by Carrie Jones
He has two frying pans set up on top of the woodstove and is opening up a can of corned beef hash when I come back inside.
"Corned beef hash?" I say. "That's disgusting."
"It's good, puts hair on your chest."
"Fur, you mean."
"Exactly."
He pops off the metal lid and puts it on a paper towel. He slops the hash into the pan and stirs it around.
"This might take a while." He grabs another spoon to stir the eggs. "I was thinking we might need to get some help for this pixie situation."
"Okay, I thought wolves had packs. Do you have a pack?"
"Not in the traditional sense."
"Sorry, Nick, but when it comes to werewolves, I don't know what the traditional sense is."
"I don't run with other wolves."
I nod. I wait. I finally give up and say, "So you run with…"
He winces. "Coyotes. But they have some wolf DNA" It's hard not to smile. "You are alpha at least, right?"
"Of course I'm alpha." He almost growls at me.
"Sorry. Sorry. So, are we going to ask your pack for help?" I ask. "If you're alpha, you can tell them what to do, right?"
"We'll ask them. They can do little stuff, try to divert the pixies, keep them busy. But they're just regular coyotes, Zara, and they get scared of magic." He breaks up the hash a bit. "No, I was thinking about asking somebody else."
"Who?"
He points the spoon at me. "You have to be calm about this, okay? When I tell you, you can't get hysterical or anything."
"Just tell me."
"Issie and Devyn."
I whirl around at him. "We can't do that. First, they could get hurt. Second, what? You're going to tell them you're a werewolf? Oh, yeah. That's going to go over well."
"They already know, because…"
The fire crackles again. The wind shakes the house. He stands alert and ready, but nothing happens, including him finishing his sentence.
"They already know because…," I prompt, completely impatient.
He pulls in a big breath.
"Oh my God! lssie's a bunny, isn't she? Do they have those? Do they have werebunnies?"
"Big leap there, Zare." Nick cracks up. He shakes with laughter.
I pout. "She'd be a good bunny."
"True. But it's not her. It's Devyn."
"Devyn? Devyn is cute and normal."
He scrapes at the bottom of the hash pan. His voice comes out dead calm. "He's an eagle."
"Oh. Okay. I am not going to freak out about this, but let me say that I am surprised."
"Because he's in a wheelchair?"
"No! Because he's a bird."
Agateophobia fear of insanity The wind rallies the house, makes the flames dance in the woodstove. I'm eating a bizarre combination of meat and diced potato with a guy who is actually hotter than the fire and what do I say?
I say, "We need to figure out how to keep the pixie from kissing me, from making me his queen."
"I know," Nick says.
"I don't suppose just saying no would work." I give a nervous laugh.
Nick starts scraping at the brown, crunchy hash that clings to the bottom of the pan. He mixes it into the softer hash parts, clumping it into a big brown, red, and white mess.
Still, it smells good, almost good enough to make me not think about pixies. Almost. Or that the only cool people in school are weres.
"Seriously, Zara," he says, moving on to his egg scrambling.
"First off, I can't believe pixies have kings and queens. That's so old school. I don't care if they are Shining Ones. It's just lame. Are they some sort of totalitarian dictatorship based on a monarchial ideal of superiority, because those are some of the worst governments possible. I mean, the human rights violations in governments like that-" He puts his free hand over my mouth just like Devyn did to Issie once. But I don't do an Issie and giggle or lick his fingers. I just glare. Nick keeps scrambling the eggs with his free hand as if nothing is going on, nothing at all, as if this is a normal conversation for people to be having.
"Zara, these arepixies and when it comes to human rights violations, pixies don't really care," he explains. "One, they aren't human. Two, torture is part of their M.O."
I try to stomp on his foot, but he just pivots it away in some super quick werewolf maneuver and never stops scrambling the eggs, which are holding together now, almost finished. He doesn't move his hand off my mouth and his eyes twinkle like he thinks I am so amusing. l am not amusing.
"I'm going to move my hand now. Okay?"
"I am not queen material," I sputter.
He wipes his hand on his shirt.
"What? Did I drool on you?"
"A little," "You're a wolf. You should be used to drool."
"That's low."
He takes the egg pan off the top of the woodstove and places it on the brick hearth that surrounds it.
I cross my arms over my chest. "I don't care."
We stay silent for a minute while he scrapes at the hash in the pan again. The windows seem like empty white blanks because of all the snow that keeps tumbling down. Some of the flakes splatter against the house like they are trying to escape the wintry reality.
"This isn't their normal behavior, obviously. I mean, the pixies haven't been killing everyone all this time.
There's a gap," I say. Nick starts to interrupt but I hold up my hand to stop him. "I know we know that.
I'm just thinking out loud, trying to process it. It's got to all be connected to my dad's letter."
"And they've been without a queen for a quarter of a century. There's got to be a rule about that." He points the scraping spoon at me. "Zara, I know you're a little freaked out by all this and that's normal, but I think that-" "Normal? What's normal about any of this? You, possibly the best-looking guy in the universe, actually like me, but you're a werewolf." I can hear the hysteria in my voice but can't stop it. "Two of my favorite people at this crazy school are a werewolf and a were-eagle. Did I get that right? Werewolf and were-eagle? And of course, my grandmother is a weretiger."
He nods and lets me spew. I pace back and forth in the living room.
"And don't let me forget, pixie man has trashed my living room, and pixies want me to be their queen.
And to accomplish this, instead of being nice and asking or bringing me flowers or something, some guy whispers my name when I'm in the woods trying to make me lost and then barges into my house the moment my gram isn't here." I stop for a second. "Wait. Why did they wait until Betty wasn't here?"
Nick spoons some hash onto a plate, then starts on the eggs. "I have no idea. They're probably afraid of her. Weretigers are tough."
He shrugs and starts scooping food onto his plate.
"Maybe they got tired of waiting," he offers, sitting down on the floor in front of the fire. I sit with him.
The heat laps against us and it feels so good.
"Maybe they realized that I wouldn't let you get taken by them in the woods, so they decided a direct attack was best," he says. "Wolves fight better outside. We aren't house pets. Do you like your hash?"
I stir my eggs around my plate a little bit and then fork up some hash. It warms my mouth. "This is good."
He smiles. "Thanks."
"So you can cook, too?" I ask. "You're perfect, aren't you?"
"Iam a werewolf," he says between bites. He bends his head.
"That just gives you a totally good excuse for your pathetic temper."
He wiggles his eyebrows. "True."
"If I become the pixie queen, you'll have to call me your majesty," I tease.
"Never."
"You'll never call me your majesty? That's mean. You are just a common ol' werewolf, you know, and I'd be royalty."
The fire crackles and a log moves. I jump but Nick doesn't move at all. I guess it's hard to faze a werewolf.
"You'll never become the pixie queen. I won't let you." He locks eyes with me.
He does have the alpha-dog thing going for him. I can't look away. Even if I did, I'd still feel them. Eyes.
His eyes.
"Ugh. I hate this. I feel stuck."
I thought I was moving forward finally. I mean, I thought I was stuck in Maine, but really slowly I was edging closer to the future, a future without my dad… but my future still, mine. Issie and Devyn are my friends. Nick is here. All that could just vanish. I wince. I don't want to die.
Nick puts his plate down on the bricks. It wobbles a little on the unevenness. Free of things, he leans forward, hands flat on the floor, like the downward-dog yoga position.
"Zara?" His voice mellows out against me, but I decide to study my eggs. "I won't let anything happen to you."
"You can't promise that. People can't keep other people from getting hurt or killed." Swallowing, I face him. His mouth is so close to mine. His eyes seem hungry and calm and strong, so I tell him, "A couple of weeks ago, I wouldn't have cared. If I died. You know?"
He nods.
He waits.
My lips wiggle because I can't find the right words.
"I just missed my dad so much."
I swallow again. Why is it so hard to swallow? "But now," I move forward. "I don't want to die. I don't want to be scared. I just want to live."
He lets my words settle and then he asks, "What changed?"
"I don't know. You, maybe? Or maybe it was watching Issie being so happy and brave all the time?
Or…," I move closer so my forehead touches his. "Maybe it was just being so scared. I knew. I just knew that I didn't want to die."
He kisses my nose. His lips trail to my cheek and then down to my lips, where he whispers, "I'll keep you safe, Zara."
I grab his shoulders in my hands. "But what about you? Who will keep you safe?"
"I'll be fine."
His lips brush against mine, pushing themselves into me. I push back. My hands leave his shoulders and move into his hair.
Gently I tug his face away.
"Do you promise?" I breathe against him. "Do you swear?" "I swear."
"We have to leave," he says.
We stand in the cold kitchen, putting dishes in a waterless sink. Snow keeps piling up outside. My fingertips touch the cold window. "You're kidding."
I place the corned beef hash pan in the sink. The metal matches. Corned beef hash crud cakes the bottom of the pan in a brown crunchy mess. l rip a paper towel off the roll. "Disgusting."
"Zara? We can't hide in your room again all night." Nick reaches around me to grab the pan's handle. He swirls the detergent around in there, spreading it out, so it touches all of the crud. "We have to get rid of this problem now."
"Now?"
"While it's still daylight."
"Look at Mr. Proactive."
"I'm serious, Zara."
He puts the pan back in the sink. We can't do any tiling with it, not now, not without water.
"I know. I know you're serious, but I am not a snow person." I rearrange my ponytail. My hair is not at its best due to the lack of a shower. I pull up my wool socks. I wear two pairs and they scrunch beneath my toes. "And where are we going to go? And what about Betty?"
"She should have been here by now," he says and my heart tries to hide behind my lungs, not listening, but I do. I keep listening even though I'm so worried about Betty. "We'll go to my house. We'll get Issie and Devyn and make a plan."
I point out the window. "And how are we going to get there?"
"My car."
"The roads are bad. Betty said not to drive."
"I know, but sometimes you have to break the rules."
I give up. I don't want to stay here without Betty. Especially not if the pixies are going to come back for a happy little return visit. I dash upstairs and get my Urgent Action letters.
"You have mail?" Nick scoffs.
'"They're Urgent Actions. They have to be sent out right away or else people could be tortured or killed or-" He touches my lips with his fingers. "You are worse than I am."
"Mot true."
We bundle up and head outside. We wipe the snow from Mick's MINI. The trees worry me. Not the trees, really, but what might be beyond them.
The snow covers everything outside. It covers the branches and the cars, the land and the water. It covers the houses. Beneath it the world is lost. Beneath it the people are lost, the animals, the grass.
Everything is just white. Blinding. White. Everything is gone. The hard lines of rooftops and tree limbs, the straight lines of roads, everything is blurred, covered, lost.
"My dad would have loved this. Just pulled out some skis and said, 'Let's have an adventure,' " I say.
"He sounds cool."
"He was cool."
"Must've been a were."
"Yeah, right," I say, letting that additional piece of knowledge bounce around the room, finally spoken out loud. "He said 'Shining One' in his note."
Nick grabs a brush out of the MINI and whisks off the fine remains of the snow, but there's a crust of ice that covers the windows. He gets back in the cab and turns the defroster on full blast.
I brace myself against the hood, watching the windows clear; zoning out, trying to process it all.
"Zara?"
Nick waits by the driver's side door, which is open. Snow stains his hair white, sticks in his eyebrows.
His face rivers into something warm.
"You coming?"
"Okay."
Betty's house is only a few feet away. I could rush back inside, slam the door, lock it, and hide.
I could hunker down.
I could stop moving.
Instead, I get inside the car.
"Okay," I say, slamming the door. "Let's go."
The inside of the MINI is warm already because the engine has been running and pumping out heat. I sigh into the warm air and smile. I could sit in here forever, all cozy, safe, and warm, like Nick. I reach down and touch the fur I'd seen on the floorboards the other day. It belongs to Nick. I glance at him to make sure he's not looking and sneak the fur into my pocket. No matter what happens I'll have it to remind me of him.
Not that anything bad is going to happen. Right?
Nick grabs my hand and it's like he's reading my mind. Can werewolves do that?
"It'll be okay, Zara."
"I know," I snuff in. My nose is getting stuffy. "I'm fine."
He squeezes my hand and lets go, which is totally unfair. I like his hand on mine.
"I need two hands to drive in this," he says.
His fingers are thick and long, and unfurry.
"I can't believe those become paws."
"It's weird, isn't it?"
I eye him. His shoulders expand beneath his jacket and his legs, solid and long, seem enormous. I pull my seat belt on and click it into place.
"We should get going. The driveway isn't plowed." Nick shifts the MINI into reverse.
"Uh-huh."
"We might get stuck."
He presses the accelerator and we scoot about three feet before smashing to a stop, trapped in the snow.
He tries to rock it back and forth, a little forward, a little backward. His face tightens into a cranky mess.
"This isn't good, is it?" I ask.
"Not good at all." He shuts off the engine.
"I could try to push it."
"That wouldn't work. Not for the whole driveway." He opens the door and hops out. "We're going to have to shovel."
"Shovel?"
I've never shoveled in my life. I've seen people on TV do it, and my dad had stories about shoveling for hours, trying to get out of the house during nor'easters, which are these monster blizzards that hit New England.
I jump out after Nick, sinking in the snow. My pants are soaked already, and clumps of snow fall inside my boots, nestling in there.
Snow sucks.
"We're going to shovel the whole driveway?" I ask, hands on my hips. "Just you and me? This is a long driveway. It's h
alf a mile long."
A bird calls in the distance. It's the first bird I've heard since yesterday. Nick hears it too. He cocks his head and squints, listening just like a dog does. Something seems to register with him because his eyes shift into something more serious, more urgent.
"Nick?"
He wipes at his face like he's trying to get rid of a fly. "I know. It's a long driveway. Where are the shovels?"
He strides back toward the house. I chase after him.
"Nick? What if the road isn't passable? What if the plows haven't gotten out here yet? We can't shovel the road."
He stops, turns around. His strong shoulders slump. "I didn't think of that."
"One of us can go scout it out and the other one could start shoveling."
"No. No way. We have to stay together."
His face hardens again. I hate it like that. Panic rises in my throat, tightening it. I wince, remembering the arrow in his shoulder.
He rubs his face again, really roughly this time, and it reminds me of how a dog scratches its muzzle when it has an itch, just this gruff swipe with the whole of the hand. God, he really is half canine or lupine or whatever the word is for wolves.
"We have to do something," Nick says. His nostrils flare. "I hate pixies."
"Hate is a useless emotion."
"What?" He whirls around and glares at me.
I back up a step. The little hairs on my arms are standing on end. He scares me when he's like this, all angry power. "My mom says that all the time. It's one of her life quotes, she got it from my dad.Hate As a useless emotion. "
"That's such a mom tiling to say."
"I know. I'm going to kick her butt when all this is over," I say. "And Betty's too."
He laughs. "I thought you were a pacifist."
"Whatever."
We give up on shoveling. We give up on driving. We decide on snowshoes.
Yes, snowshoes that I find downstairs by the railroad ties and some old barbed wire.
We stomp through the white falling snow, moving steadily, not moving fast, but definitely moving forward.
Together. We raise our feet carefully, just a little bit and a sweeping motion forward. One foot. Another foot. Clean snow smells hit our noses, mixed with pine trees and the wood burning in Betty's stove.
The snow nestles down, flowing softer, falling from the sky.
