Nocturne (2 page)

Great.

* * *

When they finally arrived home, Claire made a beeline upstairs. She was still fired up from the hunt and on edge from the announcement about the new moon gathering. It was already after two—if she didn't find a way to unwind, she'd never get any sleep before school the next day.

She looked longingly at her running shoes. Going for a run, even in her human form, was the only thing that really calmed her down lately. But it was too late to go running. Anyone who saw her jogging at this hour was bound to think
something
suspicious was going on.

She kicked the shoes into her closet and grabbed her phone—there were two messages. The first was from Matthew, her boyfriend. He sounded exhausted. With only five days left until the state soccer finals on Saturday, the coach had them on a crazy practice schedule. Still, in spite of the fatigue in his voice, he told her that he hoped she'd had fun at the gathering and that he'd see her in the morning. And that he loved her.

The words sank into Claire like sunshine. Matthew always had that effect on her. No matter what, he made her feel like whatever was going on, she could handle it. It didn't hurt that he was the only human in Hanover Falls who knew about the werewolves. He was a secret-keeper for the pack, a gardien. He protected them, and they protected him. Being honest with him about who and what she was made it a lot easier for Claire to keep lying to everyone else. Like her best friend, who had left the second message. Emily's words came out all in a rush. She demanded to know why Claire wasn't answering her phone at almost midnight, unless she was asleep, in which case Emily was very sorry for maybe waking her up, but she really, really needed the blueblack nail polish she'd left at Claire's the weekend before and could Claire bring it with her tomorrow, please?

Claire laughed, loving Emily's signature, caffeine-fueled intensity. She deleted the message and grabbed the little glass bottle off her dresser, stuffing it into her backpack. She looked longingly at her bed, but she was still too wired to sleep. Instead, she trudged into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the hot water would help. With her mother's announcement tying knots of tension in her shoulders, though, there might not be enough hot water in the whole city to relax her. School the next day was slow-motion torture. Her exhaustion from the gathering and the constant, nibbling worry about the upcoming new moon ceremony were a dizzying mix. Claire staggered through the halls toward her locker, having survived first-period history without falling asleep on her desk or chewing her nails down to the quick. Considering how she felt, that counted as a major success. She dropped her bag in front of her locker, sending a dust bunny flying.

"Oh, yay! Yayyayyayyay! You're here!" Emily bounced across the floor with a huge smile on her face. Her hair still startled Claire. After Emily had gotten back from her forced exile at her aunt and uncle's farm last summer, she'd chopped off her hair. It was short and sort of spiky in an irregular way that looked good on her, but Claire couldn't quite get used to it. She kept expecting to see the long, smooth ponytail Emily had worn since the fourth grade.

Emily started talking well before she actually got to Claire, her questions flying out of her mouth like a flock of sparrows. "Did you get my message? Did you bring the nail polish? Are you okay? I waited for you before class, but you never showed and I got worried. . . ."

Claire blinked, trying to digest all the words. She ticked off the answers on her fingers. "Got the message, brought the polish, fine-but-tired. I was up late and I overslept." She grinned at Emily. "Okay?"

Emily held out her hand. "Polish first. It's an emergency."

Claire dug it out of her bag.

Emily took it and then pointed the bottle back at Claire. "So, if you were up late, why didn't you answer my call?"

"My phone died. I didn't realize it until I went to bed, and by then it was way, way too late to call." The lie was as easy as blinking. She didn't even feel guilty anymore. Not really. Not when she knew what the consequences would be if anyone found out her identity. The thought made Claire's stomach sway inside her. "You look like you're going to faint or throw up or something." Emily leaned forward. Claire could smell the fakesweet scent of strawberry Pop-Tarts on Emily's breath, and it reminded her that she'd skipped breakfast.

"Your pupils are all funny. Are you
sure
you're okay?"

Claire blinked. Swallowed. Shook her head, then nodded.
Oh great, Claire. Way to look totally together.

"I'm fine. Just tired, really. And hungry. So, what's with the manicure urgency?"

Distraction was always a good tactic. And with Emily, it usually worked.

"So, that's the other reason I was calling." Emily glanced around the hallway and dropped her voice. "That guy Ryan, in art class? The one who does all the charcoal work?"

Claire nodded again. It was hard to keep track of Emily's endless string of potentially datable guys, but she vaguely remembered something about a blond guy who'd been making Emily's toes curl in the art room.

"So, yesterday, he came over while I was painting, and he told me that I held the brush like it was an extension of my hand. And the way he said it . . ." She shivered happily. "Anyway, if he's looking at my hands that closely, then I should probably redo my raggedy polish, you know? Because—"

Emily cut off midsentence as a pair of arms wrapped around Claire's waist from behind. For a wafer-thin moment she tensed, but then the familiar hint-of-cinnamon smell that meant only one thing—Matthew—wafted over her. She melted back against his solid chest.

"Hey, babe."

"Hey, yourself," she said.

Emily was staring at her expectantly. It was obvious that she wanted to say something more about Art Guy but that she didn't really want Matthew around while she rehashed the goings-on in her romantic world.

Matthew bent down and tucked his chin over Claire's shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" There was a heavy, serious note in his voice that made Claire's skin prickle.

Emily's eyes widened.

"Hey, guys!"

From down the hall, Amy Harper's blond ringlets bounced as she waved frantically. She was loaded down with posters, and she had a roll of masking tape around her wrist. Even though she'd only been in town a couple of months, Amy had managed to get on practically every committee in the school. She had a dentist's-dream smile and boundless energy, and she was genuinely one of the nicest people you'd ever meet. She was also into pottery—seriously into it. Apparently, some gallery back in Pennsylvania sold her stuff.

She and Emily spent a lot of time together in the art room and had gotten close fast, which Claire had sort of appreciated, since it took some of the pressure off her. Amy was there for Emily when Claire couldn't be. Claire had to admit that itmade her a little jealous—as much as she loved being a werewolf, all the power and freedom and feeling of specialness that came with the transformation had come with a price. And having to share her best friend with the petite, perky-sweet Amy was part of it.

"What's up?" Emily called back.

"Can one of you guys please help me tape up these posters? I have a quiz in precalc, and I don't want to be late!" Amy shifted the stack of paper from one arm to the other, blowing an errant curl out of her eyes.

The "you guys" surprised Claire. Amy wasn't friends with Claire or Matthew, but then again, she was so nice, she probably automatically included everyone. Like a kindergarten teacher trying to make sure everyone got a turn.

"Sure thing. Be right there." Emily looked pointedly at Claire, let her eyes skitter over to Matthew, and then twitched her lips. Which was Emily-speak for I'
m going now, but you
will te
ll me what the hell he wants to talk to you about, and I don't
mean next week.

"We'll finish catching up at lunch," Claire promised, distracted by the catalog of things that might make Matthew sound so serious. Emily zipped off down the hall, arms already outstretched to catch the sliding pile of posters.

Claire turned to Matthew, her heart doing a sort of hiccuping stutter-step as she looked up at him. Claire had spent her entire sophomore year nursing a huge crush on Mat thew—along with most of the girls in her class. Somehow, she'd been the one lucky enough to catch his attention. That he'd stayed with her after finding out she was a werewolf was nothing short of a miracle.

"You sound strange," she said. "What's up?"

Matthew nodded his head toward Emily and Amy. "It's about that, actually."

Claire looked at him expectantly. Her heart quivered against her ribs, nervous.

"The posters that Amy's taping up everywhere? They're for the Autumn Ball." He reached up and rubbed the back of his hand. "I—I really want to go. To take you. But I know that you're not exactly into dances, and I don't want to drag you if you'd be supermiserable."

Claire blinked, wondering briefly if she'd be less confused if she hadn't been so worried that he was going to tell her something terrible. "What makes you think I'm not into dances?" she finally asked.

Matthew cocked his head at her. "Well, I've never seen you at one before. Emily's usually taking over the dance floor, but I just thought . . ."

Heat rushed into Claire's cheeks. She cleared her throat, trying to get up the courage to admit the truth. Matthew was the one person she could always be honest with, so lying about something so small, so
human
—it seemed stupid. But that didn't make it any less embarrassing. "I . . . um. Yeah. See, the thing is, no one's ever asked me before. And Emily always had a date, so I didn't want to tag along stag, and it was easier to just pretend that I didn't want to go in the first place."

There. She'd said it.

Matthew's mouth dropped open. If he laughed, she'd kill him.

"So, you're saying you'll go with me? You don't mind the dress and the corsage and the awkward photos and stuff?"

The girliest, most human part of Claire did a little dance of glee at the words "dress" and "corsage."

"Of course I'll go with you. I would love to!" She grinned, swatting his chest with her hand. "Geez, the way you looked before, it was like you were going to tell me that you were moving to Arkansas or something."

Matthew frowned. "Sorry. It's just, finals are on Saturday, and things have been—"

"Tense?" Claire interrupted. "Pressure filled? Insanely exhausting?"

"Yeah, those would work." He smiled the wide, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle up the tiniest bit at the corners. "But after this weekend, it'll all be done, one way or another."

Down the hall, there was a series of high-pitched squeals as one of the show choirettes opened her locker and a flotilla of helium balloons drifted out. Claire wondered if she should stuff Matthew's locker before the state finals—usually it was something that guys did for girls and not the other way around, but she wanted to do
something.
Maybe she'd just make a sign to hold up at the game, the way the rest of the team's girlfriends did.

Claire stretched up and kissed him, just as the warning bell rang. "You're going to be fantastic. The match is going to be fantastic. And I'm going to be right there, screaming my head off. Now go, before you're late."

"Yeah, you're right. I hope you're right." He turned and hitched his bag up on his shoulder. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She threw herself into the scurrying mass of people who were scrambling for classrooms, and as she headed down the hall she caught sight of one of the leafframed posters. She was going to an actual dance. With an actual boyfriend.

Claire smiled to herself. Emily was going to die a thousand deaths of retail happiness when she heard.

Chapter Two

WHEN CLAIRE GOT to the cafeteria at lunch, Emily was already waiting for her, intently picking the raisins out of a bagel. As Claire slid into the chair across from her, Emily looked up, then grabbed an enormous, half-finished bottle of Diet Coke and took a swig.

"So? What was Matthew's deal? He looked like he was going to tell you that he ran over your dog."

"I don't have a dog," Claire muttered, distracted by Emily's busy fingers. "Why did you get a raisin bagel? You hate raisins."

"Yeah, well, the hot lunch was meatloaf, and the only other bagels were garlic." She wrinkled her nose.

"Oh, right. And you can't reek of garlic when you see . . ." Crap. She couldn't remember Art Guy's name. Something short. Nick? Jack? Ian?

Claire's mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. Emily raised a freshly polished fingernail and pointed it accusingly at Claire.

"You forgot his name, didn't you?"

Crap, crap, crap.
There was no way out of this one. Claire squeezed her eyes shut.

"Sorry. Please don't kill me—I really was listening, but then Matthew sort of made me forget what you and I had been talking about."

Emily went back to her raisin excavation. "It's Ryan. And I'll forgive you this once, because I
know
you're going to help me analyze everything that happens in art class today." She dropped her mangled bagel and picked up her soda. "I really want him to ask me out. He's Arizona-in-the-summer hot, and besides, my lack of a boyfriend is making me depressed." She sighed. "So? What did your Prince Charming want to talk to you about?"

Claire bit her lip. "You're going to love it."

Emily put down the soda. "What?"

"I'm finally going to a dance! He asked me to go with him to the Autumn Ball. Like, officially. He thought I didn't like dances because he hadn't ever seen me at one before. That's what he was nervous about—can you believe it?" Emily went very, very still.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "You're actually coming to a dance?" She let out a squeal and bounced up and down in her plastic chair, which shook on its scrawny metal legs. "You! At a dance! We are so going
shopping.
And I am totally going to get Ryan to ask me and then we. Can go. To a dance. Together! Finally."

Claire reached into her bag and yanked out a sandwich. "I know. I'm so excited. And I definitely need you to help me find a dress, just as soon as I can wrestle a credit card away from my mom."

Emily immediately began outlining a preshopping strategy and debating whether they should double or if it would be better for Claire to have a more "romantic" one-on-one before-dance dinner with Matthew.

Claire ate her sandwich, nodding along with Emily's increasingly complicated plans. She didn't care when they went shopping or whether they got a limo—things felt normal between her and Emily, and she just wanted to enjoy it. This was how she wanted the rest of the year to be, and she was going to work damn hard to make sure she didn't do anything to ruin it.

That night, Claire slipped off into the woods to work on starting a fire. She headed straight for her favorite practice spot, the little opening in the pine trees that was enough space to work in but so well hidden that she wasn't worried about being seen. She swept away the pine needles until she had a ring of bare earth large enough for a pile of branches. Starting small seemed like a good idea, so Claire gathered up an armful of twigs, making sure they were all dry enough to burn.

Just after her transformation was complete, Marie had explained to Claire how to light the fire, but since then she'd never bothered to ask if Claire had managed to succeed. In the clearing, Claire arranged the kindling exactly the way her mother had shown her. After everything was set up, Claire stood over the sad pile of sticks, clenched her fists, closed her eyes, and imagined a fire. She held on to the picture in her head, eyes still shut, and listened for the sound of crackling bark. Waited for the scent of wood smoke. For her shins to get warm.

Nothing happened.

She opened one eye and checked. Nope. No fire.

Okay, fine.

She shook out her hands and stretched her neck before trying again. She had to relax. Being so tense wasn't helping.

Hours passed in the cold, dark forest. Birds roosted in the trees above her, then woke and flew away again. Claire stood in the shelter of the familiar pine trees until her feet and back ached from being motionless for so long. She visualized fire until the image of leaping flames was burned into the backs of her eyelids, but as soon as she opened them, the uncharred pile of wood stared back at her mockingly. If it had a tongue, it would have stuck it out at her.

Claire flopped down onto the forest floor, her heart pounding from the frustration and the wasted effort.

In her pocket, her cell phone rang. The noise startled her. It sounded so alien in the quiet rustle of the night forest. She wasn't the only thing surprised by the sudden sound in the darkness. The tiny creatures in the woods around her fell silent as everything but Claire held its breath.

A breeze ruffled Claire's hair. With a sigh, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and saw that it was already after midnight.

And Matthew was calling.

"Hello?"

"Hey. How are—" He paused. "It sounds windy. Where are you?"

Claire stood up and brushed the bits of dirt and leaves off her shirt. With one swift kick, she sent the unburned twigs skittering across the clearing, so that they came to rest in a natural-looking scatter. Screw it. She'd come back the next night and try again.

"I'm heading home, actually." She turned and started to walk. "You're up late."

"Yeah. I couldn't sleep." His voice was ragged with worry. She could hear Saturday's game hanging over him.

Claire took a long breath. She knew that the state finals were a big deal. A huge deal. Matthew had been recruited by some schools, even offered scholarship money, but he still hadn't heard from his top choice—UCLA. There would be a Bruins rep at the game. Watching him. Making little notes that could determine his entire future.

"Matthew, it's going to be fine. You're amazing—you've been amazing at every match this season, and there's no reason this game is going to be any different."

He sighed. "I hope you're right."

She laughed. "Of course I'm right. I'm always right. Don't you know that by now?"

"I know, I know. I wasn't calling to talk about it, anyway. So. Where're you headed home from?" He was trying to keep his voice light, but he wasn't completely successful.

Claire crouched low and slipped through the hole in the brick wall, stepping onto her lawn.

"The woods," she said, "but I just made it back to the house. Last night wasn't as fantastic as it could have been. I mean, the gathering was fine. But it turns out that the pack is having a special gathering for me. Like, where I'm supposed to demonstrate my—" She paused. "My skills." Her words were heavy with meaning.

"I don't see the problem. You're good at all of that, right?" He sounded distant, and she could hear him shifting around in an edgy sort of way.

Claire stared up at the dark windows of her house. "Except lighting the fire. I can't do that part." Her voice came out in a whisper.

"I—oh. Well, I'm, uh, sure you'll work it out." His voice was as bright and fake as a cheerleader's smile.

Something tightened in Claire's chest.

But what if I can't? What if I screw up so amazingly that I can't
ever lead the hunt?

Claire didn't say anything. She looked up at the moon. It was still nearly full, just the tiniest sliver missing from one side. She knew it would shrivel away to nothing all too fast, but she didn't want to add to Matthew's worry if she didn't have to. He was plenty anxious about his own stuff—after all, he was about to be judged too.

Claire shook herself. "Sure. Right. Anyway, I'm home, and I need to go to bed. And you do too."

"Yeah. At this rate, we're both going to be zombies tomorrow." He yawned. "I love you, you know that?" he asked, sounding like his old self again.

"I love you, too," she whispered.

The intensity of her worry rubbed against her, making her want to strip off her human skin and run until she was too tired to care about anything. But instead of transforming and sprinting through the woods until she had run herself out of her self-doubting, Claire flipped her phone shut and trudged into the house. Pretending she was just an ordinary human. Pretending everything was fine.

* * *

By Friday she was a wreck. Claire sat in the forest, surrounded by little unburned piles of kindling. Nothing would light. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the stack of sticks in front of her, wondering what it would really be like to fail in front of the whole pack. If she couldn't figure out how to get
something
to catch fire, that's exactly what would happen.

She didn't want to ask her mom for help, mostly because she didn't want to admit just how much trouble she was having with something that was supposed to come naturally to werewolves. It would be almost as bad as admitting that she couldn't wag her own tail. Claire pressed her forehead into her knees, the denim blotting out the mocking, unlit wood in front of her.

Two more days. I'll just practice for two more days. Then, if I still
haven't figured it out, I'll talk to her.

The idea that she might really be an incomplete wolf was so awful that she couldn't even think it any louder than a whisper. But there was a little voice at the back of her head that had started muttering ugly, doubt-filled things, and once it knew it had gotten her attention, there was no way to shut it up.

Part of her knew she should stay where she was and try again to make some sort of combustion happen. But Matthew's game was the next day. All the other soccer players' girlfriends would have flowers and cards and signs with their boyfriends' jersey numbers on them. Claire wasn't going to let Matthew down by being the only one sitting there at the state finals with nothing. Even if it meant missing out on a little bit of practice. She still had more than a week until the gathering. That would be plenty of time to work things out—to keep herself from being humiliated, from having everyone think she wasn't as good as any of the other wolves.

At least, she hoped it would be plenty of time. Saturday morning dawned, full of heavy gray clouds and the promise of colder weather. Claire was relieved. At least by nightfall Matthew's stress would be over. And the game would be a good chance for her to think about something else and blow off some steam. She was even looking forward to the traditional postgame celebration at the diner.

And then afterward she promised herself, she'd head straight for the woods and practice.

She'd been up way too late trying to make a decent-looking sign, but she'd finally managed it. It was just Matthew's number inside a glittery heart, but it was big enough that he'd be able to see it from the field. After doing her best to drown her fatigue with coffee, Claire tugged on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt with a disintegrating collar. She had hours until the game, and the caffeine had made her way too jittery to sit around the house. The only thing she could think to do—at least, in the daylight—was go for a run.

She paused on the front porch, stretching out her left calf and adjusting her earphones before taking off down the driveway. She loved the shock in her chest as the thud of her shoes against the pavement reverberated into her ribs and her lungs stretched, trying to keep up with her sudden effort.

Just when her muscles had really warmed and loosened and the running started to feel almost—but not quite—as good as when she was in her wolf form, Claire reached the edge of the forest. Seeing the shadows between the trees sent a flutter of anxiety through her, undoing most of her relaxation. She wanted to be there, in the woods, practicing. She turned her eyes back to the road in front of her, training her gaze on the cracked pavement. She needed to stay focused on Matthew right now. On her human life.

Besides, there wasn't anything she could do about her werewolf existence until it got dark.

With the road spooling out in front of her like a ribbon, Claire inhaled long and slow and matched her pace to the drum-beat rhythm of the song that poured through her earphones. She let the repetition calm her, numb her, until she wasn't worried about fire lighting or Matthew's scholarship chances. Until she was just running. Breath and motion and nothing else.

When she was sufficiently sweat soaked and soothed, Claire jogged home and hurried to shower—she had time before the match started, but she wanted to be early enough to get a good seat. After she was clean, she pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was cute enough for Louie's. Then, for luck, she threw on one of Matthew's sweatshirts. She ran her thumb over the slightly-frayed edge of the cuff, imagining all the other times he had worn it, all the times it had been his skin inside the soft fabric instead of hers. A happy little shiver ran down her spine. She grabbed her phone off her vanity, sending Matthew a quick "I love you and you're going to be fabulous" text before shoving it in her pocket.

In the kitchen her mother sat with her hands around a cup of coffee and stared out the window. There was an untouched sandwich in front of her. Claire took a deep breath, gripping the edge of Matthew's sweatshirt for support. She hadn't spoken to her mother much since the gathering, which wasn't such a big challenge. Marie worked crazy hours, meeting with clients, working her contacts, and playing with new equipment when she wasn't involved in an actual photography session.

Claire was mostly relieved that her mother hadn't seemed to notice how much time she was spending in the forest—that she wasn't questioning whether or not Claire was ready for the new moon gathering. Claire grimaced, wishing she wasn't going to be paraded around like a trick pony—or trick wolf. Whichever.

As if she could hear Claire's thoughts, Marie turned to Claire and took a sip of coffee.