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Not that I could do anything about it at this point. Lycanthropy was incurable.
That was my rosy view on life 38 stitches and a cocktail of pain killers later.
After being informed my friends were huddled in the waiting room sipping coffee because they had called in late to work to bring me home, I decided against ever involving them in this supernatural hell. Promising today was all about naps and Netflix, I convinced Lisa to leave me to recover on her couch. Wyatt dropped sixty bucks for pizza and sugar therapy, told me where to set the litter box, and then the pair of lovebirds flew the coop and I was alone in their apartment.
I’d spent the first hours alternating between scribbling questions for the sheriff and waking in a cold sweat to men with green eyes and lupine shadows stalking the hall.
Exhaustion finally blessed me with sounder sleep until early afternoon, at which point the painkillers wore off and I had to pee and it felt such a tiring walk that, when I got back, I couldn't find the energy for anything, not even flipping through talk shows. Unfortunately, I needed my cell, wallet, laptop and car (and to locate my godforsaken keys) in addition to a few smaller items: comfy pjs, shampoo, a razor, cat food, etc.
I called a cab, then shut off the TV, taking a minute to consider my reflection in the blank screen. I opened my mouth, ran my tongue over my teeth in search of fangs–no, no, that was vampires. I wondered if it was easier to turn into a vamp than a werewolf, to endure a single death or constant change?
In the light of day, Pippin Lane was picturesque. Robins sang from high oaks and maples. Sunlight warmed the stalky irises growing along the foundation; little more than a trace of murder lingered in patches of claw-kicked grass and crooked weeds. I slipped the driver his fare and stepped onto my sawdust-covered driveway. Police tape stretched from one side of the porch railing to other.
The hole formerly occupied by my front door, was open.
There were no cars in the driveway beside mine.
Two plywood sheets leaned against the siding. Combined, they would’ve fit over the entrance. I ran my thumb along the door frame, pausing on one splintered hole where a nail had been recently torn out. Within the entry, someone had tidied the wreckage. My areca palm sat drooping but watered in a white plastic potter, and there was a proper, official business card curtsey Caelan on the uprighted hall table.
I glanced up the street as if expecting to spot his truck parked in the snaking Vilkas driveway, but as I turned an ear toward the house, heard the wooden grind of heavy drawers being opened or shut and a pretty voice cursing my home to hell.
chapter 8
CABINET OR COFFIN?
Samson and Igor were safe in the sheriff’s custody, not that I wanted them watched by a man who in throes of transformation had considered them prey.
The gun, however, would've proved real useful in evicting the intruder clicking about Lisa's bedroom in what sounded like high heels.
But was my potential thief a werewolf?
Wasting the last silvered bullet on a human criminal (one dumb enough to sport heels at a break-in), was stupid. One werewolf was dead, but there’d been other watchful golden eyes beneath the oaks.
Hand against my aching thigh, I eased across the threshold, listening for a break in movement, searching the quiet hall for signs of an accomplice. It being my own home, I knew the creaks and where to step to avoid them. As the intruder shuffled through Lisa’s bedroom, I slipped into the kitchen and removed my chef’s knife from the block. I couldn’t find my cell anywhere; there was a good chance it resided in Lisa’s room with the intruder. Gram had a landline, but I’d long ago unplugged the dusty relic and shoved it on a basement shelf.
Unless the intruder wanted to take the werewolf’s exit through my window, they needed the staircase. I rested a foot on the bottom stair. The throw must’ve fallen again last night, because, while folded on the rail beside my fingertips, there was a huge, ruddy paw print plastered over the checkered wool, and a wide swipe of rust where a freshly bloodied wolf may have banged the wall in a mad dash to catch up to his prey.
Tamping down the surge of fear at the remembrance of last night, I thumped the wall. “Knock, knock.”
Quiet stretched long enough for me to reconsider the open door.
A low, feminine voice answered, “Who’s there?”
Footsteps moved into the hallway. A dappled hand trailed along the upstairs landing posts. The woman came to a standstill on the top stair, lips pursed, eyebrows lifted. She was somewhere in her early thirties, brown skin blotched white along her throat, face, and hands. Her posture was confident, her smile bright, her nails manicured and sharp.
She wore a pencil skirt and a striped cashmere sweater. Her black hair had been slicked back into a ponytail.
But her eyes, the fathomless depth of lakes on stormy fall afternoons, carried an intensity artists would strive to capture across mediums and centuries.
I gripped my knife tighter. “You’re Stephen’s sister.”
She slid one finger around gold necklace and played with a delicate fish charm. “Say it with more conviction.”
“You're a werewolf.”
She dropped one heel to the next step and caressed the curves of her backside. “Not feeling a tail,” she mused with an impish grin.
“Not all werewolves have tails.” A guess, based on what Caelan had described as a spectrum of gene dilution. “And not all the time.”
