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“What causes their differences?”
“You,” he said as if it were obvious. “Werefolk are compatible with humans. The result is an entire spectrum of in-betweens from the largest wolf you’ve ever seen to a human whose eyes shine bright in photos. We stick to two classifications for registration: hands or paws.”
“Which are you?”
“The kind best kept on speed dial until this situation resolves.”
“Are Lisa and I safe?”
“Miss Davins,” he began with a thoughtful tap of the ignition. “I myself am a few pieces short of completing this puzzle. You’ll need to take precautions and make your own decisions.”
“Your professional advice?”
“Can’t be opening the department to a potential lawsuit, but in my opinion it’s safer to sleep in your territory than outside it.” A pause. “I believe your housemate is not at risk provided she remains off premises.”
“Isolation sounds the opposite of safe.”
“I’m suggesting you consider the consequences and draw your own conclusion. Your experience with violence is far different from mine.” His hand lingered on the key. “We should be headed back. There are other activities I enjoy almost as much as reading. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’ve involved you in one of those.” He winked. “Are you ready?”
“One question, sheriff,” I decided. “If a werewolf bit me, would I turn?”
“If a werewolf bit you, you would die. Werewolves are not humans who learned to walk like wolves, Miss Davins.” His eyes, toned by a reserved, wild grace, zeroed in on mine. “We are wolves who learned to walk like men.”
???
An overcast, showery afternoon saw the werewolf’s remains removed from my porch. According to the sheriff, supernatural investigators followed time-sensitive procedures. Several of the best-paying jobs in the community involved evidence gathering and crime scene cleanup.
“This is unrelated to the crime, but you’ll need to replace a couple boards,” a tech informed me after the sheriff had released me from his custody. Well, I hadn’t been released so much as he’d been yanked aside by his boss.
They’d walked to the side of my house where the figure had been spotted, when the man in the suit started to swear.
The tech waved my concerns away. “Harlowe can handle himself. You’ve got bigger problems to worry about. Feel the spongy wood here? That’s rot. From the look of it, I’d say the siding’s spoiled, too.” He pointed to a stain above the basement windows. “Could be wood rot, could be insect damage. I’m no expert, but my wife and I went through something similar with our first home. Whether you stay here or move, you’re gonna want to get that repaired. I know this is low on your list of priorities today, but sometimes it’s the little things we can control that help.”
While there was nothing to observe on the porch beyond a few discolored patches of decay, if I had the money, I’d have replaced every plank.
The werewolf revelation I kept private, but shared the obvious with Lisa: Stephen Vilkas had been murdered and the suspects remained at large. The six o’clock news, however, made brief mention of a Connecticut social media star’s disappearance tied to a publicity stunt. Lisa made the smart choice and spent the night with Wyatt. I was still hunting for a cheap, pet-friendly hotel that didn’t resemble a bedbug’s paradise, but it was getting to the point where, by the time I’d arrived and settled in, I’d be paying for a three hour Samson and Igor curtain climbing expedition.
I texted the sheriff to let him know I’d be staying home. He promised to keep eyes on the property all night. Hands or paws? I’d asked. To which he’d responded, “both.”
Early evening dragged moonlight over the wet shingles and yellow forsythia of suburban utopia. There was neither a soul to be seen nor horror to behold. Sure, the Vilkas crowd had overflowed into the street, but no vehicles had left or arrived since late afternoon. My neighborhood felt lonely as I climbed my chemically-stripped steps with a soda and a chicken parm grinder while half-listening to an incensed Maggie’s threats to torch my career if I broke our agreement.
Around nine, after true dark had fallen and the frogs returned, I had eaten, changed into comfy clothes, and was talking to Lisa with my cell cradled against my ear as I barricaded the door to my room with my dresser. Beside the bed rested my old softball bat and a chef’s knife. I didn’t own anything deadlier to werewolves than a tarnished Star of David necklace Grandma had passed down to me for what would have been my bat mitzvah had I kept faith.
I secured the pendant around my throat wishing I’d asked the sheriff about silver. The internet was useless. Everyone from historians and creature concept designers to fantasy authors and people claiming to be spiritual werewolves had differing opinions. Whatever I wanted to believe I could find if I scrolled far enough.
Behind me, Samson snoozed on my pillow. Igor nestled her chin into the larger cat’s neck. Her eyes were alert despite her relaxed posture, but fluttered shut when she ducked the crest of her shaggy head underneath my fingertips.
“Seriously, Marcy, don’t board yourself into the bedroom. Wyatt and I agreed if I called and you weren’t in or headed to a hotel he’d allow the cats tonight.”
“It’s late. You’re tired. Don’t add a forty minute detour. The sheriff already assured me his people are watching the house 24/7. I’ll be fine.”
“We’re just getting into White Plains. Besides, there’s no fucking way we can sleep. Might as well grab you.”
“Are you sure?” I tried not to sound relieved. “The house is cleared, locked and lights blazing. I’ll survive.”
“I made Wyatt buy a box of allergy medication on the way to Grand Central. Tell her, hun. Tell her the cats are welcome and—”
Bzzzt!
