Claws & Crochet

Part 41

ZOEY

The dark river pulls at me.

The current isn't as strong as it's been in the past, but the pressure is there, dragging me down. My limbs feel heavy as I crawl from my bed to open the back door and let Bruce out. I sit at the dining room table, and an hour passes without my fingers lifting to work on anything.

I stare a lot. I sleep a lot.

With no immediate deadlines, I don't bother going into town to work.

But I take my medication. A small floating log that helps keep my head above water.

And over and over, I remind myself of one thing.

I am not crazy.

Finally, one morning, as I stare at the teapot, I haven't added water to, a thought creeps into my mind.

If I don't check in with my brothers soon, they'll think something is wrong. If they think something is wrong, they'll try to save me.

Do I need saving?

A spark of anger flares to life, inspiring me to light a burner on the stove top and set water to boil.

I am not some damsel in distress. I do not need saving.

I just need to process this new world I live in.

Warner turned into a wolf. That has to be a fact, or else it means that I'm experiencing a mental break.

Of course, if I tried to explain the events of that night to anyone, they'd most definitely suggest I talk to a doctor. Probably more like insist.

"I found out this town is full of werewolves and then I stabbed myself to prove I wasn't in a dream," I mutter while spreading raspberry jam on toast. One of the many jars Warner identified for me.

How could the helpful construction worker also be a mythical monster? The two identities clash.

Maybe not so much when I add in the fact that he's a member of a biker gang.

A werewolf biker gang.

This shouldn't be real.

But as I wrap myself in a cardigan and take my breakfast out to the front porch, my mind feels clearer than it has in days. Like the cool mountain air is finally permeating my lungs, giving my brain enough oxygen to function.

Plus, the itchy stitches in my arm prove the incident with the knife happened. Then there's the short note from Warner about feeding Bruce which proves he was here that night.

I was not dreaming.

But werewolves? Seriously?

Bruce snuffles in the dewy grass, investigating scents only a dog can smell.

Or a wolf.

The warmth from my mug presses into my palms, driving away a stiffness in my joints. Slowly, conviction creeps through me, pushing at the dark doubt that threatened to pull me under the surface of that inner river.

It's time. Time to prove that the events of that night are exactly as I remember them.

The best way I can think to do that, other than storming into Warner's apartment and demand he transform again, is to call my mother.

No way could someone as determined and curious as Selena Gunner spend eighteen years of her life in this town and not know about the supernatural creatures living here.

Problem is, when I head inside and pick up the old rotary phone, there's no dial tone.

"You've got to be kidding me." I set it in the cradle harder than I meant to, then snatch it back up to hold against my ear.

Nothing.

Growling and muttering about shitty old cabins with questionable wiring, I pocket my cell phone and head out the back door. Bruce lumbers along at my heels. When I reach the tree house ladder, he plops down with a sigh, content to have found a new napping spot in the early morning sun.

I climb up, lifting myself through the hole in the floor.

After performing a quick sweep for spiders, I settle on the weather-worn boards and pull out my phone. There're two whole bars of service. Lucky me.

And of course, as soon as those little bars of service appear, my phone starts pinging like it's gone to a rave. Text after text after text. A whole array of phone calls and voicemails.

Quickly, I read and listen to them all, discovering I was right. Another day of radio silence and I would've had a family reunion with the Gunner boys.

Briefly pausing my mission, I hop on the group text, assuring them that I am in fact alive and not in need of an intervention. Four immediate responses, like they don't have lives or jobs.

Guess I did worry them.

After a few more reassuring messages, I make the call I climbed into this tree for.

My mom picks up after the second ring.

"Sweetheart! I've missed your voice! And you're calling from your cell? You must be in town. How is it there? Found a good place to buy a cup of coffee? When I was a teenager—"

"Mom! Stop talking!" That came out with more bite than I meant. But after my discovery, and this nagging worry about my mental health, I'm finding it hard to be happy-go-lucky. Besides, if I didn't cut her off, she'd go on for another ten minutes with barely a break for breathing.

"What's wrong?"

At least she knows I wouldn't snap for no reason.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's just . . ." Different words play across my tongue, trying to fit themselves into the right question. I'm assuming that having grown up in Pine Falls, Mom would know about the wolves.

But wouldn't she have told me if she did?

And if she doesn't know, she'll probably think I'm losing it, down here alone in this cabin. Then she'll tell my brothers, and there'd be no stopping them from migrating down here en mass.

Still, my need to solidify the truth overrides the experiment to distance myself from my family.

"When you lived here, did you ever notice anything . . . strange?"

"You're being vague, sweetheart. It's making me worry."

A frustrated sigh gusts out of me, and I consider a different angle. "A few days ago, the truck broke down outside of town. When I was walking, a mountain lion attacked my friend and me."

A gasp filters through the phone. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. The mountain lion didn't touch me." I conveniently leave out the part where I decided to wound myself. "It didn't get a chance to."

"That's a relief. How did you get away?"

"A . . ." I take a deep breath. "A wolf saved me."

The truth of that statement rings through the small tree-top enclosure. Up until this moment, I hadn't allowed myself to fully examine what happened. The giant mythical-creatures-are-real blockade kept my mind from remembering that my life had been in danger, and Warner saved me.

I might be dead if he hadn't transformed into his other shape.

Warner revealed a terrifying, secret part of himself to rescue me.

"Are you saying one of the werewolves fought off the mountain lion?"