Hesaw an image in his mind’s eye of endless forest, and the strength torun forever, on four legs, wind whispering through his fur. His voicetickled inside him, not a snarl this time, but a howl, a song to reachthe heavens.
“Boy.”He started at her voice, suddenly close. She stood before him, armscrossed. “The moon’s up. It’s time for you to fly.”
Theworld through the window was dark, black night. The trees beyond theclearing glowed with the mercury sheen of the rising moon. Both he andhis wolf awoke. Marie took the teacup from him before he dropped it.
Hecould change to wolf anytime he liked, but on this night, this one timeeach month, he had no choice. The light called, and the monster clawedto get out, ribs and guts feeling as if they might split open, thepinpricks of fur sprouting from his skin, over his whole body. Hisclothing felt like fire, he had to rip free of it. His breathingquickened, he turned to the door.
Sheopened it for him. “Goodbye,” she said cheerfully as he raced past her.
Heripped off all the clothes before he crossed the clearing, left hissatchel behind, never thought again about the gun. By the time hereached the trees he had a hitch in his stride, as his back hunched andhis bones slipped and cracked to new shapes. His vision became sharpand clear, and the scents filling his nose made the world rich andglorious. Tail, ears, teeth, a coat of beautiful thick fur, and nothingbut open country before him.
Thedoors of All-Hallows Eve had opened, and the boy’s wolf knew where togo, even if he didn’t. West. Just west, as far and as fast as he could.Armies and soldiers and checkpoints and spies didn’t stop him. No onefired on him. All any of them saw was a wolf, a bit scrawny and theworse for wear perhaps, racing through the night, a gray shadow under asilver moon.
Later,Fritz would remember flashes of the journey, woods and fields, a smallstream that he splashed through, the feel of moonlight rising overhim. For decades after, the smell of fireworks would remind him of thestink of exploded artillery shells that filled his head as he crossedthe site of a recent battle. The memories made him think of a hero in afairy tale, the boy who had to fight through manyhardships to reach the castle and rescue the princess. The knight withhis sword, slaying the dragon. Never mind that he was a monster, likethe monsters in the stories. Perhaps he didn’t have to be a monsteranymore. Not like that, at least.
Heran all night, collapsed an hour or so before dawn, not knowing whereon the map of Europe’s battlefields he’d ended up, not caring. He’d runas far as he could, then he slept, and the wolf crept away again.
He’drun all the way to France.
TheAmerican soldiers found him naked, satchel and gun and clothing longgone. Hugging himself, he hid behind a tree trunk, torn between fleeingagain or begging for help. When they leveled rifles at him, he didn’tflinch. He didn’t imagine the Amis had brought silver bullets withthem. They could not kill him, but they didn’t know that. He waited;they waited.
Heread confusion in their gazes. He must have looked like a child tothem: thin, glaringly pale against the gray of the woods and overcastsky. Lost and shivering. Ducking his gaze, a sign of submission, hecrept out from behind the tree. He licked his lips, needing water,but that could wait. Still, they didn’t shoot. He decided to stepthrough the door that had opened.
“I. . . I surrender,” he said in very rough English, and raised his arms.
Kittyand the Full Super Bloodmoon Thing
“SOWHAT ARE WE EXPECTING TO HAPPEN?” Ben asked.
“Sameas any other full moon . . . but more so,” I said. “I’m kind of hopingwe all spontaneously break into a synchronized lipsynch of ‘Day-O.’”
EvenShaun gave me an annoyed look from across the clearing. SoI guess that only sounded like fun to me.
Wewere at our spot in the national forest up in the mountains, all of usin the pack, waiting. The place—a clearing by an outcrop of granite,surrounded by miles of pines, usually felt like home. Any other fullmoon night, the pack would gather, and as dark fell we’d shed ourclothes. As the moon rose our skin would sprout fur, our bones breakand stretch, our four-legged selves taking control. We’d run, we’dhunt—wolves, summoned by the full moon.
Thisnight, however, we nervously waited and watched the sky.
“Supermoon,”Ben said, arms crossed, squinting through the trees.The moon—full, silver—was just starting to rise. “So we should all getX-ray vision or be able to fly or something.”
“Listento you,” I said. “Like turning into a wolf every four weeks isn’tenough of a superpower.”
Hefrowned, clearly dissatisfied. “You’re right. Not enough superpower.”
“Well,next time get bit by a radioactive spider instead of a werewolf.”
Hegave me this look like he couldn’t tell if I was joking.
Peoplekept asking me: Supermoon. Blood moon. Did anything change? Was itall different? I didn’t know why everyone was worked up. The supermoonhappened when the moon’s orbit brought it closest to Earth—a prettyregular occurrence. The lunar eclipse happened whenever the Earthcame between the sun and moon—another pretty regular occurrence. Evenboth together happened every thirty years or so. I had to be honest—thephilosophical underpinnings of the whole thing weren’t at theforefront of my mind when my fingers were sprouting claws and my mouthstretching to fit a predator’s set of teeth.
Whichthey were about to do right now. My skin itched. I flexed my fingers.Elsewhere in the clearing, others of the pack were stripping down,while their backs arched and a sheen of fur grew down along their skin.Ben and I watched
