Hungry Ghost

by Allison Moon

  “I can’t afford to go out to dinner,” Lexie said.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be in and out. Enjoy yourself. Relax,” Renee said.

  “Sure. Relax. It’s what I do best.”

  “Har har. Do you have your knife?”

  “Always.”

  “Cool, let’s do this.” Renee held open the door and ushered Lexie inside, but Lexie hesitated.

  “What if I forgot how to see them?” Lexie asked.

  Renee cocked a hip and gave Lexie an incredulous look. Lexie shrugged.

  “Alright,” Renee said, releasing the door and leading Lexie toward the neighboring darkened storefront. “Try it out on me.”

  Lexie pulled her knife from its sheathe, holding it tight in her fist. She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened her eyes, the form in front of her rippled and shifted, like a reflection in a half-dim glass, part Renee, part wolf. She softened her gaze and let the two images merge, ghostly superimpositions.

  “Got it?” Renee said, her wolf jaw moving comically with the human words.

  Lexie sheathed her knife and snapped the cover closed. “Got it.”

  Lexie ordered a green tea and let Renee buy enough Szechwan lamb for both of them. They sat at the bar with a view into the kitchen.

  Renee scanned the room and whispered, “I’ve been wondering about one of the line cooks here. Whenever he works the late shift, he always leaves early.”

  “Maybe he’s got kids.”

  “We can speculate all we want, but you’ve got the ability to tell me if I’m full of shit. So let’s do this, alright?”

  “I’m not just going to whip out my blade in the middle of a crowded restaurant,” Lexie whispered.

  “You don’t have to, do you? Just like, finger it or something. Get into the groove.”

  Ah yes, the groove.

  Lexie hoarded another fork full of spicy lamb into her mouth and wiped her hands on her jeans. She let one hand rest on the handle of her knife, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

  “There he is,” Renee whispered. A dark-haired man appeared at the kitchen counter. He was a small, round man with a patchy mustache, and he had to reach above his shoulders to deliver the meals to the counter for the waitstaff. He shuffled from task to task, neither frantic nor slow, just taking care of business as it happened.

  “Him?” Lexie asked, incredulous.

  “Just look.”

  Lexie narrowed her eyes trying to catch a good look at his face through hanging utensils and steaming pots. As soon as she focused on his face, he ducked behind a dish rack. When he stopped to garnish a plate, she drew in a breath through tight lips and tried to reach into the space between the layers of her vision. She squinted and glared, trying every trick, until a headache pressed against the backs of her eyeballs.

  “No,” Lexie said, shifting in her seat and picking up her fork. Her phone buzzed, and she saw a missed call from Dean Fern’s office line. She pressed delete and shoveled another mound of noodles into her mouth.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep,” Lexie said around her mouthful of noodles.

  “Look again,” Renee said.

  She glanced toward the kitchen and shook her head.

  “You’re completely sure.”

  “Sorry, dude.”

  Renee sipped her tea. “You’re positive?”

  “No, Renee, I’m lying. The line cook and I are in cahoots to turn Milton into a new werewolf empire. He will build a wonton army, and I will rule as his lo mein queen.”

  Renee blew the steam off her tea with one arched eyebrow. She kept her eyes on the cook. “Don’t you mean wanton?”

  “I was making a Chinese food pun.”

  “Mm,” Renee said.

  Renee paid the bill, and they headed for the exit.

  Lexie was staring at the back of Renee’s head, trying to read her mind, when she shuffled and tripped into the back of a waiter carrying a loaded tray.

  “Shit!” Lexie said, too late to course correct. Her shoulder smashed into his back. He struggled not to lose his platters of peppered squid.

  “Sorry!” she cried. Renee yanked her out the door. The waiter was too distracted with recovering the heavy platter to respond, but she heard him mutter “bitch” as the door swung shut.

  Through the glass pane of the door, as hazy as a mirage, a wolf form rippled at his periphery, then disappeared.

  Lexie pressed her nose against the restaurant’s window and fogged it with her breath.

  “What are you doing?” Renee snapped.

  “Him,” Lexie said.

  “What?”

  “He’s a werewolf.”

  “The skinny waiter?” Renee asked, peering over Lexie’s shoulder. “Hardly.”

  “Oh, but the line cook is? Aren’t I supposed to be the one with the fancy gifts?”

  Renee wiped away the fog of their mingled breaths. “I’m going to go sniff him,” she announced and headed into the restaurant.

  Lexie watched Renee weave her full hips, covered in black leggings, through the restaurant. Lexie’s eyes caught Renee’s muscular haunches as she strode among the tables of townies and faculty. Her brain darted to memories of warmth and wetness, strength and stillness. She was telling her brain to shut up when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey!”

  Lexie jumped, her heart in her throat. She turned to see Duane Ward.

  “Christ, Duane!” she shouted. “Are you really so stupid that you sneak up on girls at night on this campus?”

  Duane flinched and looked to the ground, sheepish. “Sorry. I was excited. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  Lexie studied him. He looked like hell, and not just because his expression bore more angst and fear than she had ever seen on him before. He looked terrible, or at least terrible compared to what Lexie knew to be his usual, glowing self. His rich brown skin had turned sallow, his untended hair formed little naps, and the sharp flash in his eyes had gone dull. This was not the Golden Boy she had grown up knowing. She wrapped her arms across her chest and softened her voice. “I am, Duane. Just no more surprises, okay?”

  He nodded, staring at his feet.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Kind of on lockdown. No media, no internet. My therapist said it’d be best if I eased back into things and avoided triggers for now, which isn’t really easy to do in Milton.” He chewed on his lips and Lexie felt a stab of shame for her own involvement in his trauma.

  “Duane,” Lexie flinched over his own memories of the scene, of finding Duane in that broken heap. “I’m really sorry.”

  He shook his head, hard, changing the vector of the conversation. “You’re in Comp Lit, yeah? Want to be study buddies?” His breath was stale, but Lexie hoped it was just her overactive sense of smell and not a sign he was even worse off than he looked.

  “You missed class today,” she said.

  “Why I need a study buddy,” he half-grinned. “Don’t worry, once I get my stride again, you know I’ll be the one you lean on.”

  Duane’s smile was so earnest, so wary, she couldn’t say no.

  “Besides, Bree Curtis and I were supposed to be partners, but her phone’s been going straight to voicemail.”

  Lexie nearly laughed until she saw his quizzical look. He didn’t know.

  “Wait, really?”

  “Yeah, we were study partners in the Women’s Studies class that you never came to last semester. We worked well together so we’re going for another round.”

  Lexie looked at his fragile face and took a deep breath. “She … uh … died.”

  Duane’s face went blank. Oh god, she’d broken him.

  “Duane?” she asked.

  His face froze in an expression of confused horror. She reached out, but she feared touching him would trigger a cascade of trauma he wouldn’t be able to contain. So she stood, arms outstretched as Duane rode out the panic her news had triggered.


  Finally, he choked, “How?”

  Before Lexie could answer, Renee burst out the door, “He smells totally—hey.”

  Duane yelped and recoiled.

  Renee slouched and cast her eyes away, silent. Duane took stumbling steps back and likewise fixed his eyes to the sidewalk. Lexie hadn’t even thought it was possible for people to attempt to out-omega each other, until she watched two of the most self-assured people she had ever met try to make themselves invisible.

  “I’ll see you this week okay, Duane? Comp Lit, right?” Lexie said finally, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Sure, yeah,” he said, his eyes glued to his shoes. He hurried away.

  Once Duane was far down the block, Renee shook herself and opened her mouth wide, stretching her tongue. She cracked her knuckles and her neck.

  “You okay?”

  Renee nodded, though Lexie couldn’t agree with her assessment. She looked caught in her own head.

  “He’ll be okay,” Lexie said.

  Renee laughed bitterly and shook her head. “Nope. He’ll never be okay.”

  And neither would Renee, Lexie thought, watching her tumble over thoughts as they walked in silence through the town square.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  Renee laughed again. “It is every bit my fault. That brother is barely clinging to his sanity because of me. And that will never change.”

  “He might forgive you someday,” Lexie said.

  Renee stopped and placed an index finger an inch before Lexie’s sternum. “For him to forgive me, he’d have to know it was me, and for him to know that, he would have to know about werewolves. Please tell me you can see why that’d be the worst possible thing.”

  Lexie raised her open palms. “Okay, fine. I get it. Sheesh.”

  “No one—no one—gets to know about werewolves except for us. As far as Duane knows, a big Rare is responsible for the deaths of his frat brothers, and that’s how it’s going to stay, alright?”

  “I didn’t say we’d tell Duane about werewolves,” Lexie mumbled.

  “We’ve all got trauma, Lex. He’ll deal with it just like the rest of us do,” Renee said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Time, distance, community, and activism,” Renee sighed. “In that order.”

  Enough of Lexie’s classmates at Wolf Creek High had parents stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq that the principal brought in a veteran to give a speech about PTSD. She thought about mentioning it to Renee, but as she struggled to keep up with each of Renee’s long strides, she figured it’d be better to wait until later.

  As they passed the plaque naming the park, Renee finally spoke. “He’s totally gay.”

  “Duane? No way. He’s just traumatized.”

  “Not Duane, the waiter. He’s totally gay. I sniffed it on him.”

  “Gay? You can’t smell gay,” Lexie said. “ … Can you?”

  “No, but you can sure as hell smell vagina, and there wasn’t a whiff of it anywhere near him. And there’s no such thing as a celibate werewolf.” Renee took a sharp left. Lexie hurried after her. “You sure you saw what you think you did?”

  “As sure as I can be about any of it. He couldn’t have killed Bree, though. He’s so skinny. And … gay. That doesn’t make sense on so many levels.”

  “How many wolves does that make so far?”

  “Three. The full-blood that attacked me, and two half-bloods, at least one of them gay.”

  “And then … ”

  “There’s all of us.” Renee and Lexie looked to each other for a moment, unwilling to follow that thought any further.

  “Archer,” Renee said.

  “Who’s been gone,” Lexie said.

  “True. We’d all be climbing the walls if we smelled her back here.”

  “We would?”

  “Oh yeah. Purebloods will fuck your shit up. They smell like god having sex in a Jacuzzi filled with red wine and chocolate.”

  “That explains so much,” Lexie said with wide eyes.

  “Doesn’t it?” Renee said.

  “Besides … ” Lexie said. “Archer couldn’t.”

  Renee shook a cigarette out from her pack and stopped to light it. “Well, someone did.”

  Their footsteps echoed across the empty square, the fresh, foggy air fighting against the harsh perfume of Renee’s cigarette. Lexie sniffed the air, just for something to do. Before she could stop herself, before she even thought about it, Lexie asked a question.

  “Why am I here?”

  Renee arched an eyebrow. “Like on this planet? Meaning of life shit?”

  Lexie chewed on her lip. “No, like with you guys. Part of the Pack. Is it just because of these peacespeaking powers?”

  “Partially yes,” Renee shrugged. “But we like you. I like you.”

  The night of their kiss seemed long enough ago to be part of a remembered dream, not her life. Lexie snorted. “Why?”

  Renee took a long drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the ground and placing the remaining filter in her pocket. “Let’s cut through the quad.” Renee reached into her jacket and pulled a fresh cigarette from her pack. “I think a better question is why you don’t think you belong.”

  Renee’s profile reflected the oranges, blues, and whites of electric lighting. Her brown skin added its own warmth to the slips of color that glanced her nose, cheekbones and forehead. Lexie liked Renee the most this way: standing tall, moving smoothly, her stride carrying her down a brick path as it would carry her through a grand hall or a fashion runway. She presented no airs, no different faces for public spaces versus private. The word that teased through Lexie’s mind as she took in Renee’s beauty was “integrity,” in a literal sense.

  Four months ago, walking alongside Renee, Lexie felt gangly, awkward, and ugly. She had witnessed her own self in reflection, drawing a forced comparison between their two disparate bodies. Now, after sharing a home, meals, and community with her, Lexie stopped seeing Renee as a mirror and began to see her as woman unto herself. Sometimes, like now, Lexie’s insecurities would slither into the space between them, but she was determined to not let them mean anything. She would stop letting them seize whatever moments she and Renee might share.

  “I’ve lived with you all for months, and I still feel like a stranger. An alien,” Lexie admitted.

  Renee lit her cigarette and took a hearty drag. “To be fair, you came into our home at a particularly squirrely time.” Renee paused, and Lexie chuckled agreement.

  “Blythe worked really hard to keep us unified. She was the common denominator for all of us. Now that she’s gone, we all trust each other less, but we like each other more. Does that make sense?”

  “Probably.”

  “Now, we all have to work hard to stay unified. That’s what real communities do. No mother figure telling us to kiss and make up. We have to prioritize it without anyone telling us to.”

  “But where do I end up in all that?”

  “Honestly, if I had to peg you, I’d call you a lone wolf who never had a family. You’re … ” Renee chuckled. “ … Undomesticated. You don’t know if a pack like ours works for you. But if you’re curious, you may as well give it a chance.

  “The key is sticking around. We’re working together on this. If, after we bag this killer Rare, you still don’t feel like you belong, then I’ll help you figure out where you want to go. How’s that sound?”

  Lexie smiled. “You’re not going to fight for me?”

  “I don’t fight for people. I fight with them.”

  7

  Randy called just before midnight, just when Lexie was ready to give up trying to figure out the proper spelling of “hegemonic.” She hoped she wouldn’t have to pronounce it out loud tomorrow when she turned in her first essay for her Comp Lit class. She smiled when Randy’s name blinked from her cellphone’s glowing screen.

  “You’re terrible at responding to texts, you know.”


  “Yeah.” Lexie smiled.

  “I’m going to invite you somewhere, but I don’t want you to freak out.”

  “Freak out? Why would I?” Lexie asked, doodling daggers on her empty notepad.

  “It’s a club called the Thorny Rose. Heard of it?”

  “No.” Images of English pubs or burlesque clubs flitted through her mind.

  “Just Google it. But know that I have no attachments to it, I just think it might be good for you.”

  Randy had made it sound like shredded wheat or some fresh air, but when Lexie typed the words “Thorny Rose Oregon” into her web browser, she wasn’t sure what Randy meant by “good for you.” The website was red text on a black background, making Lexie’s eyes ache from strain. Centered on the page was a single picture of a woman’s back covered in lash marks, like red tiger stripes.

  Below were testimonials: “A breath of fresh air for womyn in the scene.” –DM

  “Finally, a place where I can let myself go.” -KD

  She shut her computer and took a breath, scanning her empty room as if anxious of being watched. Was she on the school’s network? She’d double check. But first, she reopened her computer and looked again at the website with the fair woman’s damaged flesh. It looked as though her skin struggled to hold back something just beneath.

  The computer beeped at her as an email from her linguistics professor Dr. Rindt popped into her mailbox.

  Dear Ms. Clarion, it read, I would like to schedule an appointment with you during my office hours on Wednesday February 20th at 2pm. Please confirm by replying to this message.

  Lexie pulled a face and deleted the email, just as her phone buzzed with a text: Pick you up at 9 Friday, yeah?

  Lexie thought about the blessed pain of the tree cutting into her back, which carried deeper pains to her mind: the terrifying joy of feeling Archer’s full hand within her, the stone pressing into her spine as Archer lay atop her, the steely regret of watching Archer drive away. Lexie reached back to stroke her shoulder where the tree’s scars should’ve been. Her flesh was smooth.

  Lexie stared at the computer screen and the faceless, proud woman. She picked up her phone and typed the letter “K,” then pressed send.