Derek said werewolves changed into actual wolves. I’d found that hard to believe. In fact, I’d heard that the reason the “wolfman” type of werewolf had been so popular in early Hollywood was because of the difficulty of changing a human into a wolf. If they couldn’t do it with makeup and prosthetics, surely the human body couldn’t do it. But looking at Derek, shivering and gasping as he rested mid-Change, I saw I’d been wrong. I still couldn’t quite wrap even my vivid imagination around what I was seeing, but there was no doubt he was changing into a wolf.
“It seems to have stopped again,” I said.
He nodded.
“That’s probably it, then. For now, this is as far as—”
His body went rigid. The muscles under my hand moved, but slowly, like they were settling, preparing to reverse the transformation…
His back shot up, limbs straightening, head dropping and there was this…sound—an awful popping and snapping, like bones crackling. Then his head flew up and the crackling was drowned out by an inhuman howl. His head whipped from side to side and I saw his face then, the nose and jaw lengthening to a muzzle, neck thick, brow receding, black lips pulled back to show teeth sharpened to fangs.
One eye caught mine, and the absolute terror in it chased mine away. I could not be afraid. I could not be freaked out. I could not make this worse for him in any way. So I met his gaze, unblinking, and kept rubbing his back.
After a moment, the muscles under my hand relaxed and he went still, the silence broken only by labored heaves as he panted, the sound more canine than human. His back rose and fell with the deep breaths. Then another massive convulsion seized him, and I was sure that was the final jolt, that the transformation would finish. Instead, the fur between my fingers receded. He convulsed again, gagging, threads of bile dripping from his jaws. He shook them off, then turned his face away.
Derek hacked and coughed for a minute, his limbs trembling. Then, slowly, they slid out from under him, like they couldn’t bear his weight any more, and he collapsed, panting and quivering, his fur a dark shadow of stubble, his body almost returned to a human shape, only the thickened neck and shoulders remaining.
After one more deep, shuddering sigh, he rolled onto his side, toward me, legs drawn up, one hand draped over his face as it finished the reversal. I huddled there, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Derek wrapped his hand around my bare ankle, where my sock had slid down into my sneaker.
“You’re freezing.”
I didn’t feel cold. The shivering and goose bumps seemed more from nerves, but I said, “A little.”
He shifted, then took my knee and tugged me closer, sheltered from the bitter wind. The heat of his body was like a radiator and I stopped shivering. He wrapped his hand around my ankle again, his skin rough, like a dog’s paw pads.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, his voice still odd, strained and raspy, but understandable.
I gave a small laugh. “I should be asking you that. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. That must be what’ll happen for a few times. A partial Change, then back to normal.”
“Practice runs.”
“I guess so.” He moved his hand down under his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you all right?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah. You did.” He looked at me. “You did a lot.”
His eyes met mine, and I looked into them and I felt…I don’t know what I felt. A strange nameless something I couldn’t even identify as a good something or a bad something, could only feel in my gut, jumping and twitching, until I turned away and looked out over the forest.
“Yeah, we gotta go,” he said, starting to rise.
“Not yet. Lie down. Rest.”
“I’m”—he sat up and swayed, as if light-headed—“not fine. Okay. Just give me a sec.”
He lay back down, eyelids bobbing as he fought to keep them open.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
“Just for a minute.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I don’t know if they were even fully closed before he fell asleep.
Twenty-nine
I HUDDLED THERE UNTIL the sweat dried from his skin and he began to shiver, still sleeping. Then I unwrapped his fingers from my ankle. He let go, only to grasp my hand instead. I looked down at his hand, so huge around mine, like a kid’s clutching a toy.
I was glad I’d been here for him. Glad someone was—I don’t think it would have mattered who. Even if there’d been nothing I could do, just having me there seemed to help.
I couldn’t imagine what he was going through—not just the agony but the uncertainty. Was this normal for young werewolves? Starting to Change, then reversing? Or was it something the Edison Group had done? What if he couldn’t ever finish it? Would his body keep trying, putting him through this hell again and again?
I knew he would already be worrying about the same thing. That didn’t excuse his outbursts, but maybe it helped me understand him and not take it so personally when he lashed out at me.
I slipped my hand from his, and he shifted with a grunt but didn’t wake, just tucked his hand under his other arm and shivered. I hurried to where he’d left his clothing. When I returned, I checked the sweatshirt I’d been sitting on, but it was a damp, mud-caked mess. I decided to give him my jacket instead—it had to be close to his size—but it soon became apparent I wasn’t getting any clothes on him.
It didn’t matter that they were baggy—all Derek’s clothing was, like he thought he’d be less intimidating if he looked chubby instead of muscular. Still, I couldn’t get his jeans past his knees and even then I was sure I was going to wake him. So I settled for draping the clothing over him. I was fussing with the jacket, making sure it was the fleece side against him, when I caught a movement in the trees. I hunkered down beside Derek and went still.
When I didn’t hear anything, I peeked over Derek and saw a man through the trees. His face was rigid with anger as he walked fast. Something moved near the ground ahead of him. A truck stop visitor taking his dog for a walk?
I glanced at Derek. If the dog smelled him, we were in trouble. I pushed up to a crouch and crept forward as quietly as I could. I saw a flicker of yellow fur through the thick bushes. The man waved his hand with a flash of silver, like he was holding a chain leash. He looked furious. I couldn’t blame him. It was cold and wet and muddy, and his dog seemed to be insisting on doing its business in the deepest part of the small forest.
When the man’s foot flew out in a kick, though, my sympathy vanished, and I tensed, a shout of outrage on my lips. Then I saw it wasn’t a dog in front of him. It was a girl with long blond hair, wearing a light-colored shirt and jeans, crawling on all fours, like she was trying to get away from the man.
He kicked her again and she twisted, scuttling forward awkwardly, like she was too badly hurt to get up and run. Her face turned my way and I saw she wasn’t any older than me. Mascara raccoon-ringed her eyes. Dirt streaked her face. Dirt and blood, I realized, the blood still dripping from her nose, staining her shirt.
I sprang to my feet and as I did, the man raised his hand. Silver flashed—not a leash, but a knife. For a second, all I could see was that knife, my mind stumbling back to the girl in the alley, the knife tip over my eye. The terror I’d fought so hard to hide shot through me.
The man grabbed the girl’s long hair. He wrenched her head up and that jolted me from my frozen terror. My mouth opened to call out, yell anything, just get his attention so she could escape.
The knife sliced through the air, heading straight for the girl’s throat and I let out a cry. The knife passed through, seeming not to have left a mark, and I was sure he’d missed. Then her throat opened, splitting, gaping, blood gushing, spurting.