by Carrie Jones
I wipe my hands on my pants. “I’m not completely hopeless, you know.”
He smiles. “I know.”
“I’m also very good at letter writing.”
“And running.”
“True. And I’m stubborn.”
“We’re both stubborn.”
Yanking off my boots, I take a deep breath of the woodsy air and then I stand up.
“Show me where you’re hurt,” I order.
“It’s nothing.”
“Let me see it.”
I walk toward him and he cringes. Really. Big man Nick Colt cringes.
“I’m not going to hurt you, and Betty should be here soon, and the police.” I reach out and move a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. “You’re hot. You might have an infection.”
“I’m always hot.” He shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
“That’s modest.”
He laughs and the movement makes him wince. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
We stare at each other for a moment and then I let my hand rest against his warm cheek. He was out in that storm. He could be really sick. And where the hell are his clothes? And the dog? And how did he get in the house? I don’t want to think about what I’ve been trying not to think ever since I saw the dog fur in the Cooper, but I do. I think about it.
“Nick, you need to trust me. I’m actually quite trustable.”
He swallows. He takes his hand and places it on top of mine, leading it to his covered shoulder.
“I know.”
I shiver. Something inside me surges up and makes me want to run away, but I stay there, steady. “Where are you hurt?”
With a small movement of his arm, he makes the blanket shift off his covered shoulder. I freeze. Competent Zara pretty much vanishes. There’s a bandage there, crusted with blood. The bandage is familiar, too familiar.
My hand jerks away all by itself, but that’s the only part of me that moves. Nick’s eyes stare at me, waiting.
Swallowing, I try to force my fear and confusion somewhere else. It’s all I can do to not stand up and run away. That’s what my mother would do, not me. I am not my mother.
“But . . . ,” I whisper. “That’s impossible. Isn’t it?”
I cock my head, studying the bandage, and then I reach out and rip it off with one quick jerk of my hand. There it is, a puncture wound made by an arrow, already crusted over and healing.
My breath sticks inside my chest.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, I turn my head to meet his eyes. He looks scared and resolute, steady but ready somehow.
The bandage dangles from my fingers as the question leaves my lips. “Nick? What are you?”
. . .
I am so afraid I already know what he is. But he can’t be. My heart seizes up like someone is squeezing it, but no one is. It’s just me, afraid.
Nick closes one eye and turns his head to peek at his wound, then faces me full on.
“Where’d the dog go?” I ask, panicky sounding.
“That wasn’t a dog, Zara,” he says, words whisper strong.
I jerk my head up. “What was it then? A cat? A gerbil? A geriatric hamster?”
He takes my hand. “You’re getting hysterical.”
Jumping away, I point at him. “I am not getting hysterical. I’m making a joke. Why do the good-looking guys never have a sense of humor?”
“Zara . . .” He reaches out toward me.
“That was rhetorical,” I say, stepping away, afraid. The fire crackles and I jump again. The fear of fire is pyrophobia. Ranida-phobia is the fear of frogs, which is just ridiculous. Rectophobia is the fear of rectum or rectal diseases, which is just disgusting.
No more phobias. Real life is scary enough.
“What happened to the dog?” I demand, planting my feet.
“It was a wolf, Zara,” he says. He seems too well-behaved and patient as he shifts in the chair.
Then he stares into my eyes. “And you know what happened to it.”
I grab the poker and move the log over in the fire. Then I push another one in. Sparks and burning embers flutter in the air. My hand slams shut the stove’s glass door.
“Be careful,” Nick says.
“It’s a fire. It’s warm. I like warm.”
The flames lap against the glass panel, “licking it” is how my dad always described that motion. The flame licks at the glass panel. It shifts colors from dark orange to brownish black to a lighter orange and back again.
“Zara,” Nick’s voice licks at me like those flames. Everything in me aches for the promise of that warmth, but nothing, nothing makes sense. Turning to look at him takes all the effort I have. Deep breaths force me to calm down. I can deal with this. I will not be afraid of this.
“Nick?” My voice comes out pleading. He has to tell me that there’s a perfect, logical reason for everything.
“Zara,” he says. “Come here.”
Reaching out his hand, his eyes mingle with sadness for a second, aching and lonely. Teetering forward, I wonder if this is the same arrogant guy I met the first day of school, the guy who seemed so tough and confident. His vulnerability frightens me even more than the implication of the wound on his shoulder.
I take his hand. He pulls me in toward him, gently turning me so I land in his lap.
“I’ll hurt you.”
His voice deepens. “I’m already healing. Look at it.”
The wound tightens up, almost closing as I watch.
“We usually heal fast,” he says.
“We?”
I swallow and search his eyes, but I can’t figure out what I want to see in there.
His eyes stay steady and match his voice. “Shifters.”
“Shifters?”
Almost against my will, I lean into his warm chest.
He nods.
“Okay, what are shifters?”
“Shape shifters. Weres.”
I snort. He sighs.
“I’m serious, Zara.”
“Uh-huh. And what kind of shape shifter are you?”
“Well, I, personally, am a werewolf.”
I laugh and flick a tiny piece of white lint off his bare shoulder. “That’s not very original.”
“I’m not kidding, Zara.” He jostles me a little. “It’s not a prank. Look at my shoulder. Think about the wolf you saved.”
“Dog.”
“Wolf.”
I shudder, remembering the noise the arrow made when I pulled it from the animal’s shoulder. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
He arches an eyebrow. “It’s the same wound.”
“Yours is smaller.”
“That’s because it’s healing.”
I try to stand up but he won’t let me. “I do not want to believe this.”
“But you do.”
I pull away. He lets go. I walk over to the door. A quick flick of the fingers unlocks it. A nice pull opens it up. Wind blows snow inside. The world glows from the snow and the only tracks that I can see are filling with snow already. The only tracks are mine and a dog’s. My hand is grabbing the threshold of the door, bracing me against the wind, against the truth, but I still think I might have to fall down, pass out or something, because this cannot be happening, this cannot be real.
Nick stands behind me. He puts a hand on my waist.
I yank in a breath. The world seems to swirl around me.
“Are you going to faint?” he asks.
I back into him and blurt, “But you’re so cute. Werewolves aren’t supposed to be cute. Vampires are, I think. They are in the movies. But the werewolves are pretty much ugly and they wear leather jackets and are all dirty with these monster sideburns.”
“That’s all you have to say? That I’m cute?” He takes a stray piece of my hair and curls it around his fingers. “Most people faint or shriek or never talk to me again.”
“Have you told a lot of people?”
“Not many.�
�
“Your parents?”
“Yeah, they know.” His face tightens. “It’s genetic.”
“Your dad?”
“Both.”
I nod, thinking for a second and then lifting my hands up to the sides of his body. One hand touches the roughness of the wool blanket. The other hand touches his smooth skin. “Does your shoulder hurt?”
He shakes his head and his hand leaves my chin and moves to the back of my head, cupping it there. “Thank you for taking the arrow out.”
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm down. I’m really not sure if I am more freaked about the fact that he’s telling me he’s a werewolf or that his lips are so close. “I save people who think they’re werewolves every day, didn’t you know?”
“No,” he says, leaning in. “I didn’t.”
His eyes are so beautiful and dark and they do look like that dog’s—I mean, that wolf’s. They are kind and strong and a little bit something else and I like them. I like them a lot. No, I like them way too much. Something inside me gets a little warmer, edges closer to him.
The fire crackles and I jump again, jittery, nervous, but I don’t jump away from Nick. I jump toward him. Nick in the firelight with just a blanket on is a little hard to resist, no matter how crazy he might be. His skin, deep with heat, seems to glisten. His muscles are defined and good but not all steroid bulky. He is so perfect. And beautiful. In a boy way. Not a monster way. Not a wolf way.
“Are you going to kiss me?” My words tremble into the air.
He smiles but doesn’t answer.
“I’ve never kissed a werewolf before. Are were kisses like pixie kisses? Do they do something to you? Is that why you never kissed anybody?”
He gives a little smile. “No. It’s just I never kissed anyone because I never thought I could be honest about who I am, you know? And I didn’t want anyone to get attached to me because . . .”
“Because you’re a werewolf.”
“Because I’m a werewolf,” he repeats softly. Watching his lips move makes me shiver; not in a scared way, in more of an oh-he-is-too-beautiful way.
I put my hand against his skin. It is warm. It’s always been warm. He smells so good, like woods and safety. I swallow my fear and move forward, and my lips meet his, angel-light, a tiny promise. His lips move beneath mine. His hands move to my shoulders and my mouth feels like it will burst with happiness. My whole body shakes with it.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Wow.”
Our mouths meet again. It’s like my lips belong there . . . right there. One tiny part of me has finally found a place to fit. We pull away for air.
“Are there a lot of you? Because I think there could be a market for these werewolf kisses,” I ask.
He laughs. “There are a few.”
I pull away, just a little bit, adjust my shirt, try to make sense. “Are there any more in Bedford?”
“Yeah. Actually, there are a lot in Bedford, more than other places. Some have moved away.”
“Why are there more here?”
“Genes. Inbreeding back in the eighteen hundreds or something, I don’t know.” He touches his wounded shoulder with the palm of his hand. “But it’s not like the only place there are weres.”
“Do I know anybody else who is one?”
His eyes stare into my eyes. “Betty.”
“Betty?”
“She’s a tiger.”
Here there be tygers.
One second passes. Two. I slam my hands into his chest. “Get out!”
He raises his hands in the air. “What?”
“You can’t go telling me my grandmother is a freaking tiger, okay? Just get out!”
“Zara . . .”
“It’s too much,” I tell him, slumping away and throwing myself on the couch. “Okay? It’s just too much.”
Algophobia
fear of pain
Let’s just say I’m a wimp. Okay?
Here:
I’m a wimp.
I get off the couch and pace back and forth, chanting.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I rush over to the fire and put my hands out to see if I’ve gone mad or if I can feel its warmth. A fire is real. Crazy people often lose touch with reality.
“This is not happening.”
But it is.
A hysterical laugh bursts out of me. I cover my mouth with my hands.
“This is fine,” I mutter. “This is okay. You can deal with this. My grandmother is not human. Nick is not human. There are humans who are not human.”
Nick doesn’t say anything. He sits on the edge of the coffeetable, watching me. He’s all rigid, like he’s a soldier ready to be ambushed, ready for the painful shot to the gut. Finally, I stop pacing.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I whisper.
He cocks his head and relaxes. Then he raises his finger for me to wait and trots into the kitchen. I stay where I am and in a moment he comes back, paler than normal, wearing the blanket around his waist and one of Grandma Betty’s oversized navy blue hooded sweatshirts. He yanks the metal zipper up and then crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall, just past the woodstove.
“So . . . ,” he says.
“So.”
“So, I’m a werewolf and your grandmother’s a weretiger. You all set with that?”
I nod like a good girl, like this is all perfectly normal. “It appears that way. Are you hurting?”
“I’m okay.”
My hand flutters up to my forehead. The world seems to spin again. He must notice because he grabs my hand and leads me over to the couch, the ugly, ridiculous plaid couch. We sit down together.
“I thought you weren’t going to faint.” He scowls at me. I hate when he scowls at me.
“I’m not.”
I lean back against the armrest and grab a pillow, hugging it against me, like a barrier between us. That’s what he thinks it is, too. I can tell because his eyes get all hurt looking, so I put the pillow back on top of the couch. It tumbles down on Nick’s head. I laugh. He laughs too and bonks me with it. Dust swirls into the air and I sneeze.
“It’s just weird, okay,” I say, tearing the pillow out of his hands. “It’s weird finding out someone’s a werewolf. I don’t even believe in werewolves. It’s impossible. It’s physically impossible.”
“Not really.”
“Well, obviously.”
My hand flits in the air, gesturing at him. I pull it back down into my lap. “And Betty is a were too, and if it’s genetic that means that my dad—I mean my stepdad—was probably one.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Shut up.”
He is being annoying; smiling at me like it’s fun to watch me squirm. A million questions rattle inside me. I ask the first one, “So how do you actually become a werewolf?”
“Born that way. Or bitten.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You interested?”
I shriek and jump back, knocking my hip into the side of the sofa and almost falling onto the floor. “No!”
He catches me around the waist with his too-big hands and hauls me back on the sofa, laughing a real laugh, all big and hearty. “I was kidding, Zara. I’d never let that happen to you.”
“Really?”
His eyes melt me. “Really. I’d never let anything happen to you.”
“Oh. Right. Hero-complex thing. You’re a werewolf with a hero complex. That’s so funny.”
He doesn’t answer. The muffled light of the room gives everything a romantic sort of glow, even though the fire kind of dries the air out and makes my throat hurt. My heart pings in my chest, hope making it beat fast, too fast. His hand reaches out and touches the back of my head. His fingers entwine with my hair. It happens again, that melting feeling, the longing feeling. I want to gesture my body against his body, to explain things like need. The blanket he wears rubs against his legs and my legs.
His voice
comes out husky. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
I don’t think I can speak anymore so I just nod.
“Okay.”
His lips warm against mine. My arms wrap around his shoulders and he presses me to him. I am warm here, safe. The backs of my knees tingle and I feel absolutely the opposite of empty. I feel like my life will burst open with good.
Finally I say, “I can’t believe you’re kissing me.”
He leans back and tucks his big hand along the side of my face. “What? Aren’t you kissing me back?”
I shrug. “I just thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
“That maybe you . . . Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t kiss girls. Do not get mad. That’s what Issie and Devyn said.”
“That I didn’t kiss girls?”
“Yeah. I thought it was because you were a pixie maybe. I saw gold dust on your jacket.”
“You what?” There’s an edge to his voice.
“I didn’t really think. I just sort of thought it.” I snuggle in, try to calm him down.
“When was there dust on my jacket?”
“After you helped me with my car.”
He nods. “That was after I went through the woods searching for him. I dropped my jacket before I turned. I probably picked it up then. I can’t believe you thought I was a pixie.”
“Only a little.” We sit there for a minute. “I think we should call Issie and Devyn and tell them.”
“That we made out?”
I elbow him. “No. The pixie/were stuff.”
I haul myself up off the couch and grab the phone off the brick hearth. It’s warm. I start pushing in numbers. “And then maybe we should all go out looking for Jay.”
The phone makes a funny noise. The display reads “no signal.”
“Great,” I say.
Nick gets up and grabs the other phone, listens. “The lines are out.”
I flip open the cell. “No signal.”
I pocket the phone.
Nick points outside. Blue lights fill the windows, flash through the windows. “The police are here.”
Pogonophobia
fear of facial hair, mostly beards
Two cops come to the door, both sheriff’s deputies. Their hands are on their guns, like they’re ready for action.
“You Zara?” the taller one with the beard asks. His hair is red and short.
