Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

The Perks of Being a Werewolf

Chapter Nine

Once I'm on the road, it takes twenty miles, a sketchy GPS, and several long-winded curses before I hit a fork in the road. It's at this point that I realize that I'm not too far from home 2.0. Just a few more miles around the lake, and my Dad's house would be the first to break up the forest.

The realization sweeps across my skin like the touch of a ghost. I've probably skated near this place a thousand times, but I never stopped to listen to what lurked inside these woods.

I swallow the lump swelling in my throat and split off from the highway down the narrow, dirt road. The road itself is eerie; it's canopied by thick branches, illuminated only by the white lights of my car. The deeper I drive through the blackness, the stronger my regret grows. Maybe I should have stayed home? I could have locked myself in my room and tried to figure out all that gibberish that Damien gave me. But, my question about the wolf-boy seemed more important than the flower, at least, they did when Pete dropped me off at the house. I took less than a minute to grab my stuff to leave. I even had a few seconds to spare, enabling me to tuck the spell safely under my mattress.

I could have easily done that, as I could have just as easily confessed everything to Evelynn Lucke. She probably would have given me a new pill and I could forget that any of this stuff even existed. I could forget about The Fox Glove, and about my ruined formal dress...I could forget about him.

My gut twists at the thought. As easy as it would be, do I really want to forget?I mean, I would never know that someone is manipulating my mind. I would never find out who, or why, or even the length of time that this has been happening. I would forget those stark eyes and the way they made the hair stand on the back of my neck.

Then again, I would forget that I went all Buffy on him with my ice skate.

A normal person would have bled to death. Not him. He healed. In just a few minutes, his wound closed right up like he was a superhero or something—a werewolf.

I take a breath and count to twenty-three. That's as far as I get when the dark road blooms into an open, gravel parking lot. A dozen or so cars litter the area, the roofs of them glowing bright beneath the sign atop the run-down cabin. The red light reads Beauchamp's, and the blinking H keeps pace with my heart.

I park as close to the entrance as I can—incase I'm in need of a swift escape. The creaking wood of a small porch replaces the crunch of gravel in a matter of seconds, and then I'm parallel with a wide, green door.

The air wafting through the cracks of the door smells faintly of garbage, and even though the sign hanging in the window says open, I can't muster up the guts to turn the knob. Something is seeded deep in my gut and it's asking me to turn around. It's begging for me to walk away and to leave this be. Perhaps I really should go home, down a pill, and forget everything. That's what they'd want me to do—the person who's been giving me the Ironide, I mean. What if there's good reason for making me forget? What if I saw something horrific and the pills have provided me the opportunity to live life unscathed?

A grunt startles me, and in a blink, a gruff man is pushing past me, grumbling on that I'm in his way. He passes through the door, and then I'm blasted with a warm gust of loud chatter and the stench of beer. It's when he moves that I get a glimpse of men playing pool that I resolve to enter the building. I've come too far to turn back now. After all, I am a Conall—my curiosity will always be stronger than my fear.

Once I'm inside, I take a moment to observe the area. Straight ahead, the group of men are still gathered near the pool table, waiting while their buddy takes a shot at the eight ball, and they howl with laughter as he misses the shot. To the left of me is the L-shaped bar and between us are a dozen round tables and a row of leather booths along the cheaply papered walls.