Sunblind (25 page)

Still shaking, Napoleon manages a reply. “I'm sorry, Grandmother.”

“Sorry isn't good enough any longer!” she bellows, holding on to the back of the couch for support. “I granted mercy once, but now you must help me make these . . . idiots . . . pay for thinking they are untouchable!”

Without uttering another word, Luba extends her hands, and they are immediately grabbed by Nadine and Napoleon. Knowing her place, Melinda steps back to observe. She has no preternatural power of her own, but she enjoys watching it put on display.

Quietly, the three of them start moving their lips in unison, and I'm reminded of the many times I saw Nadine and Napoleon do this in the past. How stupid could I have been? They weren't praying or stuttering nervously or even psychically communicating with one another; they were chanting, casting a spell, onto me or onto my surroundings. Like they're about to do right now.

Arla lets out a gasp, and Archie and I both turn to look out the window, at the mesmerizing, unnatural sight she's staring at. Somehow these three beings are controlling the moon, turning it from what it is into something new.

Inch by inch the first quarter moon spreads like the second hand of a clock, until its face is entirely covered in a shining silver light. They haven't shrouded the moon with the mist that emanates from the twins's bodies; they've altered the course of nature and transformed the first quarter moon into a full moon. And everybody in the room knows what happens to me when the full moon hangs in the sky.

“Get out!” I shriek as I begin to feel the burning sensation course throughout my body.

Arla's been in this situation before, and I don't blame her for not wanting to be this close to me again when I change shape. She grabs Archie's arm and yanks him with such force that he's airborne for a few seconds. But just as her hand grips the doorknob, I see Melinda knock them to the floor and lock the door shut. She isn't supernatural, but she is strong.

“Napoleon, help us!” Archie cries.

The desperation in his voice is met by silence. There's nothing Napoleon can do to protect him or Arla or me; all he can do is watch as the spirit that was supposed to remain buried within me for a little while longer rise to the surface to reclaim my body. Through my wolf eyes the room looks different; it's not like there's a plastic bag wrapped around my head, but my vision is distorted. I blink my eyes when I look at Luba, because she doesn't look real; she looks more like me than she does herself. She's crouched on all fours, her head twisting back and forth, her hands digging into the ground. I blink my eyes again and realize I must be hallucinating. The old woman must have fallen to the ground, exhausted from exerting such grand power.

With tears in his eyes, tears of shame and regret and fear, Archie grabs a lamp and flings it out the front window. Not even wasting time to clear the broken glass out of the way, Arla scurries outside, followed closely by Archie. Nadine takes a step forward, but I get in front of her and growl loudly. I don't know if she sees something new in my eyes, perhaps the desire to rip her body to shreds at any cost, or if she too is exhausted from the exertion she's just made, but she backs off and lets my friends escape. Which doesn't make her mother happy.

“Get them!” Melinda shrieks. No one responds to her command, not her family or Winston, who's crouched in the corner of the room shaking.

“P-please d-don't hurt m-me,” he stutters pathetically.

“Listen to yourself!” Nadine yells. “You sound like an old woman.”

The comment makes her mother smile. Melinda's right eyebrow rises; she's thought of something, an idea that fills her with a great deal of joy.

“I know what will prevent this night from being a total failure,” she says. “Someone needs to take care of Essie. Don't you agree, Mother?”

My growl is so loud it obliterates Luba's response. Not that anything they say will matter. All that matters is that I protect my friend. It's the only thought in my brain as I jump through the front window, barely avoiding the jagged pieces of glass still wedged into the window sill.

I don't know if Essie is still at The Retreat, but it's the only place I can think of to look. Not that I have any other choice, because I don't know where she lives. While racing over to the building I've visited so often as a girl, I realize this transformation is different. Perhaps it's because it's man-made, but I feel completely aware; it's as if the fur and claws and fangs are a costume that I'm wearing. The wolf spirit is with me, absolutely, but it's living inside my brain like it does when there isn't a full moon out. Maybe that's why my voice sounds more like a girl's scream when I see Essie's body on the ground next to her car.

The snow next to her fallen body is pink with her blood, and the stain is growing as her blood continues to flow out from her many wounds. Her head falls to the side, and her eyes meet mine. She isn't frightened; she isn't perplexed. She seems happy to see me.

“Dominy,” she whispers.

She recognizes me; even like this, she knows who I am! I don't know if that's because the girl is so close to the wolf or because Essie is so close to death. It doesn't matter; at least Essie knows she isn't alone. And neither am I.

In the distance I see another wolf, nothing at all like me. This one is mangy with matted black fur, thick clumps of foam spilling out of its mouth, and bloodstained paws. This wolf, whether real or supernaturally created like me, is the thing that's killed Essie. The thing that doesn't want me anywhere near her.

“Melinda . . . she's your . . .”

“I know,” I reply silently. “Melinda's my enemy.”

A rough growl spews out of the other wolf's mouth, disturbing the cluster of foam and making some of it spit into the air. Droplets of spittle litter the ground at its restless paws. It wants to attack; it wants to kill again; it wants to let me know who's dominant. When I look into its eyes, I learn something else. They're not only black; they're lifeless and empty and bottomless. The darkness connects to its soul, so body and spirit are joined as one malicious entity. The wolf's eyes are just like Luba's.

Has she hijacked this animal? Has she taken control of this creature and made it do her bidding? Has she commanded it to kill Essie to procure a double victory? Because not only has Luba silenced Essie so she can't tell anyone about her or her twisted connection to Melinda and Winston, but Luba has also made it appear as if the town's serial killer has struck again.

Slowly the disgusting and malnourished beast walks toward me, one paw, then another, its gait not hesitant, but wary. It may not know exactly what I am, but it knows we're on opposing sides. There is absolutely no way this thing is violating Essie's body any further.

The black wolf stops suddenly and shakes its head, whipping it back and forth, left to right. Saliva flies out of its mouth and onto its dirty fur, its body reacting with shivers and spasms as if its own bodily fluid scorches its skin. The animal is definitely under duress and fighting Luba's control, but there's nothing I can do to save it; it's going to have to save itself.

A series of grunts lands on my ears like an axe slamming into a tree trunk. Bam, bam, bam! It's the sound of destruction, the kind of destruction that can only end in death. The wolf is heroically trying to escape, trying to break free, but when I see the black irises of its eyes grow until the white parts of the eyes are hidden, I know all attempts are futile. Luba has won.

One powerful lunge, and the black wolf is on top of me. Snout to snout I can smell her; I can smell Luba's dank odor, and I have to turn my face to the side because I don't want my body to be polluted. At the same time I push against the wolf's chest with my front paws, and I easily sever our bond. It's clear why Luba's chosen this animal to possess; it isn't strong. I don't know if it's diseased, but it's weak and therefore it was easy prey. For both Luba and for me.

Snarling viciously, but not moving, the black wolf thinks it can intimidate me without having to engage in any more physical contact. Think again!

Even though I can't switch places with the wolf spirit because the full moon isn't real and the wolf spirit is still resting, hiding deep within me, I have enough of its power and instinct and primitive behavior to act on my own. I make no sound as I leap through the air, and, before the black wolf can move, my paw has slashed through its left shoulder, ripping deep into its flesh, my nails scraping against brittle bone.

Its howl is pitiable. And when it peters out there is silence. The animals that live under the dark canopy of night have no response to such a pathetic display. There's no place for such a creature in their world, and so its cry is ignored.

Unlike Essie's death. Her spirit, clean and shiny and free, rises up from her battered body and floats higher and higher until it moves beyond my vision. My silent prayer sounds like a whimper as I beg God to allow Essie the chance to be greeted by her loved ones in heaven. Ashamed, I bow my head and poke at the ground with my snout, because I'm fully aware that my spiritual awareness is much stronger as a wolf than it ever was as a human. Perhaps man isn't the only creature to be molded in God's image.

When I look up, I see that the parking lot is empty. The rabid wolf is gone. And why not? It's done Luba's bidding, and it knows it's no match for me, so why hang around any longer?

I sit next to Essie's body for quite some time, my tears falling into the puddle of her blood. As I lie underneath the glow of the artificial moon, I cling to the blissful image of her spirit as it began the next phase of its journey. It was calm and focused and accepting of its fate.

But now, as the scent of Essie's rotting body poisons the air, all I can think of is that because of me someone else has been brutally murdered.

Chapter 22

Essie's dead face is everywhere. In my mind, in my memory, in this week's edition of the
Three
W.

Louis throws the paper onto the kitchen table, and I see that my friend has made the front page. I suppress a satisfied smile because looking at her photo I know that she has finally achieved the kind of notoriety she always admired in others. Our local newspaper might not be as famous as Essie's beloved national tabloids, the ones she would read incessantly while she was supposed to be working, but the
Three
W has made Essie a celebrity to at least one small community. And while it's obvious that Essie didn't have photo approval, she would have been pleased with the image Lars Svenson chose to use; she looks beautiful.

Despite looking dowdy and rundown and depressed for so many years, Essie was a good person. When we first began our family outings to The Retreat, she went out of her way to be kind to me and to Barnaby. She kept a stash of candy for us in the bottom drawer of her desk, and she would stockpile small gifts like activity books and Colorforms that she would give to us, her way of softening the blow so our visit wasn't only about spending time with our comatose mother. It was also about spending time with Aunt Essie.

I'm not sure when things changed, but at some point Aunt Essie became the crotchety old lady sitting behind the front desk. The evolution, like most, was probably a slow one, but then again, maybe her life altered as quickly and as drastically as mine did. Maybe it was the death of her husband that changed her. Or it could've been something else equally tragic and devastating. The sad truth is I'll never know, because I didn't pay attention when I was younger and I didn't care enough to ask when I got older.

What I do know is that certain events and people in Essie's life transformed her from an engaged, empathetic woman into a detached and apathetic person. A person who didn't care very much about anything or anyone, especially not herself. It was only recently that she decided to peek out from behind her magazines to take the first tentative steps and start living again. Only to be struck down as if she had violated some cosmic rule. It's as if the stars had gotten together to have a celestial powwow and decided to teach Essie a lesson, make her pay for daring to want more out of life. Well, maybe not all the stars, just the three that make up the constellation Orion.

The entire Jaffe clan caused Essie's death. Luba, Melinda, and Nadine wanted her out of the way because she knew too much about them, and Napoleon didn't do anything to protect her. Exactly how much damaging info Essie had, I can't be sure. For certain Essie knew Winston was breaking the rules to keep Luba a resident of The Retreat and that he was two-timing Essie by dating Melinda. There's the possibility that Essie could have stumbled upon more of their secrets, and, even if she didn't fully grasp them, even if she didn't understand how deadly these people were, Essie had become an inconvenient woman. And the best way to make an inconvenient woman convenient is to silence her. Which is exactly what Luba did.

As much as it pains me, I have to hand it to her; Psycho Squaw chose the best way to kill Essie, a way that bends the spotlight of suspicion away from her and her troop and at the same time feeds into the fears of the townspeople. She's made it appear as if the serial killer has struck again to commit murder number four. And playing right into her plan, Lars Svenson and even Louis have taken the bait.

In bold block letters right above Essie's smiling photo, in all caps for maximum emphasis, is the headline: Full Moon Killer Strikes Again. It's eye-catching and frightening and sure to make this issue a sellout. Unfortunately, only a select few know that it's wrong.

“Cool name!” Barnaby squeals. “Did you come up with it?”

“No.”

Louis's one-word answer speaks volumes about his current mental state. It's filled with anger and determination and courage. The reappearance of this alleged serial killer has forced him to remember who he is in this town and what role he plays. He's no longer second fiddle; he's no longer the fool behind the king's badge. It's time for him to step out from behind the blinding light of my father's shadow and prove to everyone, including himself, that he deserves to be the policeman in charge.

“Starting tonight I'm revising the town curfew to include everyone. No one's allowed out after dark,” he announces. “These killings have got to stop!”

Staring at Essie's picture, Louis looks almost invulnerable. Standing next to the kitchen counter, he's caught directly inside a beam of sunlight that's streaming through the window; it's ignoring the rest of us and focusing solely on him. The sunlight softens his face like natural airbrushing, so he looks younger and stronger and braver. The sunlight has revealed his true essence like the photo in the
Three
W has captured Essie's true nature. Despite Luba's machinations it's as if small pieces of the town are wresting free from her magic. But it seems there are others who are still spellbound.

“Guess the full moon really does have the power to kill,” Barnaby proclaims.

“There wasn't a full moon last night,” Louis replies.

“According to Lars's article the police station received twenty-three phone calls last night from people saying that they had just witnessed a first quarter moon suddenly turn into a full moon,” Barnaby conveys.

Flipping through pages of the
Three
W to continue reading the cover story, Arla adds, “An hour-long full moon? Impossible.”

I'm adding actress to Arla's already impressive resume, because she makes her comment with such natural conviction, I almost believe that it's true. Even though I know otherwise. Even though I saw with my own eyes how Luba and Nadine and Napoleon joined forces to thwart Mother Nature and create an unnatural phenomenon.

“Eyewitnesses are notoriously untrustworthy,” Louis states. “I'm sure it was just an illusion.”

“That's a lot of untrustworthy eyewitnesses,” Barnaby retorts.

Tossing the paper onto the kitchen table with much less force than her father did earlier, Arla shrugs her shoulders and crosses her arms; it's her best impersonation of an unconvinced reader. “Just because it's in print doesn't make it true,” she says. “Lars is more interested in selling papers than he is in telling the truth.”

Surprisingly, Barnaby agrees with her.

“Which is why he didn't print the whole story?” he relays.

“What do you mean?” Louis demands.

“There was another incident,” my brother replies. “Involving Luba.”

Louis pulls the kitchen chair out from underneath the table so roughly that the metal legs of the chair squeak loudly against the linoleum floor. He sits down, leans forward, and places his hand on top of Barnaby's. It's more a gesture of power than compassion; he wants to know what information Barnaby has, and he wants Barnaby to know he isn't leaving this table until he gets it. My brother turns out to be a cooperative witness and immediately confesses all that he knows.

“Essie wasn't the only victim last night,” he says. “Luba was attacked too.”

“Melinda's mother-in-law?” Louis asks. “How do you know her?”

Luckily the two of them are so focused on each other and their conversation that they don't see me and Arla desperately trying not to freak out at the mention of Psycho Squaw's birth name inside our house.

“She's the lady at The Retreat,” Barnaby begins to explain. “The one I visit as part of the school's volunteer program.”

I can't remain quiet any longer; I have to know what Barnaby's talking about, even more so than Louis does. “Where was she attacked?” I ask. “At The Retreat, where Essie was found?”

Slowly Barnaby turns to face me, as if he's just now realizing I'm in the room. His eyes are cold, and his lips form the hint of a smile. He looks nothing like he did at Christmas. He's back to the way he was after my father's death, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on inside my brother's head. When he speaks, I realize I have absolutely no idea what happened last night either.

“She was outside The Retreat looking at the stars like she always does. She's sort of an amateur astrologist; she can tell you anything about yourself by looking at the constellations.” He beams. “She can even predict the future by how the stars are aligned and their positions in the sky.”

Louis's hand presses down a bit harder onto Barnaby's, not enough to cause pain, but to remind him that our questions still remain unanswered.

“What happened to this Luba last night, Barnaby?” Louis asks.

“It was dark so she couldn't tell if she was attacked by somebody with a knife,” he replies. “Or by a wolf.”

Did Barnaby just look at me? I'm so flustered I can't speak. So Arla does.

“If she really was attacked, why didn't she report it to the police?” she inquires.

A gray cloud falls over my brother's face, and his blue eyes lose their likeness to my father's and suddenly become darker. I don't know if I should reach out and slap my brother across the face or wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. Sadly, I fear that either action will cause my brother to slip even farther away from me.

“Luba doesn't trust the police, not the white man police anyway,” he says. His voice is cold and harsh and unrecognizable. The words he's speaking have been told to him. They're not his own; they're Luba's. “No offense, Louis, but remember she's Native American Indian and, well, the white man has done certain things to them that don't necessarily warrant their trust.”

“Yeah, we've encountered that problem for years,” Louis replies in standard cop-talk. “But if she was attacked, she should've at least gone to the hospital.”

“Um, she kinda lives in a hospital,” Barnaby snarkily replies.

As quickly as the darkness overtook him, it's gone. Am I imagining things? Am I giving Luba too much credit? I mean, Barnaby is fifteen. Mood swings and nasty comebacks come with the territory. All of that is forgotten when Barnaby offers more details about Luba's attack. What he says changes everything.

“She'll be fine,” he announces. “Just has a huge gash in her arm.”

I see my red paw strike the air and slice open the black wolf's left shoulder.

“Which arm?” I demand.

Scrunching up his face, now more preoccupied with playing a game on his cell phone than offering details, Barnaby mumbles, “Dunno, what's it matter anyway?”

“Tell me!”

I know I shouldn't be shouting. I know I shouldn't be making a scene or causing Louis to look at me the way he's looking at me right now, like he doesn't understand who I am or a single word I'm saying, but I have to know. I have to know if my suspicion is correct.

“It was her left arm, just underneath her shoulder, satisfied?” Barnaby replies.

Luba was the black wolf! She killed Essie! But how is that possible? She cannot be a werewolf too; we cannot be the same! Unable to stop my body from shaking, I get up from the table, fully aware that I'm making an idiot out of myself.

“Dominy, are you all right?”

Louis's voice is kind, but concerned. He isn't stupid—he's a detective for God's sake; he knows when people are lying; he's been trained for these types of situations.
Get it together, Dominy, or else you're going to have to confess to the whole truth, and that will definitely get you thrown into a padded cell or the electric chair.
I take a deep breath and do what I always do when trapped—sprinkle the truth with a little lie.

“Sorry, Louis. I don't like Luba,” I reply. “I don't trust her, and I don't approve of her being Barnaby's buddy.”

Actually that's the complete truth without any lie-sprinkling whatsoever.

“You don't get to approve my life,” Barnaby snipes, not even bothering to look up from his phone. Until Louis rips it out of his hands.

“No, but I do,” he declares.

The gray cloud returns, turning Barnaby's face and voice to stone. “Give me back my phone,” he demands.

“No,” Louis snaps back. “And don't talk to me in that tone of voice either.”

Watching my brother fidget in his chair, I can tell that he wants to answer back. He wants to make some snotty, sarcastic comment, but he's got enough sense to keep quiet. He's pushed Louis, and he knows it. Our guardian will stand for a lot. He understands that all three of us—Barnaby, Arla, and I—are going through a transition. Sometimes it's fluid: other times it's difficult. Today is definitely a difficult day. But before it becomes memorable, out-of-hand difficult, Louis does what he rarely has done before; he reminds us who is the parent.

“You're living under my roof now, so I'm not asking for your respect; I'm demanding it,” he says, his voice quiet, but firm. “Do you understand me?”

The cloud hasn't lifted entirely, but Barnaby knows when he's beaten. “Yes.”

“You watch your mouth when you speak to me, and I don't want you doing any more volunteering if it involves Luba,” Louis adds. “You understand that too?”

Barnaby nods his head briskly. “I understand.”

I don't know if he's agreeing because he knows that's what Louis wants to hear, because he knows he was wrong, or because he's trying to break free from Luba's grip. How powerful is that woman? I mean she looks so frail and feeble, and yet she continues to amaze me. Can she really have my brother under some hypnotic hold?

And maybe the curse wasn't random after all; maybe the reason Luba turned me into a werewolf is because she didn't want to be one of a kind and was craving company? The more I learn about this woman, the more complicated she becomes. Same goes for her granddaughter.