Starfall

by Michael Griffo

  “That night in the cabin, Nadine tried to kill both you and Napoleon,” I state, forcing my voice to remain calm and flat. “And Jess could only save one of you; she had to make a choice.”

  “She chose me?” Archie asks.

  I nod my head and squeeze his hand tighter; it’s practically twitching because his pulse is beating even quicker.

  “She chose me over Nap?”

  “You were her friend, Archie,” Arla interjects. “She might have dreamt of a life with Napoleon, but she already had one with you, so you were the one she chose to protect.”

  “But she couldn’t protect you completely,” I add.

  “What . . . exactly do you mean?” Archie questions.

  Be simple, Dominy; be straightforward. Talk to Archie the way you wish your father would have talked to you before the curse kicked in. Give him information so he can arm himself against these forces that are trying to take over his soul.

  “Jess infused you with her golden light,” I say, “but . . .”

  “But?” Archie says. “Nothing good ever comes after a but.”

  “But Nadine also infused you with her black energy.”

  He doesn’t say a word, but I know that he gets it. I can see it in his face.

  “So I’m Jessine,” he deduces.

  Maybe he doesn’t get it.

  “I’m part Jess and part Nadine.”

  Nope, he gets it. Just trying to be clever in the face of a personal crisis.

  “I’m half good and half evil; that’s why I’m changing,” he continues. “That’s why I’m fighting all the time and why my hair is changing. I’m just like you, Dom, aren’t I? I’m turning into something else, right?!”

  There is absolutely nothing I can say to Archie except the truth.

  “Yes.”

  Abruptly, Archie rips his hand from mine and stands up. Fists clenched, he starts to pace. My words are rippling throughout his body, bubbling just underneath the surface of his skin. He swipes at the air involuntarily as two lines of tears descend from his eyes, staining his reddened cheeks. He starts to mumble something that I can’t quite make out, but he repeats it over and over, so I finally understand.

  “Make it stop!”

  Oh how I wish I could, Archie, how I wish I could make all of this stop. But wait—he doesn’t want me to take action; he’s talking to someone else.

  “Make it stop!”

  He grabs Arla by the shoulders and shakes her violently. She looks like a rag doll in his hands, and once again I have to pull Archie off of someone before he inflicts permanent damage.

  “Why don’t you talk to me, Napoleon?!” Archie cries. “Why don’t you make this go away?!”

  Now Archie’s kneeling, having slumped to the ground because he can no longer stand, and his fingers are clawing at the grass, pulling up blades and root and dirt. He’s crying and begging Nap to intervene and change things, give him his life back. I can’t blame him for what he’s doing; I did the same thing when I understood what was happening to me. I begged God and Jess and anyone who would listen to lift this curse from my head. It took me a while to realize that no one has that power. Archie has to come to that realization on his own. Right now he simply has to understand that he has to fight.

  “You have to make a choice, Archie,” I instruct.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “What kind of a choice?”

  “Whose side do you want to be on, ours or Nadine’s?” I ask him.

  “You know whose side I want to be on!” he screams.

  “No, Archie, I don’t,” I say. “From the way you’ve been acting lately, you could go either way. Starting right here and now, you have to make a conscious choice before you do something that you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

  Archie turns away from me to lock eyes with Arla. He looks so innocent, and yet I know he’s aged drastically in the last few minutes.

  “So what’s it gonna be, Arch?” I ask. “You want to be on Team Gold or Team Black?”

  Archie hesitates before answering.

  “Team Gold of course,” he finally says.

  I want to bury myself underneath the wolf’s red fur so I can hide, because Archie’s hesitation has told me everything I need to know about my friend’s fate.

  Chapter 11

  To the girl my bedroom feels like a prison cell; to the wolf it’s a waiting room to freedom.

  It feels like only yesterday that I transformed, but tonight the full moon returns. Sometimes it takes forever to arrive; other times it shows up in the blink of an eye. No matter how hard I try to keep track of the moontide, I’m often surprised by its appearance. Thank God I made his and hers moon charts for Caleb and me.

  The sky is already darkening. It isn’t a sheet of navy yet, but a blend of blues, deep indigo and softer cornflower, as if the sky can’t make up its mind if it wants to be day or night. Standing in front of the open window, I feel the same confusion. The girl wants to shut the window, crawl under the covers, and fall into an uninterrupted sleep. The wolf is anxiously waiting for its clue so it can escape. They both know whose dream will come true in a few short minutes.

  Too hyper to stand still and wait, I pull out my father’s green metal box from the top shelf of my closet and place it on my bed. Kneeling before it like it’s some ancient altar, I open the lock with the key that I hide in my underwear drawer, trying to make as little sound as possible. I’ve come to treat the box as if it contains precious cargo, which is the truth, because it contains my last remaining links to my parents.

  Inside is all my father’s wolf paraphernalia, his lunar maps, his notes, all his werewolf mania research. I’ve since added some photos of the two of us and the few rare ones that I found of our entire family. My mother’s immortalized face stubbornly peeks out from underneath my old Timberwolves banner, and I pull out the faded picture to gaze at a past I don’t quite remember. My parents are standing behind Barnaby and me at some country fair. My dad is holding a huge teddy bear that has long since moved away and been reclaimed by a needier child or is simply living in a trash heap somewhere; my mother is holding a stick of cotton candy, the gentle swirls of blue no match for the beauty of her eyes; and Barnaby and me, five and six years old, are smiling, each missing a few teeth, holding hands, happy. We’re a family. No, we were a family.

  I love and hate this photo for the same reason: It’s a reminder of what we had and what we’ll never have again. No matter how hard I try, no matter what the future brings, the four of us can never again be a family, thanks to Luba and the moon that’s starting to take control over the sky.

  Moving quickly, I take off the string bracelet Caleb gave me and place it in the box to keep it safe until daybreak. I’m startled when my cell phone vibrates on the other side of my bed, and when I reach over to grab it, I hit the box, so it tilts over and some of my family’s memories spill out onto the bedspread. So much for maintaining an air of respect and religiosity.

  It’s a text from Caleb—

  Be careful, Jane. The moon is bright tonight.

  My boyfriend has perfect timing. He knows exactly what to say to coax a gigglaugh out of me. Even if I’m gigglaughing at him. He’s taking a poetry interpretation class at Big Red as an English requirement, so his texts are becoming a bit fancified lately. But I guess if he’s going to be my Mr. Rochester, he should adopt flowery speech, and I do love twisted wordplay.

  After typing a quick thank-you, followed by a stream of x’s and o’s, I shut my phone off completely and start to gather the spilled contents of the box and put them back in their sacred tomb. I know I don’t have that much time left, but I’m drawn to my mother’s Little Bo Peep compact. There has to be a reason that it was airlifted to her room at The Retreat: It must contain some sort of a message if it made the cross-dimensional trip on its own; but what exactly was Little Bo trying to tell me? Maybe nothing. She is a wayward shepherdess, so perhaps she was just antsy being cooped up in a box for so long an
d wanted to explore? Opening up the compact, I try to do the same.

  It takes a second for my eyes to focus. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m afraid of what I’m going to see or if it’s because I know I’m going to transform at any moment. I don’t get a ten-second countdown, T minus ten to wolfdom, Ms. Robineau. God forbid the curse would be that accommodating.

  Once my reflection comes into view, I stare at it. Red mane, check. Gray-blue eyes, check. Pale skin, check. My father’s nose, check. A few random, scattered freckles, thankfully no pimples, I’m all there, and yet it looks like something’s missing. Where’s the spark? Where’s the inner light? Where are the smile and the happiness and the joy that I saw in the little girl in the photo with my family? All I see is me. But maybe I’m not being fair; maybe I should check my reflection when I’m not about to have my inner light snatched by a predatory creature, one who devours, one who thrives in the darkness.

  Snapping the compact shut I toss it back into the box, turn the lock, and because I’m running out of time I shove the box underneath my bed with the key still in it. It’s not the smartest thing to do, but I’ve locked my bedroom door; if for some reason Louis has to break it down, I doubt he’s going to check underneath my bed when he sees the window wide open. He’ll simply assume I’ve run away. Which is basically what I do once a month.

  Just as I’m about to crawl out the window, the voices from downstairs distract me.

  “You can’t join us tonight, Barnaby,” Louis informs him. “It’s getting too dangerous.”

  Thanks for the warning, Louis, but that’s news even Lars Svenson would consider old. I’ve already hidden a spare set of clothes deep in the woods, in a part that I usually don’t roam, because I need to start exploring different areas in order to throw my pursuers off track. Funny, the closer they get to me, the closer I get to acting on my own primal instincts. Jess told me once that I have two sets of guts, and it looks like I’m finally listening to both of them.

  I fall to the ground, making only the smallest noise, the earth seemingly bending at my touch, and for a moment I’m in between my house and the moon. I can feel both tugging at me, each trying to claim victory, but right now there’s no competition; the moon will win. Not because the wolf is growing stronger by the second, but because the moon’s lure is growing more attractive to the girl.

  As I stand in the backyard, the moon shines over me and creates a light all around me like reverse shadow. The moon has returned fire and spirit and energy to my body, so the only way to repay its gift is with total surrender.

  I feel the transformation take over while I’m in mid-stride, as I’m running as far from my house as I can, and it’s like I’ve slammed into an invisible wall. Amazing how expected and unexpected the change still is. I know what’s going to happen, I know how my body’s going to react, and yet it shocks me every single time. The exquisite pain, the demoralizing feeling of being overcome, the futile attempt to fight against the inevitable, always come back to me, always rise to the surface of what’s left of the girl. I should be used to these feelings and these responses by now, but I’m not, and suddenly I’m hit with the most beautiful thought, a message of peace coming to me amid all this violence and pain and chaos.

  Maybe the change is still shocking to me because it is truly unnatural; the wolf is a foreign visitor inside the body of the girl and not the other way around like I was starting to think. And maybe the reason I never remember turning back, doing the wolf-to-girl trip, is because that’s the natural order of things. I’m returning to the person I was born to be, the person I’m supposed to be despite cruel attempts to make me think otherwise.

  For the second time tonight I burst into gigglaughs. But this time they’re silent and only in my head because the wolf is already licking its fangs with its saliva-drenched tongue. Good-bye, Dominy; hello, dinner.

  Oddly, even after feeding, I’m still not entirely satisfied. Even though my stomach is full, the smell of the coyote’s flesh still clinging to my fur, I’m restless. Could be because I’m in new territory, deep within Robin’s Park, that neither wolf nor girl has ever explored before. It’s dense and cold and suffocating; the landscape is claustrophobic, perfect for hiding, and even though that’s what I should be doing in case Louis and his makeshift army become brave enough to expand their normal route, I don’t want to blend into the scenery. I don’t want to become part of my surroundings; I want to stand out; I want to be seen and heard.

  I’m not the only one.

  The voices travel to me as both a warning and a promise: Listen, and you will learn. You may not want to know what you’re about to be told, but the information is being offered to you; use it wisely. But first I must act wisely and let this new creature I’ve become, this wolf-girl, act freely.

  I crouch low, my bloated belly dragging against the twigs and the rocks and the rough grass so I can ground my body, camouflage it from the intruders. At the same time, I listen. And what better way to hear two girls talking than to listen with a girl’s ears.

  “I want you to leave.”

  The statement is simple and clear and direct; the tone of Nadine’s voice is anything but. She’s doing her best imitation of lethal Nadine, but sounding more like a little girl lost, frightened because she’s trying to find her way home and there’s something standing in her way—Vera.

  “But, Nadine, I’ve just arrived.”

  The contrast between the two girls is striking, both physically and emotionally, and Nadine is taking a position I’ve never seen her take before, that of victim. Standing a few inches taller than Nadine, Vera now looks like she’s towering over Nadine’s frame. That might have more to do with the fact that Nadine is cowering than it does with Vera’s height, but the image is still impressive and telling. Whatever Vera knows about the Jaffes, Nadine wants it to remain secret. Unfortunately, her tactics at overpowering her frenemy don’t seem to be working.

  “You never should have come here,” Nadine whines. “We all know it was a mistake.”

  A smile slithers across Vera’s face, causing her eyes to semi-close and lengthen as well. Her face takes on the characteristics of a snake.

  “So now you’re speaking for all of us?” Vera asks.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but even I know her question is rhetorical. Nadine, however, is so startled by the comment and its unknown implications that she tries to respond.

  “No, no, I . . . I . . . You know I would never do that.” Nadine stumbles.

  “But, Nadine,” Vera interrupts, “you just said ‘we’; you said ‘We all know it was a mistake.’ ”

  Taking a step toward Nadine, Vera lengthens her body so she seems to grow an inch taller. “You shouldn’t say such things when you know others are listening.”

  Instinctively, I retreat into the brush, hide deeper in the mouth of the woods, but my action is unnecessary. Vera isn’t talking about me. Nadine doesn’t look around; she doesn’t scour the area for an intruder; whoever else may be eavesdropping on their conversation can’t be seen. Its presence, however, is still being felt. And it’s not a presence that’s entirely welcomed.

  Placing her hand on her stomach, Nadine doesn’t absentmindedly rub the protruding mound; she doesn’t lovingly caress the dome that underneath houses her unborn child; she keeps her hand there unmoving and protective and strong. Despite the fear that’s clinging to her voice, her body is still defiant. She knows that whatever thing or person is listening to her words, she may have to defend herself and her child, and she’s ready to strike back if necessary. And despite what I know, it’s an action that is maternal and beautiful and admirable.

  “Don’t twist my words,” Nadine replies. “You and I both know that you don’t belong here.”

  Throwing her shoulders back imperiously, Vera smiles down at Nadine. “Luba may belong here; she is a product of this environment, She who came unto the Land so to speak,” Vera haughtily replies. “But what about you, Nadine? Yo
u may have been born here as well, but now you’re nothing more than a visitor, a passerby.”

  Courage climbs slowly, but steadily up Nadine’s spine. She doesn’t tilt her head back to look up into Vera’s steely gaze, but lifts her eyes to prove that they are equals.

  “You’re wrong, Vera. This is my home, and I do belong here,” Nadine affirms, her voice sounding more like the harsh noise I’ve grown accustomed to. “My whole family belongs here.”

  Pursing her lips, her eyes smiling brightly and lighting up the shadows, Vera waves her index finger at Nadine; she’s a schoolmarm chastising a student for coming late to class. “Now, now, Nadine, you know that’s a lie. Napoleon definitely didn’t belong here, and you saw to it that he went away.”

  Wind sweeps across Nadine’s face, taking with it any lingering strength, and I catch in her expression something new. Not remorse—no, Nadine isn’t human enough to experience that feeling; something closer to dismay. She wonders just for a split second if the murder she committed will be met with anything less than approval. In an instant the wind is gone and so is the questioning thought. It doesn’t matter what anyone else may believe; Nadine is convinced she did the right thing when she took her brother’s life.

  “My brother was never a true part of our family,” Nadine states. “He was always looking for an escape route, and so I gave it to him.”

  “Such sisterly devotion,” Vera says, clasping her hands together. “I wonder if the rest of the world would applaud if word got out about your noble deed? What do you think, Nadine? Is siblingcide celebrated these days?”

  This time there’s no wind that takes away Nadine’s expression, only the wickedness that thrives just beneath her flesh. Her face contorts into a mask of hatred, gnarled and grotesque and honest.