Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath

by Bella Raven

  Ethan shifts back into his seat, his dark eyes growing bright with surprise. I don’t think he was expecting that response.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the worms. But I can tell you this—there is something more.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The witches. They can speak with the dead. Provided the dead want to speak.”

  “So, you know witches?”

  “I know one witch,” he says, gravely. His eyes look troubled.

  “Who?”

  Ethan’s face tightens. “We should not speak of her.”

  “And what about you? Can you die?” I ask.

  Ethan grins. “I can die, just like everyone else. But I’m very hard to kill. It’s the vampires who are immortal. And they will be out tonight.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because they hate werewolves.” Ethan’s eyes narrow, burning with contempt. I know this look, and I search my memory trying to place it. Finally, it hits me.

  “Is Lucas a—”

  Ethan grits his teeth, cutting me off mid speech, “—You ask a lot of questions.”

  The cool gray of twilight fades to midnight blue. All evidence of the sun is gone. It is now, unequivocally, night. The moon will begin to crest the horizon shortly.

  “You need to get out of the car now,” Ethan says.

  I pull the door shut. “What if I don’t want to?”

  He glares at me, the muscles in his square jaw tensing.

  “I will physically remove you, if I have to,” he growls.

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Is that a dare?”

  I lean into him. “What if it is?”

  He scowls at me, but then his face softens for a moment. I raise an eyebrow, taunting him. Daring him. Our faces are so close now. His complex eyes appraising me. His full lips inches from mine. I can smell his fresh, clean skin, with just a hint of fragrant body wash. I breathe him in, and my spine tingles. Again, I try to make my eyes smolder, and I lean in even more. It’s a blatant invitation.

  I pull out all the stops. I flutter my eyelashes and bite my lip, seductively. I shift in my seat, arching my chest out, ever so slightly. I want nothing more than to feel his warm lips against mine. To feel his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me into him. To feel every nerve in my body alive with passion.

  He leans in, slightly… then lunges, biting at me, snapping his teeth. I fly back against the door, terrified. I fumble for the door handle, panicked.

  Ethan is laughing his ass off, amused at how easily I was startled.

  My eyes narrow, and I clench my jaw, scowling at him.

  “You’re not ready for this,” he chuckles.

  I push open the door and crawl out, spiking my crutches into the ground, pulling myself up to stand. I lean back to the car.

  “Don’t begin to tell me what I’m ready for,” I say, with contempt.

  “Do yourself a favor and forget about me,” he says, coldly.

  “Who are you?” I quip, slamming the door in his face, like I’ve already forgotten him.

  I watch him drive away, and I am enveloped by the brisk night air. My heart instantly sinks. I can’t forget about him. I don’t want to forget about him. I’m suddenly terrified that he might forget all about me.

  The rumble of his car’s engine fades into oblivion, and the sound of crickets crescendo. Stars, like flickering pinholes of light, begin to dot the sky, and a glorious glowing moon edges it’s way above the treetops.

  In the distance, I hear the discordant howls of a pack of wolves.

  CHAPTER 18

  JAKE IS PASSED out on the couch. Empty beer cans and little airplane size whiskey bottles keep him company. The TV is on, and some pastor is rambling about vows and pledges and digging deep. Jake rolls over, shifting in his sleep, clanking beer cans onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice the cans falling at all.

  I lock the door and check all of the windows. I don’t really know how much good it does. It’s not like this place is some impenetrable fortress. It’s a glorified tin can with a kitchen. If someone really wanted to storm Jake’s castle, it wouldn’t be too hard. Especially if that someone had sharp claws, fangs, and super human strength. The corrugated metal walls of the trailer might as well be sheets of aluminum foil. A pack of ravenous creatures could rip this place open like it was a can of tuna.

  I head back to my room, which is permanently infused with the smell of stinky sneakers. Noah is laying on the top bunk and is actually doing his homework. His face is still stained with chocolate.

  “When is the last time you took a shower?” I ask.

  Noah shrugs.

  “Why don’t you go wash up, and I’ll fix us something to eat?”

  Noah climbs down from the bunk and heads down the hall. I ask him what he wants to eat, but he just shrugs again.

  When in doubt, fix mac and cheese.

  In the kitchen, I grab a pot from the cabinet, pour in some water, and throw it on the burner. I watch tiny bubbles form at the bottom of the pot, one after another. Each one starting as a small pin point and expanding until it’s large enough to break free, streaming to the surface. One, then another, then another. The number and size of the bubbles growing exponentially.

  Every time I see Ethan, I am a pot of water on a stove. My heart has reached a rolling boil, and I’m sure I’m going to get burned.

  I dump the pasta shells in, stirring them around. My mind drifts back to over analyzing the events of the day—picking apart every detail of every phrase Ethan uttered.

  My trance is broken by the smack of something against the window above the kitchen sink. I jump back, startled. My heart pounding. It’s too dark to see outside through the window. And with the lights in the kitchen on, the glare on the glass makes it impossible to see anything but my reflection in the pane.

  I can hear the wind rustle the leaves outside, swaying the tree branches. Jake’s castle begins to creak and groan as the gusts intensify. I try to catch my breath and calm down. It’s just the wind knocking a branch against the window. That’s all. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  But the scratching sound that I hear—the one that just started—is freaking me out. It’s coming from the outer wall at the other end of the living room, just beside the TV. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

  I flip off the light in the kitchen and rise up to peer out of the little window above the sink. I can see the trees sway in the wind. My eyes dart back to the scratching sound. I look down the hallway to Jake’s room. His door is open, and I can see rays of moonlight beaming in through the blinds—the shadows of leaves dancing on the wall.

  I bring my eyes back to the living room, to the scraping. Jake is still passed out on the couch. The preacher on TV is still talking about donations and how you have to give if you want to get. The wind is still howling. I step toward the front door, leaving my crutches behind, hobbling on my booted foot. I try not to make a sound as I walk, but the floor creaks underneath my feet, and there’s no getting around the thud of this boot on the linoleum.

  At the door, I slowly pull down one of the vertical blinds. The thin metal clinks as I distort its shape and peer out through the window, into the yard. My eyes scan the perimeter—there’s nothing out there. At least, not that I can see by the light of the moon. I angle for a better view to see what’s scraping against the outer wall of the trailer. But even with my face pressed up against the glass, I still can’t see anything—and the cool glass fogs quickly with my breath.

  I reach down to the doorknob and twist it unlocked. Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob, cracking the door open. First a little, then a lot. I crane my neck around the corner, toward the direction of the scratching, but the grating sound has stopped. There is nothing there, except for two trash cans. There are no tree branches that could have been scraping the walls. Nothing. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what was causing the eerie noise.

  My eyes dart about the yard
again. I step out onto the stoop, like a field mouse into a lions den. Clasping the railing, I hobble down the weathered wooden steps to the yard. The flimsy railing wiggles under my weight. I glance from one end of the trailer to the other, then plod toward the trash cans.

  My gate is a little unsteady without anything to hold onto, but I seem to be doing okay. The doctor said that since the fibula is not a weight bearing bone, I could begin to walk on it at my discretion.

  “If it hurts, don’t do it,” he said. “If it doesn’t, then see what you can tolerate, but just don’t overdo it.”

  I am beyond ready to ditch those crutches. I’m already sore from constantly banging them into my rib cage, below my armpits. Still, right now, I feel a little naked without them.

  The lid on one of the trash cans is a little askew, so I straighten it. A sudden rush of terror washes over me. I hear a rustling in the grass around the corner of the trailer. I begin to think that stepping outside was a really bad idea.

  I inch back from the trash cans, my eyes trained on the corner of the trailer. The rustling continues with the patter of paws and the snarl of teeth tearing into something. Shrill growls echo into the night, and I am about to turn and run. Or, at least, do my best impression of a run. I’m sure that would be considered over doing it.

  As I’m about to dash away, a furry ball blurs out from around the corner, ferociously attacking a plastic bag. I sigh with relief as I realize it’s only a raccoon digging for table scraps. My heart still pounding, I chuckle and shake my head.

  But my blood pressure skyrockets again, and I jump at the piercing sound of my phone ringing. It’s Jen.

  “Oh my God, you scared the hell out of me,” I gasp.

  “You haven’t seen scary until you’ve seen my dad pissed off,” Jen says. “I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I’m grounded until sometime well into the next century. No phone, no internet, no nothing,” Jen says.

  “How are you calling me then?”

  “Duh, I gave them my broken phone.”

  “So where exactly where you going during fifth period?”

  “Enough about me, let’s talk about you. I want details,” Jen says.

  “What details?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  “He just drove me home,” I say.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “He just gave me a ride.”

  “Whore,” she giggles.

  “Not that kind of ride.”

  “So, he didn’t kiss you?” Jen asks.

  “No. Unfortunately,” I sigh. “But we did talk.”

  “Boring.”

  “Some of what he had to say was quite interesting.”

  “Did he go into detail about all the kinky things he wants to do to you?” Jen says, lustfully.

  “You need a boyfriend.”

  “I know. One that listens intently, does exactly what I say, and always pays for dinner.”

  “Can’t you just cast a spell for that kind of thing?” I say, almost demanding a confession from her.

  There is an uncomfortable silence, and I begin to regret asking the question. It’s probably not fair of me to ask, but still, I can’t help but suspect. Her makeup is nothing short of magic. She gets everyone to bend to her will. She survived an unsurvivable accident.

  “What?” Jen asks, feigning confusion.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Jen takes a long pause before she answers.

  I watch the raccoon ravage the scraps for a moment, then I spin around to head back inside. What I see in the yard freezes me in my tracks.

  “So, you think I’m a witch?” Jen says. These are the last words I hear as I drop my phone to the ground.

  White fangs snarl at me. Four wolves have emerged from the forest. The same four that Ethan defended me from. But tonight, they are not just ordinary wolves. They appear bigger, stronger, more defined. Their muscles bulge and ripple with striations, intertwined with veins. These are something more than wolves, but not quite werewolves. Something in between.

  With long razor sharp teeth, and claws to match, the wolves fan out, encircling me. Their devilish eyes glimmering with the anticipation of a meal.

  I dash for the steps, grabbing the rail to pull myself up. Pain shoots like a knife into my calf as I lunge with my full weight on the boot. The rickety rail collapses under my weight, and I tumble down to the ground.

  A wolf lurches for me, chomping down on my ankle. His teeth mash into the plastic boot. He thrashes side to side, trying to tear through the boot.

  I smash my good foot into the beast’s snout, knocking him back. Then I grasp for the splintered railing. I swing the broken plank like a baseball bat, cracking the demon in the head. A rusty nail, embedded into the end of the board, stabs into the monster’s skull, spurting blood.

  Another wolf pounces.

  KABOOM!

  A thunderous shot rips through the air, pelting the savage creature mid leap. It tumbles to the ground, whimpering, dragging it’s mangled frame to shelter.

  Uncle Jake stands at the top of the steps, staring down the barrel of a shotgun through a cloud of gun smoke. Jake racks another shell into the chamber, drawing down on the menacing wolves. The creatures huddle around, keeping their distance. Growling and snarling.

  “Find somewhere else to feed. She’s not for you,” Jake says.

  I lie on the ground, surrounded by wolves. My eyes wide and my body trembling with terror, mixed with adrenaline.

  The mangled wolf, full of bloody buckshot, limps to its feet. Squealing in pain, the wolf glares at Jake.

  “I got plenty more where that came from. Now, get off my property,” Jake shouts.

  The rest of the pack glances to the injured wolf with concern. The bloodied wolf signals to the pack that this fight is lost, and they retreat back into the woods.

  Jake keeps the rifle trained on them until long after they have disappeared into the forest.

  “You burned the mac & cheese,” he says, turning back into the trailer, grumbling. “I don’t know how somebody can screw up mac & cheese, but you did.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE LUMP OF coal sitting in the pot on the stove is my masterwork in the culinary arts. The charred, black cylinders of macaroni have become fused to the surface of the cookware. Thick smoke clouds the interior of the trailer, hovering towards the ceiling. With the shotgun still slung around his arm, Jake opens and closes the front door, trying to fan out the smoke. His eyes scan the yard for any sign of trouble.

  I grab another pot, and make a second attempt at cooking dinner for Noah. He emerges from the hallway, his face quizzical, puzzled by the smoke. I’m sure he heard the gunshots. But, as usual, he doesn’t say a word. He strides to the kitchen, lifts onto his tip toes, peering at the scorched pot in the sink. Noah gives me a sarcastic, shameful glance, as if to say that even he could cook mac & cheese without screwing it up.

  All through dinner, the air is thick with unspoken tension. After we eat, I send Noah off to bed. It takes some wrangling, but after some intense negotiations involving chocolate ice cream, Noah finally trails off to his room. Jake and I have matters to discuss, and I don’t think now is the time to burden Noah with the darker side of Haven Hill.

  “Let me look you over,” Jake says. “All it takes is one bite.” He grabs my hands, holding them out, inspecting them. He studies my forearms, then flips my palms up, surveying the other side. He’s surprisingly focused for as drunk as he is.

  Jake grabs my chin, turning my head side to side. “Hold your hair back.”

  I pull my hair into a pony tail, exposing my neck. He seems satisfied there are no puncture wounds.

  “Lets see the legs,” he says.

  I sit down at the kitchen table, extending one leg out at a time. First my good leg, then my bad. The boot is covered in teeth marks from the gnawing and gnashing.

  “I guess i
t’s a good thing you broke your leg,” he says. “That boot saved your ass.” Jake seems relatively certain that I’m bite free, but there’s still a twinge of doubt in his eye. “You start feeling sick and burning up with fever, let me know.”

  “Why, what does that mean?”

  “Means I need to put a silver bullet in you.”

  “You wouldn’t really shoot me, would you?”

  “Hell yes! The last thing this town needs is one more of those varmints running around.”

  “Uncle Jake!”

  “Those mangy bastards should know better than to mess with me. I got plenty more silver buckshot where that one came from.”

  Jake staggers to the refrigerator, grabbing another beer.

  “Uncle Jake, when’s the last time you were sober?” I ask.

  He ponders this a moment, then booms a resounding “1992.”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t you get all high and mighty on me,” he says, ambling back to the table. “This here’s what keeps me alive.”

  “It’s called addiction,” I say.

  “It’s called self defense.”

  “You’re self medicating.”

  “You’re damn right! This stuff is poison to those bastards. I keep as much of it flowing through my veins as possible.” Jake grins, guzzling the beer. “I reckon that’s why they don’t mess much with me.”

  “So, alcohol is poison to werewolves? Any kind of alcohol?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose. All I know, is when I started drinking this, my werewolf problems went away.”

  I grab for the can of beer. “Let me see.”

  “Oh, no, this ain’t for you,” he says, pulling the beer close to his chest.

  “I’m not going to drink it,” I sigh.

  Jake reluctantly slides the can over to me. The label reads: Eisenhut Doppelbock. Brewed in Germany. The coat of arms depicted on the label features a wolf, wreathed in filigree, with a cross floating above it’s head, beaming rays of light.

  I study the label as condensation beads on the aluminum. I can’t help thinking there is something more to this beer than meets the eye. “Do you ever think that it’s not the alcohol? That maybe it’s something else in the beer?”