“Hey!” I shouted at the wolf. “Let him go!”
It raised its head, its jaws letting go of the fox. Its eyes were rabid, its teeth were red with blood, and it began to growl menacingly as its attention fixed back onto its original target. Me.
“Just try it,” I said, snarling. “You had better run before I whack you back into last century, you bastard. Don’t think I won’t, or you’ll get a nasty surprise.”
Two things happened at that moment. The first was that the wolf leaped at me. The second was me swinging the stick with all the strength I could muster. It sounded like a fruitless endeavor, smacking a giant wolf around the head with a pointy little stick, but it was my only choice.
My dad always used to tell me off for swinging sticks around, saying it was all fun and games until someone lost an eye. Needless to say, no one had ever lost one…until today.
The stick collided with the wolf’s head, and it yelped in surprise as a point speared right into its left eyeball. I felt a sickening pop ricochet up the branch and through my arm, and I almost hurled on the spot.
The wolf whined as it scurried backward, and the stick pulled out of its eye, leaving a gush of blood in its wake. Howling, the beast shook its head and took off, leaping through the trees and running for its life.
“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, still holding onto the stick. “I took out its eye. I’m going to puke.”
A shuffling sound drew my attention back to the clearing. Glancing at the fox, I wasn’t sure what to do. It was lying where the wolf had left it, blood matting its hind leg. Should I help it?
Frowning, I knew it was a wild animal and probably wouldn’t let me near at all. It stared at me for a long time and then rose to its feet. It yipped once as though it was beckoning me to leave and slunk away, melting into the surrounding forest.
After a moment, everything seemed to come back to life. Birds began chirping, insects buzzed, and the foreboding I’d sensed right before the wolf appeared lifted. Still, I didn’t stick around to revel in my victory, which had been dumb luck and nothing else.
Dropping the bloodied stick, I turned and sprinted back the way I’d come and didn’t stop until I’d locked myself in the cottage.
That night, I didn’t sleep at all. Buddy didn’t show up, so I was alone with my fear. Every sound was a wolf coming to eat me, and every shadow held a pair of glowing golden eyes, which was absurd since I poked one of them out. Like full on popped it like a grape.
Squirming, I buried underneath the quilt and waited for the sunrise.
* * *
Mary’s Teahouse wasn’t my first choice for breakfast the next morning, but I didn’t have an alternative. It was the only establishment in a ten-mile radius that served hot food—that didn’t need to be microwaved—before nine a.m.
Opening the door, I shuffled inside, the frilly pink decor assaulting my eyes. The little cafe was empty, and when I appeared, Mary Donnelly herself emerged looking a sight more cheery than I felt after my sleepless night. I was sure I looked like I had two black eyes, no matter how much concealer I’d piled on before leaving the cottage.
Mary was a sweet, little, old lady in her seventies, who’d run the teahouse for over fifty years. According to Maggie, Mary had never married, nor had any children. Instead, she took on the village as her surrogate family. She was well worn into Derrydun like she was part of the furniture, or so the saying went. She was also Irish through and through.
“Good mornin’, Skye,” she said cheerfully, smoothing down her pink and white frilly apron.
“Hi, Mary,” I replied, flopping down at a table in the center of the room.
“Are you all right?” the old woman asked, instantly picking up on my mood. “Would you like to talk about it?”
I froze. For the first time, I could understand her accent. The handful of times I’d greeted her out in the street, she’d spoken with such a thick Irish brogue, I couldn’t make out a single word. Usually, I just smiled and nodded, but today, she was clear as a bell. It was like someone had come along and flipped the switch in my brain labeled ‘Irish assimilation.’
“Are there wolves in Ireland?” I asked.
“Wolves? No, not anymore,” Mary replied, raising her eyebrows. “They were all hunted and killed a hundred years ago.”
“Oh…” Then what did I see yesterday? A hallucination?
“How are things goin’ with Irish Moon?”
“Okay. Well, great actually. I finally understand how everything works. The books, the tax thing, the ordering. Mairead knows that place inside out. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”
“She’s a strange one that Mairead,” Mary said, clucking her tongue. “What with her black clothes and her sickly skin. That girl needs a good feed.”
I snorted, trying to hold in my laughter. “She’s a Goth, Mary.”
“A what?” The old woman made a face. “I can’t keep up with the kids nowadays. A Goth, you say? I thought they were barbarians from Germany.”
I covered my mouth with my hand and picked up a menu with the other.
“And how are you after your mother’s passin’?” Mary added, once her confusion over Mairead’s fashion choices had subsided.
I made a face, and Mary grasped my hand. Her skin was cool and soft, and the moment she touched me, I felt a zap.
“You don’t have to step into your mother’s shoes, Skye,” she said kindly as if she’d read my thoughts. “No one expects you to.”
“It feels like it. I’m living in her house. I’m running her shop…”
“They’re
