Chapter 4

I glance toward her car’s rear window, but the headrest blocks my view.

“Excuse me, miss,” Sheriff Royle drawls, as if he were Southern and not a Klikamuks native. “I need to see your license and proof of insurance.”

“Certainly,” Cyn says, using her chirpy helping-customers voice.

I coast closer, flip out my kickstand, and pretend to check my front tire. Now my stomach feels like it’s tying itself into knots. Damn. I haven’t seen her since we broke up. Klikamuks is so small, I should have brushed elbows with her at least once in the past six weeks. Unless she’s been avoiding me.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Sheriff Royle says to Cyn, with a too-sweet smile. “Where’re you headed?”

“Work,” she says.

Royle makes a big show of checking his watch. “Aren’t you a little late?”

“I will be.”

Jesus, Cyn’s as reckless as ever. Everybody knows Royle pounces on the tiniest excuse to exercise his power as a sheriff.

“Here’s my license,” Cyn says, “and my proof of insurance.”

She passes them to him. I glimpse her hands, with doll fingers and wrists like the stems of wine glasses. She’s tiny. Not anorexic tiny, but petite, barely five feet tall. Before, when I touched her, I was afraid of breaking her by accident.

“Is that all in order?” Cyn says, still chirpy.

Royle squints, then nods. “Appears so, miss.”

“Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

“One of your taillights is out.”

“Oh!” Fake relief almost masks the annoyance in her voice. “Thanks so much for pointing that out, officer.” The car jumps as she shifts to drive. “I’ll be sure to have that fixed as soon as possible. Have a good day!”

Without waiting for a reply, Cyn rolls up her window. She glances at her side mirror, and—her hair! What happened to it? In her reflection, for a second, I thought I saw a streak of blazing flamingo pink in her chestnut hair.

Then she pulls into traffic, leaving Sheriff Royle muttering.

He glances back at me. The syrupy smile on his face melts into a frown. “What’re you loitering and impeding traffic for, boy?”

“My bike,” I say. “Thought I had a flat tire.”

Sheriff Royle hooks his fingers in the loops of his belt. “Shouldn’t you be back over at the Buttercup Dairy, helping your father?” Meaning, shouldn’t infected people like you stay off the streets? Wouldn’t want to see any trouble.

“See you,” I mumble, and pedal off.

Time to go home. And I am, but the wind changes. Sweetness fills my nose, fruit and sugar. I spot candy apples in the front window of the Klikamuks Candy Company, perfectly red and round. My throat tightens. The smell brings back the day me and Cyn met. It’s so vivid, all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see it…

Last year, at the Evergreen State Fair, Dad was showing Max, our champion Holstein bull. Max’s a real monster, with rippling muscles beneath his dorky black spots, but he’s kind of a wimp at fairgrounds. I was walking the bull around his barn when he got spooked, swinging his big head around and tugging on his halter.

And there was this girl standing there with a candy apple. Cyn, though I didn’t know it yet.

Max stopped fighting and flared his nostrils, sniffing in her direction. She walked toward him, slow and quiet, her face calm.

“Hey,” I said to her, “don’t get too close. He’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”

The bull dipped his head down and looked almost bashful. He nosed her candy apple.

“Can he eat it?” she said.

I shrugged. “Won’t hurt him.”

Max snorted on her apple, and she wrinkled her nose. “Bull boogers.”

I laughed, my face hot. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

And so we spent the rest of the day together. I told her all about the livestock, the produce in the grange displays, and the best or the shittiest tractors. It wasn’t at all embarrassing to be a farm boy around her, because she was actually interested. But not as interested as she looked while staring into the eyes of the bull.

I knew right then she was a girl who liked a little danger, and the rest is history.

Well, I guess we’re history now.

I blink the memory away, but the candy apple smell still lingers in my nose. I shove open the door to the Klikamuks Candy Company.

Does she remember that day the way I do?

~

Cyn works after school at Plant Land, a magnet for gardeners and landscapers. I can guess where she is. She loves the greenhouse full of exotic flowers; it’s always tropical, even in the dead of winter. I creep inside with the candy apple behind my back, trying not to look as awkward as a jock in a ballet class for five-year-olds.

The thick, sweet smell of rotten moss and strange flowers fills my nose. Cyn’s almond-vanilla scent blends right in, so I don’t find her right away. Then, through the leaves of a banana tree, I see her bending over an orchid the exact same pink as the streak in her hair. It throws me off, and she catches me gawking.

“Brock!” The pot she was holding shatters on the floor.

Maybe she’s going to take one look into my eyes and know I’m a beast. Maybe she’s going to scream and throw something at me.

“Sorry,” I say, sweating. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, you did!” Her face looks as red as mine feels. “What are you doing here?”

“What did you do to your hair?”

Flustered, she pats her bangs. “It’s my hair. And you still didn’t answer my question.”

I hold the candy apple out to her. “I got you this.”

She stares at it, and for a long moment, says nothing. Finally, she speaks. “Why?” Her voice is low and level.

“Don’t you remember? Bull boogers?”

“I remember.” Her smile fades after only a second. “Brock, I don’t want that.”

Cyn strides away, grabs a broom, and begins sweeping up the shattered pot. I crouch and pick up shards one-handed, the candy apple still in my other hand, but she shoos me away. I almost drop the candy apple in the dirt.

“Brock.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Brock! I work here. Let me do my job.”

I straighten to my full height, trying not to loom over her. It’s hard, since she’s so small. “Can we at least talk?”

Her face tightens. “I’m not sure I’m ready to.”

As if it was hard only for her, the one who ended things.

“Cynthia,” I say, trying to sound gentle. “It’s been a month and a half.”

She keeps sweeping. “And what makes you think things have changed?”

“Because they have.”

Cyn has to know I’m a gick now. The werewolf attack was all over the news.

She grips her broom tight and leans on it, staring straight at me. “You’re still the guy who thought it was a great idea to use werewolves for target practice. You’re still the guy who worked for Benjamin Arrington.”

“So I’m guilty because he was?” I mutter through gritted teeth.

“You helped a murderer, Brock.”

I drag my fingers through my hair. “I didn’t know he was a murderer. Not at first.”

“Not at first?” She narrows her eyes. “So you found out later and kept helping him?”

“No!” My face heats. “I don’t know what bullshit you’ve heard, but that’s not true.”

Cyn sucks in a slow breath, then blows it out. “Who am I supposed to believe?”

“Me?”

She glares at me. “The week after we broke up, my family went to Mexico to visit my abuela. Now that I’m back, everybody is telling me all sorts of crazy rumors about what happened while I was gone.” She stares into my eyes, her own dark and glittering. “What really happened?”

I lower my voice. “Arrington seemed like a guy who was into curhounding, nothing more. That’s what me and Chris thought. He was paying us to track the werewolves, and it seemed all noble and shit. To keep Klikamuks safe.”

Cyn’s face twists. With pity or disgust, I can’t tell. “And then?”

Maybe she knows or has at least guessed. Maybe she just wants to hear me say it myself. The blood drains from my face, leaving my skin feeling cold, distant. I stare at a nearby orchid and count its petals until I’m calm.

“We got bitten.”

“You—what?”

“Bitten.”

Cyn’s eyes widen, and in them I see myself reflected, my own eyes smoldering. The blush in her cheeks fades. I can hear her heart beating hard and fast. She backs away from me, slowly, as if I’m going to bite.

“Oh, God,” she whispers. “It’s true.”

I need to talk faster, to explain this to her.

“It happened at the Evergreen State Fair.” Which would have been our one-year anniversary. I can tell it hurts her to think about it, but I keep talking. “We were tracking a werewolf that Arrington said was especially dangerous. Blackjack got wind of the werewolf, and he tore after him before I could stop him. Of course me and Chris had to follow. Blackjack attacked the wolf. Chris caught up and got out his gun. The wolf bit him, and when I tried to help Chris, the wolf bit me.”

When I say it that way, it sounds matter-of-fact, boring, like something out of a history textbook. But sweat still soaks my armpits, and I find my fingers on my biceps, clutching the scar there as if to stop it from bleeding.

“Brock,” Cyn whispers, her knuckles pressed to her mouth. “Is Chris okay?”

“He’s in the hospital.” My voice sounds harsh. “We don’t know when he can come home.”

Cyn touches my arm, just brushes it, and her fingertips draw electricity from my skin. I meet her eyes, remembering how I used to be able to stare in them forever without feeling uncomfortable. Her gaze drops to my clenched fist, and I realize the candy apple’s stick has splintered in my hand.

I was an idiot for even thinking of it as a gift.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” I say. “See you later.”

“Have a good day,” she says, but it’s not chirpy at all.

I throw the candy apple into the trash as I walk out.

~

I shouldn’t go into the forest alone, Dad says. He doesn’t say why, but I know.

Werewolves.

Not like I’ve seen any around here in the last million years or so. Hell, they don’t own the forest. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’m not about to stop taking walks in my own backyard just because some curs are loose.

Blackjack barks and lunges at the end of his chain as I hop the fence. I don’t have the heart to yell at him. Besides, I don’t think any amount of yelling would untrain what me and Chris taught him about werewolves.

The sun slides down the curve of the sky, an egg yolk leaking runny gold. My breath fogs the air, but my skin feels warm. I trot along the lengthening shadows and leave the dairy behind for the shelter of maples and firs. The whooshing of the highway dies away, replaced by the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker. I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the smell of rain, earth, and softly dying leaves.

Out here, I can start to untangle my thoughts. What am I doing with myself? Why am I not back in school? Like I have a chance in hell of surviving my senior year of high school. Chris got lucky, graduating before he got bitten.

I spot bright blue through the trees. Hidden between two hills, somebody has pitched a tumbledown tent out of a blue tarp and a framework of sticks. The ashes in the fire pit look pretty fresh. On the branch of a cedar, empty bottles hang from colored yarn tied round their necks. I read the labels. Beer, vodka, and wine.

Fucking hippies.

There have got to be some plastic baggies of pot in the tent, or maybe a pagan shrine. I peek inside. Instead, I see a cooler and a neatly rolled, though dirty, sleeping bag. I peek inside the cooler, expecting booze. No, plastic-wrapped meat on Styrofoam trays, with the orange “DISCOUNT” stickers still attached.

A sick feeling tightens my stomach. I close the cooler and hurry out of the tent, then hike back up the hill. Near the top, I hear a cough behind me. Shit. A man stands at the top of another hill, watching me. He’s strongly built, wearing a raincoat and hiking boots, with a shaggy beard and brown hair streaked with silver above his forehead. Not old, though. Late twenties, early thirties. Even with the beard, I remember him.