Chapter 8

My eyelids spring open. White clouds blind me. I squint, eyes watering. A headache hammers inside my skull. Each time I move my head, a fresh wave of nausea rises in my throat. I gag, clench my jaw, then give up and vomit. On my hands and knees, I realize I’m still wearing jeans, but my shirt is long gone, and I’m covered with mud all over. From the brightness of the overcast sky, I’m guessing it’s early morning.

Last night flickers in my mind like a bad dream.

I crawl to the ditch, swill gritty water in my mouth, spit. I taste blood, and my heart thuds to a halt for a second—no, I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I took my meds… but then I got shitfaced. What does alcohol do with Lycanthrox? Why can’t I remember? Those doctors didn’t tell me. Or maybe it was on the bottle, in tiny letters.

Jesus Christ. You knew this was going to happen, but you did it anyway.

I stagger to my feet, clenching my leg muscles so I stay upright. Crows flap into the trees. I feel like a herd of rhinoceroses stampeded over me. Maybe this is what it feels like after you transform—but no, I’m still wearing my jeans. Maybe I didn’t change all the way: a wolf-man, half-furred, half-naked, stalking his prey.

No. Hell no. Don’t even think that.

I’m a little bit lucky when I find my bike in the bushes, not stolen, and manage to get on and start pedaling home. A pickup passes me, and the driver’s head swivels in my direction. I know I must look like shit. I keep my face stony.

Got to go faster. Got to leave last night behind.

Back at the dairy, Dad’s pickup is gone. I know—I hope—he’s out milking the cows. I ditch my bike and let myself inside, quietly. The kitchen floorboards creak beneath my feet. I kick off my shoes and tiptoe upstairs, even though I’m way too big and bulky to be sneaking around. In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. Blood crusts my chin. I wash it off, then see I’ve bitten my lip. Okay. Maybe I didn’t bite anything else last night. I get in the shower and try to scrape the sweat and mud and memories from my skin.

Somebody pounds on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute!” I call.

An icy fist clenches my heart. I gag again, then hunch, my hands on my thighs, my hair dripping into my eyes. Bile rises in my throat. My mouth waters, my stomach clenches, and I hope I’m not going to throw up again.

The pounding on the door gets louder. “Brock!” Dad bellows.

I kill the water, grab a towel, and yank open the door a crack. “What?”

Dad’s glaring at me. “Where were you last night?”

Shit. He checked. But he never checks.

“Uh… what do you mean?”

“Your room was empty. You left your phone behind.”

So he cares where I go at night now that I’m a gick? Does he think I’m going to prowl around and eat bunnies and little girls?

“What are you smiling for?” Dad pushes the door open. “Get out.”

“Let me get dressed.”

He tilts his head away, his arms crossed, a vein in his forehead bulging as he clenches his jaw. I yank on my jeans and shoulder past him. Dad beats me to my bedroom door and stands in my way, his stance wide.

“Answer my question,” he says in a soft voice.

“I went out for a ride,” I say. “On my bike. I got tired of being cooped up inside.”

Dad’s eyes glitter, dark in the shadows of the hallway. “The mud?”

“I, uh, kind of crashed into the ditch. I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Dad’s voice is even softer. He’s going to start yelling soon, I know.

I have nothing to say, so I stare him in the eyes with no hope of staring him down. Even though I’m taller than him, I feel smaller.

“What’s your excuse for the beer on your breath, huh?”

I narrow my eyes. I won’t blink.

“What’s your excuse for drinking?” Dad’s voice rumbles from a whisper to a shout. “You haven’t got one, have you? You know goddamn well you’re not supposed to touch alcohol, you idiot. How could you be so stupid?”

My eyelids flinch, and I look away.

“You know what Lycanthrox does when you drink?” He waits for me to reply, but I won’t. “It stops working.”

Vomit rises in my throat. I press my lips together.

“You’re hopeless,” Dad says. “You’re going to throw your life away. You’re going to fucking get yourself killed.”

I turn my back on him and run for the bathroom, my throat burning with acid. I don’t make it to the toilet in time, and my puke splatters on the floor. I stare at it, my face flaming with shame, Dad’s voice following me.

“Clean it up,” he says.

Mute, I grab a towel and start to mop up the vomit.

“How much did you drink?” Dad says.

I rub the towel over the floor, soaking up the puddle, then drop it into the shower to rinse.

“How much?”

His voice sounds far away; my ears are buzzing. I turn on the water. Dad hits the back of my head, and I stumble forward into the chilly spray.

“Answer me, dammit.”

“I don’t know!” My voice sounds like a rusty screech. “A few beers, maybe.”

Dad exhales in a hiss. “Where at?”

“Behind the corn maze at Bob’s. I got drunk with some friends, okay? That’s all.”

But I can’t remember, and so anything I say is no better than a lie.

“Friends?” Dad pounces on the word. “Who?”

I shrug. “Josh, and some guys from school.”

“You’re not allowed to drink with them again. Period. Is that clear?”

I nod. It’s not like I haven’t already learned my lesson. Dad hesitates, as if he expected me to fight back. He stalks away, his elbow knocking a glass onto the floor. It shatters into glittering shards. Dad glances at it, then slams the door, done being a father for now. A bitter taste on my tongue, I sit on the cold tile floor and stare at nothing. Dad’s shouts echo in my ears, louder and louder, until I clutch my head and growl.

I try to remember how I used to live, but the old Brock is all in pieces.

~

I can’t stand staying inside the cocoon of my bedroom, so I slip out the back door and stand outside the kitchen, in Mom’s old garden. Wilting leaves hang from the thorny black skeletons of roses. A miniature rose, the toughest of the lot, raises a rosebud high like a signal flare. I stare down at it, my fists tight.

If Mom were here, she would know how to step between Dad and me. She was always the cool water on ground scorched by anger. If Mom were here, she would know how to help me, how to save me from becoming a beast.

She lies stone-still, her face as beautiful as a statue, and just as dead.

I blink, memories of the funeral still too raw to touch. A green-and-gold hummingbird whirs into my vision. It hovers in front of the rosebud, dips its head, and tries to drink from the clenched petals. Failing, it flies away.

Stupid bird. There’s no nectar here. Hasn’t been for two years.

I fall to my knees and tear a hunk of weeds out of the earth, toss them over my head, grab another bunch. I break the spines of dead rosebushes and throw them onto the growing pile of useless plants. Thorns snag my skin, stinging, drawing beads of blood. I dig my nails into the pelt of grass and rip it away, baring the cool soft flesh of earth. Sweat trickles down my face; it feels good. I breathe deep, tasting green in the air.

I work until twilight purples the sky. The garden looks naked, but clean.

“Hey.” Dad’s voice makes my back stiffen. “You hungry?”

I face him, streaked with dirt and sweat, and nod.

We walk into the kitchen in silence, both too stubborn to say anything. There’s a stack of frozen Hungry-Man TV dinners melting on the counter. Dad throws one into the microwave and punches some buttons, then heads for the TV. A loud commercial blares to life, filling the space where our conversation should be. I don’t care.

The microwave beeps, and I hesitate until Dad hands me the steaming tray. I tear off the plastic wrapper covering the food. Barbeque pork, chicken, mashed potato. Supposed to be one of those XXL-size dinners, but I know we’re going to go through at least two apiece. They taste kind of shitty, but I sit on the couch and eat. Dad joins me soon after, and we slurp and smack together. The commercials end.

“And now, back to the evening news,” says a too-tan guy with brilliantly white teeth. “Earlier this week in Tacoma, Washington, police raided a warehouse suspected of housing illegal drugs and discovered faerie wine. The total value of the drugs recovered is estimated at just under one point three million dollars. No suspects have been arrested yet in connection with this drug bust, but police are continuing investigations.” While he’s talking, they show a short clip of police unloading crates of wine bottles.

“Well, they’re fucked,” Dad says.

I gnaw on a chicken wing. “Who? The cops?”

“Yeah. Faerie wine? That’s got to be Zlatrovik property.”

Zlatroviks. The werewolves everybody talks about on TV, but nobody even thinks about badmouthing in public. They’ve got faerie connections and give “protection” to those smart enough to take it. The dumb ones end up dead.

I grunt. “Don’t even know why the cops bother.”

The camera moves from too-tan guy to the blond news lady. “Closer to home, residents of Klikamuks continue to be alarmed and disturbed by the close proximity of the werewolf pack in the Boulder River Wilderness Area.”

A shot of a fat guy with a pasty-scared face. “It’s really scary to think that these werewolves, these Others, live so close to our homes and children. And after the recent murders here, anything could happen. It’s really scary.”

Back to the blond news lady. “Canadian officials have informed local police that many members of the werewolf pack are fugitives, wanted for multiple counts of attempted murder, aggravated battery, mauling, firearms violations, carjacking, felony resist and obstruct, failure to appear, and flight to avoid prosecution.”

Damn. I’m not even sure what some of those crimes are.

“Snohomish County police are working to apprehend the fugitives and extradite them to Canada. Officials warn that these suspects are considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend them. If you have any information regarding these suspects, contact your local police station immediately.”

Dad grunts and switches to another channel. I unclench my muscles. For a second, I thought he was going to start yelling about how me and Chris attempted to apprehend the werewolves earlier and failed so bad. I glance away from the TV, my gaze snagged by movement outside the living room window.

Holy shit.

In the shadows of the trees, hiding in the twilight, stands a silver wolf.