Claws & Crochet

Part 37

ZOEY

My first thought is that Warner was mistaken. It wasn't a mountain lion following us. It was a wolf.

But then an angry hiss sounds from the other side of the road a moment before a huge feline stalks out of the tree line.

Does all the animal kingdom have a vendetta against me?

Before I can brainstorm how to fight both a wolf and a mountain lion, the cat leaps through the air. But not at me. The deadly claws swipe at the wolf, who bares its teeth and dodges away, only to circle back and snap at the lion's haunches. The two creatures trade a handful of near-miss attacks until they finally come together in a horrible collision.

Their sounds rip through the night air, loud enough to hear despite the crashing of my pulse in my eardrums. Even though I'm standing still, I find myself panting as I watch the terrifying display of claws and teeth gouging into fur and flesh.

Finally, after seconds or hours, the mountain lion breaks away. The animal limps slightly, and gives one last, defiant hiss before it slinks back into the shadowy night.

The fight was so distracting, I momentarily forgot the danger I was in, but it all floods my mind now as the wolf turns to face me.

The creature approaches slowly, stalking me even though I'm in the open. As it reaches the edge of the road, I remember the bear spray I'm clutching. When I raise the bottle, the wolf stops.

Then, shocking the hell out of me, it lowers its head and offers an almost apologetic tail wag.

But if I thought I knew what surprise was, it is nothing compared to the terrified wonder as I once again watching shadows come to life. This time, the second time, the transformation is undeniable. The form of the wolf ripples, as if we've sunk into the bottom of a pool, and water shifts around us. Then come the rapid cracks, and my ears pop.

Warner crouches on the edge of the asphalt, butt naked, hands held up in surrender.

"Please don't spray me," he murmurs. "I'm just going to grab my clothes."

Carefully, he stands and walks to the pile he made a moment ago. Before the mountain lion came and fought the mysteriously appearing wolf. In the dim light of the moon, Warner's skin glows pale white, making the claw marks oozing blood even more pronounced.

My mind tilts and sways, and I try to clutch at some form of reality before I lose my balance and tumble into insanity.

But there's no sense to be made.

"Zoey?" He's in front of me, dressed again, hands reaching. I flinch away, stumbling to the side.

"Did you put psychedelic mushrooms in my lunch?" My voice is a desperate rasp. "Am I tripping?"

Warner lets his arms drop and slowly shakes his head. "I know this is a lot. But we need to keep walking. I don't think the lion will come back, but I can't be sure."

Walking is such a normal thing.

Can I really do something so ordinary? With him?

Numbly, I nod, then push myself to take a few unsteady steps.

His hand stretches toward me again, but I move away, into the middle of the road.

"Y-you walk there." I gesture to the side of the road he's standing on with my hand that's holding the bear spray. Then I shuffle across the middle line, claiming the opposite side before trudging forward.

"Zoey . . ."

I ignore him, trying hard to concentrate, all the while too scared of what this new world is.

Men turning into wolves? That's fiction. Fantasy. Something from a strange dream.

A dream.

That must be it. I fell asleep at some point, and this is a twisted story my mind has made up.

In a dream, I don't need bear spray, so I let the canister drop from my slack fingers. I use my free hand to pull up a sleeve and pinch my arm.

I don't wake up.

No matter how much it stings.

Next I try pinching the meaty part of my thigh, digging my nails in along with a bruising grip.

But I don't blink and find myself in the bedroom of Grandma Minnie's cabin.

I'm still dragging sore feet through dead leaves on the shoulder of an empty backroad with a wolf-man's eyes burning into the side of my head.

Everything about this dream seem so solid. So real. I'm fully entrenched in it.

My reeling mind reasons that a simple pinch won't wake me up. I need something as painfully real as this nightmare to shake me out of it. If I want this confusing world to disappear, I have to shock myself.

The handle of Warner's knife has grown warm in my palm. The blade shines clear as a mirror as I raise it, setting the well-sharpened edge against the skin of my exposed forearm.