Full Moon City

by Darrell Schweitzer

  She heard very little of what Ari said; her attention was too involved with monitoring his responses to her. She knew he was attracted to her, and it was clearly no simpler for him than it was for her—she could feel the wary tingling of his nerves as he tried to make his mind up, which instinct to follow, to trust her, or not? It was all very nerve-wracking, but, in the end, as she’d hoped, he went with the physical attraction.

  It was barely six-thirty, still daylight, when he suggested going back to his place.

  “It’s not far,” he said. “We can have coffee, and I’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s in the ice box.”

  “You give good directions?”

  “No, I’m going to drive.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not leaving my ride.”

  He smiled slyly. “You don’t have to leave your ride. Wait’ll you see mine.”

  It was an old Ford pickup truck, really old, like something her grandfather had owned. The back panel lay down to form a ramp; she could have ridden the Nighthawk up and in if she’d cared to. “There’s even a blanket to keep it warm, and a tarp to keep it dry if it rains. Not that it will rain.”

  “Very cozy.”

  “My neighbors think it drives down property values when I park it out front, but I’ve never had a more useful vehicle.”

  “I bet.”

  “So, are we on? Will you trust me to take you there?”

  It seemed like a test, like, what would a real werewolf do? Maybe she should insist on keeping her own independence, but the connection between them was still so tenuous, she was afraid of losing him in the diabolical traffic that clogged the freeways at this time of day. What if she missed the exit and never saw him again?

  “We’ll trust you,” she said.

  “All right!”

  They didn’t have to go on the freeway at all; it turned out that Goode Company really was Ari’s local barbecue place. His house was in an old neighborhood a few blocks off Bissonnet. Although several houses on his street were huge, recent constructions likely valued at half a million or more, his was the original bungalow built on the lot back in the 1950s. She remembered he’d told her he was an orphan, his mother having passed just a year ago, and wondered if it had been his childhood home.

  But, inside, it had the feeling of a place not long occupied. The walls were a freshly painted white, with no pictures or ornaments, and the furniture was sparse and new-looking.

  He made coffee, and they made meaningless small talk, standing in the kitchen while they waited for it to brew. She could tell that he was nervous and excited, too, and she wondered how much time they’d have to make love before he began to change. How sudden would it be? And how much conscious control would he have? Would he attack her? And if he did, would it be with the aim of changing her, or to kill? Was she crazy to put herself at his mercy like this?

  “Are you cold? I left the air-conditioning on, but—”

  “No, I’m not cold. Not at all. The opposite, really.” Her gaze locked on his until he came forward and put his arms around her. They kissed for a while as her legs grew weak, and finally he suggested they move to the bedroom.

  The bed faced an uncurtained window onto a backyard screened by a privacy fence.

  “I can close it if you want, but nobody can see in, and with it open like this, when the moon comes up …”

  “Mmm, nice,” she said quickly, sensing she was meant to finish the sentence and not knowing how. To distract him, she stripped off her top.

  They made love, and the room grew thick with shadows as, outside, evening darkened into night.

  When would it happen? Mel wondered as they lay tangled together, resting. She was alert, too tightly wound up with anticipation to truly relax, but she guessed from the laxness of Ari’s muscles, and the slow rhythm of his breath, that he’d fallen asleep. Presumably he’d wake up before he changed—wouldn’t he? Surely he couldn’t be so casual about it that he’d risk sleeping through the big event! But maybe it made no difference.

  She tried not to fidget, tried not to be impatient, but her leg, trapped beneath one of his, began to cramp. She had to push him to free herself. “Sorry,” she whispered, and kissed his shoulder. No response. When she let him go he flopped back, a dead weight, and as she listened, she became aware of how silent the room had become; she could no longer hear his breathing.

  “Ari?” She bit her lip, then laid her ear to his chest. Inside, his heart went on beating, and when she held her own and strained to hear, she could just make out the slow exhalation of his breath.

  She looked out the window and saw the silver gleam of the full moon hanging low above the treetops.

  She pressed his bare upper arm, squeezed it, tried to shake him awake as she said his name, but there was no response. She gently nibbled his ear, then blew in it, before giving it a sharper nip, but he didn’t so much as flinch or groan. If she hadn’t been able to feel his warmth and the continued slow thump of his heart, she could have thought him dead. Turning on the light, she leaned over him, lightly slapped his cheeks, then clapped her hands.

  “Ari! Get up now!”

  Not a twitch in reply. Lifting his eyelids, she saw his eyes were rolled up in his head.

  She sat back on her heels. Her vision blurred, and then hot, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Now she understood how a werewolf could spend the night under observation, and the hospital staff would never see anything they could not explain. Nothing happened, except inside his head, or inside the head of anyone who thought he was a werewolf.

  For a while she wept, mourning the loss of her long-cherished dream. Then she went to the bathroom, had a shower, and dressed herself. When she came out, Ari was still lying as flat and motionless as a corpse on the bed. She supposed he’d be like that until dawn, when he’d wake up believing his wolf dreams were true.

  Her hands clenched as she looked at him, and she felt a terrible urge to take revenge on his body; not to kill him, but to slash and cut and mutilate, to leave the mark of her anger and disappointment in a way he’d never be able to forget.

  But that would not be fair. Of the two of them, she was the only liar.

  So she forced down her fury, and turned away and went out into the night.

  She was too angry, unhappy, and restless to go home; a long ride was the only thing that might make her feel better. She got on Highway 59, then took 45 going south. The flow of this main artery took her through the heart of the city and out, through south Houston, past old Hobby Airport, and down through the sprawling coastal suburbs, until she finally, truly felt she’d left the city behind. Past League City and La Marque, and then over the bridge to Galveston Island.

  Tooling along Seawall, she spotted the giant shrimp on top of Casey’s and realized she was hungry, so she stopped for a big plate of cold shrimp with Cajun hot sauce and plenty of Saltine crackers, washed down with a light beer. Afterward, she rode the whole length of the island, all the way through the state park at the far end, where the darkness of night and the warm salty air and the empty space all around combined to soothe her troubled soul.

  It was very late—or very early—when she left the island. She’d just come off the bridge on the mainland and was powering across the flat, empty marshland bordering Jones Bay when she saw the pack. Seven or eight large, doglike creatures loped along, parallel to the road—empty except for her—their fur gleaming softly in the moonlight.

  Wolves, she thought, and then immediately sneered at herself. She had wolves on the brain. Obviously it would take a while before the truth about werewolves seeped through to her unconscious mind. That these might be real wolves was just as unlikely, since that species had been hunted to extinction in Texas many decades before she was born. These animals must be something else—coyotes, most likely, or maybe a new coyote-dog hybrid, which would explain why they looked so big.

  She remembered an item on a local news program about the urban coyote. As its traditional habitats were built over, ins
tead of being pushed farther out into increasingly smaller, less hospitable territories, the coyote had adapted to the urban environment. This was not such good news for the small pets that got preyed upon, and because of the plentiful and rich diet offered by people’s trash, not to mention cross-breeding with stray dogs, the new breed of urban coyote was not only bigger and stronger but more dangerous, being less shy of people than their wild ancestors had been.

  Even as she recalled the serious face of the newscaster, warning Houstonians that these animals were a threat, Mel felt no fear. She could easily outrun them on her bike, and in any case, the pack showed no interest in her. Soon enough they vanished into the distance behind her and she was alone again in the moonlit night, with nothing to prove she’d ever seen them at all.

  The road did not stay hers for long. After she passed League City, traffic began to trickle onto the highway, until, by the time she’d entered Houston city limits, there was a light but steady flow of vehicles. Because traffic was so light, most of the people on the road were driving faster than usual. Ordinary cars and trucks zoomed past Mel at speeds much higher than her bike could manage. She couldn’t help but find this annoying—she was used to being the one doing the zooming and zipping through heavy traffic—but since there was nothing she could do about it, she slowed down. There was no hurry for her to get home.

  She’d just left 45 and filtered onto 610 going north when she saw the wolf.

  This time, there was no chance of convincing herself it was a big coyote, rare breed of dog, or anything except a fully grown northern gray wolf. The hairs rose on her arms and the back of her neck as her awed gaze locked onto the creature. She eased off on the gas.

  The wolf was far enough ahead that her bike was no threat to it, especially not at this speed. At the moment that it began to cross the freeway, all four lanes were empty of traffic. It should have been perfectly safe. But then, with shocking suddenness, a car appeared, coming out of nowhere, it seemed, and hurtling past Mel at nearly a hundred miles an hour.

  It was a stupidly big car—one of those overpowered tanks designed for people who thought of themselves as road warriors, in need of protection—going stupidly fast, and the bare, unarmored creature trotting along so smoothly never had a chance.

  The SUV just clipped the wolf as it was crossing the road; a quick, brutal touch that barely impacted on the machine (it kept on going without pause or wobble) but knocked the animal off its feet, lifted it, and flung it across two lanes, smack into the concrete barrier.

  Did the driver even see what he had done? If so, he gave no sign as he roared away. The wolf subsided into a shrunken heap of fur and bones.

  Mel felt as if she’d been struck herself. Not giving a thought to the dangers of stopping on the inside lane of a major freeway, she pulled in and dismounted.

  Even though it seemed clear death must have been immediate, she couldn’t help hoping there was still something she could do to help.

  Close up, she saw no blood, but the magnificent head was twisted around in a way that told her the neck was broken, the spine snapped. One open eye—the only one visible—was already glazed in death. She peeled off one of her gloves and touched the still-damp nose, from which no breath issued. She laid her hand on the thick fur, feeling the body heat that hadn’t yet had time to dissipate. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she blinked rapidly and swallowed hard.

  But along with the sorrow she felt at this senseless, brutal, accidental death came a rising excitement, a sense of awe at what it meant.

  A wolf had died. A wolf, on the Houston freeway.

  That pack she’d seen down by the coast—not coyotes at all.

  How many others were there, loping across shadowed suburban lawns or through the wild, wooded acres of Memorial Park at this very moment? Twenty, thirty, maybe even more? Most of them would be smart enough to avoid spending much time out in the open, where they might be seen, and especially to avoid the freeways with their killer cars.

  And as they roamed, wherever they went, their human bodies would be lying unconscious in their beds, waiting for their souls to return after a night existing in the forms of wolves. This very physical form. She touched the rapidly cooling body again, assuring herself of its reality. This was no dream. She understood now how, through so many centuries, werewolves could be real yet remain hidden from scientific enquiry. It was easy to see why doctors and hospital staff had been blind to the truth, just as she had been herself.

  But how did it work? Suddenly, she had more questions than ever. And what happened to the wolf bodies after the sun came up? She wondered if anyone knew.

  Gazing down at the dead wolf, she thought that at this moment, in some house or apartment, a human being must be lying dead. One of those mysterious, sudden deaths you sometimes heard about: no suspicious circumstances, a man in the prime of life …

  All at once she thought of Ari.

  She looked down at the crumpled heap of flesh and bone, and went cold. What if … what if she’d somehow been responsible? What if, instead of staying safe in his usual haunts, he’d ventured out across the city in search of her?

  She was shaking as she got back on her bike. She had to force herself to take it slow and easy—it would just be too stupid, too Romeo and Juliet, if she managed to get herself killed, and all along he was still safe where she’d left him, slumbering away.

  It was one of the most difficult rides of her life. She arrived back at his house, soaked in sweat, her muscles achingly tight. As she dismounted on his driveway, she noticed that her bell was missing. This struck an ominous note. The little brass bell had been a token given to her by the man who’d taught her to ride. It was meant to protect her from the evil spirits of the road, and even though she didn’t really believe it—not literally—still, that it should be absent now was sinister.

  When she left, Mel hadn’t been intending to return, so she was relieved to find that the door hadn’t locked automatically behind her.

  Ari lay in bed just as she had left him, motionless, on his back, naked beneath the dark brown sheet. She sank to her knees at the bedside and laid her head on his chest. At first, through the rushing of blood in her ears and her own, too rapid breathing, she couldn’t hear or feel anything else, but gradually, forcing herself to calm, she became aware of the steady beat of his heart inside his warm chest, and then of his faint, shallow breathing. He was safe.

  Tears filled her eyes. She wept a little, for release. She’d imagined keeping a wakeful vigil over him for what remained of the night, but a wave of tiredness washed over her, and not bothering to undress, she lay down beside him and slept.

  When she awoke, the room was light with morning, and she was alone. She sat up quickly and followed the scent of fresh coffee to the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerily, but froze at his baleful stare. “What’s wrong?”

  He made a show of considering. “Nothing, I guess, if you don’t think it’s wrong to lie.” His brows came together. “Did you think I wouldn’t know? That you could get away with it? But, wait, why should you care? You got what you wanted: a night with the freak. Tell me, Miss Melly: did it live up to your expectations? Was it as exciting as you’d hoped?”

  “It was good for me,” she said, feeling her cheeks get hot. “I thought you seemed to be enjoying yourself, too.”

  “Don’t change the subject. If this was just about sex you could have told me the truth.”

  “Oh, really? If I’d told you over barbecue that I wasn’t a werewolf, would you still have invited me back here?” She saw him wince. “What? Oh, the W-word. You don’t use it. I didn’t know.”

  “Obviously.”

  “An easy way to weed out the groupies and other liars?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay, so you don’t like people like me. But you came to my meeting.”

  “Um. Well—I just wasn’t quite sure. I didn’t want to prejudge, just in case. You know what that guy said
—Mr. It’s-a-disease—about a code? That’s what I wondered. I thought it was just possible somebody else, one of my own kind, was trying to find me.”

  She thought of the pack she’d seen when she was out riding. “But can’t you find each other when you’re, you know … I mean, you must meet each other all the time.”

  He grimaced. “Hardly ‘all the time.’ Once a month, in our other forms. It’s rarely planned, although when you find a good place to roam, you tend to go back again and again. Is that territoriality? Or just common sense? I don’t know. I mean, you want to be able to roam around freely, maybe hunt, definitely play, and you don’t want to be seen by the—by anyone. Memorial Park is great. I can’t remember how many square miles of land that covers, lots of places to run, easy to get lost in, and after dark, there really is just nobody else around. And right smack dab in the middle of town. But even so, this is a big city, and a short hop in the car translates into a damn long run on four legs. And leaving your car overnight, somewhere it shouldn’t be, even just once a month, is risky.”

  There were so many questions she wanted to ask: why hadn’t his wolf materialized inside the house? Where did it appear, and could he control that location at all? How did it work? How much did he remember? But even if he’d lightened up a little, she didn’t think he’d put up with her questions for long. She watched as he poured himself a cup of coffee without offering her any or indicating that she should help herself.

  She spoke as neutrally as she could. “If two people are in the same place, together, when the moon rises, their wolves will be in the same place.”

  “Seems you know all about it.”

  “No, I don’t, but I want to.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to be grateful for your curiosity?” With a jerky movement suggesting he was repressing a more violent response, he set his mug down hard on the counter. “I’m not here to be your personal freak-show!”