a fake relaxed tone, trying to minimize the situation. “I’m calm now, okay? I know my little freakout was probably really scary, but it’s over. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Mommy.”
Jeremy had come out of his room and was looking right at Alison with the knife.
The fake-calm mommy voice was officially gone. She lost it and screamed, “Get the hell back to your room, Jeremy, right now! Right now!”
Terrified, Jeremy darted back to his room.
“Come on,” Simon said to Alison, “you didn’t have to—”
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“Just leave us alone,” Alison said. “Go downstairs and wait in the lobby.”
“Wait? Wait for what?” Then he remembered hearing her make that phone call. “Who did you call?”
“I trusted you,” she said. “I gave you another chance, but I told you that was it, the last chance. I think I’ve been extremely patient.”
“You called 911?” Simon said. “Why’d you do that?”
“You need help,” Alison said. “More help than you’re getting from Dr. Levinson.”
Oh, God, this was the last thing Simon needed—more trouble from the police. When his boss was killed last month, he’d been a suspect, and he was brought into the Manhattan North precinct and questioned extensively. He’d really thought that detective, Rodriguez, was going to find some evidence that he was involved in the killing. But that was before he was a werewolf—well, at least before he was a full-blown werewolf. What if he was questioned again? They could pick up on something in his behavior or, even worse, make him submit to a blood test. If they found the wolves’ blood in his system, there would be chaos. The discovery of a man with the blood of a wolf, the revelation that werewolf mythology wasn’t mythology at all—it was real, it was actually happening—would cause the media frenzy to end all media frenzies. It would be as if alien life had been discovered for the first time—but the alien wasn’t from outer space; the alien was from right here in New York City and his name was Simon Burns. And Simon would undoubtedly be treated like an extraterrestrial life form—studied, analyzed, probed—kept apart from humans, including his own family.
“Call 911 back,” Simon said. “Cancel the call. Tell them everything’s fine. Tell them you made a mistake.”
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Alison said. “I can’t … I just can’t.”
“Cancel it,” Simon said, “for Jeremy’s sake. You don’t want a whole scene here, do you?”
Alison was crying now, still holding the knife in front of her. Simon considered trying to get the knife, then calling 911 back himself, but he didn’t want to make things any worse, and besides, it was probably too late to cancel the call. She’d called them, what, five, ten minutes ago? He’d lost track of time; the cops could be here any second.
“Okay, you’re right, I need help,” Simon said. “I’ll wait in the lobby, okay? I just don’t want to have any more drama, okay?”
Alison didn’t answer, but now she was holding the knife limply by her side. Simon, with his hands raised in an I’m-not-going-to-touch-you-see? way, went around her, toward the front door. As he knelt to put on his sneakers, he looked toward the living room, at the TV. Charlie had finished the marathon and there were a swarm of reporters around him and microphones in front of his face. One reporter asked, “How long have you been training for the marathon?”
The camera moved closer on Charlie’s face. He looked blissful, content, and barely winded.
“Not long,” he said. “Only a few weeks, actually.”
Simon cursed under his breath. Alison was watching him, tears dripping down her cheeks.
“I’ll call you later and let you know how things are going,” Simon said. “A little time apart’ll probably do us some good anyway.”
Simon wanted to say good-bye to Jeremy, to reassure him, but he knew the police could be here at any moment.
“I love you both very, very much,” he was saying as he left the apartment.
EIGHT
Before the elevator doors opened, Simon smelled the cops in the lobby. He wasn’t sure exactly how he was able to distinguish cops from other people, but when the doors opened, sure enough two uniformed officers were getting on the elevator.
Nonchalantly, Simon walked right by them. The doorman, James, saw him and, eyes widening, said, “Hey, those cops were heading up to your place; everything all right up there?”
“Yep, perfect,” Simon said as he left the building.
When he turned onto Columbus Avenue, he started to run. Not too fast—he didn’t want to attract attention—but fast enough to get some distance between himself and his building as quickly as he could.
He had no plan. He just wanted to get away, to be alone for a while, to figure out what to do next, but, maybe instinctively, he ran toward the comforting autumn scents of Central Park. The streets leading to and from the park had swarms of marathon fans, and Simon had to navigate between them. In the park, at the first opportunity, he darted into a woodsy area. Still, he wasn’t exactly alone. Besides the people he could actually see, he could hear and smell people all around him. He tried to block out the sensations, but they kept gnawing on his brain, like being surrounded by annoying cell phone conversations he couldn’t ignore. And despite the fact that he was away from his apartment and the cops, he didn’t feel safe because it wasn’t the cops who were the danger. Even if the cops had shown up while he was at the apartment and he was taken away in a straitjacket, he would have had a chance to talk his way out of it. He could figure out how to avoid a drug test, learn to modify his behavior, work on repairing his marriage. All of this was, at least potentially, within his control. No, his biggest threat was what he couldn’t control which, unfortunately, was himself. He was his own biggest danger.
But none of this was a revelation to him. He knew what was at stake when he saw Charlie on TV, and when he left the apartment, and that was why he’d gone into the park and why he was running downtown toward the finish line of the New York City Marathon at the south end of the park.
As he got closer to the finish line, the sounds and combined odors of the throngs of people increased. There were lots of cops around too, but Simon wasn’t concerned. A 911 call had been placed for a domestic complaint on the Upper West Side; he wasn’t exactly a wanted man. But as Simon passed a group of officers he suddenly realized how he was able to distinguish them from other people—it was the scent of gunpowder. Wow, Simon was seriously impressed with himself. He might have been even more in awe of his talents if he weren’t on the verge of his whole life going to hell.
Close to the Columbus Circle exit of the park, the crowd got so dense that he had to walk. He knew he was heading in the general direction of the marathon’s finish line when another amazing thing happened—he could smell Charlie. There had to be thousands of people in the area, yet he was certain he was detecting Charlie. As he made his way through, going as fast as he could, he noticed women noticing him, some giving him admiring looks and smiling at him, and then he accidentally bumped into a big, muscular guy, and the bottle of Powerade he was holding spilled a little.
“Hey,” the guy said.
He turned toward Simon, glaring angrily. Simon stopped and looked at the guy but didn’t say anything. Simon didn’t say anything—just looked right in the guy’s eyes—and the guy’s expression suddenly softened. The guy was clearly intimidated, knowing that Simon was someone he didn’t want to mess with. Then the guy and his girlfriend continued away without saying another word.
Simon continued toward Charlie. The crowd was so dense that Simon had to stop, maybe fifty yards from where he knew Charlie was, near the marathon’s finish line. Exhausted runners were arriving at a practically constant rate and, over the PA system, someone was announcing their times in a loud, garbled, echoing tone. While Simon couldn’t see very far ahead of him, he could see reporters near where Charlie was, and a bunch of TV crews.
Oh, God, it was as bad as he’d feared—Charlie was on the verge of becoming a media sensation.
There was commotion near where the camera crews were bunched, and then people nearer to Simon began stirring. There was increased chatter, but there were so many people talking at once it was hard for Simon to make out more than snippets. He heard a woman say “to the side” and a man say “him through.” The crowd was parting and the Charlie scent was getting stronger. As the anticipation built, Simon felt strangely excited, as if something magical were about to happen, and then it did.
Several yards ahead of Simon, Charl
ie appeared. Although Simon had expected to see him, actually seeing him was still somehow shocking. It felt surreal, like a dream or fantasy. Going by Charlie’s expression, how he seemed content and in awe, with a Zen-like smile, he seemed to be feeling the same way.
“I knew it was you,” Charlie said.
Charlie’s voice sounded the same—with a slight Brooklyn accent—but there was something different about him. Not just his stronger-than-before scent and appearance—he was leaner and more muscular than he’d been a few weeks ago—but his whole demeanor. He had a new air of confidence about him, and there was something different about his blue eyes too. They used to be light blue; now they were darker, practically navy, and much more intense.
Simon was positive that Charlie was a werewolf.
“Wow, it’s great to see you,” Simon said, and he couldn’t have been making a bigger understatement. It was greater than great to see him. It was amazing to be face-to-face with someone like himself, and he found himself unprepared for the rush of emotion he felt. He had an overriding sense of relief and a feeling of Thank God I’m not alone.
