The Thing About Weres

Some bitch with filthy paws was trying to secure the shirt covering my head. I caught a bewildering mix of scents: the female’s breath on my cheek as she fumbled to tuck the ends around my chin, Knox’s dominance, the pungent spice of Weres on the brink of surrendering to the moon’s call. I heard a snick of lock and felt its cold weight added to the steel that bound me.

My inner-Were was cringing, remembering the last time such aggression flowed.

Enough. Me and my wolf were chained to a freakin’ old oak tree.

And they think I have a flare.

With a snarl that would have put any Were to shame, I whipped my head away from the woman’s ministrations. The woman—works in the post office, eats a lot of Slim Jims—reached out for my face again, her intention obvious.

I didn’t have all my magic, but I had rage, and I had a morsel of flare left in me. It wouldn’t last long; I’d better make the best use of it. I summoned it. No preburn itch in the eyes, no slow buildup. Bam. Here I come. Green light poured hot from my eyes. Post office lady stared back at me, her gaze nailed like a deer staring at the feathers of the oncoming arrow. From the back of her throat came a high-pitched whine.

“Release me, right now,” I said. “Or I will—”

I heard it first—dribble, dribble, dribble, splat—in concert with something warm and wet soaking my shoes. And sue me, but if someone peed on your foot, you’d break your gaze, too—is that pee on my foot? —just to check it out. Which is when post office bitch spun away with a shriek, and pushed past the others in a panic. “Come back here!” I followed with my glare until her tight little ass disappeared into the woods.

The one bitch I could have controlled and I let her go free.

I had to hurry; already the younger ones were beginning to change. A girl shucked her dress off and lifted her face to the sky. The teenager beside her was fighting with his zipper. Behind them another puppy was already on his side on the ground, his legs jerking.

Once they became a wolf pack, they’d circle my tree and attack me from behind. I gritted my teeth against the bite of the chains as I tried to twist my hands free from my bindings.

“You,” I yelled to one of the cheerleaders in the front. “Come here!”

My intended target fell to her knees with a faint moan, and held her hands up to the sky as if she were at a revival meeting, as her face started to ripple. She wasn’t a kid, succumbing to the moon. She was an adult. Goddess, Biggs would be changing.

“Cordelia!” I screamed.

“Run!” she screamed back. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t she see that? I was bound like her, surrounded like her. Her voice had changed to a man’s—strained and forceful, as she fought her transformation. I lunged and squirmed, but there was no give to the chains that pinned me to my tree—steel as thick as my baby finger held me captive.

“I am the mate of your Alpha. Release me!” I let my fading flare drift over those still upright, freezing them in the act of pulling off their clothing. “Free my second and my friends. Right now!”

The hair went up on my nape when another wolf howled. One of the braver young wolves—probably a freakin’ Scawens second cousin—darted toward me. “Back,” I shouted. He stalled, mid-charge. “Get back!” He lowered his body, but his hackles were raised. His tail was down, but his snout was wrinkled.

My flare spat, flickered, and sputtered out. I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the itch and burn of my abused eyelids. How long would it take before the wolf attacked? A minute? Thirty seconds?

A question left unanswered, because that’s when Casperella began to sing.

Chapter Seven

Ghost-girl’s mouth was open and from her lips came music so poignant it sounded like one of the Goddesses had come down to earth and decided to serenade us. So liltingly—well, hauntingly—I almost didn’t recognize the melody, until she broke into what I’d always deemed “the chorus.”

The Weres stopped in their tracks, heads cocked.

She knows the portal song.

Faes don’t just go abracadabra, or pull a device out of their pocket and hit the button to summon the Gates to Merenwyn. They have to use their voice to call to the portal, and because they’re all Middle Earth, and have a tendency to add a bit of decoration to even the simplest thing, the portal summons wasn’t just a string of words in their language. It was a, Goddess-curse-it, song.

She stood behind her tumbled wall, singing the call to the portal the way I’d never heard it sung before. Not even by Lou at the height of her power. This was in tune. With sweet passion and longing. With a voice that probably made the angels knuckle their eyes and weep.

She knew all the words.

The pack could hear her, even if they couldn’t see her. One of the wolves growled, but that threatening throat rumble turned into a whine through his snout. His distress call was picked up by another. Those already changed into their wolf form were the worst affected: they whimpered and milled about yipping. The Weres still in the agonizing throes of their metamorphosis heard the group anxiety and contributed some guttural moans. The old geezers still holding out in their pissing contests with the moon had conceded to the point they were getting naked with hunched shoulders and sucked-in bellies. Even Knox’s two buddies were shedding their clothing.

“Mother of God, protect us,” cried the waitress from the hotel.

Asses jiggled as they ran full out for the safety of the trees, leaving only those who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow. My writhing trio of friends, Casperella, me, and Knox, who was backing away with one hand fumbling for something inside his jacket. And somewhat surprisingly, a fully clothed Petra Scawens. Unlike the other members of her family, she didn’t seem particularly shaken by the green sphere or the spook rendition of “Come to Me, My Portal.”

If anything, curiosity was the biggest emotion playing over her features.

Fatso had left his clothes ten feet away. He’d done what most of the Weres did—piled his wallet and watch under the tent of his overturned shoes.

The keys were there.

Biggs was howling.

“They are your pack. This is wrong and you know it,” I implored Petra. “The keys are in Fatso’s pants pocket. Please let Cordelia and the boys go.”

She chewed her lip, and then, I knew—in the firming of her features—she’d made a decision. With ruthless speed, she tracked down Fatso’s teepee of clothing. A shoe went flying as she made a grab for his bulky jeans. She jammed her hand deep in the denim’s pockets.

Out came the keys.

Oh Goddess, the misshapen thing pinned to Biggs’s tree was moaning, its jerking leg was part man, part dog; its toes were tipped with claws. Cordelia’s back was bowed, her face melted. Harry was panting, but holding on by a thread.

Once committed, Petra was fast. She sprinted across the field to Biggs, stuck the key in the lock, and turned it. And then it was quick work—she tossed the lock, undid the chains, and stepped away. The thing that was once Biggs dropped to the ground, still moaning. Next she moved to Cordelia’s tree. Then to Harry’s. When she was finished, Petra Scawens dropped the keys to the ground and walked away, shedding her clothing as she did.

What am I, chopped-liver?

“Are you guys okay?” I called. “Answer me!”

I heard a grunt—Harry’s?—from their direction.

Casperella was already at that little dip and dive at the end of a long stream of Merenwynian that I could never decode because the end of one word ran into the next.

Hurry up, I willed.