by Bella Raven
“I like to think it’s the alcohol,” he says, with a grin. “Harlan Davis told be about this, back in the day. Crazy old bastard. Never had a problem since. Well, until tonight.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Once they get a whiff of something that tickles their fancy, they’ll hound it forever.” Jake’s tone is ominous.
I gulp, and my nerves tingle with dread. “What kind of werewolf problems did you have? You know, back in 1992.”
Jake takes a deep breath, the memories playing across his eyes. “That’s a story for another day,” he says, drooping his head, his face forlorn. He wipes the corner of his eye with his knuckle as it begins to tear. Jake is clearly heartbroken.
“What was her name?”
Jake glances to me, puzzled.
“You’re not that hard to read,” I say.
“Take my advice, stay away from them. I know they can seem intriguing, but they’re wild animals, and can’t be trusted. They will turn on you.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“You loved her, didn’t you?”
Jake glares at me.
I can tell this is too painful of a memory for Jake, so I drop it. Though, I’m intrigued. This is a side of Jake I’ve never seen before. I want desperately to know more about this love story that he’s not sharing.
“These wolves that attacked you tonight, do you know who they are?” Jake asks.
“No.”
“I reckon they’re going to be out for both of us now.”
“That’s reassuring,” I say.
“They tend to hold a grudge,” Jake says. “I’m not so worried about them. These wolves were newly turned. I’m more concerned with who turned them.”
“How can you tell they were newly turned?”
“A mature werewolf will transform completely under a full moon. Eventually, it will gain the power to transform at will. These wolves were snot-nosed little punks, still crawling on all fours.”
“Is it true that they all need to consume human flesh to survive?”
“The more flesh they consume, the more powerful they become.”
Jake’s answer concerns me. It means that Ethan has consumed a lot of human flesh. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I watched Ethan transform at will. He is, no doubt, a powerful werewolf, but I have a hard time picturing him feasting on innocent people. Maybe that’s just me being naïve? Being stupid?
“Is that why the vampires hate them? Because the werewolves feed on the same food supply?”
“It runs deeper than that. The feud is centuries old, and you sure as hell don’t want to get in the middle of it.”
“That seems almost unavoidable, living in this town,” I mutter.
Jake chuckles.
“So, what started the feud?”
“Why don’t you ask that werewolf you’ve been hanging around?”
“What werewolf?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Jake says.
“How do you know about Ethan?”
“I may be a drunk, but I’m not stupid. Besides, I can smell them a mile a way. They smell like wet, mangy dog.”
I roll my eyes. “No they don’t. You’re just being mean. They can’t all be bad, can they?”
“Those mutts would have been using your bones as toothpicks had I not intervened.”
“Ethan’s different,” I say.
“You keep on thinking that. Let me know how it works out for you.” Jake rises from the table, grabs the shotgun leaning against the wall. “You can do what you want, but I see a werewolf on my property, I’m gonna shoot it.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep a loaded gun in the house. What if Noah gets a hold of it?”
“I keep it locked in a safe. Don’t worry,” he says.
“I worry.”
“I’ll teach him about gun safety. I’ll teach you too. I got my first shotgun at twelve.”
“And look how you turned out.”
“Saved your ass,” he snarks.
Jake staggers down the hall, bumping into the walls, scraping along the cheap wood panelling.
I hear the muffled sound of a car pulling up outside. I move to the front door, peering through the blinds. It’s a black Cadillac SUV. The engine cuts off and a figure emerges from behind the wheel.
CHAPTER 20
JEN STEPS FROM the shadows, looking anxious. I pull open the front door.
“I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour,” she says.
“Shit. My phone.” I glance down to the base of the steps and see my phone still resting in the grass. Jen scoops it up on her way inside, noticing the broken railing on the steps.
“What happened here?”
“Long story,” I say.
I close and lock the door behind her as she enters.
“Who’s car is that?” I ask.
We sit on the couch in the living room, and I give her a play-by-play of everything that happened.
“I was worried sick about you. I heard growling and you scream, and then the line went dead,” Jen says.
“Ethan warned me not to go out tonight,” I say.
“You didn’t get bit, did you?”
“Relax, I’m fine.”
There is a long, awkward silence. The kind of silence where neither one of you really knows how to bring up a topic—so you sit there waiting for it to come up all by itself—but it doesn’t.
“I guess I need to get back before my dad realizes I snuck out and took his car,” Jen says.
“I guess. Unless there’s anything else you think we need to talk about?”
Jen arches an eyebrow at me.
“It’s not like I haven’t figured it out,” I say.
She leans close to me, her eyes staring deep into mine. “Tell no one.”
“You can trust me,” I say.
“It’s dangerous.”
“Mums the word.” I zip my lips.
“Okay. Want to see something?” she says, with a glimmer.
I nod.
Jen takes my hands and closes her eyes. A rush of energy flows into our palms, growing in warmth. It feels electric. One of Jake’s empty beer cans wiggles and rattles on the coffee table. After a moment, the crinkled can lifts and rises into the air. Then another can. Followed by another, and another. Soon, a swarm of empty beer cans and tiny, empty, airplane bottles of whiskey hover in the air. They swirl around, orbiting Jen and I, like planets circling the sun.
“Neat trick,” I say.
The cans crash to the ground clanking and pinging off the coffee table.
“Let’s see you do it?” Jen says.
“I’m not a witch,” I say.
“Come on smarty pants. Let’s see what you can do.”
“I don’t know the first thing about this.”
“Focus,” Jen says. “Lift the cans with your mind, just as if you were picking them up with your hand. Draw from the energy around you.”
“How?”
“Just try one can,” Jen says.
“Fine.” I glance around at the scattered cans and bottles, picking one. I close my eyes, and think about the can. Nothing happens. My face tenses and I feel like I’m going to burst a blood vessel in my head, trying to will the can to rise. But it doesn’t budge.
“Not as easy as it looks,” Jen says, smugly.
Now I’m frustrated, and my competitive spirit is starting to get the best of me.
“Just relax,” Jen says. “Don’t expel energy. Draw it in from your surroundings, like inhaling air.”
I wiggle my shoulders and shake the tension from my muscles. I close my eyes again, concentrating on the can. I breathe deep, and imagine my body drawing in the energy of my surroundings. My body tingles, and I feel a radiating glow. When I finally open my eyes, Jen is staring at me, slack jawed.
The beer can is floating in the air, along with a whiskey bottle. I glance around and see
that all of the cans and bottles are suspended in the air.
“You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” Jen says.
“Why not? You just told me how to do it.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be able to,” she says. “I was just messing with you.”
With my mind, I gently lower the cans and bottles.
“It took me six months to learn how to do that,” Jen says.
“Beginners luck,” I say. “What else can you do?”
“I’m not giving away anymore of my tricks.”
“Oh, come on. What am I going to do with them?”
Jen sighs, giving in. “Do you think I’m really that good of a makeup artist?”
“I knew it!”
“I’m apparently not too good with protection spells. My car wasn’t supposed to get so much as a scratch.”
“You put a spell on your car?” I ask.
“You think I’d drive that fast and crazy without one?”
“At least you walked away from it.”
“True,” she says.
“Who all knows about your little gift?”
“You and me,” Jen says.
“What about your parents?”
“Clueless.”
“So, they’re not…?” I ask.
“No. Think of it like a recessive gene. It may skip generations. And some people who have the gift, may never cultivate it.”
“How do you cultivate it?” I ask, intrigued.
Jen arches an eyebrow at me, like I’m encroaching on her territory.
“Jen, come on.”
“It’s like a muscle. You work it out. And I’ve got a personal trainer, so to speak. And no, I’m not going to tell you who it is.”
“Who?” I ask.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“So I’m told,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“All things happen at the time they were meant to happen,” she says.
“So, you’re saying I was meant to get attacked by werewolves tonight?”
“Well, you know what they say about playing with fire.”
“How am I playing with fire?” I ask.
“Ethan is pretty damn hot!” Jen says, lasciviously.
“Should I be worried about you two?”
“Don’t worry. He’s not my type,” Jen assures me.
“Since when is hot not your type?”
“Witches and werewolves always end badly. The only thing worse is vampires and werewolves. That’s a recipe for disaster,” Jen says.
“How so?”
“Besides the obvious reasons, a werewolf bite is fatal to a vampire. And vice versa. Can you imagine having mad passionate vampire sex? And in the throes of passion, your urge for blood overwhelming, you bite down a little too hard and kill your lover?”
“I’ve never…”
Jen’s eyes grow wide and her jaw drops. “What?”
“I’ve never… you know…”
“Done it?” Jen asks, astounded.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Wow.”
“What? Is it that shocking?” I ask.
“Little bit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin!”
“Unless someone needs a ritual sacrifice,” she says.
I furrow my brow at her.
“I’m kidding. There’s nothing wrong with your choice. You should stay a virgin as long as you want. Just not so long that you’re too old for anybody to want to do it with you.”
“I think I’ve got time,” I say.
“That’s how it happens. One day, you’re young and hot. The next day, you’ve got 37 cats.”
“I’m allergic to cats.”
“See.” Jen’s eyes light up. “So, you think Ethan is the one?”
“Come on, I haven’t even thought about it.”
“Right,” She says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Every girl in Haven Hill is thinking about that with him.”
“There are other, more important things besides sex,” I say.
“Says the virgin.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, how many times have you done it?”
“We’re talking about your sex life, or lack thereof, not mine.” She grins.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“You know, I can put a spell on you and make you talk about it.”
“Why don’t you do something useful and help me figure out who these werewolves are that attacked me?”
“I need an item. A possession. A lock of hair,” Jen says.
“A drop of blood?” I ask.
Jen’s eyes light up with gleeful anticipation.
“Blood is even better,” she says.
It just so happens that we have some. The 2x4 from the railing, the one with the rusty nail embedded—the one that I stabbed into the wolf’s head.
We grab the plank from the yard and bring it back inside. I clear off the coffee table so Jen can work her magic, literally. Jen pulls out her grimoire from her purse, flipping through the pages. It’s the same leather bound book I saw her take from her locker.
“You have a book of spells?” I ask.
“Every witch has one. Magic isn’t one size fits all. You can’t just look up a spell on the internet and expect it to work. It’s personal. A powerful witch writes her own spells.”
“How do you write a spell?”
“First, be sure your intention is clear. What do you want to accomplish? Then, decide on the ingredients.”
“Ingredients?” I ask.
“All power comes from the universe. What elements are you going to use to empower your spell? Earth, air, fire, water. We can symbolize these with herbs, stones, candles, liquids—whatever. Pick things that have meaning to you.”
“Does every spell need elements?”
“No two spells are the same. Some work fine with just an incantation. Sometimes you might want to perform the spell on a particular day, or during a particular season, or phase of the moon, if it’s relevant,” Jen says.
“How do you write an incantation?”
“You relax. Focus on your intention. Then write a poetic couplet that embodies that intention.”
“Then what?” I ask.
“Then you see if it works.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then you rework it,” she says. “But be careful how you word it and what you wish for. The universe has a sense of humor. Sometimes you get exactly what you ask for, which may not always be what you want.”
Jen references her grimoire, then writes a version of the spell on a piece of paper. Then she scrapes the crusty crimson blood from the nail. The shavings fall onto the paper where Jen has written the spell:
So that I may see the truth
I offer this blood as the proof
By fire, secrets be unsealed
In burning flame identity revealed.
Jen pulls out a pouch of herbs, a candle, and a stone from her purse, and sets them on the table. She won’t tell me what the herbs are. She sprinkles a dash of the herbs onto the paper along with the shavings of dried blood. Then she folds the paper in half.
Jen lights the candle, then takes the stone in her palm. She instructs me to take her hand, covering my palm around the top of the stone. “I’ve got to warn you, this probably isn’t going to work,” she says. “I’m not very good with these kinds of spells. The key is that you and I have to be on the same page with our intention.”
She squeezes my hand, the smooth stone in between our palms. Jen takes the folded paper containing the items and hovers it above the flame. We chant the spell, like a mantra, over and over and over again. She dips the paper into the flickering flame, igniting with a flurry of sparks. The paper burns in shifting hues of green, then purple, then blue.
Jen drops the blazing paper into a bowl. Engulfed in flames, sparkling embers rise. A green plume of smoke hovers in the air. We keep repeating the mantra. I fo
cus my mind on revealing the identity of the werewolf.
Our chanting grows quicker and more intense. The stone between our palms radiates warmth. Amidst the wafting smoke, an image begins to appear. Blurry at first, but growing sharper and more defined with each passing moment. My eyes grow wide, shocked that this is actually working. I glance to Jen, and I think she’s equally surprised.
Through the wavy wisps of smoke, I see the wounded werewolf staggering through the forest. The vision plays like snippets of time. Moments, here and there. Sometimes linear, sometimes not. Some images are more defined, some images are a shadowy suggestion.
The beast collapses and transforms back into a man. Lying face down in the leaves, blood trickling down his naked body, the man staggers to his feet. He clutches his wound, blood oozing between his fingers.
He has dark hair, but I can’t see his face. He staggers his way through the forest, weaving among the trees. He is moving toward a figure in the distance. Jen and I stare into the smoke with fervent attention, trying to make out a recognizable feature of the man. But it’s like watching a hazy dream that doesn’t totally makes sense. As the man draws closer to the figure, he kneels down, submissive. The figure comes into view—a woman. We watch these nameless, faceless characters interact. From the woman’s body language, I can tell she is not pleased.
My eyes squint, straining to see into the hazy smoke. I lean in closer. Just as the faces are about to be revealed, the smoke dissipates and the vision fades.
Jen and I both slump with despair.
“I told you, I’m not very good with these kinds of spells.”
CHAPTER 21
I’M DROWNING. THE surface of the water is just above me, but I can’t get there. I’m pulling and kicking as hard as I can, but I can’t break through. My chest tightens and my head feels like it’s going to explode. Carbon dioxide builds up in my blood, and I just want to suck in a deep breath. The corner of my vision darkens. The world closes in around me. My lungs ablaze, begging for oxygen. I keep clawing to get to the surface, but my extremities grow weak. I’m so lightheaded, I’m on the verge of consciousness.
This is the moment when my brain says screw it, it’s either breathe or die. But my brain hasn’t fully taken into account the fact that there isn’t any air. My brain decides to go through the motions anyway. An involuntary response. As my consciousness fades, I inhale a huge breath. Water pours into my lungs and I choke. You know the feeling when you swallow water and it goes down the wrong pipe? Imagine that times a thousand.
