Page 3

Summer

“ H ey, Zy. You home?” I holler as I wheel the injured wolf into the near-dark room, bumping into the scarred oval table that takes up most of Gravenshade Hall’s kitchen. “Got someone I want you to meet. Hurry. He’s injured.”

The wolf whines, and I shush him as a sugary voice travels up the stairwell from the basement. Footsteps clunk then my housemate Zylah appears in the open doorway, clutching her latest failed experiment—a half-stuffed squirrel she’s been practicing her taxidermy skills on.

She pushes a long spiral of auburn hair that’s escaped from one of her space buns out of her golden eyes and sets the critter on the dusty marble bench, leaving its little head hanging upside down, onyx eyes glaring at me like I’ve just insulted its mother.

“ He ?” Zylah says, pointing at the heaving lump under the tarp. “Is there a small child under there? Or have you brought home another three stray cats? Aren’t the five we already have enough? ”

“Always room for more,” I say as one of my aforementioned rescues, Ollie the sphinx—all tufts and scowls, like a grumpy little gargoyle who lost a glue fight with a rabid toddler—winds around my legs, yowling in disgust at the wheelbarrow.

Zylah and I share the crumbling mansion I inherited from my parents with five cats, a basement full of partially taxidermied roadkill, and a few ghosts that provide enough jump scares they almost render our coffeemaker pointless.

Who needs a caffeine infusion before work when a rotting corpse might randomly appear in your bathroom mirror to get your heart pounding?

“Take a look,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Hank won’t bite.”

With a huff, Zylah tucks a scalpel behind her left ear and stalks forward. I grab the wheelbarrow handles, ready to wheel Hank to safety—wherever that is, I’m not sure—if my housemate freaks out.

She flips the edge of the tarp, her eyes flaring wide as she stumbles backward. “Shit, Summer, that’s a wolf. A huge one stuck with an arrow who does not look like a Hank!”

“Of course he doesn’t look like a Hank. He looks like a furry death machine with teeth the size of my fingers. But I panicked, okay? And naming things makes them less likely to eat you. That’s an unspoken rule.”

“How the hell did you get him up the front stairs?” Zylah asks.

“Used a garden plank as a ramp. Highly recommended technique if you want a hernia.”

“Oh, Summer.” She shakes her head and bends to inspect the animal’s wound. “Ever heard of asking for help?”

“I’m asking now,” I say.

“Okay. Turn some more lights on.”

I nod and hurry to do as she bids .

The wolf’s tongue lolls out, his side rising up and down with short, panted breaths. He whines as she pulls back each eyelid. “What in the scrambled hellfire hash browns made you think it was a fine idea to bring a mangy, possibly rabid wolf home?”

“Well, I live with a vet nurse so… And as you can see, he has a thick, perfectly healthy coat of fur. And I decline to answer the first part of your question until after I’ve made us a jug of Vodka Lemonade and drank at least half of it.”

“Wound doesn’t look too deep,” says Zylah, ignoring me and bending over the patient again. “He’s one lucky wolf. That arrow missed all the important bits. Even so, I think I should call Theo and arrange to take your Hank into the surgery.”

“Your boss ? No. Wait. Think for a minute. If it’s not too bad, you can stitch him up yourself, right?”

She lowers her chin and looks at me over red-framed cat-eye glasses. “I could…” she says slowly. “But for safety, he needs to be kept caged while he recovers, until he can be rehabilitated and released back into the woods by, you know… wildlife experts. ”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” she asks.

I step closer and point at his glossy fur, his perfect, overlarge form. “I mean take a good look. Does he seem like a normal wolf to you? And the arrow shaft. Weird-looking metal. Who runs around the woods shooting arrows at wolves?”

Always dressed well, even when skinning roadkill in the basement, her calf-length orange-and-green dress swishes as she glides around the other side of the wheelbarrow, Doc Martens whispering over the tiles.

Zylah looks like a goth but wears bright colors, slashed with only hints of black, and she’s never without her neon winged eyeliner. I prefer black jeans and T-shirts. Although on a stinking-hot night like this, I should be changing into a cute black dress at the earliest convenience.

“It’s weird that Ollie isn’t scared of him,” says Zylah, watching my cat.

“He knows Hank can’t move right now. Knows he might not be a normal wolf.”

Zylah sighs. “Maybe you’re onto something being the girl who sees ghosts and all that.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask, hope making me rise onto my tiptoes.

“If you’re thinking that animal there is some kind of supernatural werewolf creature hailing from Bon Temps, Louisiana, then I’m thinking you’ve lost the final, unhinged, wonky marble in your brain.”

“But you said—”

“I was being sarcastic. Help me get him up on the table and grab my kit from the basement before I change my mind.”

Hank lies limp while we huff and puff and spread him out carefully on the kitchen table.

I run down to Zylah’s lair and return with supplies just as Hank lets out a dramatic whine.

Zylah preps him fast and gets to work, snapping on gloves and assembling cloth, gauze, iodine, and the whole vet-in-a-bag setup.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the ghost of the old groundskeeper leaning in close, eyeing the wolf like he’s about to offer a second opinion.

“Unless you’ve got an extra-special, spectral bandage in your pocket,” I mutter, “go haunt someone else’s ER.”

He vanishes immediately, looking offended.

“Was that old Ned again?” asks Zylah.

“Yeah. I think he’s bored because we haven’t been in the garden much, keeping him company.”

“Maybe we should muzzle him,” she suggests.

“Ned? He’s a ghost!”

“ No , the wolf.”

“Hank, won’t bite, will you?” Bright green eyes meet mine. Steady. No fear. Just an intense kind of calm that reaches out and hums deep in my bones. I brush my hand over his fur, rub the frown between his eyes. “I think he knows we’re trying to help, Zy.”

“Wonderful,” she says with another dose of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind getting your face ripped off, please do your best to keep him calm.”

While Zylah cleans the wound with antiseptic, I cup the wolf’s forehead with one hand and stroke his neck with the other. With steady, careful pressure she pulls on the arrow.

I hold the wolf more firmly, but instead of snarling or growling, Hank releases a long sigh of relief as the arrow slides from his flesh and Zy presses a pad of gauze over the hole to staunch the bleeding.

Working quickly, she flushes the wound with saline, stitches his skin with practiced hands, applies antibacterial ointment, and then, together, we wrap a bandage around the animal’s torso and shoulder.

While the wolf lies still, only his chest rising with panted breaths, Zylah inspects the arrow tip.

“No missing pieces. Got it out clean, so he should recover well. But look at this damn thing, Summer. Fancy silver shaft, but the arrowhead is made of rusty metal. Strange combination, don’t you think? ”

I nod, but there’s a buzzing under my skin. That weird sense again, like I should know exactly what this means. “I could’ve sworn the shaft looked like it was made of black glass in the Vandersons’ yard,” I say.

Taking the arrow from Zylah, I turn it over in my palm, feeling its lightness. Its oddness. A strong sense of recognition rushes through me, as though I’ve seen something similar. Perhaps in a dream.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” says Zylah, washing her hands in the sink.

“That’s because we are,” I mutter, glancing up at the ghoulish heads peeking through the ceiling beams like curious bats. “By three ghosts. They’re just debating if Hank’s going to eat us when he recovers.”

“So am I.” Zylah laughs. “Spirits, huh? If only they brought snacks instead of intrusive opinions. You know what’s weird?”

“What?” I ask, patting my head. “Is it my hair today?”

“No, that’s fine. But I think I’m losing my mind. One of my stuffed ravens has started talking to me. Not all the time. Just snippets every now and then. Strange shit, too.”

“That’ll be all the chemicals you use in the basement. Formaldehyde isn’t great for your brain.”

Cursing and straining, we lift Hank into the wheelbarrow and shut him in the basement with some drinking water and a bowl of leftover chicken from last night’s dinner.

“I’ll get some tranquilizers from work tomorrow in case he wakes up grumpy and tries to take us out,” says Zylah.

“But you should think about calling the wildlife rehabbers. He’s not a cute little stray we can house train to pee in the kitty litter and shake hands for treats.

” She pushes her glasses up her perfect nose and yawns loudly.

“And I’ll take a rain check on the Vodka Lemonade.

I’ve got an early start in the morning and lots of reading to do. ”

“Hopefully the fun kind,” I say, knowing how much she loves dark romances featuring heroes that’d never be allowed out of prison in the real world.

“Nope. Prep for an exam on Monday.”

“You’ve been working so darn hard at vet school, Zy, you don’t even need me to wish you luck.

You’ll ace it, I’m sure. And I promise I’ll think about getting the rehabbers involved.

” I grin before dropping a grateful kiss on her cheek.

“I’m sorry about this… unless you’re planning to stitch up werewolves for your thesis, in which case—you’re welcome. ”