Page 25

25

ZOEY

The dark river pulls at me.

The current isn’t as strong as it’s been in the past, but the pressure is there, dragging me down. My limbs feel heavy as I crawl from my bed to open the back door and let Bruce out. I sit at the dining room table, and an hour passes without my fingers lifting to work on anything.

I stare a lot. I sleep a lot.

With no immediate deadlines, I don’t bother going into town to work.

But I take my medication. A small floating log that helps keep my head above water.

And over and over, I remind myself of one thing.

I am not crazy.

Finally, one morning, as I stare at the teapot I haven’t added water to, a thought creeps into my mind.

If I don’t check in with my brothers soon, they’ll think something is wrong. If they think something is wrong, they’ll try to save me.

Do I need saving?

A spark of anger flares to life, inspiring me to light a burner on the stovetop and set water to boil.

I am not some damsel in distress. I do not need saving.

I just need to process this new world I live in.

Warner turned into a wolf. That has to be a fact or else it means that I’m experiencing a mental break.

Of course, if I tried to explain the events of that night to anyone, they’d most definitely suggest I talk to a doctor. Probably more like insist.

“I found out this town is full of werewolves, and then I stabbed myself to prove I wasn’t in a dream,” I mutter while spreading raspberry jam on toast. One of the many jars Warner identified for me.

How could the helpful construction worker also be a mythical monster? The two identities clash.

Maybe not so much when I add in the fact that he’s a member of a biker gang.

A werewolf biker gang.

This shouldn’t be real.

But as I wrap myself in a cardigan and take my breakfast out to the front porch, my mind feels clearer than it has in days. Like the cool mountain air is finally permeating my lungs, giving my brain enough oxygen to function.

Plus, the itchy stitches in my arm prove the incident with the knife happened. Then, there’s the short note from Warner about feeding Bruce, which proves he was here that night.

I was not dreaming.

But werewolves? Seriously?

Bruce snuffles in the dewy grass, investigating scents only a dog can smell.

Or a wolf.

The warmth from my mug presses into my palms, driving away a stiffness in my joints. Slowly, conviction creeps through me, pushing at the dark doubt that threatened to pull me under the surface of that inner river.

It’s time. Time to prove that the events of that night are exactly as I remember them.

The best way I can think to do that, other than storming into Warner’s apartment and demand he transform again, is to call my mother.

No way could someone as curious and determined as Selena Gunner spend eighteen years of her life in this town and not know about the supernatural creatures living here.

Problem is, when I head inside and pick up the old rotary phone, there’s no dial tone.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I set it in the cradle harder than I meant to, then snatch it back up to hold it against my ear.

Nothing.

Growling and muttering about shitty, old cabins with questionable wiring, I pocket my cell phone and head out the back door. Bruce lumbers along at my heels. When I reach the tree house ladder, he plops down with a sigh, content to have found a new napping spot in the early morning sun.

I climb up, lifting myself through the hole in the floor.

After performing a quick sweep for spiders, I settle on the weatherworn boards and pull out my phone. There’re two whole bars of service. Lucky me.

And of course, as soon as those little bars of service appear, my phone starts pinging like it’s gone to a rave. Text after text after text. A whole array of phone calls and voice mails.

Quickly, I read and listen to them all, discovering I was right. Another day of radio silence, and I would’ve had a family reunion with the Gunner boys.

Briefly pausing my mission, I hop on the group text, assuring them that I am in fact alive and not in need of an intervention. Four immediate responses, like they don’t have lives or jobs.

Guess I did worry them.

After a few more reassuring messages, I make the call I climbed into this tree for.

My mom picks up after the second ring.

“Sweetheart! I’ve missed your voice! And you’re calling from your cell? You must be in town. How is it there? Found a good place to buy a cup of coffee? When I was a teenager?—”

“Mom! Stop talking!” That comes out with more bite than I meant.

But after my discovery and this nagging worry about my mental health, I’m finding it hard to be happy-go-lucky. Besides, if I hadn’t cut her off, she’d have gone on for another ten minutes with barely a break for breathing.

“What’s wrong?”

At least she knows I wouldn’t snap for no reason.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just …” Different words play across my tongue, trying to fit themselves into the right question. I’m assuming that having grown up in Pine Falls, Mom would know about the wolves.

But wouldn’t she have told me if she did?

And if she doesn’t know, she’ll probably think I’m losing it, down here alone in this cabin. Then, she’ll tell my brothers, and there’d be no stopping them from migrating down here en masse.

Still, my need to solidify the truth overrides the experiment to distance myself from my family.

“When you lived here, did you ever notice anything … strange?”

“You’re being vague, sweetheart. It’s making me worry.”

A frustrated sigh gusts out of me, and I consider a different angle. “A few days ago, the truck broke down outside of town. When I was walking, a mountain lion attacked my friend and me.”

A gasp filters through the phone. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. The mountain lion didn’t touch me.” I conveniently leave out the part where I decided to wound myself. “It didn’t get a chance to.”

“That’s a relief. How did you get away?”

“A …” I take a deep breath. “A wolf saved me.”

The truth of that statement rings through the small tree-top enclosure. Up until this moment, I didn’t allow myself to fully examine what had happened. The giant mythical-creatures-are-real blockade kept my mind from remembering that my life had been in danger and Warner saved me.

I might be dead if he hadn’t transformed into his other shape.

Warner revealed a secret, terrifying part of himself to rescue me.

“Are you saying one of the werewolves fought off the mountain lion?”

My mom’s question might as well be a defibrillator, shocking me back to the present moment.

Silent seconds sit between us as my lungs struggle to pull in air.

Then, I’m gasping.

“You knew!” If this tree house were any bigger, I’d stand up and pace, but all I can do is pound the floor with an angry fist as disbelief has my words coming out choked. “You knew there were werewolves!”

“Of course I did.” She could be discussing the weather or a mildly interesting work story from the nonchalant tone she uses to flip the whole fucking world on its side.

“Of course? What do you mean, of course ?!”

“Sweetheart, there’s no need to worry about them.”

I clutch my head, trying with all my might to keep my brain from exploding. “Werewolves are real. Supernatural creatures are living in Pine Falls. And you didn’t think this was something you should share with me?” By the last sentence, I’m back to shouting because this is what my family does to me.

With the rest of the world, I can keep a cool, logical head. But put me in a room with another Gunner, and soon, I’ll be hollering until my throat is hoarse.

“I did tell you.”

“No, you sure as hell did not!”

“Of course I did. The werewolf stories were your favorites when you were younger.”

Maybe I am in fact losing my tether to reality. Seems like that trait runs in the family.

“Mother”—I speak slowly to keep from yelling, but now, my voice comes out tighter than a guitar string—“parents tell their children fairy tales . Make-believe stories. Why would you think I, now twenty-seven-years old, would accept them as fact?”

She huffs on her side of the line, as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “It’s not my fault you didn’t want to believe that werewolves existed. I never told you they didn’t. If you had asked me?—”

“Why would I ask you that?!” I’m shouting again. “That is not a normal question!”

“Sweetheart, you know I’m all for dramatics, but I really think you’re overreacting.”

That’s the final push. There is a precarious balance between horrified disbelief and manic hilarity. My mom has always been a master at upsetting my scales.

I laugh.

I laugh as if I were dying and this was my last chance to find something hysterical. I laugh to the point of tears and gasping. I laugh because I can’t contain the unfathomably absurd love I have for my outrageous mother.

She’s too ridiculous to stay mad at.

So, I laugh.

The phone slips out of my hand at some point, probably when I curl into the fetal position to keep my ab muscles from cramping. The device lies on the tree house’s floor, a foot from my head, and I can hear my mother’s voice calling out from the speaker.

“Zoey? Sweetheart, are you still there?”

I reach for the phone, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here.”

“And you swear you’re not hurt?”

“Werewolf saved the day, like I said.”

And now, I’m thinking about Warner coming to my rescue.

Right after he stripped down to his briefs. Guess that last bit of fabric tore off like Hulk’s shirt when Warner shifted.

The replay of the fight flashes through my mind, and my humor fades at the memory of claws and teeth and blood.

I’m not hurt. Not really. But he was sporting some major lacerations.

And what about infection?

Can werewolves get sick? Can they catch rabies?

I open my mouth to ask my mom, but then slowly close it. For some reason, getting intel from her almost seems wrong.

If I want to learn about werewolves, I should go straight to the source.

That is, if he’ll forgive me for treating him like a pariah after he saved my life.

“Well, you were lucky one of the pack was nearby. They tend to only hang around their own kind.”

That spikes my curiosity, but I’ve already made my decision about who to bring my questions to. Maybe if Warner refuses to talk to me, I’ll reconsider pumping my mom for info.

But right now, I have some groveling to do.

“I know. I was lucky. I’m sorry, but I have to let you go, Mom. I need to meet up with someone.”

“Wait …” She pauses for a stretch. “How are you feeling?” Mom clears her throat. “There, I mean. You’re … okay?”

Her hesitation speaks to how worried she is for my mental well-being.

I don’t see a point in rehashing the last few days of my shocked zombie state, so I give her the current truth. “I’m fine. This is helpful, I think. Being on my own for a bit.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I miss you.”

“You already said that.” I smile.

“I could say it ten more times, and it still wouldn’t cover it. You’ve left me outnumbered. It’s all men, all the time.”

I chuckle. “Even if I were there, they’d still have the majority.”

She rattles on a bit longer about my brothers and my father before we finally hang up.

As I climb down from the tree house, my brain is already strategizing.

Guilt sits like a heavy muck, coating my heart. The way I reacted, maybe it would be understandable to some, but I pride myself on how open-minded I can be.

That night, I treated Warner like a freak.

The need to apologize tugs me toward Pine Falls, but I resist the urge, instead returning to the cabin. Words aren’t enough to make this right. He needs to know I’m not saying some empty platitude.

Plus, there’s the whole thank-you-for-saving-my-life situation.

That werewolf had better brace himself for a Gunner apology.