Moonglow (29 page)

My nose crinkles as if to say “that's an odd name.”

Essie must have gone to the same psychic academy that Caleb graduated from; she can read my mind too. “You know those Indians and their crazy names.”

I know them better than you think.

“Thanks, Essie, I really appreciate it,” I reply. “And don't worry, I'll never reveal my source.”

Just as I'm about to enter the main lobby and leave, I'm overwhelmed by the fragrance of the moonflowers. I know my senses have improved, but this is different. This is like the smell is calling me, like there's a hook on the end of it that has latched into my spine and is pulling me toward its source. It's an invitation I can't refuse.

Quietly, I turn around and head toward The Hallway to Nowhere. Essie's hunched over, her face buried again in her magazine, and I quicken my pace. I have no idea where this scent will take me, if it's leading me to Luba or if it's just my imagination getting the better of me, but whatever the final destination, I have to follow the flowery perfume.

At the end of the hall I make a right, then a left. I look into Room 48 to make sure it's still empty, and then continue on until I reach a dead end. The sign on the metal door reads, A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY.
I'm about to turn back when a whiff of moonflowers hits me in the face, rising from the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. Despite the imposing appearance, the door is rather easy to open, not because of a flaw in its design, but because it isn't locked. Unless the rest of The Retreat's employees have the same work ethic as Essie, I can't imagine someone carelessly leaving this door unlocked. Other forces have to be at work. And by other forces, I mean Luba.

I walk into a long, narrow section of the building that looks to be the medical supply department. Behind locked glass cabinets are tons of shelves housing everything from the syringes Nadine swipes to bedpans to plastic applicator things to oddly-shaped devices made of metal and rubber that I've never seen. One in particular looks like a boat engine with a flexible hose attached to it that ends in a long, thin needle. I pray to God I never have to find out what that one does.

The next section of the room is a huge walk-in linen closet. Towels, robes, dressing gowns, sheets, blankets, and pillows line the walls, all neatly folded, collectively giving off the aroma of bleach that almost overpowers the fresh lilacy smell of the moonflowers that's still tugging at me.

The door at the other end is also unlocked, but this one leads to a stairwell that only goes down. Unusual, but at least I don't have to make a choice. It takes me three flights to reach the next landing and when I see what's printed on the door, I literally take a step back. F
IRST
W
ARD.
I know that that's fancy jargon for The Dungeon.

The impulse to leave is very strong. I tell myself that I should retrace my steps and go outside to where Caleb has got to be waiting for me, but just before I can give in to reason and common sense, a breeze erupts in the stairwell, creating a small wind tunnel that's jammed with the scent of moonflowers. It's calling me to the other side, but this door looks even more impenetrable. Plus, didn't Nadine say that The Dungeon houses only the most dangerous patients? Even if I could get inside, is it really a place I'd want to be? And is it really a place I want to risk getting trapped in? But it isn't possible to become trapped when there's nothing keeping you locked in.

Like a dream sequence in an old movie, the door begins to ripple and grow transparent, until it disappears entirely. Gone, as if it never existed in the first place. Maybe it's just an illusion, a hologram, but when I tentatively step forward and extend my arm, I touch empty space where the door used to be. If I wasn't convinced the psycho was behind this latest stunt, I'd think it was really cool magic. But soon all thoughts of magic are replaced when the sounds begin.

From within the closed cells that populate this area I can hear muffled cries, sobs filled with anguish and despair, indecipherable shouts, screams that cascade right into maniacal laughter. Nadine wasn't kidding; I don't know how anyone—insane or completely in control of his or her sanity—could spend more than ten minutes in this place without wanting to rip his or her ears off. I'm about to lose my mind, and I've only just stepped foot in here. Then I realize with utter horror that this is exactly what my life has become.

I'm exactly like these unfortunate and unseen souls rotting away in these rooms; I'm trapped just like they are. The only difference is that their cells are made of padding and come with unbreakable locks, while mine is made of flesh and blood. I look around and wonder just how long it will take until this curse becomes unbearable and it breaks me like whatever disease or misfortune has broken these patients and I wind up in a cell next to them.

The only thing that stops me from succumbing to the panic rising in my stomach is that I see something on the floor at the end of the corridor that's bathed in moonlight. I don't know how natural light is getting into this space until I get closer and see a long horizontal window running across the top of the ceiling. It's only a few inches wide, and the glass looks to be inordinately thick, so using it as an escape hatch would be impossible. But the window can be used as a way for the moon to capture my attention.

The moonflower aroma is so thick and pungent I feel like I'm standing on top of ground zero. When I look down I know I am. At my feet I see a spray of moonflowers, exactly the same kind that were in my mother's room, except these have been torn apart. The petals have been plucked and ripped into shreds, the stems bent and snapped in half, and the whole mess has been left in a heap on the cold cement floor. This is why I was brought here? To see some discarded flowers? It doesn't seem worth the effort until something within the pile shimmers in the moonlight. I bend down, and staring up at me amid the floral wreckage are pieces from my father's past: two bullets stained in blood.

Immediately the smell of rotting flesh annihilates every last trace of those freakin' flowers and I know that somewhere Luba is watching me. Somewhere very nearby this evil and demented and vengeful woman is thrilled to know that she has made me travel to the past to hold the truth of my father's crime in my hands.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the door start to ripple, and I know that it's about to return to solid form and truly trap me in this horrible place. My newfound speed comes in handy, and I make it to the other side just as I hear the door slam shut behind me.

I don't know how I get out of The Retreat without being reprimanded or at least seen, but when I jump into the Sequinox I don't see or sense anyone behind me. For now, the old witch is leaving me alone.

When I get home I make sure that Barnaby is upstairs playing video games and bring my father and Caleb into the kitchen so I can convey the details of the past few hours. As expected, once the shock wears off, my father wants to run right out and search for Luba, come face-to-face for the first time in decades with the woman who has waited patiently for her curse to come true.

“And what are you going to do if you find her, Daddy?” I ask.

Without hesitation my father replies, “Kill her.”

Caleb is stunned by this response, but it's what I figured he'd say. It's both fatherly and stupid.

“So you want to kill the only person alive who may have the antidote to this curse?”

My father leans against the door leading into the garage for a moment before closing it. When he speaks his voice is more contrite than confrontational. “So what do you suggest we do?”

“Essie told me her son's name is Thorne St. Croix,” I explain. “Find
him
and maybe we'll find a way to Luba.”

Nodding his head, my father sits at the kitchen table, suddenly weary, and says, “That's a good idea, Dominy.”

I sit next to him and hold his hand. I think he's in more shock than I was when I bumped into the old woman.

“I'm sorry you had to see her,” he says. “I was hoping to spare you that.”

I understand exactly what he's saying, and I wish I had never laid eyes on her either. Seeing her in the flesh and not just in my mind makes this evil all the more real. I'm sure a part of my father never thought that he'd see her again, possibly didn't even think she was alive, but now he knows she's still out there. She's come back to haunt us, and she's brought some of the past with her.

“She made sure I found these too.”

The bullets clink when I place them on the kitchen table and swirl in opposite directions until they stop moving and settle into a position that ominously resembles the letter
L
. I don't have to ask my father to know that these are the bullets that killed Luba's husband; I only have to look into his eyes. This is how he must have looked when he saw the dead man for the first time, when he realized his actions had caused the death of another human being.

He picks up the bullets as if they're pieces of delicate china and not things that were created to kill and examines them. I don't know what he's looking for, perhaps an identifying mark, a company logo, but whatever he's searching for in order to identify these bullets he finds.

“These are from my father's Winchester,” he confirms. “These are the bullets that were supposed to kill that deer.”

Instead, they killed a man who was married to a powerful woman. A woman who has returned and who may have become even more powerful over the course of time. Interesting how time is a friend to some, like Luba, and an enemy to others, like me. The one good thing that came of my chance encounter with Psycho Squaw was that she reminded me tomorrow night will feature another full moon.

“And the truth is, we still don't know how to deal with this,” I say. “We still don't have a plan.”

I'm looking at my father, expecting him to have a solution to the problem. But Caleb beats him to it.

“I do.”

Chapter 22

And it's Prince Caleb to the rescue. Or more accurately, Prince Caleb's father.

“Remember the old animal protection center?” Caleb asks. “It's the perfect solution.”

“How? It went out of business last year,” I remind him.

“That's what makes it perfect.”

Caleb reminds us that his father used to be head honcho of the Weeping Water Animal Protection Center until, thanks to state budget cuts, it was deemed unnecessary, closed down, and merged with a larger and more modern facility in Lincoln. Now Mr. Bettany is one of three assistants at the Lincoln APC, a demotion for sure, but at least he's still employed. As a result, the center in Weeping Water—complete with a sprawling basement filled with empty animal cages—is vacant.

“Caleb, that's perfect. I forgot all about it,” my dad says. “Does your father still have the keys?”

“No,” Caleb replies.

Okay, so my prince is pretty, but stupid. How can it be the perfect solution if we can't even get inside the place?

“Because I swiped them.”

Yay! My prince isn't stupid or straightlaced anymore; he's a petty thief swinging a bunch of keys on a chain in front of my face.

“I don't usually condone theft of government property,” my dad says, “but this time I'll make an exception. Good work, Caleb.”

Smiling proudly, Caleb replies, “Thanks, Mr. Robineau.”

So one problem solved. Tomorrow night I'll lock myself into an empty cage at the APC so when I transform into a werewolf—a phrase I still can't believe is actually part of my vocabulary—I won't be free to terrorize the locals. That leaves the big picture problem of finding Luba and her son. My father, not wanting to be outdone by a rookie, reveals that he's already on that.

“First thing tomorrow, I'm going to do a search of every state and federal database, so wherever this Thorne St. Croix is, we'll find him.”

“You don't think he's right here in town?” I ask.

“I doubt it,” he replies, shaking his head. “I know the name of every resident for the past decade, and I've never heard of him before.”

Just because someone says something doesn't mean it's the truth. “Isn't it possible that Thorne St. Croix is a fake name?”

My father lets out a heavy sigh; clearly he was thinking the same thing. “Could be, but that's the only lead we have, so we have to pursue it as if it's fact.”

“Spoken like a true cop,” Caleb jokes.

And my dad follows it up with something only a father would say.

“Tomorrow, I'll stay with you all night, Dominy, to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“We all will,” Caleb adds.

“No!”

My sudden outburst startles them both, but I don't care. The last thing I want is for Caleb and my friends to witness another transformation. It's humiliating and private and painful. As much as they want to help me, I want them as far away as possible when this curse takes over. “Sorry, but I don't want you to see me like that again. Once was definitely enough.” Looking in Caleb's eyes I know he's going to protest. “Don't fight me on this, Caleb, because you're going to lose.”

“Tug,” he says.

What? Maybe he really is pretty but stupid.

“Tug,” he repeats.

Oh now I get it. We both hold our invisible string from opposite ends and tug.

“Can you feel it?” my boyfriend asks.

“Yes,” I reply, more than a little embarrassed to be standing a foot from my father while kind of flirting with my boyfriend.

“I won't be anywhere near that cage tomorrow night,” Caleb says, “but I'll be right next to you all the same.”

Before I can thank Caleb, my father says it for me.

“Thank you,” he says, clutching Caleb's shoulder. “If anything ever happens to me, it's good to know you'll be there to protect my girl.”

“You can count on it, sir.”

If the two of them weren't being so incredibly sincere I'd roll my eyes, but I have more important things to do. Like start packing to spend the night in a cage.

 

Conveniently, Barnaby has a sleepover birthday party at his friend Jody's house to attend, so my father and I don't have to sneak out of the house to spend the night at the APC. A few miles from the police station we see the building, and my father immediately slows the car down as if he's trying to creep up on it. Perhaps he's afraid some animals or homeless people have taken up residence in the overgrown brush that surrounds the place, and he doesn't want to be caught breaking into government property. But can it really be called trespassing, if we have the keys to the front door?

The building is built out of the same material they used for The Retreat and has the same institutionalized look. I guess that makes sense because they were both created to serve the same purpose, which is to take care of the sick and the lost and the lonely. But this one's closed for business.
Well, get ready to open up, 'cause you're about to house a new tenant: me.

There are a few animal footprints in the snow leading up to the front door, but there's no indication that a person has been here recently. I follow my father's lead and walk backwards down the walkway, dragging a foot over each footprint so our tracks can't be discovered later on. I feel like we're playing some kid game like hopscotch, and I almost start laughing until I'm hit with a wave of nausea. Once we get inside I know why; this place may no longer be in use, but the smell of injured and sick animals still clings to its walls.

My father doesn't seem as affected by the smell, so it's probably me and my super senses. After a few minutes I get used to it, and thankfully it's warm, so I don't think we'll freeze during the night. I guess since the place has been sealed up for over a year it's kept the cold out. But even if the weather dips and makes the temperature drop inside the building, it won't matter, because we've come armed with extra blankets as well as pillows, a flashlight, a thermos of hot coffee for my father, and a change of clothes for me. I put the clothes that I'll change into tomorrow morning on a small ledge about five feet from the floor that juts out from the cage's cement wall. If I leave them on the ground, I risk ripping them to shreds like I'll undoubtedly rip the clothes I'm currently wearing. I may be cursed, but I'm prepared. Until I hear the click of the lock behind me.

The sound makes my body lurch forward as if somebody punched me in the stomach. I know this is for my safety and the safety of everyone in town, but I still feel like I'm in prison and waiting to be sentenced. It's eerie and final and unfair.

At the same time my father and I see the full moon shining through the window on the other side of the room. He shuts off his flashlight because the moonglow is stronger and smiles at me from the free side of the cage. I know he's trying to share his strength with me, but it has the opposite effect; it breaks my heart. I know this is my father's fault; I know it's because of his recklessness that I'm in this cage right now, but I can't blame him. He would willingly change places with me to bear my newly acquired burden. But that's not going to happen, so all he can do is turn around and give me some privacy.

My first scream makes his body tilt a little, as if the sound of my voice pushes him off center. My second scream makes his hands constrict into two fists, so they look like pendulums as he teeters forward, then back. My third scream makes him drop to his knees and bury his face in his hands. I think I hear him crying, but I'm not sure because my growls are getting louder.

The burning throughout my body, the snapping of my bones, the thick layer of fur replacing my skin is complete, and the girl has lost once again to the primitive spirit within her soul. Dominy is nowhere to be found, and in her place is something better and stronger and smarter than that girl could ever hope to be. I'm superior to her in every way, and how dare she trick me into coming into this cage? How dare she lead me into this dead end?

Leaping through the air, I throw my body, paws first, into the metal bars, and the impact makes me fall to the ground. The stupid man on the other side of this cell is still huddled on the floor like the pathetic creature he is. Our places should be switched; he should be caged, and I should be set free. That would be the natural order of things; the strongest roam the earth, while the weak wait until it's time for them to die.

Howling, I pace my cage and leap against the bars a second time, the metal barrier that separates me from freedom shaking only slightly. This structure is secure, and my third, fourth, and fifth attempt to rip the bars from their foundation all fail. When I howl again it resembles a wail, plaintive and pitiful, and the sound sickens me. Defeated I bound to the far end of the cage and pace in a circle several times before collapsing into a heap. I need to rest and think of a way out. An hour later, when I'm convinced escape is not an option, I hear a click.

Slowly my head rises, but I keep my snout low. I'm surveying the area with pretended disinterest, but when I see the cage door swing open, I can't conceal my elation. Looking toward the moon I bow my head, showing my gratitude, because I know that it has somehow restored the natural order. I repeat that motion when I get to the door of the cage; my liberator deserves my respect as well.

Outside, the air is brisk and alive and ripe with death. I breathe deeply so I can track the scent and follow it. The snow-covered earth feels good under my paws, crunching underneath me, announcing my arrival, letting the world know that I cannot be restrained, I cannot be caged, I cannot be kept prisoner. My spirit needs to be free, and my body needs to feed, and that's why I can feel my mouth water as the death-smell grows stronger and thick as fog.

Walking past a tree whose collection of branches bears a striking resemblance to a woman, I see what's making that wondrously foul odor. Crouched low to the ground a few yards away is a man who in a few moments will no longer be a man. This one doesn't cry out when my jaw clamps down on his thigh and rips flesh from bone; this one doesn't protest when the blood seeps from his body like a flowing red river; this one doesn't prevent me from taking his life.

The bitter, now-familiar taste fills my mouth, explodes in my throat, and travels throughout my body until my hunger is quenched. I look up at the lady stuck in the tree and howl. If she had a voice she would howl with me to let the world hear her pain, let the world know how her plight of immobility makes her suffer, but she doesn't have that power, so I howl once more, this time for her.

Something about this woman triggers a memory. I've been here before. No, not me—this Dominy has been here; she's the one who knows this land. Maybe if I penetrate her mind a bit further, she'll lead me to a safe place to rest and another fertile hunting ground.

Soon the land starts to change and the buildings are gone, replaced by trees and hills, an open terrain christened by snow that seems to be untouched by humans. The air is colder out here and feels good blowing in my face, across my body, and all along my tail. I come to a clearing and stop; there's something different about the flat stretch of land in front of me. I press my paw onto the shimmering ground and there's no traction; my paw slides out from under me, and my body falls, my stomach flat against the small ice pond. Another memory bites at my brain, and I remember words, something like,
“never judge something by its surface”
; instinctively I know not to walk on this silvery sheath. However, I can't help but stare at my reflection.

Suddenly I'm as frozen as the earth. Gazing into my blue-gray eyes, I don't see a fierce warrior; I don't see a cunning animal; I only see a girl. My red fur blows in the wind, and I wish the tufts of hair were flames so they could melt they ice, so they could take away this vision, but they can't; it's burned into my soul. The girl's fear and horror and sadness are part of me; this is who I am.

I hear the girl's voice scream somewhere deep within my brain, and I know that she sees my face reflecting back at her as clearly as I see hers. When she shudders, I shudder along with her because I can feel her pain. I know what it's like to feel trapped and alone and ugly.

The sound that bursts out of my mouth is not mine; it's not hers; it's ours. And when I see the ball of light on the other side of the clearing, I know that it's responding to her part of the cry and not mine.

Gliding across the air, the yellow ball moves toward me, growing in size as it gets closer, bringing with it another scent, flowery and pungent, the undeniable smell of cherry blossoms that fills the air as if spring has arrived early. Suddenly, the yellow light contracts and then expands into a long, vertical line, until it spreads apart to reveal its passenger.

The girl standing before me looks to be made of the embers of the sun, her hair, her face, her entire body pulsating with sunlight. She's so different from the moon, I find her appearance to be disgusting, but she possesses a serenity that is calming as she walks toward me. No, not me, toward the lost girl.

“Dominy,” she says, a beam of sunlight floating out of her mouth, “it's me, Jess.”

Stepping backward, I feel my body shake as a result of the girl's confusion.

“Don't be afraid,” she orders. “I told you I'd always protect you.”

Slowly the girl, this Dominy, relents, and my body quiets. Jess kneels in front of me and strokes my fur. Her touch is gentle and humbling, because I remember that this is the first girl I took; my first victim has come back to me. But she hasn't come back for vengeance. She has accepted her fate; she understands that I was only doing what I was put on this earth to do. She's merely come back to speak with her friend.