Shiver (The Wolves of Mercy Falls Book 1) Page 2

  And there was the white she-wolf. I had read that wolves mated for life, and I’d seen her with the pack leader, a heavyset wolf that was as black as she was white. I’d watched him nose her muzzle and lead her through the skeleton trees, fur flashing like fish in water. She had a sort of savage, restless beauty to her; I could imagine her attacking a human, too. But the rest of them? They were silent, beautiful ghosts in the woods. I didn’t fear them.

  “Right, peaceful.” Mom hacked at the cutting board. “Maybe they should just trap them all and dump them in Canada or something.”

  I frowned at my homework. Summers without my wolf were bad enough. As a child, those months had seemed impossibly long, just time spent waiting for the wolves to reappear. They’d only gotten worse after I noticed my yellow-eyed wolf. During those long months, I had imagined great adventures where I became a wolf by night and ran away with my wolf to a golden wood where it never snowed. I knew now that the golden wood didn’t exist, but the pack — and my yellow-eyed wolf — did.

  Sighing, I pushed my math book across the kitchen table and joined Mom at the cutting board. “Let me do it. You’re just messing it up.”

  She didn’t protest, and I hadn’t expected her to. Instead, she rewarded me with a smile and whirled away as if she’d been waiting for me to notice the pitiful job she was doing. “If you finish making dinner,” she said, “I’ll love you forever.”

  I made a face and took the knife from her. Mom was permanently paint-spattered and absentminded. She would never be my friends’ moms: apron-wearing, meal-cooking, vacuuming, Betty Crocker. I didn’t really want her to be like them. But seriously — I needed to get my homework done.

  “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll be in the studio.” If Mom had been one of those dolls that say five or six different things when you push their tummy, that would’ve been one of her prerecorded phrases.

  “Don’t pass out from the fumes,” I told her, but she was already running up the stairs. Shoving the mutilated mushrooms into a bowl, I looked at the clock hanging on the bright yellow wall. Still an hour until Dad would be home from work. I had plenty of time to make dinner and maybe, afterward, to try to catch a glimpse of my wolf.

  There was some sort of cut of beef in the fridge that was probably supposed to go with the mangled mushrooms. I pulled it out and slapped it on the cutting board. In the background, an “expert” on the news asked whether the wolf population in Minnesota should be limited or moved. The whole thing just put me in a bad mood.

  The phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hiya. What’s up?”

  Rachel. I was glad to hear from her; she was the exact opposite of my mother — totally organized and great on follow-through. She made me feel less like an alien. I shoved the phone between my ear and my shoulder and chopped the beef as I talked, saving a piece the size of my fist for later. “Just making dinner and watching the stupid news.”

  She knew immediately what I was talking about. “I know. Talk about surreal, right? It seems like they just can’t get enough of it. It’s kind of gross, really — I mean, why can’t they just shut up and let us get over it? It’s bad enough going to school and hearing about it all the time. And you with the wolves and everything, it’s got to be really bothering you — and, seriously, Jack’s parents have got to be just wanting the reporters to shut up.” Rachel was babbling so fast I could barely understand her. I missed a bunch of what she said in the middle, and then she asked, “Has Olivia called tonight?”

  Olivia was the third side of our trio, the only one who came anywhere near understanding my fascination with the wolves. It was a rare night when I didn’t talk to either her or Rachel by phone. “She’s probably out shooting photos. Isn’t there a meteor shower tonight?” I said. Olivia saw the world through her camera; half of my school memories seemed to be in four-by-six-inch glossy black-and-white form.

  Rachel said, “I think you’re right. Olivia will definitely want a piece of that hot asteroid action. Got a moment to talk?”

  I glanced at the clock. “Sorta. Just while I finish up dinner, then I have homework.”

  “Okay. Just a second then. Two words, baby, try them out: es. cape.”

  I started the beef browning on the stove top. “That’s one word, Rach.”

  She paused. “Yeah. It sounded better in my head. Anyway, so here’s the thing: My parents said if I want to go someplace over Christmas break this year, they’ll pay for it. I so want to go somewhere. Anywhere but Mercy Falls. God, anywhere but Mercy Falls! Will you and Olivia come over and help me pick something after school tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “If it’s someplace really cool, maybe you and Olivia could come, too,” Rachel said.

  I didn’t answer right away. The word Christmas immediately evoked memories of the scent of our Christmas tree, the dark infinity of the starry December sky above the backyard, and my wolf’s eyes watching me from behind the snow-covered trees. No matter how absent he was for the rest of the year, I always had my wolf for Christmas.

  Rachel groaned. “Don’t do that silent staring-off-into-the-distance-thinking look, Grace! I can tell you’re doing it! You can’t tell me you don’t want to get out of this place!”

  I sort of didn’t. I sort of belonged here. “I didn’t say no,” I protested.

  “You also didn’t say omigod yes, either. That’s what you were supposed to say.” Rachel sighed. “But you will come over, right?”

  “You know I will,” I said, craning my neck to squint out the back window. “Now, I really have to go.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” Rachel said. “Bring cookies. Don’t forget. Love ya. Bye.” She laughed and hung up.

  I hurried to get the pot of stew simmering on the stove so it could occupy itself without me. Grabbing my coat from the hooks on the wall, I pulled open the sliding door to the deck.

  Cool air bit my cheeks and pinched at the tops of my ears, reminding me that summer was officially over. My stocking cap was stuffed in the pocket of my coat, but I knew my wolf didn’t always recognize me when I was wearing it, so I left it off. I squinted at the edge of the yard and stepped off the deck, trying to look nonchalant as I did. The piece of beef in my hand felt cold and slick.

  I crunched out across the brittle, colorless grass into the middle of the yard and stopped, momentarily dazzled by the violent pink of the sunset through the fluttering black leaves of the trees. This stark landscape was a world away from the small, warm kitchen with its comforting smells of easy survival. Where I was supposed to belong. Where I should’ve wanted to be. But the trees called to me, urging me to abandon what I knew and vanish into the oncoming night. It was a desire that had been tugging me with disconcerting frequency these days.

  The darkness at the edge of the wood shifted, and I saw my wolf standing beside a tree, nostrils sniffing toward the meat in my hand. My relief at seeing him was cut short as he shifted his head, letting the yellow square of light from the sliding door fall across his face. I could see now that his chin was crusted with old, dried blood. Days old.

  His nostrils worked; he could smell the bit of beef in my hand. Either the beef or the familiarity of my presence was enough to lure him a few steps out of the wood. Then a few steps more. Closer than he’d ever been before.

  I faced him, near enough that I could have reached out and touched his dazzling fur. Or brushed the deep red stain on his muzzle.

  I badly wanted that blood to be his. An old cut or scratch earned in a scuffle.

  But it didn’t look like that. It looked like it belonged to someone else.

  “Did you kill him?” I whispered.

  He didn’t disappear at the sound of my voice, as I had expected. He was as still as a statue, his eyes watching my face instead of the meat in my hand.

  “It’s all they can talk about on the news,” I said, as if he could understand. “They called it ‘savage.’ They said wild animals did it. Did you do it?”

  He stared at me for a minute longer, motionless, unblinking. And then, for the first time in six years, he closed his eyes. It went against every natural instinct a wolf should have possessed. A lifetime of an unblinking gaze, and now he was frozen in almost-human grief, brilliant eyes closed, head ducked and tail lowered.

  It was the saddest thing I had ever seen.

  Slowly, barely moving, I approached him, afraid only of scaring him away, not of his scarlet-stained lips or the teeth they hid. His ears flicked, acknowledging my presence, but he didn’t move. I crouched, dropping the meat onto the snow beside me. He flinched as it landed. I was close enough to smell the wild odor of his coat and feel the warmth of his breath.

  Then I did what I had always wanted to — I put a hand to his dense ruff, and when he didn’t flinch, I buried both my hands in his fur. His outer coat was not soft as it looked, but beneath the coarse guard hairs was a layer of downy fluff. With a low groan, he pressed his head against me, eyes still closed. I held him as if he were no more than a family dog, though his wild, sharp scent wouldn’t let me forget what he really was.

  For a moment, I forgot where — who — I was. For a moment, it didn’t matter.

  Movement caught my eye: Far off, barely visible in the fading day, the white wolf was watching at the edge of the wood, her eyes burning.

  I felt a rumble against my body and I realized my wolf was growling at her. The she-wolf stepped closer, uncommonly bold, and he twisted in my arms to face her. I flinched at the sound of his teeth snapping at her.

  She never growled, and somehow that was worse. A wolf should have growled. But she just stared, eyes flicking from him to me, every aspect of her body language breathing hatred.

  Still rumbling, almost inaudible, my wolf pressed harder against me, forcing m
e back a step, then another, guiding me up to the deck. My feet found the steps and I retreated to the sliding door. He remained at the bottom of the stairs until I pushed the door open and locked myself inside the house.

  As soon as I was inside, the white wolf darted forward and snatched the piece of meat I’d dropped. Though my wolf was nearest to her and the most obvious threat for the food, it was me that her eyes found, on the other side of the glass door. She held my gaze for a long moment before she slid into the woods like a spirit.

  My wolf hesitated by the edge of the woods, the dim porch light catching his eyes. He was still watching my silhouette through the door.

  I pressed my palm flat against the frigid glass.

  The distance between us had never felt so vast.

  When my father got home, I was still lost in the silent world of the wolves, imagining again and again the feeling of my wolf’s coarse hairs against my palms. Even though I’d reluctantly washed my hands to finish up dinner, his musky scent lingered on my clothing, keeping the encounter fresh in my mind. It had taken six years for him to let me touch him. Hold him. And now he’d guarded me, just like he’d always guarded me. I desperately wanted to tell somebody, but I knew Dad wouldn’t share my excitement, especially with the newscasters still droning in the background about the attack. I kept my mouth shut.

  In the front hall, Dad stomped in. Even though he hadn’t seen me in the kitchen, he called, “Dinner smells good, Grace.”

  He came into the kitchen and patted me on the head. His eyes looked tired behind his glasses, but he smiled. “Where’s your mother? Painting?” He chucked his coat over a chair.

  “Does she ever stop?” I narrowed my eyes at his coat. “I know you aren’t going to leave that there.”

  He retrieved it with an affable smile and called up the stairs, “Rags, time for dinner!” His use of Mom’s nickname confirmed his good mood.

  Mom appeared in the yellow kitchen in two seconds flat. She was out of breath from running down the stairs — she never walked anywhere — and there was a streak of green paint on her cheekbone.

  Dad kissed her, avoiding the paint. “Have you been a good girl, my pet?”

  She batted her eyelashes. She had a look on her face like she already knew what he was going to say. “The best.”

  “And you, Gracie?”

  “Better than Mom.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, my raise takes effect this Friday. So …”

  Mom clapped her hands and whirled in a circle, watching herself in the hall mirror as she spun. “I’m renting that place downtown!”

  Dad grinned and nodded. “And, Gracie girl, you’re trading in your piece of crap car as soon as I find time to get you down to the dealership. I’m tired of taking yours into the shop.”

  Mom laughed, giddy, and clapped her hands again. She danced into the kitchen, chanting some sort of nonsense song. If she rented the studio in town, I’d probably never see either of my parents again. Well, except for dinner. They usually showed up for food.

  But that seemed unimportant in comparison to the promise of reliable transportation. “Really? My own car? I mean, one that runs?”

  “A slightly less crappy one,” Dad promised. “Nothing nice.”

  I hugged him. A car like that meant freedom.

  That night, I lay in my room, eyes squeezed firmly shut, trying to sleep. The world outside my window seemed silenced, as though it had snowed. It was too early for snow, but every sound seemed muffled. Too quiet.

  I held my breath and focused on the night, listening for movement in the still darkness.

  I slowly became aware that faint clicks had broken the silence outside, pricking at my ears. It sounded for all the world like toenails on the deck outside my window. Was a wolf on the deck? Maybe it was a raccoon. Then came more soft scrabbling, and a growl — definitely not a raccoon. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  Pulling my quilt around me like a cape, I climbed out of bed and padded across bare floorboards lit by half a moon. I hesitated, wondering if I’d dreamed the sound, but the tack tack tack came through the window again. I lifted the blinds and looked out onto the deck. Perpendicular to my room, I could see that the yard was empty. The stark black trunks of the trees jutted like a fence between me and the deeper forest beyond.

  Suddenly, a face appeared directly in front of mine, and I jumped with surprise. The white wolf was on the other side of the glass, paws on the outside sill. She was close enough that I could see moisture caught in the banded hairs of her fur. Her jewel-blue eyes glared into mine, challenging me to look away. A low growl rumbled through the glass, and I felt as if I could read meaning into it, as clearly as if it were written on the pane. You’re not his to protect.

  I stared back at her. Then, without thinking, I lifted my teeth into a snarl. The growl that escaped from me surprised both me and her, and she jumped down from the window. She cast a dark look over her shoulder at me and peed on the corner of the deck before loping into the woods.

  Biting my lip to erase the strange shape of the snarl, I picked up my sweater from the floor and crawled back into bed. Shoving my pillow aside, I balled up the sweater to use instead.

  I fell asleep to the scent of my wolf. Pine needles, cold rain, earthy perfume, coarse bristles on my face.

  It was almost like he was there.

  I could still smell her on my fur. It clung to me, a memory of another world.

  I was drunk with it, with the scent of her. I’d gotten too close. My instincts warned against it. Especially when I remembered what had just happened to the boy.

  The smell of summer on her skin, the half-recalled cadence of her voice, the sensation of her fingers on my fur. Every bit of me sang with the memory of her closeness.

  Too close.

  I couldn’t stay away.

  For the next week, I was distracted in school, floating through my classes and barely taking any notes. All I could think of was the feel of my wolf’s fur under my fingers and the image of the white wolf’s snarling face outside my window. I snapped to attention, however, when Mrs. Ruminski led a policeman into the classroom and to the front of our Life Skills class.

  She left him alone at the front of the room, which I thought was pretty cruel, considering it was seventh period and most of us were restlessly anticipating escape. Maybe she thought that a member of law enforcement would be able to handle mere high school students. But criminals you can shoot, unlike a room full of juniors who won’t shut up.

  “Hi,” the officer said. Beneath a gun belt that bristled with holsters and pepper sprays and other assorted weaponry, he looked young. He glanced toward Mrs. Ruminski, who hovered unhelpfully in the open door of the classroom, and fingered the shiny name tag on his shirt: WILLIAM KOENIG. Mrs. Ruminski had told us that he was a graduate of our fine high school, but neither his name nor his face looked particularly familiar to me. “I’m Officer Koenig. Your teacher — Mrs. Ruminski — asked me last week if I’d come talk to her Life Skills class.”

  I glanced over at Olivia in the seat next to me to see what she was making of this. As usual, everything about Olivia looked neat and tidy: straight-A report card made flesh. Her dark hair was plaited in a perfect French braid and her collared shirt was freshly pressed. You could never tell what Olivia was thinking by her mouth. It was her eyes you had to look at.

  “He’s cute,” Olivia whispered to me. “Love the shaved head. Do you think his mom calls him ‘Will’?”

  I hadn’t yet figured out how to respond to Olivia’s new-found and very vocal interest in guys, so I just rolled my eyes. He was cute, but not my type. I didn’t think I knew what my type was yet.