Comments from such anti-werewolf groups as Mothers Against Others and the White Hats have been unanimous: “Something must be done to stop these creatures from spreading their disease.”
I stared down at the spread. Turned the page. Stared at the pictures.
No wonder the reporter hadn’t bothered me since that brief meeting at breakfast. He’d snapped pictures of me clutching my injured arm, one of the werewolves visible as a huge presence looming nearby. Jim must have set up camp somewhere outside, waiting patiently for someone to do something stupid enough to merit a spot in his story, which he’d clearly been planning to print regardless of what happened over the weekend. The other victims pictured were caught in similar poses, looking as frightened and shocked as I did as they clutched at what were obviously fresh wounds from the werewolves looming in the background. How he’d managed to capture the photos wasn’t my concern.
With that picture of me to act as the proverbial icing, he had neatly ruined every chance I had of keeping my problem a secret.
Though my reaction was delayed by shock, it didn’t take long for the enormity of having my picture and name attached to the article hit me. The papers fell from my nerveless fingers, scattering on the floor as I sank back onto the bed. Sara was watching me with watery eyes, the tissue clutched over her mouth.
I closed my eyes and bowed my head, saying nothing. My whole body shook with the effort of containing my fury. The need to find an outlet was sudden and intense. The desire to take out the belt and use it for the hunt was greater than anything I had ever experienced, even eclipsing the memories of craving and withdrawal from Royce’s blood. If I wasn’t careful, I might lash out at anyone at this point—even Sara.
“They’ve been calling the office,” she said, hushed, uncertain.
I paused before speaking, afraid of what might spill out of my mouth if I wasn’t careful. “Who?”
“Police. Reporters. Political activists. You name it. I gave Jen the okay to turn the phone off. They’ve been calling my cell, too.”
My neck creaked from tension when I turned to her. For her part, she held her ground, not flinching at the look I gave her.
“It won’t be long before they start knocking on our doors,” she said, ever so gently placing a hand on my arm. She wasn’t afraid of me; she was concerned. That brought with it a breath of relief, brief and ephemeral as butterfly wings. “Do you want to stay with me until the worst of this blows over?”
I looked around the tiny bedroom, at the pictures hanging on the wall, and the tchotchkes lined up on my dresser. My gaze zeroed in on the picture in the middle. My whole family gathered in the backyard, with Sara and Chaz and Arnold, taken at my younger brother’s birthday party earlier this year. Arnold had been pretending to be my boyfriend that day; Chaz hadn’t liked it, but he’d been civil enough about it. That day had started the chain of events that led to my getting back together with him, back when I thought he was a decent guy. When I thought that breaking up with him had been a mistake.
If not for him, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Sara wouldn’t be looking at me with a mixture of pity and horror.
I wouldn’t have to worry about how long it would take before my parents or brothers saw the paper.
“I don’t know,” I finally replied, the heavy weight of the statement making my voice raw. “My dad has probably already seen this. He always reads the paper in the morning. Did he call the office? My cell was broken on the trip.”
“I haven’t heard from him or your mom yet. I turned off my cell when I figured out yours was off, too. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, but I needed a little time… .” She trailed off, voice faint.
I offered a weak smile, which she didn’t return. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not judging. For talking to me about it. For offering to let me stay with you. Shit, Sara, I don’t know. For being my friend.”
She leaned over to put her arm around me, plucking up the box between us and pressing a tissue into my hands. Only then did I realize that tears were spilling down my cheeks.