Page 2

Summer

T he wolves are back again, staring at me from the trees beyond the wire garden fence. I toss my weeding tool to the side and stand up, wiping my jeans with dirty gloves.

I meet the taller wolf’s bright-green gaze and lift my chin. “You don’t scare me.”

Its snout twitches as if in reply.

“You hungry?” I ask. “Go hunt some rabbits. You’re apex predators, not yard dogs.”

For the last two days, the large wolves have lurked at the edge of my client’s garden, magnificent creatures with black coats that glitter like opals in the sunlight.

They hide behind trees, peering around thick trunks to watch me weed, frightening the ever-loving shit out of me at first. Not an easy task, since I basically live with ghouls in a crumbling mansion held up by the unpaid efforts of me and my best friend, Zylah.

Mom’s family is old money, a big name in these parts, but they don’t want anything to do with us anymore after Dad gambled all her money away on shady stock-market schemes. After all I’ve heard about them, I’m not exactly mourning the loss.

Yesterday, after repeated shouts and hand-shooing gestures failed to move the wolves on, I decided I didn’t mind their company and chatted away like we were old friends.

Today they’re bolder, stretched out in the sun at the bottom of the Vandersons’ yard, eyes locked on me, occasionally flicking toward the Victorian ghost-gardener and his transparent son, busy planting invisible vegetables nearby.

I should probably address the undead elephants in the garden. My spectral associates. The first time I saw one, I was nine and had just nearly drowned in Lake Grenlynn. A pale lady with no eyes and rocks in the pockets of her gown was waiting for me on the shore, guiding me back to safety.

After that, I started seeing ghosts on the regular—young folk, old folk, even limp-limbed pets and half-squashed wild critters.

Alarming at the time, but I adjusted reasonably fast. Considering I grew up traumatized by the lack of my parents’ love and attention, it’s no wonder lost, creepy things felt right at home with me.

Given my ability to communicate with the dear and decaying departed, I’ve tried speaking to the macabre gardeners, hoping to learn their story.

But they pretend not to hear me, their hollow eyes sliding over my laboring form, then skyward, as if asking the gods for the ability to tolerate my mortal presence. Honestly? They’re rude.

A rhythmic thudding sound comes from the woods, like someone running fast in heavy boots, cracking twigs and bracken as they go, getting closer. The wolves shake onto their feet, fur bristling as they sniff the air. The spiked hackles along their spines shout “ danger” loud and clear.

The smaller, bored-looking wolf with a pure black coat and orange eyes, I call Satchel.

To me, he seems like a tag-along, reluctantly following his buddy into dangerous situations.

I’ve named the big one Trouble, thanks to his frequent rumbling growls, intense stare, and rakish patch of silver around his left eye.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Is your pack calling?” I don’t believe that’s true.

No howls are tearing through the air, echoing off the nearby lake.

And besides, these two seem like loners.

Same as me. Fellow outcasts who slink through streets and corridors in huddles of two, sometimes three, defiance smoldering in their glares.

I have long, dark hair that frames a pale face and wide-set eyes the color of swamp water that are often described as unsettling. It’s a rare day on the mortal plane that I’m not swaddled in funerary shades or wearing a deep scowl on my brow.

Not very welcoming , the jocks at school used to say after I snarled at their buffoonish advances. There was a reason for the chilly exterior. I wanted them to fuck off. And stay fucked off forever.

Eerily silent, the wolves stare through trees, unmoving. I whistle to snap them out of it, but it has no effect.

With a shrug, I grab a pitchfork and urgently toss mulch over a garden bed as if a hungry vampire were breathing down my neck. Dusk will fall soon, and I want to be out of here before the Vandersons arrive home from work .

As far as clients go, they’re nice enough, but they ask too many questions. And other than tight, neon-colored tube tops, that’s the one thing I can’t stand. Busybodies.

Insects buzz through the humid air as I take a break from forking mulch to wipe sweat from my face and swat a mosquito on my arm.

Frogs croak and chirp from the pond under the willow tree, and I grab the handles of the old metal wheelbarrow, tipping it forward with a grunt to dump the last load of mulch.

Then a whoosh, whomp sound draws my attention. One of the wolves yelps, and I whirl around, searching the edge of the garden, finding Satchel standing over a bloodied sprawl of dark fur.

Dammit. Trouble’s hurt.

Without thinking, I run down the grassy incline, through the back gate to the edge of the woods, and drop to my knees beside the fallen wolf with blood oozing from his shoulder.

Trouble whines, then pants, his tongue lolling out, gold-flecked green eyes fixed on mine, as if imploring, begging me to do something.

“What happened?” I ask, not expecting either of the beasts to answer, of course.

Right now, I should be pissing my pants this close to wild animals, especially a wounded one. But a weird sense of calm has taken over me, and I have the strangest feeling it’s coming from the wolves. That they’re emitting this soothing energy to keep me there, helping them.

The wolves exchange a volley of low rumbles and snarls—an argument of sorts. Then Satchel nudges me toward the house with his forehead, casts one last worried look at his friend, and runs into the forest, deserting him. Or perhaps he’s hunting down the perpetrator.

The other day, I thought I imagined someone watching me from behind the trees—tall and dark haired. Maybe he was actually real. A sicko wolf hunter.

“Is your friend coming back?” I ask, receiving another whine and a wolfish eye roll in reply. The blood on the animal’s shoulder oozes around an arrow of all things, thick and barely flowing. Not a fatal wound, so he’ll probably live as long as he gets some help soon.

“Oh, you poor thing. Who the hell runs around the lake looking for wild animals to shoot with a bow and arrow? A psychopathic lunatic is my best guess.”

The wolf nods his head as if in agreement, and I pull out my cellphone, wondering how long it’ll take wildlife rescue to get here late on a Friday afternoon.

He bares his fangs and shoves his nose into the side of my leg, pushing me away.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, you big old bit of chaos. Relax. Let me put some pressure on that wound,” I say, placing my phone on the grass and whipping my bandanna from my jeans pocket.

Taking care, I wrap the cloth around the arrow, which is oddly made of a dark, glossy metal that almost looks like glass, and gently press down. With lumbering effort, the wolf lifts his head and licks the underside of my forearm.

My gaze slides to my phone. I should put in that call. Get someone over here to help before Mrs. Vanderson and her devilish pigtailed twins turn up. But as I lift one of my hands from the wolf’s heaving side, he lets out a ferocious, rumbling growl.

For the first time in his presence, fear rushes through me.

“I said I wasn’t gonna hurt you. Got a hearing problem?” I joke, attempting to settle my nerves. “I need to get you some help before a bigger critter comes along and eats you for dinner. Can’t leave you here. You need medical attention.”

Green eyes stare, begging, and I know I can’t just abandon the poor creature to fend for itself in the woods. It’s all alone. Wounded. And will likely die if I don’t call for back up in the next few minutes.

Wolves are dangerous, no doubt about that, but in the past couple of days, I didn’t once think they wanted to hurt me. Strange creatures, really. More stalker-ish than malevolent. Best if I make the call and wait here with him until a wildlife rescuer arrives.

Decision made, I reach my hand down again, and the wolf snaps at my cell. Three times I try to pick it up, and on the last attempt, his fangs crack the glass on the phone’s screen.

“You’re making it hard for me to save your life. I can’t leave you here, and you can’t come home with me. What am I meant to do?”

Instantly, the growling stops.

No way. Absolutely not. Nope . I can’t be thinking what I think I’m thinking.

“I must be crazy,” I mumble, and the wolf gives my arm a wet, encouraging swipe of his tongue.

I pocket my cell and get to my feet, shaking my head at the green eyes intent on mine.

“You sure are lucky I live not far from here and my housemate is an actual vet nurse. What were you thinking attacking my phone like a heathen and preventing me from calling for help?”

After warning my furry friend not to move, an unnecessary waste of time given his condition, I fetch the wheelbarrow and a large weeding mat, giving the Victorian gardeners a quick wave as they watch me with ghoulish interest.

“Okay,” I say, panting over the wolf. “This might hurt a bit, but if you want to come home with me, you’re gonna have to get in this thing for transportation purposes. Think light. Pretend you’re a floating, non-biting feather.”

It takes multiple tries—he’s a dead weight and slippery with blood—and the barrow nearly tips sideways twice as I wrestle his bulk inside.

As I bend close, it occurs to me he doesn’t smell wolfish, all musk mixed with blood, like I expect. Instead, his scent is earthy and clean, like a freshly watered garden bed. My favorite smell in the whole wide world.

Bleeding wolf secured, I tap out a quick message on my cracked phone to let Mrs. Vanderson know I’ve borrowed her wheelbarrow for the weekend.

Then I hike my rucksack onto my back and press down on the barrow’s handles, testing the weight.

The front wheel wobbles like it knows we’re both in way over our heads, and it’s heavy as hell.

Fortunately, with all the digging and shoveling I do in my part-time job, I’ve developed a few muscles that should help me trundle a wild creature across the woodsy neighborhood and prevent us from ending up sprawled in the gutter.

“You’re very cooperative for a slavering beast,” I say, spreading the plastic mat over his body and tucking him in tightly .

I take a big breath and then head up the hill toward the side gate and the street, wondering if I’m making a terrible mistake. At least the wolf-shaped lump beneath the tarp is well-behaved, lying still.

As I follow the path along the side of the house, I tell him, “I think I’m going to call you Hank. Sounds a lot sweeter and cuddlier than Trouble.”