Raised by Wolves

by Bridget Essex

  “Wolves couldn't travel here from Canada,” she says, her brow furrowed even more now as she stares at me. “Could they?

  “Um...probably. Yeah. We should go in.”

  But Loren is looking out toward the backyard again, the backyard that is becoming increasingly foggy, the whiteness stealing across the darkness and giving my mother's backyard a very haunting look.

  “Wait!” Loren whispers, grabbing my arm and digging her nails into it as she gasps. “Look!”

  Shit.

  I feel myself cringing inwardly as the silhouettes of two wolves bound across the lawn, aiming for the woods.” It's Kyle and Jimmy, of course, because they always love to take an after-dinner run (why they do this, I'll never know. If I transform and run after eating, I'm almost guaranteed to get the worst stitch in my side—but to each his own), and they're going for it, even though we have a human guest. Maybe they didn't realize that we were taking the chicken back to her coop, but they might have been more considerate...

  And my mother might have stopped them. But she didn't.

  As we watch the two big, dark forms move through the fog, the fog unfurling away from them like spirals, I think about my mother. I think about the fact that she most certainly could have asked Jimmy and Kyle to wait to run until after we left.

  And how she failed to do so.

  There's something going on. I can feel it.

  My mother is plotting, and whenever my mother is plotting...it's never good.

  My stomach tightens as the wolves disappear into the darkness beneath the trees, and Loren gasps again, turning to me, her face full of wonder, her eyes wide and tear-filled. “That was so beautiful!” she murmurs.

  I can't help it. My first reaction is confusion. “Beautiful?” I ask her.

  Loren wraps her arms around me and holds me close. She's actually shaking, her entire body shaking. “Didn't you think so? Two wolves, racing into the dark... They were so majestic. So free.”

  I would never feel inspired to call my uncle Kyle “majestic,” but then...I guess Loren is kind of right. I've always thought that our wolf forms are beautiful, every single one of us. But I never imagined that anyone, besides a werewolf, would see the beauty in our forms.

  I smile down at her a little, and then I wrap my arms around her, too. “Yeah...beautiful,” I repeat, but then I'm pulling away from her, threading my fingers through hers and tugging her back toward the house. “It's kind of getting cold out here—don't you think?” I ask her. “We should go back inside. They'll be wondering where we are.”

  Loren glances towards the woods and allows herself to be reluctantly led toward the house.

  When we get inside, and as we start to make our way back toward the dining room (I'm assuming most everyone is still there), I realize that it would be within the bounds of manners at this point to leave. I'm already rehearsing the speech in my head that I'm going to give my mother about it being late, about having to go, when Loren turns to me in the hallway outside the dining room. She glances up at me with a soft smile, and I can't help but smile in return—though I'm pretty sure my smile is of the nervous variety.

  “Hey,” she tells me gently, wrapping her arms around my waist and leaning against me. “No worrying about anything, all right? Please don't worry,” she repeats, a little softer. “It's okay. I promise. Everything is okay.”

  Feeling Loren's warmth against me, all of my agitation with my family starts to melt away. Loren has the ability to tame the savage beast inside of me, her softness and gentleness making me want to do better, be better.

  Okay. I can do this. Maybe just ten more minutes...

  But when we enter the dining room again, my mother glances back over her shoulder at our arrival and smiles, waving Rod on to start putting new plates in front of the remaining guests. Kyle and Jimmy are, of course, no longer here, but all of the kids have gathered around the smaller table.

  “We waited for you, darling,” Ma says with a smug smile.

  Somehow, we survive through two more courses—rabbit stew and medium-rare slabs of steak—before the dessert arrives. With Uncle Kyle out of the picture—he and Jimmy still haven't returned from their run—the rest of my relatives are being calmer, pleasant, more human-like, which I appreciate.

  After the steak, I'm full and a bit relaxed, so when Rod places dessert in front of Loren, I fail to notice exactly what's on that plate (though my nose is already twitching; I smell something bad—and familiar). But when Rod gives me my own plate, I stare at it in horror, then quickly turn to my girlfriend; she's just about to put a forkful into her mouth.

  “No, Loren, don't—” I begin.

  And then she takes her first bite.

  An expression of complete revulsion crosses her face.

  Loren discreetly picks up the cloth napkin from her lap, and she spits into it, her nose wrinkled, her eyes tightly shut. “Oh, my God, what is this?” she murmurs to me, dropping the napkin beside her plate.

  I grimace and stare down at my own plate. “Aunt Grace's legendary custard pie.”

  Loren blinks. “Custard? It tastes like...” She covers her mouth as she regards her plate, and then she becomes very, very pale.

  I'm already glaring at Ma, and then the rest of the table, as my relatives titter and chuckle over Loren's reaction. That's when I realize they had been watching her closely. They wanted her to eat the disgusting raw-meat-and-custard pie.

  I draw in a deep breath and count to ten as everyone starts to dig into their own gory-looking pie slices. Beside me, Rob mutters under his breath, “Sorry, Becks. I had no idea.”

  “I know you didn't,” I moan to him. How could he? He's not like them, and neither am I.

  “Are you all right?” I ask Loren, leaning over and taking her elbow in my hand. I squeeze her arm to soothe her.

  “I...think so,” she says, taking a deep breath and glancing at me with still-wide eyes. “I was expecting something sweet, and instead...” She lowers her voice even more. “Becca, is that...in the pie...”

  I sigh. “Blood. Yeah.”

  “Oh, my God,” Loren whispers, putting her hand over her mouth.

  “It's...a traditional recipe from the old country,” I say quickly, hoping that is explanation enough. I raise a brow and glance in Aunt Grace's direction. “Or so Aunt Grace claims.”

  My Aunt Grace isn't really my aunt. She's my great, great aunt, my mother's mother's aunt, and by all rights, the old lady probably should have been dead about fifty years ago. Sometimes, werewolves live longer than humans, if they're really healthy, but it's rare. Aunt Grace is the only woman to have done it since my family emigrated from Europe.

  And, if you asked her, she'd say she could attribute her old age to her custard pie.

  Aunt Grace, who was half-asleep in her chair, her head nodding forward and her chin pillowed on her chest, raises her head now, snorting. “Wha—? Did someone say something about my pies?”

  “It's...very unique,” says Loren with a soft smile.

  “I brought that recipe with me from Germany,” she says with a frown, “and I raised all of my pups on it. Put hair on their chests.”

  Loren glances sidelong at me. “Pups?”

  “Uh...that's what she calls her kids. And I don't think either of us needs to grow hair on our chests, so...”

  “If you wanna run with the wolves, missy, you gotta have hair on your chest,” Aunt Grace explains, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world, and why don't I know that? But I'm already standing up.

  Dinner is over. There's no way that Loren is eating that pie, and I'm certainly not going to eat it, so according to all social mores, my obligation is now complete. I brought Loren to the dinner party, and it was close to a complete and total failure, but at least we can leave now, preventing anything worse from happening.

  “Thanks for the food, guys, but we've got to go—” I start, and Loren is standing, too, surprised that I leapt to my feet.

  “Go?” asks
my mother, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head. Her eyes are piercing as she stares at me. “Already?”

  She's spoken only two words, but they were broadcast with the command of someone who rules worlds.

  “Mom,” I tell her meaningfully, in a muted version of her tone, “I think it would be best if we cut out now, before—”

  “You can't go yet!” says my mother, picking up her wine stem and swirling it in her hand with a much-too-big smile. “You'd miss the entertainment!”

  I have a sinking feeling as I mutter weakly, “Entertainment?”

  “Didn't I tell you, dear? The boys and girls,” she says, nodding to the kids table, “are going to put on Peter Pan for us.”

  Peter...Pan? What the hell? The kids have never been interested in theater in their lives. They're rough and tumble, would much rather go to a football game than a theater performance. But my mother says, “They've been working on the play for weeks. You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?”

  The thing is, I do want to miss it, because now that the initial shock of them wanting to put on a theater performance has come and gone, my eyes are narrowed, and I see right through it. They probably want to put on a version of Peter Pan that involves eating chickens, or something else that's super gross and wild, and I really don't want Loren to see whatever monstrosity they've got in mind. Seriously, that may sound harsh, but I've seen my kid cousins recreate Harry Potter when they're playing. In their version, Harry Potter, played by one of my mother's frightened chickens, dies a grisly death at the hands of werewolf Dumbledore.

  But I also don't want Loren to think badly of me. What exactly would it look like to her if we rushed out right when some little kids were about to put on a play?

  It'd look bad.

  So I sit back down at my seat, and we suffer through the rest of the meal, which involves all of my relatives eating the bloody custard pie and Loren trying not to look too closely at anyone's forks, mouths or plates. There's even an embarrassing contest of burps led by Uncle Kyle, who's come back from his after-dinner run.

  But Rob bumps into my shoulder beside me, and when I glance at him, he gives me an encouraging grin.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs.

  “For what?” I ask him dolefully, shaking my head and chuckling just a little, though it sounds forced, even to me.

  He shrugs and glances down at his untouched plate a little uncomfortably. “I own a gym, you know? I'm a tough guy. But I didn't know how much I needed you to stand up for me, too.”

  I watch him, surprised.

  His voice is very low; even with the enhanced hearing of my pack members, only I can hear Rob as he leans a little closer, shaking his head again. “Thank you, Becks. I'm glad I came tonight.”

  “I should have done this sooner,” I tell him fiercely. “I'm so sorry I didn't.”

  “It doesn't matter about the past,” he says, eyes glittering. “Right here and now, it took a hell of a lot of courage to stand up to your mother. I mean, she makes everyone do what she says. You're incredible. So, I mean, it meant a lot, okay?” He smiles at me now. “I owe you one.”

  “You don't owe me anything,” I tell him, but as I glance sidelong at my cousin, my best friend who's been with me through thick and thin, the one person who I've been able to go to with all of my angst, the same person who told me to go ask Loren out on a date...I feel overwhelmed with love for the guy. I'm so grateful for him.

  But as I look around at the other people gathered here in the room, being, in turns, gross and funny, ridiculous and crazy, well-meaning and wolfish, I realize that I love everyone here, too. I mean, I already knew that: they're family, and no matter how much they drive you bonkers or push your buttons, you're supposed to love your family.

  But I've been so focused on trying to get my mom to stop pushing me about how “someday” I'll be Alpha...that I kind of forgot to pay attention to the little moments.

  Yeah, Loren was completely appalled by Aunt Grace's custard pie, and a chicken ran to her for comfort (she actually didn't seem to mind that last one all that much...). But she's also laughing at a joke Jimmy is telling her (thankfully, not an off-color one), and she's been an amazing sport about everything.

  I wish we were already gone, because that would be safer. I don't trust those kids as far as Angela can throw them (which is, admittedly, pretty far), and there's no guarantee that Uncle Kyle won't transform into a wolf at the height of the play—just for kicks. I'm still tense about all of that stuff; don't get me wrong. Add in the fact that my mother keeps giving me these shrewd, hooded looks, and I really wish we'd blown this popsicle stand when we had the chance.

  But I'm here with Loren, and she's meeting my family. As tense and embarrassing and frustrating as that all is...this is a momentous step.

  And for just a second, everything before me stands frozen in time. Loren is laughing, Rob is grinning and talking in a low voice to his mother, and everyone surrounding me exists in varying states of happy or annoyed or angry or asleep (Aunt Grace on that last one).

  And I love them. All of them.

  I introduced them to Loren. And, unexpectedly, she seems to like them, too.

  For this one, small moment...all is right with the world.

  Chapter 13: Family and the Fight

  One by one, the adults start to rise, patting their bellies or stretching or continuing to converse with one another loudly, with emphatic arm motions (a werewolf never argues quietly). I glance down at the kids' table, and I'm surprised to see that all of them have already cleared out. They're probably preparing for the play.

  My mother rises smoothly from the head of the table, and she begins heading toward the sitting room once more, inclining her head and waving her hand. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen,” she says, her mouth still wearing that sly grin. “Let's take our seats for the show.”

  When we get back into the sitting room, everything looks the same, aside from the fact that a few of my boy cousins are engaged in a tumbling match, literally rolling around together, just beyond the French doors. They probably assume that no one can see them, since they're off to the side.

  I guess they're going to use the French doors to open up to their “stage,” which is the outdoor patio, while the audience is seated inside in the living room. It's a clever setup.

  Roderick begins to lug some of the chairs and reposition them to face the French doors, and several of my uncles and aunts start to do the same, though my mother just stands there and watches, doesn't offer to lift a finger.

  Rob and I help, too, and in short order, all of the couches and plush chairs are lined up three rows deep, situated in front of the French doors and pointed outside. Everyone grabs a seat, and when I glance around for Loren, I see her standing beside Rob, unsure of where to go. That's when I pull her into one of the overstuffed chairs with me, seating her on my lap.

  “Can you see?” I ask her companionably, leaning forward and brushing a kiss on her warm cheek. She nods, then loops her arm around my neck; despite the dinner that really could have gone a whole hell of a lot better, Loren still seems to be in good spirits, which makes me happy. And together we lean back, ready for the show.

  My mother, sitting in the front row, nods to Rod, who steps in front of the French doors and throws them open dramatically.

  And that's when the play begins.

  Emily and Victor step out. Emily's wearing...what appears to be toilet paper looped around her person. All right, then. And Victor is wearing a colander on his head, holding up a stick.

  “I'm a lost boy!” he shouts helpfully, then whacks the stick on Emily's arm. “And this is Wendy!”

  “You hit me, you jerk!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, and before anyone can stop her, she's launching herself on top of Victor, wailing on him with her little fists. This is a little bit different from how I remember the beginning of Peter Pan, but then, it's been a long time since I saw the Disney movie or read the book. Man, I loved that book
when I was a kid. Who didn't want to be a lost boy—or girl?

  Connor runs out onto the stage. Since he's wearing a green baseball shirt and green jeans, I'm assuming that he's Peter Pan himself, but when he tries to drag his lost boy out from under fair Wendy...he doesn't succeed.

  “Emily, stop, you're ruining everything!” Victor yells, but then Connor pushes Emily's shoulder—which makes her even angrier.

  She picks up the stick from where it was lying on the ground, and she whacks Connor along the side of his head. It makes a resounding thump, with the kind of force that would usually result in a trip to the hospital.

  But werewolves are more resilient than that. And Connor isn't even dazed.

  “This is getting kind of...violent. Should anyone stop them?” Loren whispers to me with wide eyes.

  I shrug, shaking my head. “That's just how they are. For all we know, this is in the script,” I tell her, raising a brow.

  She laughs, but when she looks back up at the stage, her brows furrow. I've already dodged a couple (okay, a lot) of bullets tonight, including the times when the kids banged into the wall and left craters behind, which are visible from where we're sitting, so I don't want to push my luck. I make an internal vow that if the fighting goes on past my count to ten, I'm going to intervene.

  One...

  “I hate you! You're such a jerk!” shouts Emily. Jerk is apparently her new favorite word. She's on her feet now, brandishing the stick in the air like a club. “I was gonna be Peter Pan! Peter Pan is always a girl!” she's yelling again, but Connor steps up, his little hands curled into fists.

  Four...

  “Peter Pan is not a girl; he's a boy, and I'm Peter Pan,” says Connor, not shouting those words at all but delivering them in the soft but deadly voice of someone who's about to snap. “And it's my play, and you ruined it!”

  “Aw, yeah?” says Emily, throwing down the stick. It thuds to the ground with all the force of a baby werewolf.

  Eight...

  Victor, still sprawled between them, curled in a ball, glances up worriedly at the audience as Emily and Connor both start to lean forward, their shoulders pushing inward, their lips drawn over their teeth, their hands curling into fists...