“Erin?” I took a deep breath for fortitude. “Could you take me to see Mac’s—Roger’s—grave before I leave?” I forced myself to raise my gaze from the floor and look at her. The action was nearly my undoing: her face worked for a moment and water glimmered in her eyes. Her tears echoed the ones I blinked back furiously.
“Of course, dear. Of course.” She nodded, then nodded again, and reached out to pat me on the shoulder.
So after lunch, Erin took me and Carson to the cemetery. Greybull Cemetery was a heavily-irrigated patch of green amidst the varicolored Wyoming soils. The manicured lawn sprouted shade trees at regular intervals. Behind the trees, plains stretched out to rocky hills where gentle layers of color clearly traced geologic ages in grayish black, white, red, and purplish gray. Tombstones rose from the lush grass, echoing the exposed hills standing out from brush in the distance. Most of the stones were pale gray, like bones, like sand, with a few hewn out of sparkling black or red granite.
Erin parked the car near the main entrance. I settled Carson in his sling and followed her silently through the stones. I looked at them in passing. Names, dates, phrases of love and blessing.
We crossed a path into a different section of the graveyard.
Erin said, “This is where we bury pack.”
I looked at her, but didn’t say anything.
Moments later, I halted at the sight of BLYTHE on a stone one row over. At my involuntary noise, Erin followed my gaze and said, “Yes, that’s Dave’s parents.” She nodded and we stepped through the graves together.
We paused in front of the graves for a few moments. I wondered who had chosen the inscription: “May Death Be Gentle, May Love Be Strong, May Time Heal All.” Carson squawked, protesting my lack of movement and startling me out of my thoughts.
“Okay. I’m ready,” I said. Erin nodded, and we set out again.
“Dotty, that’s Dorothy, Dave’s mom; she was one of my best friends since grade school. Roger and Tony—her oldest, Dave’s brother—played together since Roger was born; Tony was three years older. They were friends—well, as friendly as two boys can be when they are so competitive, especially after Roger manifested first and so young. Tony didn’t change until he was twelve, though he is a full moon. Was. Is. I wonder if we’ll ever know. Some who go wolf manage to find their way back.”
“Did you…did you know about the affair?” I asked.
“What? No. No. That was one secret she kept from me,” Erin said. After a moment, she continued. “Dave and Ian have always been close. Dave was so bitter after…well, after everything. He blamed it all on his mom’s lover, the human. Easier than blaming his parents, I suppose.”
“Here.” Erin gestured ahead to a tombstone standing in the shade of a juniper tree.
I stopped cold, as if caught in a trap. Carson chortled and started to suck on one chubby fist while he waved the other one wildly at the dancing branches. I took a deep breath to steady myself, then another. Erin stood silently and allowed me to approach the grave alone.
Roger Marcus MacGregor. Other than the dates, no other inscription marred the surface, although the gray stone had room. Perhaps, they didn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t. I hoped seeing his tombstone, being here, seeing it carved into stone, would somehow make it real to me. I missed Mac and I kept having horrid visions of him, beheaded, his eyes glazed and fixed on me, and yet…and yet, it still didn’t seem real. Somehow, I thought I should feel something, some release of emotion, but I just felt empty.
I’d thought here, here if anywhere, I would find a sense of communion, of closure.
But the words on the tombstone seemed meaningless. Foreign.
I sank down on the grass, the blades both sharp and soft as my fingers dug into the ground. Mac? My mouth moved without sound.
Carson screamed. I jumped up and whirled around, heart pounding. Erin was right there; she smiled gently at my reaction. Carson started crying in earnest and I realized, no, there wasn’t any danger, just my fussy baby throwing a fit. He cried in that angry way, no tears yet, just scrunched up beet red face and wide-open mouth. Dammit.
I jiggled him and swayed from side to side, trying to recapture—or capture—some connection with Mac. Carson redoubled his vocal efforts. Tears sprang out of his clenched eyes. I loosened him from the sling, attempted various holds, and tried to lay him down on the ground and tempt him with interesting things like grass. No good. He was his most recalcitrant self, and any hope for a moment of healing faded.
I gave up and Erin took us home.
Chapter Nine
Erin and I played with Carson in the living room when the phone rang. Carson was in the midst of tummy time and kept doing that airplane thing where he tensed his strong-man neck and lifted his head, arms, and legs off the floor while balancing on his taut belly. He really concentrated: breath held, eyebrows raised until his forehead looked like a Shar-Pei, arms rigid like a skydiver. After ten seconds or so, he collapsed limply and rested before trying again. He wanted to roll over, but each time got stuck on his own arm and wasn’t able to manage it. Simple, developmental stuff, but Erin and I were wholeheartedly amused by his antics.
Erin left to answer the phone and I heard the nondescript rise and fall of her voice, the homey sound of the oven door as she checked on the cornbread, the clatter of the pot lid as she stirred the chili. After a few minutes, she came back in the room and held the phone toward me.
“It’s Eliza, for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Julie. Listen, if you’re up for it, I’d like to take you to meet a couple of my pack friends. I cleared it with Erin and she’s happy to watch Carson for a while after dinner. I thought you could leave him for two or three hours? If he eats first and maybe even goes to sleep?”
I glanced at Erin, and she nodded in confirmation.
“Okay,” I said after a moment. Erin was his grandmother, after all. I wasn’t used to leaving Carson with anyone, but I suppose I couldn’t ask for a better babysitter.
“Do you think he’ll be safe here?” I directed my question to Erin and, over the phone, to Eliza.
Eliza was decisive. “Yes. Erin and Liam will be there, as well as Ian. Ian’s strong—waxing moon, you know—even though he’s a pup. I doubt our prowler will return, with everyone home, but even if he does, I’m sure Carson will be safe without you.”
Her voice revealed no irony, so I tried to mask my sudden reaction—the bitter knowledge I was unlikely to help in an emergency anyway, as a mere human. Vulnerable, weak, and sans super-senses. Of course, she was right: Carson would be just fine without me.
****
Eliza picked me up in her car, nearly as dented as my poor vehicle after yesterday’s accident. Well, it hadn’t been an accident, but I didn’t really know what else to call it. I dithered a bit on what to wear and, after changing several times, ended up in a jean skirt and a black top with lace at the hems. I’d even brushed on some mascara and lip gloss, as if a bit of makeup would somehow impress the Werewolves I was about to meet. I felt like this was a job interview.
As we pulled out of the long driveway, Eliza shot me an assessing look. “Ready to meet some Weres?”
“I suppose so. I need to be back within three hours, okay?”
“Sure. I thought it would be good for you to talk to learn more about Weres and pack life, since I know you’re thinking through some decisions.”
I shot her a glance, wondering if my bitterness about being human was so visible. Instead of addressing that issue, I tried to lighten the mood. “Decisions? Eliza, no way am I moving to Greybull. I know Liam thinks I should, but I can’t imagine living here.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
I waited a beat to see if she would push. She didn’t add anything, so I pretended I didn’t know what she meant and changed the subject.
“Hey, speaking of learning more about Weres. I wondered what hap
pens to your clothes when you change form? How come they don’t rip apart, like in the movies?”
Eliza laughed. “I don’t know. They just don’t.”
“But how does it work? Surely someone knows.”
“Julie, it’s not rocket science. It’s magic. It just works—I don’t have an explanation.”
“Huh. Magic, but somehow genetic.” I thought for a moment and followed up on her unsatisfying answer. “Okay, so if you change into a wolf and then go swimming, when you change back, are your clothes wet?”
“Yes.”
“If you have things in your pockets? Or jewelry?”
Eliza started to sound exasperated. “You’ve seen me change with jewelry. It’s just like anything else we wear. And anything inside the clothes stays right where it was.”
“That’s so…weird.”
“You discover the existence of Werewolves and the weird part is what happens to our clothes?”
“Well. Yes.”
We drove down the same two-lane highway where my car had been forced off the road yesterday and I scrutinized the brush closely, trying to find the exact spot. It all looked the same, though, especially in the evening’s dim light.
“We already passed it,” Eliza said. “The spot where you were, about a mile and a half back.”
I glanced backward, then shook myself slightly and settled back into the seat. I thought about asking if she smelled or saw the traces of the accident, but then didn’t bother. Probably both.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
“The Snakebite. It’s a bar in town.”
We neared Greybull—such as it was—and Eliza dutifully slowed to obey the speed limit. At the second stoplight, she turned left off the main drag, drove two blocks, and then parked. The Snakebite must be a popular place because the otherwise deserted street was lined for a block and a half; there was also a small parking lot full of assorted cars and pickup trucks.
“These aren’t all—” I stopped momentarily, letting two guys in cowboy hats pass us on the sidewalk. I lowered my voice and started again. “These aren’t all pack, are they?” I gestured to the parked cars, the two cowboys now entering the Snakebite, and the whole area.
“No.”
“Okay.” Then how could we talk about anything important without being overheard? I pushed my curls behind my ears, brushed imaginary dust off my skirt, and followed Eliza into the bar.
The inside of the Snakebite looked like one of those surreal drawings where the stairs went every direction at once. Really, it did. I stood in the door for a moment, blinking and trying to gain perspective on the place. The building was open to the top of its three stories without one main space; instead, tables and chairs ranged on many-leveled terraces interconnected by flights of stairs and catwalks. My first thought was the layout must be hellacious for the waitstaff, but then I noticed the higher platforms had pulley-systems to raise and lower buckets. As I watched, a barmaid loaded a bucket with five bottles of beer and a cocktail: she slotted the bottles and glass into some sort of insert, then tilted her head back and called, “Order up” as she jiggled the rope. Above the general din, I heard a bell ring as it jangled near the platform’s edge. A customer at the top gave a wave, pulled on the rope, delivered the drinks safely, and resumed his conversation.
Thank goodness safety rails lined the walks and platforms, my second thought. Otherwise, I foresaw the need for lots and lots of liability insurance to cover all the drunken pratfalls. Emphasis on falls.
Only after I comprehended the general layout and system of the Snakebite did I turn my attention to its décor. If it’s possible to consider massive, dead, stuffed animals décor. Which it might be, in Wyoming. Somehow affixed to the railing of the highest platform was an entire bighorn sheep, its white body a bit worse for wear due to the pall of smoke in the air. Elk, moose, pronghorn antelope, and mountain lions: their fixed eyes glinted from around the room, a litany of Wyoming wildlife. Driving across the state, I’d been shocked at the herds of pronghorn jumping through brush and leaping across the highway—well, it seemed like most of them had ended up here. The main bar of the Snakebite occupied a front and center position twenty paces from the door, predictably covered in dead rattlesnake skins. The snakes were tacked up so their rattles hung down like some kind of fringe, right above the bartender’s head.
Eliza watched me absorb the surroundings with amusement. “Some bar, huh?”
“That’s for sure.” I shook my head. “If it weren’t for all the dead animals, this could be a trendy bar in a big city; one with bouncers and a roped off VIP entrance. I didn’t expect to find something like this here in Greybull.”
“But the taxidermy makes it all Wyoming,” Eliza said.
“I guess so.” I made another mental note never to move to Wyoming. In case I was likely to forget and need an extra reminder. Dead, eviscerated, and re-stuffed animals with creepy glass eyes? Definitely not my style.
“This way.” Eliza gestured to a middle-level platform on the left side of the bar. I followed her gaze and saw a four-top table with two people watching us. As we threaded our way through the bar, I tried to act nonchalant and observe the two Weres without seeming to. The woman had shoulder-length light brown hair and long bangs pushed off to one side. She wore a navy tank top layered over a gray tank; the cut of the tanks emphasized her broad shoulders, even though I didn’t think she’d be that tall when she stood. Her fellow Were was very handsome with short hair slightly spiked with gel and wide-set eyes, both nearly black. As we approached, he smiled to reveal startling white teeth, especially next to his olive complexion. He looked like he should star on a soap opera or a toothpaste commercial.
After preceding me up the stairs, Eliza skirted the table to the side and put her hand on my arm.
“Julie, this is Alyssa and Brian. Guys, this is Julie,” she said.
“Hi,” I said and forced my hands to stop fidgeting with the lace at the bottom of my shirt.
“Hi, Julie, Eliza. Have a seat.” Alyssa pulled out the chair next to her. This close, I saw her hair still bore dual impressions of a hat brim and a ponytail holder. She was very tan—her skin sun-kissed and rosy on her shoulders—and her eyes crinkled up as she smiled.
Eliza sat next to Alyssa, and I took my place on the other side with Brian.
“So.” Brian turned to me and I saw his dark red t-shirt had a space ship printed on it. “You’re the mother of this extremely strong four-month-old full moon wolf we’ve heard about.”
“Yes. You can’t be more surprised than I am,” I said.
Alyssa cut Brian off. “What do you want to drink, Julie? Eliza?”
Noting the two Weres already had bottles of beer in front of them, I said, “Beer is fine,” and Eliza agreed.
Brian grabbed a little notepad and pen chained to the table, just like those pens in banks. He jotted something down, ripped off a piece of paper, folded it, dropped it in our bucket, and lowered it. When it reached the ground, he rang our bell and a waitress hurried over. Eliza and Alyssa made small talk while we waited for the beers. Brian pulled them up a minute later, used the bottle opener hooked to the bucket, and handed them around.
I took a long, cold swallow. Then I remembered I was still on a pretty heavy-duty dose of ibuprofen, legacy of the car accident. Whoops. Sorry, liver. But one beer would be okay, right? Right.
“So, you are both pack, both from Greybull?” I asked. I had a zillion and one questions about being a Were, but somehow none of them sprang to mind.
“I’m a half moon,” said Brian, “and Alyssa’s a crescent.”
Crescent. I mentally recited the classifications: full, waxing, half, waning, crescent. Alyssa was one of the weakest werewolves and Brian average. Okay, this gave me a different perspective than hanging out with the uber-powerful Eliza.
“How old were you when you manifested?” I asked Brian.
“Fourteen,” said Brian, “not early, not late. I’m five yea
rs older than Mac, so he had already turned and it drove us older boys crazy. I was very ready.”
“Julie, you had no idea you had any Were heritage?” Alyssa asked.
“No. Lily, uh, the Full said my Were blood might come from my mother’s side of the family. She was from Ohio, near Cleveland, and apparently there’s a pack in the area.”
“I was a dark moon, too.”
I was in the middle of another sip of beer when Alyssa spoke and nearly caused me to spit cheap American brew all over the table. Instead, I managed to confine myself to choking, getting beer up my nose, and dripping it down my front.
When I stopped coughing, I swallowed several times and wiped my watering eyes.
“You were a dark moon wolf?” I asked, needing absolute clarity. “You changed? You were bitten?”
“Yes.”
I became uncomfortably aware of both Eliza and Brian watching me.
“On purpose? Did you have someone—some Were—bite you on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re a Werewolf?” I asked.
“Yes.” Alyssa’s face was perfectly still. “I’m one of the weakest Weres in our pack. After all the risk and…pain…I can barely call the moon. Although, I do have the other…benefits.” Her voice cast doubt on the last word.
“Pain?”
Alyssa glanced at Eliza and all of a sudden, I realized this was the true purpose of our evening’s jaunt: to make sure I knew what it meant to be a dark moon. What it would mean, to be bitten. I sat up a bit straighter, from either irritation or interest. I wasn’t sure which.
“Go ahead, tell her the whole story.” Eliza leaned back in her chair and sipped slowly from the bottle. I knew her posture was a lie and her attention focused on the conversation; her relaxed stance and casual glances around the bar belied the tension I sensed radiating from her.
Alyssa nodded slowly and took a moment to muster her thoughts. I had the feeling it wasn’t a story she told often, probably because the other Weres had lived through it with her.
“My father is a Were, but my mom’s human. They’ve been married for a long time, since right out of high school, and they’ve always been very much in love—I was always embarrassed the way they carried on, kissing, pet names, and the whole nine yards. My dad didn’t mind his kids wouldn’t be full Weres. He just wanted to be with my mom, no matter what.”
Dark Moon Wolf Page 9
