When Melinda opens the door, it’s evident by her wardrobe that she has no idea tonight was supposed to be special. She’s wearing a long, fluffy pink bathrobe. It’s actually really cute and something Jess would covet, but not appropriate attire for a woman on a date. However, it is appropriate attire for a woman with the flu.
“Oh, Louis,” Melinda says, her voice rough and nasally. “Didn’t you get my text?”
Awkwardly, Louis steps back when Melinda doesn’t immediately allow him entry into her home. The light from the half-moon is strong, and it shines on Louis, creating a soft halo around his head, not perfectly angelic, but as close as a man can get.
“No . . . I . . .” he stammers. “Are you sick?”
Physically? Probably not. Mentally? Absolutely!
“I have the flu,” she says. “Came over me this morning. I’m so sorry, but I have to cancel our date.”
Ever the gentleman, Louis has a substitute option for whatever out-on-the-town plans he had for them.
“That’s all right. I can stay and make you my world-famous chicken soup,” he says. “Well, it’s Weeping Water famous anyway, a local favorite. I haven’t posted the recipe online, though Arla keeps telling me I should make videos of me cooking and put them on the Internet. She thinks I could be ‘Cop Chef’ and have a huge following.”
Arla pokes me in the arm and mouths the words “I really do,” giving testimony to her father’s rambling.
Unfortunately, Melinda isn’t a foodie.
“I’m sorry, I’m not up for any company,” she says, clutching the collar of her bathrobe.
Even though he doesn’t have much experience dating, Louis is perceptive enough to deduce by her body language that there is no way he is getting lucky or anywhere near her tonight. The bad news is that we aren’t either.
Our plan was to sneak into the house before they left for their date, swipe Melinda’s cell phone, and text Winston to rush over for a rendezvous. When he showed up and saw Louis with her, we assumed nature would take its course, and Louis would discover that Melinda was two-timing him. Her sudden sickness hasn’t just ruined Louis’s evening; it’s ruined ours too.
Then again, maybe not.
After Louis drives away I feel a flutter in my stomach; could be optimism, could be a premonition. Whatever it is it’s enough to convince me the night will not be a total loss.
Stepping onto the front lawn, I look up and see that, despite the January chill, one of the upstairs windows is partially open. I walk closer to the curb, and the glow of the half-moon is strong enough for me to see into the room, just as Melinda enters. Naked and carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine. Why not let the cold in when Winston Lundgarden is already lying on your bed waiting to warm you up? The evening has become gross and fortuitous at the same time.
“This is perfect!” I whisper-shout to Arla and Archie after rejoining them in the bushes. When I tell them what I just saw, they don’t share my opinion that I’ve witnessed perfection.
“How can this be perfect?” Archie asks. “The plan is ruined.”
“And those two are going to have old people sex right above us,” Arla adds.
Sometimes my Wolf Pack is as sharp as a flock of lost sheep.
“If we’re grossed out by just thinking about it,” I say, “how do you think Louis is going to feel when he sees the two of them in action?”
Arla’s jaw drops, and her head shakes. “Dominy, you are a brilliant werewolf.”
A truer compliment was never spoken.
“Archie,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Okay, so my Wolf Pack isn’t always shrewd, but they are snarky, which is sometimes a lot more fun.
“Did you bring your lock-picking apparatus like I asked you to?”
“No, ma’am.”
Now my Wolf Pack is just plain disobedient.
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t need to break into their house when my boyfriend gave me a key.”
Arla’s jaw drops again. “Archie! Have you snuck in before to, you know, have your own private meetings?”
“I do not kiss and tell, Arla,” Archie says, which actually makes us both sigh with relief. “But since we did a lot more than kiss . . .”
“Quiet!” I shout more than whisper. “Our time is limited, and we need to spend it exposing the truth behind Mrs. Jaffe’s sex life and not Archie’s.”
Following Archie up to the front door, Arla whispers in his ear. “I want to hear every single detail about your Napol-erendezvous when this is all over. Deal?”
“Deal.” Archie grins.
Once inside the Jaffe living room, we keep the front door slightly ajar in case we have to make a quick escape, but we’re not greeted by anyone, and the rest of the house is silent. I look at my fellow break-in artists and bring my finger up to my lips so they keep quiet. I’m reminded of the many times my father used this signal on me, but instead of feeling depressed, the reminder energizes me. I’m following in his footsteps and being proactive just like he always tried to be.
Using my enhanced hearing I can hear sounds coming from the basement. It’s only the TV, but that means someone is down there. Upstairs I hear soft classical music, strings of some sort, maybe violins, but since I know very little about classical music that’s as specific as I can get.
When I see a cell phone amid a pile of magazines on the coffee table, I’m certain it’s Melinda’s. Nadine and Napoleon are witches, but they’re also teenagers, so I’m pretty certain they have their phones on them or nearby at all times. When I notice that the phone isn’t password protected I’m certain; it has got to belong to an adult.
Deftly scrolling through her contacts, I find Louis’s name and type in a text, then press Send. As expected, he immediately responds, and I reply. I place the phone down on the mountain of magazines and turn to Arla and Archie.
“Our work here is done.”
“What did you tell him?” Arla asks.
Shaking my head, I motion toward the door just as I hear creaks in the house; sounds like someone’s coming up from the basement. Whoever was walking up the stairs changed his or her mind, but our situation hasn’t changed—this conversation needs to be held outside and pronto before we’re caught.
Scrambling quietly outside, I make sure that the door is kept unlocked, and then we resume our hiding spots in the dense bushes lining the front of the house. The space is small and a bit more claustrophobic now that our adrenalin rush has shifted from excited to nervous, but we have no other choice; we have to stay. We set this plan into motion; we have to watch it unfold. And Arla wants to know exactly what my text is unfolding.
“Tell me, Dom,” she demands. “What text did you send to my father?”
“Just three little words, actually three little numbers,” I clarify. “911.”
“You are a brilliant werewolf, Dom!” Archie whispers loudly. “Using cop-speak to lure a cop to the scene of a crime.”
Louis is lured faster than we thought. This time when he pulls up in front of the house, he’s followed by two squad cars. Oops, I hadn’t expected that. I had thought his devastation would be private, known only by him, Melinda, and Winston; I never thought he’d have to share it with his entire squad. The way the color is peeling off of Arla’s brown skin, I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. I clasp her hand and hope that she understands public humiliation is a much better fate than what happened to the first Mr. Melinda Jaffe.
We huddle close together so we’re not seen when Louis and several police officers race up the front steps, their heels hushed by the light coating of snow on the ground. After a slight hesitation during which Louis checked to see if the door was unlocked, they then disappear into the house.
Maybe we should leave now. Maybe this isn’t something that we should witness. Maybe it’s too late.
“Awkward!”
I don’t recognize the voice floating down from the upstairs window. Must b
e one of the newer members of the police force. But a few seconds later I hear a more familiar voice on the front steps.
“I said can it, Gallegos!”
It’s Detective Owenski. My father said he was one of the most loyal men on the force, too gruff and unmotivated to want to be anything more than the excellent cop he is. Seems like he’s transferred the loyalty he once had for my father onto the new chief of police.
“But, O, come on,” Gallegos retorts. “Catching his girlfriend in bed with another guy with his backup as an audience?! Can’t get any more awkward than that.”
“And if you say another word about it in front of the chief or behind his back,” Owenski replies, “you’ll be transferred so far away from this town, you’ll need a map to get back. Understood?!”
From where I’m hiding I can see Gallegos’s feet shuffle from side to side on the sidewalk; his body is fighting the urge to say more. Luckily for him, his good sense wins out, and he answers his superior the way his superior wants him to answer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Owenski grunts. “Now let’s get out of here and give the chief some space.”
Underneath the roar of their cars speeding away, I hear Arla mutter, “What have we done?”
Archie answers before I can speak the words. “We ruined your dad’s reputation, but we just saved his life.”
Actually, Louis might have needed some help securing his mortality, but he has no problem defending and upholding his reputation. The more I get to know him, the more I realize what a good man he is.
“Save it, Melinda,” he says.
I can’t see his face—he’s standing with his back to us—but I can hear his voice clearly. It’s like a slab of concrete with only a slight crack in its exterior, wounded, but still strong.
“But, Louis,” she replies, her throaty voice making the most out of the foreign pronunciation of the name. “You know how I feel about you, and I know how I make you feel. Let’s forget this ever happened and move on. I promise you won’t regret it.”
I don’t know why I’m disgusted; I don’t know why I expected her to have more shame and not try once more to seduce Louis. I guess I thought she’d have a little more respect for herself and her ex-boyfriend and be honest. Louis’s self-respect might have taken a hit tonight, but not enough for him to misplace it altogether.
“I was already betrayed by a woman,” he asserts. “I swore to myself it would never happen again.”
And then Louis proves he knows how to twist a knife as easily as Melinda has proven she knows how to stab a man in the back.
“Have fun with the old man,” he shouts at her, just before jumping into his car and driving off.
Melinda’s about to have fun, but not at all the kind Louis had imagined. “How’s the view from the bushes?” she asks.
Snagged! Dammit, we didn’t include getting caught as part of our plan. Or an escape route. Listening to my instinct, I come up with a plan that isn’t necessarily original, but hopefully will work. “Run!” I scream.
Following my orders, Archie and Arla start to sprint away from the house, but Arla stops short when she sees Luba appear out of what she thought was the night. A foot behind her, Archie stops only when he crashes into Arla, causing them both to fall onto the grass. Being so close to ugliness would make the bravest souls cower, so I understand when Archie and Arla grab onto each other to combine their strength. If I were alone, caught between evil and her daughter-in-law, I would fight back, confident that I would survive, come out scathed, but alive. However, standing behind my two friends, I’m not willing to take that chance. I can’t risk their lives, so we’ll just have to deal with the consequences of being caught behind enemy lines and think of another plan that will set us free before Luba and Melinda decide to teach us a permanent lesson for trespassing.
“Would you three come inside?” Melinda asks. “I hate giving the neighbors a free show.”
I don’t know what’s more gross, staring at Luba’s emaciated body or watching Winston wiggle back into his pants. The phrase “the clothes make the man” has never been truer. Beneath the fashionable exterior lies a body that’s pasty and hairy and wobbly. I don’t have a crush on Louis like Jess and Arla had on my dad, but I’ve seen him without his shirt on at pool parties and the annual Policeman’s Picnic near the lake, and his body is superior to Winston’s in every way. Even Louis’s face, though bruised and banged up a bit, has charm and kindness and character; all Winston’s face has going for it is that it’s wrinkle-free. And it’s not smooth enough to make a person forget the bumpy and overgrown landscape below his neck. How Melinda can look at him without his clothes on is beyond me.
When he’s finally dressed, as if on cue, Nadine enters the room from the basement. I didn’t hear her walk up the stairs, so she was either waiting patiently for Winston to finish dressing or she floated up the stairs. Now that I know a bit more about her personality, I’m sure it was the former. The girl’s a sneak, not a showoff.
“I thought I overheard more masculine voices,” she says. “Was there a man here?”
“Winston is as close to a man as we’re going to get in this house,” her mother scoffs. “But you should be kinder. He serves us very well.”
He may serve, but he’s not happy about it. His mask-like face morphs into an undeniable scowl that no restraint could hide. If Melinda and her daughter notice, they don’t respond. Most likely scenario is that they do notice; they simply don’t care. Winston, like Louis, is nothing more than a pawn, a plaything.
“Sorry, Mother,” Nadine replies, without a trace of sorry in her voice. “But you know what I think of him and that old cadaver receptionist at The Retreat.”
“Essie’s done nothing to you!” I shout. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I have to defend my friend. I never expect Winston to piggyback onto my defense.
“If it weren’t for my special relationship with Essie,” Winston brags, “there’s no way we could have kept Luba’s presence at The Retreat quiet.”
“Calm down, Winston,” Melinda says, stroking his cheek with her fingernail. “Essie has played an important role in keeping Mother’s whereabouts secret.”
“Yes, she has,” Winston replies, shivering slightly.
“She has, however, outlived her purpose,” Melinda adds.
“No!” Both Winston and I scream at the same time. He because Melinda’s drawn blood and me because I can’t believe I have more regard for human life when I’m covered in fur and devouring dead rabbits than these people have while walking upright. How could they have become this way? How could they have become so apathetic and malicious and bloodthirsty? And how can one man be so narcissistic?
“My face!” Winston cries. “I’m going to need stitches.”
“Seriously, Winston,” Melinda sighs. “Be a man.”
“Enough tittle-tattle,” Luba hisses. “How shall we handle the intruders?”
Walking past us, her rancid smell now overwhelming, Nadine acts as if we’re not even there. She grabs one of the magazines from the pile and flops down onto the couch, whipping past page after page, not even taking in the pictures. Correction, she is a show-off; she wants us to think that she isn’t interested in what just happened here.
“So did these three buffoons bust up your relationship with Scarface?” Nadine inquires.
“Shut up!”
I grab Arla’s arm and roughly pull her back before she can back up her comment with a punch. Standing up for your parent is one thing; getting yourself killed over it is another.
The left side of Nadine’s mouth rises just slightly, the only physical indication that she’s heard Arla’s order. However, the girl knows way more than she’s indicating.
“Let me guess,” she begins. “Wolf Pack channeled their inner Scooby Gang and played teen detectives to let Scarface know Mommie Dearest is cheating on him with Winnie the Pasty Pooh, and they did it by picking the lock to the front door so they could
get in here—the same way they picked the lock to my locker to hide my clothes and get a peek at my birthmark.”
“You knew we staged that?” I ask, honestly surprised.
Tossing the magazine onto the cushion next to her, Nadine crosses her legs and looks at me. Her smirk turns into a full-blown smile. “You people must be as dumb as Caleb to think I’m actually that stupid.”
This time Arla has to hold me back so I don’t attack Nadine. I don’t utter a word, but just the fact that Nadine has once again insinuated that she and Caleb are close infuriates me. It’s all I can do to restrain myself and not teach her a lesson in keeping her hands off of my boyfriend. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes I wish I could become a wolf at will!
“Jokes on you, Witchipoo!” Archie shouts. “We didn’t pick the lock; Napoleon gave me the key!”
Love is not only blind; it’s dumb too. How could Archie possibly think offering up that tidbit would be a good thing? It’s not good for us, and it’s definitely not good for his boyfriend.
“Oh really,” Melinda says. She raises her chin so the lamplight catches her profile. It doesn’t create a halo around her like the moonglow did to Louis, but instead it accentuates all her features. Unfortunately for me, it highlights her nose, the one characteristic she shares with my mother. It’s delicate and soft and sophisticated, nothing like the voice that erupts from her throat. “Napoleon!!!”
“Yes, mother.”
I don’t know if Nap was watching us from the hallway, but he instantly appears. When I look at him, his guarded expression drops long enough for me to see his true nature. He might have been born with the mark of the devil, but he’s not like the rest of his family. We might need to protect Archie from him, but it’s not because of what he would do to Archie; it’s because of what his family would do if they knew Nap would prefer to live a life with Archie, away from this witchcraft and this vile energy and the immoral actions, separate from this so-called triumvirate as they do the bidding of Orion, the hunter. Napoleon’s only fault is that he’s weak, and weakness in the presence of black magic is a fatal flaw.
Sunblind Page 25
