Bright Moon (12 page)

The most eventful thing that morning was the
discovery of a pink rose in a glass vase when she entered the
bathroom. It had been situated carefully next to the sink. She took
it from the water as she left, unable to leave it behind. Callan
waited outside the door. She held the flower for him to see. “These
seem to follow me,” she said. “It’s starting to get weird.”

Callan blinked blearily at the rose. “They
are still your favorite, aren’t they?”

“They’re still my favorite,” she
confirmed.

Callan nodded and stumbled into the
bathroom, still half asleep. Her heart compressed with emotion as
she held the rose to her nose, touched he remembered her favorite
flower. She hoped his finding them for her wasn’t the reason he was
so sleepy.

That day, they traveled just as they had
before. Nerves claimed her when they finally came to a point that
she recognized her surroundings. The closer they were to home, the
more edgy she became. Her imagination ran wild thinking of her
father and how he would react when he saw them. Truthfully, she was
starting to doubt he’d be as relieved and thrilled as she’d told
Callan.

The car slowed to a mortal’s pace in the
outskirts of town. The main road took them right by the animal
shelter. She couldn’t help but think of Mark as they passed. On
inclination, Tyson touched her hand.

“You aren’t worried about Mark waiting
around, are you?” he asked her quietly. Callan was asleep in the
back.

“The thought crossed my mind, yes,” she
admitted as she moved her hand gently away.

“I doubt he’s been able to pick up our
trail.” He pretended not to notice her evasive behavior. The
closeness the trip forced made it difficult for her to squelch what
she felt for him. Her heart wasn’t listening to reason and she
found herself stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye
because it delighted her to do so.

They passed rows and rows of houses, stores
and other residential establishments. She thought it was strange
that things could change so erratically after a few short days, yet
everything looked the same. She was reminded of Tyson’s previous
spying when he didn’t ask or need directions to their house and
parked in the driveway as if he’d lived there himself. Callan’s
head appeared between them as he stared up at the house. Clara
glanced at it, then to her brother. Her twin was fighting an
internal demon and kept staring intently at what used to be his
home as an unreadable expression crossed his face.

She took a deep breath and found herself
inching from him when his eyes changed from emerald green, to a
vibrant golden. The change started around his pupil and glowed
yellow, much like Mesha’s had. The disturbing effect injected fear
into her heart. Tyson gave him a shove like one would to wake
someone from a dream. Callan blinked a few times and shook his
head.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered without meeting her
shocked look.

“What just happened?” she asked.

He tried to shrug the incident off.
“Nothing, it’s not anything to worry about. I almost let myself get
angry.”

“Do you think you can do this?” Tyson asked
him.

“I’m fine, I won’t let myself lose control,”
Callan promised. He got out of the car, leaving them no choice but
to follow.

On the front doorstep, there was a
disorderly little pile of newspapers whose undisturbed presence
immediately had Clara concerned. Callan retrieved the spare key
from its hiding place under a false stone in the flower garden,
which hadn’t been moved since he left.

“Does dad always leave the papers out like
this?” Callan asked.

“I don’t know, I usually brought them in,”
she answered and stooped to gather them. Callan got the door open
and they filed in quietly. The house was so still she was sure her
father must be away at work.

The sitting room to the right of the front
door was the same as it had been before she left. The hall took
them to the dining room which was adjacent to the kitchen. She
unloaded the papers on the glossy counter. On the opposite end of
the kitchen was the family room. The glow of the TV drew their
attention as it flickered silently.

Hopeful to find her dad on the sofa, she
edged cautiously toward it. The closer she went, the more a foul
stench offended her nose. It became apparent where the smell was
coming from when she saw a small mound of wrappers and pizza boxes
at the base of the sofa. They were tossed together with empty soda
cans and water bottles. A lump in the cushions, half buried in
blankets and pillows, told them a person slept beneath. Horror
gripped her when Tim grunted and shifted to a more comfortable
position. He was only half dressed, wearing a button shirt that
hung open and was so stained, it was hard to tell it had once been
white. His pants were missing. Luckily, he wore boxers that
shielded them from further shame. Thick, peppery stubble dotted his
chin and his hair frayed messily. From the looks of it, he’d barely
moved in the few days Clara had been gone, except to answer the
door for fast food delivery.

Tyson stood rigid, bearing a slight scowl.
Callan’s face, however, mirrored the mortification she felt. He
nudged his dad with his foot like he was toxic waste. Tim didn’t
respond so he did it again. Tim woke with a start, flailing his
long arms.

“What happened?” he asked sleepily and
looked around, spotting first Callan, then Tyson, and finally
Clara. Relief washed over his face, but was gone before she could
be sure she’d seen it. “Where have you been?” he bellowed and got
to his feet.

“Dad, are you okay?” Clara asked as he shook
off the blankets and garbage.

“I don’t know who you think you are, young
lady, but you can’t just vanish for days then come back like
nothing happened.” He turned his attention to Callan and took him
fully in.

“Hi…dad,” Callan said softly.

“Don’t you
hi dad
me!” Tim pointed a
finger in his face. “I should have known better than to trust
either one of you. I want you both out of my house, now!”

“Dad, please, if you’d let us explain you
might—” Clara tried to say.

“No!” He waved a hand in a way reminiscent
of a mad man. “You’re just like your mother!”

“Dad!” Callan said. “Calm down, you haven’t
let us say anything!”

“What is there to say? You left just like
your mother did! Then you!” He jabbed a finger at Clara.
“
You
left! I thought I could expect more from you!”

She swallowed hard, trying to hide the
sting.

“You are just like your mother, the pair of
you!” he yelled again and his voice resonated deeper in them.
Callan grabbed Tim’s shirt.

“Don’t talk about mom that way! She left
because of you!”

Tim pushed Callan off and Clara knew Callan
only let go because he chose to. Tim couldn’t know that and his
face turned red with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking
about!” he yelled, bringing his face within inches of Callan’s. The
imaginative image of Callan bursting into wolf made her push
herself between them.

“Calm down!” she said. Tim stared down at
her.

“I thought
you
would be
different.”

“Dad, you’ve been sulking around the house
since Callan left. You know it and I know it. This is your chance
to make things right. Mom will never come back, but you still have
us. Let us explain things!”

“I won’t hear it!” Tim yelled.

“Then you deserve this!” she shouted back,
casting her hand over the mess. “Please, dad, don’t mess things up
again.”

Tim’s bloodshot eyes bulged in anger. “He is
not my son…and you are not my daughter!” His body tensed and his
arm came up. She realized he was going to slap her. His hand
started to swing down and she turned away just as impact should
have come, but the slap never was. When she dared to look, Tyson
was there with Tim’s arm in his grip. His eyes were smoldering with
the golden flame of wild wolf. Tim was frightened into temporary
silence. With surprising calm Tyson pushed him backward and
released his arm. His eyes slowly returned to their icy blue. Tim’s
face paled and he muttered, “Luzy,” under his breath.

“You’ve seen someone like me before?” Tyson
asked, his voice thick with anger. Tim fell back onto the sofa,
stumbling over the trash, but refusing to answer. Tyson turned to
Callan. “Is Luzy your mother?”

“He called her Luzy,” Callan affirmed
without taking his eyes off his father.

“Your wife had eyes like mine?” he tried
asking, turning to Tim.

“Her bloodline is cursed. I could have lived
the rest of my life without seeing another of her kind and now you
have brought the curse back!” Tim stood once more. “Have you done
this to them? Are you what he is?” He stabbed a finger at Tyson and
faced Callan, who squared his shoulders.

“I am.”

“What about you?” he challenged Clara.

“Don’t talk to her!” Tyson snarled,
obscuring her from her father. Tim glared at him, unaware of how
pathetic his appearance was.

“Why can’t I speak to her under my
roof?”

“You’ve caused enough anguish as it is,”
Tyson’s voice was full of loathing. Clara could only see his
backside and did her best to hide the fact her heart raced in
response to his protective nature.

“Ha!” Tim laughed. “Get out of my house! All
of you!”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me
what happened to mom,” Callan said stubbornly.

“How should I know?” Tim shot back. “She
left.”

Callan shook his head. “How was she infected
then?”

Tim was edgy when he answered. “Didn’t you
hear me before? She wasn’t!”

“How could she be a werewolf?” Callan
countered.

“It was in her father’s blood and her
grandfather’s blood and so on,” Tim crossed his arms over his
chest.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Clara
asked, moving around Tyson.

“It is
my
business,” he replied
childishly.

“Was your wife being threatened?” Tyson
asked.

Tim shook his head and walked away,
obviously refusing to speak more.

“Dad,” Callan said to his retreating form.
“Clara’s in trouble and we need to know everything we can possibly
find out.”

There was no response. They lost sight of
him as he stepped into the hall, but could hear him drag his feet
all the way to the stairs opposite the front door and proceed up
them. Clara thought her heart might break at her father’s second
abandonment. She couldn’t believe he would turn his back when told
either of his children needed him. Her self-pity was fleeting. With
sudden clarity, she remembered the email she’d received and deleted
just before Mark had taken her into the wilderness. With all the
excitement since, she’d forgotten. Knowing her mother had been a
werewolf meant she also knew she would have been immortal, as hard
to kill as Tyson or Callan. A great wave of deep, black dread
washed over her and she felt lightheaded.

“Clara?” Tyson asked.

“Mom’s nod dead.”

“What?” Callan’s voice was a shocked
whisper.

The blood rushed from her face.

“She’s going to faint,” Tyson commented and
grabbed her upper arm.

“Put your head between your knees,” Callan
encouraged.

She slumped to the floor, kept from flat out
falling with Tyson’s help, and did as her brother suggested. With
her lower back to the couch, she lowered her head. Tyson kicked
aside a small pile of rubbish. Nausea and lightheadedness had her
struggling to keep her lunch down. The smell of the surrounding
garbage didn’t help either.

“Get her something to drink,” Tyson
commanded and Callan went to the kitchen. She could hear him
banging around the cupboards. “What did you say?” Tyson asked her
gently.

“My mom is not dead,” she mumbled from her
knees.

“How do you know?” Callan was suddenly next
to her, holding a cup. She accepted the water gratefully and took a
sip.

“I received an email.” She scrambled to her
feet and the men moved aside. The cup clunked down on the counter
as she passed. She rushed to where Callan’s room had once been.
They were hot on her heels as she climbed the staircase.

“What are you talking about?” Callan called
after her.

She shook her head and pulled the office
door open. The computer was off and she stooped to push the power
button on the CPU, which was kept on a shelf under the desk.

“What is going on out there?” Tim hollered
from his room. “I told you to get out!”

The computer buzzed to life and the welcome
screen greeted them.

“What are you doing?” Callan asked as she
sat at the office chair. He glanced around the room with a
downtrodden expression. “We probably shouldn’t stay here.”

“We’ll go as soon as you see.”

Tyson lingered by the door and cocked his
head. Tim appeared in the hall to glare at them. “I’m going to call
the police.” Scowling, Tyson shut the door. Tim’s surprised face
looked in on them just before the door clicked shut. He made a
feeble attempt to open it again. Tyson braced the door with his
foot and it could not be moved. The scene might have been humorous
if she wasn’t consumed with raw fear for her mother. The computer
couldn’t boot fast enough and she tapped the side of the screen as
if to encourage it. Finally, she opened the internet and her email.
She was about to search the
deleted
folder when she scanned
the list of new emails. Her hand froze. A fresh email had been
sent. She recognized the subject line although it was from another
email address. “
Lucita Rita,
” it read, “
Your
mother.
”

The lump in her throat only grew and she
tried to swallow it. Callan’s head was just above her shoulder,
watching with intense interest as she clicked and opened the
message. Timothy made a ruckus in the hall, but their concentration
was unbreakable. A single link was pasted in the message, just as
before. She clicked on it and the live stream opened in a new
window. Callan gasped when he saw the small dirty cell. The woman
sat in a corner with her arms around her knees.