Read Online Sunblind by Michael Griffo - Free Book Online Page A

be frightened, but I’m not.
    Maybe it’s because I know that there’s a very slim chance that Barnaby’s gun is loaded with silver bullets, the only type that can do any permanent damage to me if, of course, the folklore and the information I’ve gleaned from Wikipedia and at Lycanthropy.com, are true.
    According to legend (and the larger-than-I-expected online lycanthrophite community), it takes a very specific type of ammo to take me down. And if my brother shoots I may be wounded, but since there’s no full moon tonight, there’s no risk that my other self will emerge while I’m in the emergency room doing my best imitation of my mother.
    But wait! Am I only immune to regular bullets when I’m a wolf? Will they harm me when I’m not in wolf form? Another philosophical question emerges: Is a werewolf always a werewolf even when the werewolf isn’t a wolf? I have no idea, but I feel the formidable wolf-strength push underneath my skin, and I feel way more invincible than vulnerable. A good way to find out how I’d be affected by a regular-strength bullet would be to provoke Barnaby and get him so pissed off that he actually pulls the trigger. I have a feeling that won’t be a very difficult task.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing with that thing?” I ask.
    â€œAiming it at you,” he replies.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause that’s what you do with a gun, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically. “Point it at people.”
    â€œFor starters,” I respond defiantly.
    Looking at my brother, I notice that his feet are planted squarely on the floor; he’s grown a few inches since last year. His gym shorts reveal that his legs are muscular, well-developed from track practice, and they’re covered with spotty patches of brown hair, a thick cluster around his shins and calves, much thinner around his thighs. His arms and upper body are still on the skinny side, and he needs two hands to hold the gun. That, however, could be more for effect than necessity. The overall impression is that he’s aged. I’m not sure if it happened overnight or if there’s been a steady growth that I’ve ignored, but my brother looks older than I last remember.
    And yet regardless of what he’s holding in his hands, he’s still my little brother.
    â€œSo you gonna do something with that thing other than point it at me?”
    As usual when a bully is confronted, a bully wavers. The gun lowers just enough in the air to convince me that Barnaby has absolutely no intention of using it the way that its maker intended. Gone is the cocky attitude, and in its place is confused apprehension. It’s like I can hear his thoughts rolling in his mind, like a huge, heavy wheel that a weakling is trying to push. Clunk, clunk, clunk, until the momentum clicks and the wheel starts to roll, and I realize with more than a mild amount of surprise that my brother is no longer a weakling. That’s when Barnaby pulls the trigger.
    Despite my steely determination to be aloof, I flinch. Not a quick flinch that I can hide as a shiver, but a full-on, body shake so violent I have to clutch my towel so it doesn’t fall to the ground and give my brother a free show.
    After I stop shaking and am satisfied that my private parts are still covered, I realize that either my skin is human Kevlar or Barnaby’s gun isn’t loaded. His laughter proves it’s the latter.
    â€œGotcha!”
    He falls back on my bed squealing, the weight of the gun making his outstretched arm bend so he looks like some underage assassin who finds his career oh-so-hilarious. Right now I find my brother oh-so-repulsive.
    While Barnaby is reveling in his self-staged amusement, I do what a big sister—as well as a big, bad wolf—was born to do: I take control of the situation.
    Lightning quick, I grab the gun from his wiggling grip. When he finally notices the piece is