Running with the Pack

A path leads into the trees, like the sisters promised. Birds and insects sing in the darkness, and animals move through the underbrush. The peach-golden moon is high overhead, dripping light through the canopy, turning all the leaves to amber and jade.

The trail takes them straight to the garden wall, and this time, the gate is easy to find. Curling iron, the bars wrapped thick with vines and flowers. One side stands open, and the werewolves are waiting for them.

This time, Sephie isn’t afraid.

“Hello, children,” one beast says. After the guardians in the cave, its growling voice is welcoming, kind. “We wondered when you would find the way.”

The wind drifts past them, flutters Sephie’s hair. The smell of the garden eases some of the aching cold inside her.

She turns to Caleb. His color is better, and as she watches, the constant dripping blood slows, dries. An instant later the wound is healed, leaving nothing but tangled dark curls.

Her wounds are still there.

“Come with me,” he says, stroking her hair. “Stay with me. We’ll be all right here.”

She leans against him, hears the whisper of a heartbeat in his chest. So tired. Not scared anymore—now she’s just numb. It would be so nice to rest.

Caleb bends down and she lifts her head for a kiss, a kiss to warm her frozen lips, to ease the memory of the cave. It could be like this here, like it was before things went so wrong.

Will Seth wonder what happened to her? Will Anna? Will they worry? She won’t be hungry here, won’t owe anything to anyone.

Nothing.

“I’ll take care of you,” Caleb whispers, his stubble scratching her lips.

She stiffens, turns her head aside. “You never could do that.”

“I tried to be what you wanted . . . ”

“I never should have asked.” She pulls away, runs her fingers over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s up there for you? What’s worth going back to?”

“I don’t know. But it’s something. It’s my life.”

“Sephie—”

“Goodbye, Caleb.”

She tilts her head toward the gate, and the waiting monsters. “Go on.”

He takes a hesitant step toward the garden. She waves once in farewell, then turns away. She doesn’t look back.

The cavern is empty. No one challenges her as she climbs the black and winding stair.

Halfway up, her hand starts to hurt again, and then to bleed. Not long after, she begins to cry. When she reaches the top of the steps, her chest burns, and all her weary muscles ache. But she’s not afraid.

As Sephie opens the door, the weight of her debt settles heavy on her shoulders. She pauses on the threshold, breathes in the garden’s scent again. Then she steps into the light and noise and stink of the world.

BLAMED FOR TRYING TO LIVE JESSE BULLINGTON

The summer after Charles’s mother died he decided to become a werewolf. Not really, of course, he wasn’t crazy, even after the murder and moving to a city that was as hot and wet as the inside of a mouth, every breeze like warm breath in his face, every afternoon the clouds sneezing warm rain; he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t a kid who believed everything he read or saw in a movie. He was really, really bored, though, and he didn’t have any friends, and one of his library books on werewolves had a six page chapter on how people turned into them, and with the start of tenth grade still a month away Charles figured in the name of science he should put the book to the test. He knew nothing would come of it, not really, but he’d never drunk water from a wolf’s pawprint or dealt with the Devil, either, so who knew?

If he had hit on the plan back when they were making him see the two psychologists he wouldn’t have mentioned it, obviously, but he knew what the shrinks would probably have said. The older one would think that Charles’s ambition came from an urge to protect himself and his remaining family, and the younger one would have told him that lycanthropy was his way of metaphorically dealing with his post-puberty anxiety. They were both, in Charles’ estimation, dumb as balls.

“Mr. Jenkins said Rickards is an urban high school,” Charles had told Mr. Matherne, his A.P. history teacher and an old friend of his mother’s.

“Jenkins dropped the U on you, huh?” Mr. Matherne shook his head the way he always did when Mr. Jenkins came up, as though the principal’s name was a fly buzzing around his ears. “You know what that means, right?”

“Ghetto,” Charles and Mr. Matherne said in unison.

“It won’t be easy, being the only vegan in the ghetto,” said Mr. Matherne, and that was the double truth, Ruth. Charles’s dad didn’t buy that shit, and his gramma, while she tried, didn’t understand, and so the only people he knew who really understood what the V-word meant were back in Baltimore. Person, Charles would correct himself, person, because even back home he’d never told his friends when he restarted his vegan clock, and while Mr. Matherne was still embedded in 4A waging his one man war against ignorance, Charles’s mom was gone, even if her bones weren’t going anywhere.

Southside was the ghetto, too, Charles soon realized, even worse than the Frenchtown neighborhood that lay bunched up on the far side of the public library. Lie- berry, his gramma pronounced it, and Charles winced every time. For an “urban” area there were a lot of dirt roads linking the narrow paved streets, actual dirt roads shaded by the huge live oaks that peppered Tallahassee, as if the rednecks who had built the place didn’t know the meaning of the word city. The shotgun shack Charles moved into with his dad and gramma was over a mile from the library but three blocks from the nearest liquor store, two if you took the path through the kudzu-smothered vacant lot next door. That’s a ghetto, all right, Mr. Matherne had agreed in his last email to Charles, watch out for drive-bys.

Except Tallahassee wasn’t enough of a city to have drive-bys, at least not real ones. A silver hatchback full of white kids would occasionally prowl down the narrow streets to shout or throw trash at the crack-veterans who patrolled Southside like the world’s shadiest neighborhood watch. They had pegged Charles with a McDonald’s bag when he was returning from a library trip, the car’s bass almost-but-not-quite muffling the sound of laughter. Looking down at the class-trash they had nailed him with Charles felt the old sting in his eyes and the shaking in his legs, then let out a long sigh and kicked the bag away. At least they hadn’t jumped him like the crew of Southside locals that took umbrage to a cheeseduplittlebitchsteppinout, or whatever they had said.

“They just think you’re a faggot cause of your glasses,” Charles’s dad had told him knowingly, his sour breath reeking like whatever was on sale at the ABC. “Next time clock’em in the face.”

“I can’t fight them all,” Charles had said, instantly regretting having told his father. “And don’t say faggot. The community’s ignorance about homosexuality—”

“Are you a faggot?” Charles couldn’t tell if his dad was messing with him or not but the way he recoiled reminded the boy uncomfortably of his own reaction when Mr. Matherne had casually mentioned his orientation during one of their first lunches together.

“No,” said Charles, his heart picking up like it did when other kids focused their attentions on him. “But so what? As black males it’s our responsibility to cut out the bullshit homophobia—”

“Don’t take that high tone with me,” his dad scowled. “This ain’t that dumb comic strip, and this community don’t care about hurting your feelers. Fifteen years old and already talkin like her. Comin down here’ll do a world of good for you.”

Her. Charles went inside and his dad stayed on the porch, reflecting through his buzz that it was maybe still a little soon to discuss the problematic rearing his ex-girlfriend had given their only child. He had reason enough to be bitter with her, and once the kid got himself together he’d set’em straight. She’d cut north after graduation, not even telling him about the boy until Charles was five, for christsake, and then refused to take the boy to visit,