able to say during the day. I could use this opportunity and finally confess my love to him. And in the morning, when I brushed past him at school, he wouldn’t be aware that I’d already bared the depths of my soul. However, Brandon did say he recalled certain images when he awoke. And with my luck, the one where I confessed my love and he laughed in my face would be that moment. So I nibbled on my steak as daintily as I could.
Brandon devoured his steak and threw the bone to his wolf pack. He took mine when I was done, then washed his hands off in a clump of snow. Brandon put his arms around me. He gave off as much heat as the crackling fire.
“This is the best date I’ve ever had,” I said truthfully.
The night was enchanting. The snow had stopped falling, and now the clouds parted and the icicles glistened in the moonlight. Brandon warmed my hands in his. We watched as the wolves playfully bit each other and rolled around together in the snow. Then they yawned and stretched, and before I knew it, the wolves, along with Champ, were lying sound asleep. The trees were lined with snow, and I was in the company of a magnificent wild animal of the lycan kind.
The full moon shone above us. Brandon leaned into me and rested his stubbled cheek against mine. I wanted so badly to kiss him, but I recalled Dr. Meadows’s words. I couldn’t take the chance. For both our sakes I had to pull away.
“I’m not supposed to kiss you when you’re like this,” I told him.
“Then what if I kiss you?”
He drew me back and kissed my neck, then nibbled his way to my shoulders. He nuzzled his nose along my neckline. He touched my hair and breathed it in as if the scent placed him under a spell.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to avoid kissing a werewolf.
As I reached the reception desk of Pine Tree Village, Mr. Worthington caught sight of me. He was standing in the lobby next to a grand piano.
“Celeste. It always warms my heart to see you,” he said, his fingers tinkling on the keys. “What is new with you?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” I said seriously.
“I’ve heard a lot in my time, young lady. Nothing would surprise me.”
I knew if I told Mr. Worthington my recent events, he might have a coronary right there and then. I couldn’t be responsible.
“Are you referring to the wolves showing up at your school?” he asked.
“Did you hear about them?” I’d almost forgotten.
“It’s all anyone is talking about. Please. I’d love to hear an eyewitness account.”
“It was so strange. They were outside my classroom. Beautiful, with fluffy gray-and-white fur. If they weren’t so dangerous, I would have taken one home with me.”
“Well, their bite is much worse than their bark,” he said.
I cracked a smile.
“It is odd for wolves to come so close to the human population,” he said.
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“It must have been because of the full moon,” he said mysteriously.
Just then a nurse came up to him. “It’s time for your meds,” she said.
I followed Mr. Worthington back to his room. He had tons of pictures and mementos hung on the walls and placed around tables and shelves to remind him of his accomplishments and family.
He took the colorful pills the nurse handed him, and she left us to continue our conversation.
“So are you back to hear more about the Legend’s Run Werewolf?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Last time I came you said you were only at the beginning of your story.”
“Come, sit down,” he said, pointing to an antique chair.
“This is my great-grandfather,” he added, showing me a worn black-and-white portrait of a man. “Some say he was mentally ill. Others say he was cursed. His wife swore otherwise.”
I was surprised at Mr. Worthington’s candor and was enraptured by his biography.
“My great-grandfather was building his house — it was over in the western part of town by the river — when a pack of wolves came after his baby, sleeping in a bassinet by the lumber pile. That baby was my father.”
I was riveted by his story and I nodded, hoping he’d continue.
“By the time he caught sight of the pack, one wolf already had the basket in its mouth, ready to carry it back to its den.
“As his wife cried out, he fought like mad, desperate to save his son. The boy, still cradled in the basket, was unharmed, but my great-grandfather was almost killed. Bloody and on the brink of death, he lay under a shade tree as his wife ran for help. The local chieftain came to his aid and attended to him. When the chieftain finally left, he told my family my great-grandfather would live but the wolf was now inside him — in his blood.
“But no one knew what the chieftain meant at the time. Apparently my great-grandfather was never the same.”
It was just like Brandon. Suddenly I was dying to tell Mr. Worthington my tale of the Legend’s Run Werewolf. But he wasn’t finished with his story, and I wasn’t sure it was wise to tell Brandon’s secret.
“It started with a full moon and continued for three days. He roamed the woods alone. When he was spotted by hunters he was mistaken for a wolf.”
Mr. Worthington showed me more pictures. Many were black-and-white photos. Others were in color but worn. Then he showed me an old family portrait. “This is his wife and my father,” he said. Then he handed me a black-and-white baby picture. “And this is yours truly.”
“Ah… You were so cute!” I said.
“And this is my wife, my son, Harry, and his daughter, Claire,” he said, pointing to still more photos. “She’s something of a wild child. Always was. Couldn’t be kept down by conventional traditions. She married a man, here in Legend’s Run, and had a child. As soon as the child was born, she disappeared. She ran off to a commune and we lost contact with her many years ago. I always told my wife it was the wolf in her blood.”
“Your great-grandfather was the Legend’s Run Werewolf,” I said. “Now, that is a great story!”
I couldn’t shake from my mind the tale Mr. Worthington had shared with me. It might have been because he’d had too much time on his hands or he, like in the traditions of folklore that were the subject of my essay, was passing down the town’s legend. I’m sure everyone in town had a similar anecdote — people grasping onto the idea of something mysterious existing to keep the town exciting.
Just a few weeks ago it would have shocked me that someone as wise and rational as Mr. Worthington would latch on to something so extraordinary and believe it was true. It wasn’t the kind of story in which you say that your family’s ancestors are royalty. Mr. Worthington wasn’t trying to convince me that he was kin to a king but rather that he was related to a werewolf.
I wouldn’t have believed it for a minute if I hadn’t fallen in love with a werewolf myself.
I returned home and wolfed down my lunch. It was always good to get some home time on a weekend, but I was bursting to tell Brandon about my encounter with Mr. Worthington. He might laugh it off or find comfort knowing someone I knew insisted that they, too, believed in werewolves. When I headed out the back door, I found someone waiting for me in the driveway. It was Nash.
This was the first time we’d been alone in weeks.
“You canceled the other night,” Nash said. “We all were going to the mall. I had to watch Abby and Ivy shop for two hours. What gives?”
It was clear Nash was feeling lonely.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry? Volunteering again?”
“No, I already did that.”
“Then what’s up?” he asked.
“Just errands.”
“Why are you wearing those atrocious gloves? Seems to me you’re copying someone else’s style.”
“They make fingerless gloves, you know, because people wear them.”
“People, yes, but you?”
