Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath (11 page)

His warm breath fogs into the cool shaft of moonlight which illuminates his imposing body. I take a soft step forward and his ear perks toward me. I stop dead in my tracks. Is he going to let me approach him? I take another step and the creature begins to growl. A low, soft growl, as if to say, don’t come any closer. I pause again, and the royal brute dashes off into the night. I feel the ground rumble with each crushing step as the grey and white fur vanishes in the distance.
 

CHAPTER 15

FOR AN INSTANT, I think it was all a dream. I tap the snooze button, stretch my arms, let out a sigh, and wipe the sleep from my eyes. It had to be a dream. Those kinds of things just don’t happen.
 

At breakfast, nobody says a word about anything that happened last night. By the time Jen picks me up for school, I’ve thoroughly convinced myself it was all my overactive imagination. Until Jen says, “That was crazy shit last night, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I say.

“Yeah, what the hell were you doing in the woods? I thought we were going to have to get a search party to go looking for you,” Jen says.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, it seems like we’re not the only one who had an adventure last night,” she says.

“What happened?”

“You haven’t heard?” Jen says, shocked.

“No, I don’t have little minions and spies embedded everywhere like you do.”

“Is it my fault that people feel compelled to tell me juicy bits of gossip?”

I raise an eyebrow. “So, what happened?”

Jen is almost giddy with excitement. “Abigail Monroe was killed.
 
Mauled by a bear or a—”

“—Wolf?” I ask.

“The only thing they found was her savaged carcass and her implants,” Jen says in an overly dramatic way. “I guess fake tits don’t taste too good.”

“Jen!” I gasp.

“Well, she wasn’t exactly the nicest person in the world, and definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed. Not to mention she did sleep with my ex-boyfriend, and just about everyone else’s boyfriend. So, forgive me if I might not be as broken up about her loss,” she says, in her trademarked, snarky tone.

“Um, we should keep our conversations more age appropriate,” I say, motioning to Noah in the backseat. He listens with rapt attention. The minute he heard the word
tits
I’m sure he was locked into the discussion.

Jen races us through the ravine with her customary lead foot. I think I’m getting a little used to it. Either that, or her driving pales in comparison to the other dangers in my life, and perhaps I’m growing numb.

At school, everyone is talking about Abigail’s attack. Our little adventure in the parking lot last night doesn’t even make a blip on anyone’s radar. I’m relieved that I don’t have to recount the incident a dozen times today, but I feel a little guilty for feeling relieved. I didn’t like Abigail, and our conversation in the hall yesterday left me seething mad. Still, I don’t take any pleasure in the horrible fate she suffered.
 

The topic of conversation whispered between lockers today could very well have been my mutilated body, had things turned out differently last night. I’m pretty sure those wolves that attacked us are responsible for Abigail’s death.
 

I see their blood stained faces when I close my eyes, imprinted like a nightmarish afterimage on my retina. Their ferocious snarls reverberate in my subconscious. My mind overflows with questions. Was Abigail the only one they devoured last night? Where did these wolves come from? Who are they?

A few days ago that last question would have sounded absurd. But after everything I’ve seen, it seems perfectly legitimate. Last night, I saw a wolf transform into an anthropomorphic, mythical creature. After seeing that, nothing seems impossible. The supernatural seems natural. And as Jen mentioned, Haven Hill isn’t the sleepy little town I remember.

Before Art History, I corner Jen at her locker. I need some answers. “Tell me everything you know about werewolves.”

“I don’t really know anything. Just rumors and speculation,” she says, putting a book in her locker, pulling another out. It’s a finely crafted leather bound journal. I’ve seen her with it before, but I’ve never seen her writing in it. Though, she seems to guard it with her life.
 

I refocus my mind to the issue at hand. “What would you say if I said I’ve seen one?”

Jen glances around to make sure no one is listening. “I’d say you should seek counseling. Sometimes stress can cause the mind to hallucinate. And you’ve been under quite a lot of stress lately.”

I drop my jaw, staring in disbelief. Why is she fogging this issue? I know she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She slams her locker shut, and I follow as she strides briskly to class. It’s all I can do to keep up with her, vaulting alongside with my crutches. “Is that all you have to say about the subject?”

“I’d say, be careful.” Her eyes peer deeply into mine. Then she glances to Olivia, standing at the end of the hall, then back to me, as if to say this isn’t the time or place for this discussion.

We enter Art History and take our seats, just as the bell rings. Jen sits two rows over, and I’m not about to pass notes of this nature across the isle. I can imagine the horror of having one confiscated and read before the class.
 

It drives me crazy, because all I can concentrate on is this conversation that I want to have with her. I want to learn everything that she isn’t telling me. It is in the midst of this frustration and anxiety that something that Mrs. Jacobs says catches my attention.
 

I mostly use this class to catch up on other home work, and more often, nap. Don’t get me wrong, I love art, but Mrs. Jacobs’s dry, monotone voice puts me to sleep within seconds. Plus, the lights are always off because she’s projecting images on a drop down screen. This class is particularly drowsy making. Usually, she delves into her own interpretation of the meaning of a great work of art. And that interpretation is frequently of dubious merit. And what passes for
art
in this class is often quite suspect. But today is different.

On the overhead, she shows us a picture of the Löwenmensch. German for Lion Man. At 40,000 years of age, it is the oldest piece of figurative art yet discovered. Carved out of ivory, the figure stands upright, part man part beast. With the head of a lion, arms of a cat, and legs of a human, the statue is thought to represent a deity of Paleolithic humans.
 

I am awestruck by the sight. The similarity between this primitive depiction, and the anthropomorphic transformation of the wolf that I witnessed last night are striking. Could this be an early depiction of a shapeshifter by humans of the last ice age?
 

I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt. I don’t question the creativity or imagination of primitive artists. But certainly, something had to inspire this hybrid creation? Mrs. Jacobs goes on to show us pictures of French cave paintings with strikingly similar hybrid lion men. Different cultures, completely isolated from one another, depicting similar creatures. The parallels are uncanny.
 

I glance over to Jen, and her eyes meet mine. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She shrugs with an acknowledgment that says, yes, shifters have been living among us for a long, long time.
 

After class, Jen and I weave through the swarm of students in the hallway. With a hushed voice, I demand more information. “How long have you known?”

 
“Hard to say, exactly. But I’ve found it’s best to feign ignorance. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Jen says. “If you get my drift?”

I nod.

“It’s a lot safer if you just pretend everything, and everyone, are normal. I try not to involve myself in anyone else’s drama. I’ve got enough of my own.”

“How many are there?”
 

“Wolves, you mean?”
 

“Is there anything else?” I ask.

Jen grins, “What isn’t there?”
 

My eyes widen at the revelation. At least I know I’m not crazy. All of the unbelievable things I’ve seen weren’t just figments of my imagination. They were as real as I perceived them to be.
 

“What about Lucas?” I ask.
 

“Every now and then, even I am surprised.”

“Is he a wolf?” I stammer.

“No. Something else entirely.”

“I saw him deflect a bullet with his hand,” I whisper. “I saw it rip through his flesh and heal almost instantly.”

“We’ll talk about this later. I’ve got to get to trig,” she says, dashing toward her next class.
 

The rest of the day drags. Seconds feel like hours as I wait for chemistry. I’m dying to see Ethan—to get any kind of indication from him that the majestic wolf was, in fact, him. But, then a terrible thought crosses my mind—what if it wasn’t him?
 

When I enter Mr. Fischer’s class I instantly deflate—Ethan’s not there. I take my place next to his empty seat and watch the door with anticipation. The bell rings, yet still no Ethan. My face crinkles involuntarily with frustration. I sulk down into my textbook. Why does the Universe hate me so?

Hiding from the world, my face buried between the fine print of the periodic table, I hear the metal classroom door clank open.
 

“Mr. Storm, seems like you owe me one afternoon of detention after all,” says Mr. Fischer.
 

I try my best to stifle a smile, but I can’t help but beam at Ethan as he sits next to me.
 

“You think it’s funny, do you?” he says.

“Oh, no,” I say, suddenly serious. “I got a detention the other day, too.”
 

Ethan takes off his jacket and I am momentarily mesmerized by his muscular torso as he slinks his arms out of the sleeves. I study his form, trying to match the bulges and cuts of his muscles with those of the creature I saw. I snap my eyes away when he catches me staring. I bite my lip and turn away, flushing red with embarrassment.
 

“Ms. James, I’m sure it’s infinitely more entertaining to watch Mr. Storm undress, but if you would be so kind as to pry your eyes away for the next forty-five minutes, you might actually pass tomorrow’s quiz,” Mr. Fischer says, with a smug tone.
 

If my face was red before, it’s on fire now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an ever so slight grin roll up on the corner of Ethan’s face. And maybe, just maybe, that’s worth the embarrassment. For the rest of class I exhibit an iron will, and I don’t look in Ethan’s direction once. Despite the fact that it’s all I want to do.
 

The bell rings and Ethan vanishes before I can say anything to him about last night. I gather my books and dash into the hallway, but he’s no where to be found. I sigh and head to my locker.
 

After school, I wait in the parking lot to meet Jen, but she’s not there. I scan the lot, and her car is not where we left it this morning. Did she forget and leave me here? Surely, if she did forget, she’d remember at some point and come back for me? I start to panic a bit, worrying about Noah. I wait for ten minutes, pacing the sidewalk between the brick school building and the asphalt lot. My eyes watch the door like a hawk for any sign of her. But she doesn’t show.
 

I’m like a nervous hen, with my eyes darting from the door to the lot, scanning, pacing, freaking out. I repeatedly call her phone, but no answer. If I walked, how long would it take me to get to Noah’s middle school? Fifteen minutes maybe? Then what?
 

As I gaze at the door, hoping that Jen will come bursting through, I hear the roar of eight cylinders pull up behind me. I feel the heat of the engine spill out from under the hood.
 

“You need a ride?” Ethan says, leaning toward the open passenger window from the driver’s seat.

CHAPTER 16

THE LEATHER SPORT seats hug my body, and the purring engine sends a tingle through my spine. Ethan mashes the gas pedal to the floor, spitting gravel from the slick black tires as we exit the school parking lot. The engine redlines—Ethan plunges the clutch to the floor, shifting gears. The tachometer rises and falls, each shift slamming me back harder into the seat. I’m beginning to find speed exhilarating.
 

I have a rule about hot guys and hot cars—if they spend more time polishing the car than they do polishing the relationship—run. Of course, there are many other, more important reasons for me to run. Reasons why I shouldn’t have gotten into the car in the first place. If I was smart, I’d have a rule about involving myself with supernatural creatures. But how was I to know that such a rule should even be necessary? I doubt I would have followed that rule, even if I had made it.
 

I glance around the sporty interior, inhaling the new car smell of fresh leather trim. Every surface, seam, and stitch precision crafted. Smooth clean lines and brushed aluminum accents balance a modern design with a classic feel.
 

Ethan’s books are piled at my feet on the floorboard, along with an empty bag of chips and a crushed, plastic water bottle. The windshield is a bit dirty in the corners, with a clearly delineated line carved from the swath of wiper blades during the last rain. This is a good sign—clean, but not compulsively so.