I got his point. I said, “I’ll look around,” and he looked relieved, as if he had felt compelled to entertain me as long as I stood by the counter. As soon as I wandered to look at a wall of lures, I heard him go back to shuffling whatever he’d been shuffling behind the counter. And his wife kept talking and laughing her weird barking laugh, and the store kept on smelling like body odor.
I looked at fishing rods, a deer head wearing a pink baseball cap, and fake owls to scare birds away from your garden. There were containers of live mealworms in the corner. While I stared at them, my stomach churning with either squeamishness or the distant promise of the shift, the door opened again, admitting a man wearing a John Deere cap. He and the sweaty old man exchanged greetings. I fingered the edge of a bright orange hunting dog collar, most of my mind on my body, trying to decide if I was really going to shift again today.
Suddenly my attention focused on what the men were talking about. The man with the John Deere cap was saying, “I mean, something ought to be done. One of them took a bag of trash off my step today. The wife thought it was a dog, but I saw the print — it was too big.”
Wolves. They were talking about the wolves.
Me.
I shrank, crouching as if I was looking at the bags of dog kibble on the lowest metal shelf.
The old man said, “Culpeper’s trying to get something together, I heard.”
John Deere guy made a noise that sort of growled out both his nostrils and mouth. “What, like last year? That didn’t do jack shit. Tickled their bellies is all it did. Is that really the price of fishing licenses this year?”
“It is,” said the old man. “That’s not what he’s talking about now. He’s trying to get them like they did in Idaho. With the helicopters and the — assassins. That’s not the word. Sharpshooters. That’s it. He’s trying to get it legal.”
My stomach turned over again. It felt like it always came back to Tom Culpeper. Shooting Sam. Then Victor. When was it going to be enough for him?
“Good luck getting that past the tree huggers,” John Deere said. “Those wolves are protected or something like that. My cousin got into a heap of trouble for hitting one a few years ago. About wrecked his damn car, too. Culpeper’s in for a climb.”
The old man waited a long time to reply; he was making some sort of crinkling noise behind the counter. “Want some? No? Well now, but he’s a big city lawyer himself. And his boy was the one that got himself killed by the wolves. He just might now, if anyone can. They killed that whole pack in Idaho. Or maybe Wyoming. Somewhere out there.”
Whole pack.
“Not for taking trash,” John Deere said.
“Sheep. I reckon it’s a lot worse, wolves killing boys, instead of sheep. So he might get it through. Who knows?” He paused. “Hey, miss? Miss? Phone’s up.”
My stomach lurched again. I stood up, arms crossed over my chest, hoping and praying that John Deere didn’t recognize the dress, but he only gave me a cursory glance before turning away. He didn’t look like the kind of guy that normally noticed the finer points of what women were wearing anyway. I edged up next to him and the old man handed me the phone.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said. The old man didn’t even acknowledge I’d said anything, so I retreated to the corner of the store. The men continued talking, no longer about wolves.
With the phone in my hand, I realized I had three phone numbers I could call. Sam. Isabel. My parents.
I couldn’t call my parents.
Wouldn’t.
I punched in Sam’s number. For a moment, before I hit SEND, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and allowed myself to think about how desperately I wanted him to pick up the phone, more than I could let myself truly admit. My eyes pricked with tears, and I blinked fiercely.
The phone rang. Twice. Three times. Four. Six. Seven.
I had to come to grips with the idea that he might not pick up.
“Hello?”
At the voice, my knees felt wobbly. I had to crouch, all of a sudden, and put one of my hands on the metal shelf beside me to steady myself. My stolen dress pooled on the floor.
“Sam,” I whispered.
There was silence. It lasted so long I was afraid he had hung up. I asked, “Are you there?”
He sort of laughed, a weird, shaky sound. “I — didn’t believe it was really you. You’re — I didn’t believe it was really you.”
I let myself think about it then: him pulling up in his car, his arms around my neck, me being safe, me being me once more, pretending I wasn’t going to leave him again later. I wanted it so badly that it made my stomach ache. I asked, “Will you come get me?”
“Where are you?”
“Ben’s Tackle. Burntside.”
“Jesus.” Then: “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty. I’m coming.”
“I’ll wait in the parking lot,” I said. I wiped away a tear that had somehow managed to fall without me noticing.
“Grace —” He stopped.
“I know,” I said. “I do, too.”
SAM
Without Grace, I lived in a hundred moments other than the one I currently occupied. Every second was filled with someone else’s music or books I’d never read. Work. Making bread. Anything to fill my thoughts. I played at normalcy, at the idea that it was just one more day without her, and that tomorrow would bring her walking through my door, life going on as if it hadn’t been interrupted.
Without Grace, I was a perpetual motion machine, run by my inability to sleep and my fear of letting my thoughts build up in my head. Every night was a photocopy of every day that had come before it, and every day was a photocopy of every night. Everything felt so wrong: the house full to the brim with Cole St. Clair and no one else; my memories edged with images of Grace covered in her own blood, shifting into a wolf; me, unchanging, my body out of the seasons’ reach. I was waiting for a train that never pulled into the station. But I couldn’t stop waiting, because who would I be then? I was looking at my world in a mirror.
Rilke said: “This is what Fate means: to be opposite, to be opposite to everything and nothing else but opposite and always opposite.”
Without Grace, all I had were the songs about her voice and the songs about the echo left behind when she’d stopped speaking.
And then she called.
When the phone rang, I was taking advantage of the warm day to wash the Volkswagen, scrubbing off the last of the salt and sand painted on from an eternity of winter snow. The front windows were rolled down so that I could hear music playing while I worked. It was a thumping guitar piece with harmonies and a soaring melody that I would forever associate with the hope of that moment, the moment that she called and said, Will you come get me?
The car and my arms were covered with suds, and I didn’t bother to dry off. I just threw my phone on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. As I backed out, I was in such a hurry that I revved the engine up high, high, high as I shifted gears from reverse to first, my foot slipping on the clutch. The ascending engine note matched the beat of my heart.
Overhead, the sky was huge and blue and filled with white clouds painted with thin ice crystals too far above the earth for me to feel, here on the warm ground. I was ten minutes down the road before I realized I had forgotten to roll up the windows; the air had dried the soap on my arms to white streaks. I met another car on the highway and passed it in a no passing zone.
In ten minutes, I would have Grace in my passenger seat. Everything would be all right. I could already feel her fingers laced in mine, her cheek pressed against my neck. It felt like years since I’d had my arms wrapped around her body, my hands pressed up against her rib cage. Ages since I’d kissed her. Lifetimes since I’d heard her laugh.
I ached with the weight of my hope. I fixated on the incredibly inconsequential fact that for two months, Cole and I had been living on dinners of jelly sandwiches and canned tuna and frozen burritos. Once Grace was back, we would do better. I thought we had a jar of spaghetti sauce and some dried pasta. It seemed incredibly important to have a proper dinner for her return.
Every minute closer to her. In the back of my head, nagging concerns pressed, and the biggest ones involved Grace’s parents. They were certain that I’d had something to do with her disappearance, since she’d fought with them about me right before she shifted. In the two months that she’d been gone, the police had been out to search my car and question me. Grace’s mother found excuses to walk by the bookstore when I was working, staring in the window while I pretended not to see. Articles about Grace’s and Olivia’s disappearances ran in the local paper, and they said everything about me but my name.
Deep down, I knew that this — Grace as a wolf, her parents as enemies, me in Mercy Falls in this newly minted body — was a Gordian knot, impossible to untangle and lay straight. But surely if I had Grace, it would work out.
I nearly drove by Ben’s Fish and Tackle, a nondescript building mostly hidden by scrubby pines. The Volkswagen lurched as I pulled into the parking lot; the potholes in the gravel were deep and filled with muddy water that I heard splashing up on the undercarriage. Scanning the lot as I pulled in, I slowed. There were a few U-Hauls parked behind the building. And there, beside them, near the trees —
I pulled the car to the edge of the lot and climbed out, leaving it running. I stepped over a wooden railroad tie and stopped. At my feet, in the wet grass, lay a flowered dress. A few feet away from me, I saw an abandoned clog, and another yard beyond it, lying on its side, its mate. I took a deep breath, then knelt to pick up the dress. Balled in my hand, the fabric was scented softly with the memory of Grace. I straightened and swallowed.
From here, I could see the side of the Volkswagen, covered in filth from the parking lot. It was as if I had never washed it.
I climbed back behind the wheel, laying the dress in the backseat, and then I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth, breathing the same breaths over and over again, my elbows braced against the wheel. I sat there for several long moments, looking out over the dash at the left-behind set of shoes.
It had been so much easier when I was the wolf.
CHAPTER FOUR
COLE
This was who I was, now that I was a werewolf: I was Cole St. Clair, and I used to be NARKOTIKA.
I had thought there’d be nothing left of me, once you took away the pounding bass of NARKOTIKA and the screams of a few hundred thousand fans and a calendar black with tour dates. But here it was, months later, and it turned out that there was fresh skin underneath the scab I’d picked off. Now, I was a fan of the simple pleasures in life: grilled cheese sandwiches without black flecks on the crust, jeans that didn’t pinch the better parts of me, an inch of vodka, ten to twelve hours of sleep.
I wasn’t sure how Isabel fit into this.
The thing was, I could go most of my week without thinking about grilled cheese and vodka. But I couldn’t seem to say the same thing about Isabel. It wasn’t like fantastic daydreams, either, the good sort of tease. It was more like jock itch. If you were really busy, you could almost forget about it, but then when you stopped moving, it was murder.
