word. The truck growled to life and bobbed and rolled forward along a path that had never been designed for vehicular traffic. She had to hold onto the side of the truck or be thrown around in the bed like loose cargo. She hunkered down in her blanket and tried not to look at anything. Eventually she stopped shaking so much.
11.
They rode in silence for a while. Chey was lost deep in thoughts that didn’t please her, but that she couldn’t shake.
“He hurt you,” Powell finally said.
Chey looked up at him with bird-fast eyes. “What?” she chirped. She was about to go into hysterics. She was about to cry. She couldn’t talk to him at that moment, couldn’t play the game of being a social creature. Like an injured animal hiding in its den, her personality had curled up to lick its wounds. “What?” she demanded again. “He? He who? Who hurt me?”
“He hurt you pretty badly. ‘He’ meaning, well, my wolf.” His face was set like stone. She supposed he’d had plenty of time to get used to this. He didn’t look away from her face as he spoke, didn’t drop his eyes or even fidget under his blanket. Chey could read that body language from long experience. He had something uncomfortable to say to her and he was going to be a man about it, a man with a capital
M
. “I try to think of the wolf, of him, as another being, someone different from myself. That we aren’t the same creature at all. That I stop existing when he appears, and vice versa.”
“How’s that working out for you?” Chey asked, too fast, her voice too high and too loud. She could read her own body language, too.
“It helps …sometimes.”
Chey tried to look away from those eyes, but found she couldn’t. They kept drawing her gaze back. “Okay. So…your wolf…he…”
“He hurt you, I think. He bit you or something. I want to say I’m sorry. I never remember what happened until later, until I’m clean again and warm and I can think straight.”
“I think I’d rather not remember,” Chey said.
“Fair enough.”
She rubbed at her eyes with her palms. “It’s going to happen again, isn’t it?” she asked.
He said nothing. Maybe he thought the question was rhetorical, or maybe he didn’t understand what she was asking.
“I’m going to change again. Be that wolf, again.”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“It’s going to happen over and over. For as long as I live.”
Powell finally did look away from her. It helped not to be pinned by those green eyes. “Whenever the moon rises. Every single time.”
Chey shook her head and her hair bounced on her cheeks. It felt greasy and thick. “No, listen, I remember now—when you—when—when the wolf clawed me, up in that tree, the moon wasn’t full. It was a half moon, at best. It wasn’t full.”
“They made up that guff about the full moon for the movies. Whenever even a sliver of moon is over the horizon, even when it’s new, even if we can’t see it, we change. We can be at the bottom of a coal mine when it comes up. We can be at the bottom of a lake and it won’t matter. There’s no way to stop it. Every single damned time. I’ve been trying to find a cure for—”
“No,” she said. “Please, no more. I can’t talk about the rules right now,” Chey insisted. “I can’t hear about this.”
Powell didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip.
Afternoon was well on them by the time they got back to the cabin. The men busied themselves with various tasks, picking up firewood andfolding blankets. Chey stood in the middle of the yard, just outside the house. Just stood there with her arms folded and didn’t move.
A curl of smoke rose from a pipe chimney sticking out of the side of the house. Inside a fire crackled and a little yellow light came through the open doorway. Was Powell waiting for her to come in on her own? Maybe he thought she just needed some space. Some time to process what had happened.
She would never get used to this,
11.
They rode in silence for a while. Chey was lost deep in thoughts that didn’t please her, but that she couldn’t shake.
“He hurt you,” Powell finally said.
Chey looked up at him with bird-fast eyes. “What?” she chirped. She was about to go into hysterics. She was about to cry. She couldn’t talk to him at that moment, couldn’t play the game of being a social creature. Like an injured animal hiding in its den, her personality had curled up to lick its wounds. “What?” she demanded again. “He? He who? Who hurt me?”
“He hurt you pretty badly. ‘He’ meaning, well, my wolf.” His face was set like stone. She supposed he’d had plenty of time to get used to this. He didn’t look away from her face as he spoke, didn’t drop his eyes or even fidget under his blanket. Chey could read that body language from long experience. He had something uncomfortable to say to her and he was going to be a man about it, a man with a capital
M
. “I try to think of the wolf, of him, as another being, someone different from myself. That we aren’t the same creature at all. That I stop existing when he appears, and vice versa.”
“How’s that working out for you?” Chey asked, too fast, her voice too high and too loud. She could read her own body language, too.
“It helps …sometimes.”
Chey tried to look away from those eyes, but found she couldn’t. They kept drawing her gaze back. “Okay. So…your wolf…he…”
“He hurt you, I think. He bit you or something. I want to say I’m sorry. I never remember what happened until later, until I’m clean again and warm and I can think straight.”
“I think I’d rather not remember,” Chey said.
“Fair enough.”
She rubbed at her eyes with her palms. “It’s going to happen again, isn’t it?” she asked.
He said nothing. Maybe he thought the question was rhetorical, or maybe he didn’t understand what she was asking.
“I’m going to change again. Be that wolf, again.”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“It’s going to happen over and over. For as long as I live.”
Powell finally did look away from her. It helped not to be pinned by those green eyes. “Whenever the moon rises. Every single time.”
Chey shook her head and her hair bounced on her cheeks. It felt greasy and thick. “No, listen, I remember now—when you—when—when the wolf clawed me, up in that tree, the moon wasn’t full. It was a half moon, at best. It wasn’t full.”
“They made up that guff about the full moon for the movies. Whenever even a sliver of moon is over the horizon, even when it’s new, even if we can’t see it, we change. We can be at the bottom of a coal mine when it comes up. We can be at the bottom of a lake and it won’t matter. There’s no way to stop it. Every single damned time. I’ve been trying to find a cure for—”
“No,” she said. “Please, no more. I can’t talk about the rules right now,” Chey insisted. “I can’t hear about this.”
Powell didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip.
Afternoon was well on them by the time they got back to the cabin. The men busied themselves with various tasks, picking up firewood andfolding blankets. Chey stood in the middle of the yard, just outside the house. Just stood there with her arms folded and didn’t move.
A curl of smoke rose from a pipe chimney sticking out of the side of the house. Inside a fire crackled and a little yellow light came through the open doorway. Was Powell waiting for her to come in on her own? Maybe he thought she just needed some space. Some time to process what had happened.
She would never get used to this,
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