Hawthorn House

THE ETERNAL MOON SERIES

BOOK ONE

JENNIFER PROTHERO

BLUE HERON PRESS

Copyright © 2026 by Jennifer Prothero

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Originally released through the Jennifer Prothero Books newsletter: 2025

ISBN: e-book: 979-8-950286-00-1

ISBN: PB: 979-8-950286-01-8

Cover by JV Arts

Blue Heron Press LLC

Bayfield, Colorado

Proof that Hard Things are Possible

Contents

La Bête du Gévaudan

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgments

About the Author

La Bête du Gévaudan

THE TRUTH BEHIND THE LEGEND OF THE BEAST

The Story of La Bête du Gévaudan occupies a unique place between documented history and European folklore. Originating in the rural province of Gévaudan, France, between 1764 and 1767, the story centers on a mysterious wolf-like creature believed to be responsible for violently attacking and killing hundreds of people.

Witnesses from the time claimed the beast to have had supernatural abilities, such as walking on its hind legs, having a hide that could repel bullets, fire in its eyes, routine resurrection, and an amazing leaping ability.

As news of the killings spread over the country, King Louis XV’s court sent royal hunters to flush out and kill the beast, as well as placing a 6,000-livre bounty on the creature’s head. The excitement surrounding the story quickly caught fire, being picked up by newspapers far and wide, which turned the story into a media sensation.

Numerous individuals are credited with heroically fending off the creature and living to tell the tale. One of these was nineteen-year-old Marie-Jeanne Vallet, who claimed to have impaled the beast’s chest while crossing the River Desges with her sister, gaining herself the title of the Maid of Gévaudan because of her bravery.

On September 20, 1765, one of the king’s hunters killed a large wolf and sent it to the royal court, claiming it was the beast and accepting the award money. When the attacks continued, the king ignored the obvious mistake and turned his back on the people of Gévaudan to keep his pride intact.

Finally, on June 19, 1767, a local hunter by the name Jean Chastel shot and killed a wolf on the hills of Mount Mouchet. An autopsy of the animal revealed human remains inside, and according to the witness, the animal had non-wolf characteristics. Legend states Jean Chastel used silver bullets blessed by a priest to kill the beast.

When King Louis XV heard the news, he mandated that the animal’s body be burned and buried with no acknowledgment of what the villagers knew to be true; this was indeed the end of the beast’s three-year-long reign of terror.

To this day, the true origin of the beast of Gévaudan remains a subject of interest in folklore studies, cryptozoology, and cultural history. In the absence of genetic or forensic evidence, the truth of the Beast of Gévaudan will forever be left to speculation.

Chapter 1

The Hawthorn House stands proud, with white shutters and panes of mercury glass shining against the warm sun. The slope of the roof is steep from ridge to base, meeting the ground in a flurry of wildflowers so unruly they have taken over the yard. Pinks and purples, tossed in with droves of yellow. Why is it that most wildflowers are yellow? Is it that they’re a gift from the sun itself, maybe, tiny specks of sunlight cascading through the green of a well-meant yard, but long since forgotten with the weight of time and the weariness of hands and mind?

A chimney sits cold midway up the moss-claimed shingle roof, a crack gracing the river rock that once held in the smoke of its inhabitant’s fire. The warmth promises a safe winter and a comfortable autumn. Inside, the rooms all stand together, open like a palm to the receiver. Only railings indicate this room or that, like the lines of a hand showing what fate holds, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Tables, chairs, a well-worn sofa, and rugs in every color faded to the same shade of pastel. The walls are covered in panels stripped from the forest beyond, and the floors are the same, only larger, beefier slabs. The loft is only accessible by ladder, a slim, rickety thing made of willow twisted into stout rungs, covered in knobs, odd and out of place where leaves once were, pulled free before they could sprout into more branches. The air is warmer in the loft, stale almost, stagnant without the space to move around. But the window is wide, making up for lost grandeur. It lets in sunlight and starlight alike, giving a view in and out and welcoming dreams, whether wistful or imagined, perfect for the cotton-stuffed mattress that fills the space with no regard for anything other than sleep.

There are no houses for miles, and the moment I saw it, I knew it would be the house I’d spend Grandmama’s inheritance on. The one that, without an executor, would’ve fallen into the hands of her son, a man with no regard for what his mother would have wanted. The money would have been dumped into his many investments, driving his wealth even higher, only to be lost and forgotten among the faceless companies and stocks.

But here, Grandmama will live on. She will find her afterlife in this forest, quiet and quaint. I will be her hands and feet, and we will go on, her soul forever united with my own.

One last walk over the estate, then Esther, the realtor, unfolds the contract, lays it on the hood of her car, and hands me what appears to be a fountain pen, but under the façade is just a basic ballpoint. The signage line invites me to say yes, to give Grandmama and myself this gift. I do.

Thank you, Grandmama. My heart beats with the swoop of my signature, the pen draining ink, quick and smooth under the pace of my hand. And it’s done.

Esther files the papers in her leather-bound briefcase, tucks the pen away, and hands me the key. It jangles with the passing of hands, the gold metal clinking against an enamel-painted hawthorn branch blooming with white flowers and red berries. Three sharp thorns reach from the keychain in life-like menace when my hand makes contact, and I flinch.

Esther takes the grimace as a sign of excitement. “Welcome home, Baby.”

My name and the word home in the same sentence make my heart squeeze. Esther bids me congrats, then whisks away, her car bouncing over the unkept drive at shock-threatening speed.

I fiddle with the keychain, letting the enamel thorns slide over my fingers like dangerous knives in a game of Nerve, and smile. This is the beginning of the rest of my life. I imagine what the house will hold, what adventures, what dreams, what notions. I grab my bag from the backseat of my Land Cruiser, slam the door, slip the strap over my shoulder, and face down the quaint door of the house. A bush with long thorns crowds the stoop like a weak homage to Sleeping Beauty’s thorn hedge, and I ignore it, adding Trim back the beast to my mental to-do list. The door welcomes me with only a little resistance as the key’s teeth find purchase in the rusty lock, and it twists open. The smell of dust, slight rot, and the sweetness of cedar flutters at my nose like moths escaping a long-forgotten closet.

Snatching the key from the lock, the ornament catches the skin of my finger again, and I curse. The bush guarding the entrance willfully snags the hem of my dress as I sweep past into the house I now call my home. I curse again and yank free, snapping my gaze to the bush. Hawthorn, I realize.

The tear is wide and angry, making the hem drag limply on the floor. I frown. The stoop is in dire need of attention. The owners before me went missing only to be found three years later at the bottom of a waterfall, their bodies petrified in the ice-cold drainage. The Hawthorn House is a casualty of their death, although unlike them, it stands a chance of resurrection. And I will be its savior.

I hang my bag at the hook by the door, petting the logo on it, a wolf: high arched ears and long pointed snout, wide triangular cheeks, a leftover relic from the life I left behind. Then I gather my skirt to keep it safe from another assault, squeezing past the bush. In the back of my Land Cruiser, I have a small box filled with gardening tools I brought with me from Chicago. Grandmama made me promise to put them to use. I guess today will be the day. I pull on a flannel to safeguard my arms and fish out a pair of cowhide gloves and pruning shears. It’s been years since I’ve touched them, and they feel heavy with the weight of the life I left behind.

Cautiously, I kneel next to the hawthorn and pull the gloves snug over my hands, making sure they’re up for the task. Holding the pruning shears like a weapon ready for battle, the sun glances off the blade’s edge in a wink, and I settle in to work.

Gingerly, I finger the first branch, pulling it away from the others. It is firm, wire-like. Then I place the shear’s sharp edge at the crook of an adjoining branch at an angle the same way I would a rose bush. I’m sure the same rules apply here. I don’t want to kill the hawthorn, the house’s namesake, but I would like to enter without worry for my wardrobe.

Clip. The branch snaps with ease, falling to a pile that grows with another and another. Each branch threatens to prick me, even after it’s been removed. The thorns reach in their last efforts as I toss them. The sun is a warm beam of glow, dancing with the pollen that floats whimsically on the currents of the breeze. Bees buzz, birds chirp, and even frogs sing, evidence that there must be water nearby, a stream or pond waiting to be discovered.

I busy myself with the sculpting, a thorny branch here, another there. The rhythm quickens as I find the shape. The foliage will be a fountain of organic lines, leaves, and thorns, soon to have blooms in the summer. Snip, toss, a sharp wooden thorn catches my glove. The tip of it is sharper than a cat’s claw. It digs, snagging past the leather of the cowhide, too thin, too supple to keep the thorn from finding its mark at the base of my palm. The flesh under my thumb flinches. The prick is fast, in and out before the branch even has time to get hung up. Lying atop the pile, innocent, it looks back at me when a curse slips like silk from my lips. The branch claims no fault. I should’ve been more mindful. I should’ve gone slower, should’ve given each discarded branch the attention it was due. But no, I got greedy. Time, a thing hastened when confidence grows, only to bite you in the ass right when you think you have it all under control.

I rip the glove off to see the damage, a red dot of blood issued to the surface and smudged over the skin from the wipe of the glove, marking it with failure. Salt and acid melt over my tongue when I shove the heel of my hand between my teeth and suck. When I pull the injury away, the blood is gone, the dot only a tiny bump of inflammation now, the skin pink where my teeth worked over the meat.

“Okay, you win.” I give the bush my consent, push myself to my feet. An ache dulls at my back, and I stretch. I laugh, realizing that, of course, handling sticks with razor blades never promised to be easy. I sigh.

Chapter 2

Inside, the house is filled with an eclectic assortment of thrifted furniture, making it look as though I’ve walked in on someone else’s life. Because the house belongings were never auctioned, I’m left with nearly everything I’ll need to live without pulling out my pocketbook for the basics. The kitchen faucet runs brown for a moment, rust from the abandoned pipes expelling with my persistence. Once the water is clear, I hold my wounded hand under the stream, hoping the cold will ease the ache there. I need to buy soap, but for now, I yank a scarf from my bag and wrap my hand in the folds of the woolen fibers, letting it comfort me even though the bleeding has already stopped. The skin still burns, hot and cold, as if a flu has localized itself under the flesh to dwell between muscle and bone.

I pace the small house, hoping the distraction might be enough to make the sting fade. The rugs muffle my footfalls, keeping them from echoing off the tongue-and-groove oak walls. The Hawthorn House is an acute triangle, with a narrow base and slanted walls that meet in a high peak above. A stack of framed pictures leans against the oak wall on the floor. I crouch, working my way through them. My hand is cocooned with the bundle of wool, useless in the effort to rummage through the photos, but still, I browse.

A man and woman, both young, twenty-something, look back at me. The hawthorn blooms in the background. The flowers are white like snow on a mountain. The photo after is of a canine. He lies, forearms crossed at the wrist joints, his angular head cocked curiously, a kind of hungry look in his eyes. I shiver, folding the picture away and revealing the next with mountains, the moon hanging low in the valley, and so big it bleeds over the ridge, taking up more space in still life than in reality. Next, a photo of a man with his back to the camera, a hatchet held lazily in his grip. The cold air plumes in a fog that trails off his hidden lips. I study it, curiosity tugging at me, making me wish the man would turn so I could see his face. The next is a woman who stands facing forward. The camera is almost an afterthought, with the photographer forgetting himself in her gaze. She has sharp eyes, the kind that make you want to climb in and let them have you. The kind you know you will be lost in forever if you linger too long. She feels like a kindred spirit. And it’s then that I choose, pulling the image from the stack, I lean it separated from the others, it deserves to be front and center, it deserves to hold its own audience. And so, it will.

Taking a shallow breath, dizziness nudges my head in temptation. I shake my head and continue. The photos grow gray the further I shuffle. The deeper I go. The men and women, the pets, the scape, moving from moody colors that give emotion and purpose to sepia, a brown that makes everything feel like it needs dusting, to shades of gray. Grays with darker grays and lighter grays, but no blacks, no whites. These feel timeless. Almost as though color would be a disservice. Almost as though assigning blue to the sky, or green to the grass, or brown to the dog, or black to the woman’s hair, would trap them in a way that would be unfair. These pictures deserve to live outside of the confines of color; they deserve to live open to the imagination.

I pull another out. A woman, whom I feel I’ve seen before, has her gaze driving through me, fierce and unyielding. She sits with a wolf, the color again is not disclosed, but brown or maybe black, I imagine, maybe various colors or shades of the same color. I take them and place them next to the other, curating the few that will sit at the mantel. A thick, gnarled branch that hangs heavy and determined over the open fire pit, which, for now, is cold and unused. Ash from years passed still cakes the inner hearth like a tribute to the important job of warming the home.

Letting my eyes fall on the two women, decades apart, I catch a hint of familiarity. They must be related. The same sharp eyes, the same black hair, the same posture. The dog stands proud, and I see he has the same hunger in his eyes as the dog from the picture before. Quickly, I move the frames around, finding the dog in the other photo, both eager like they have just spotted a prey but have chosen for whatever reason to let it go, let it think there is no danger. I swallow, pull the picture, and set it with the other chosen ones. A woman and her dog—or wolf, I wonder, the slope of the ears pitched high, the point of his nose long, narrow, strong with the bones of a beast made for hunting. It is the same dog, the same woman, not relatives, but the same. I frown, curious. No, it can’t be, maybe a trick of film played out to make the onlooker see what the artist wants, strings to be pulled, images to be conjured, and imagination to be reeled.

I place the gray photo of the woman and her pet at the mantel. The other two, the woman separate and the dog alone, will go in the loft. It will be nice to have someone to fall asleep with.

I lean back to brace my body. The pain reminds me of my defeat with the hawthorn earlier. The throbbing, acute, driven to a point by the pressure. I wince, glance at the dog, and ask, “You saw it coming, didn’t you?” Then laugh at myself.

“Grandmama, did you know this gift would drive me to talk to myself?” I ask now of the woman who made this chapter of my life possible. I lay back and remember my grandmother. She was tall and lean with broad shoulders, strong as an ox, although she’d kill you if you ever used that comparison. She knew nature like her own soul. She practically lived outdoors, only coming in to find shelter enough to rest her tired bones and weary muscles, then woke bright and early, even before the dawn, claiming that the sun would get a jump on you if you weren’t prepared. She dug her own well, grew her own herbs, and worked her own land. She promised to give me the lot her house sat on upon her death, but that turned out to be too close for comfort for her son, a man who, given an inch, would take a yard, a mile, everything, and never bat an eye.

“The Hawthorn House is ours now,” I say it out loud, letting the name slip over my lips like honey fresh from the hive, bees lazy with smoke and hands dipping eagerly. This will be mine and hers. “Grandmama, what should we do now?” And I laugh again. “Is it considered crazy if I talk to you and not to myself?” A snicker follows the question, cut off by a bang at the window that stands over a chest made of walnut by the color. My head falls to the side. The carpet under me does little to soften the floor.

My brow knits together, a worry line forming a double-digit between them. The pain in my hand throbs, and I roll my eyes. “Damn bush.” And I let out another sigh, the gesture becoming redundant, and I climb to my feet to investigate. The window is blemished with age. A few cobwebs inside and out linger at the corners of the framing. There, in the center, is a mark of blood, tiny feathers, down, fluffy, and fluttering in the breeze. My heart catches, and I peek to see if there’s a bird on the ground, hoping there isn’t. The thought of a broken wing or stunned head makes me sad, and I suck in a breath to prepare for something I don’t want to have to do: nurse a bird back to health with the worry that my help won’t be enough.

There is no bird, and I gasp. “Thank you, Grandmama, thank you.”

Chapter 3

Hand aching, I decide it’s time I go out into town, mingle with other souls, even if only in passing, and bring back some groceries. And maybe some Band-Aids. I grab my bag and shift through the door, double-checking the worst of the bush is out of the way. I haven’t finished, but for now, it will have to do. The truck, a gift from an old boyfriend, comes in handy out here. I pull the stick into reverse, and the oversized tires run smooth through the rough terrain.

Arbor Hill is only a twenty-minute drive, but I take my time. The radio flicks in and out of white static so harshly that I slap it off and start humming my own tune. The green here is alive, mossy, with humidity so heavy it drips. The drive turns onto a blacktop that looks new and freshly painted, the yellow and white lines crisp like the edging on a black-tie invite. Sharp against the black and perfectly straight, the hill was the only thing breaking the line, creating an odd end-of-the-world feeling.

Wiggling the scarf still wrapped around my hand loose, I draw my palm to my eyes, keeping one eye on the road, watching for wildlife that is no doubt waiting for an unsuspecting passerby to dart out and ruin their day, or life maybe. The dot in the meat of my hand is still small, almost unnoticeable. But a white ring has formed around it, maybe my body is trying to fight off the toxins of the hawthorn that’s so wickedly stabbed me.

You had it coming, I think, and I figure it’s true. What else are thorns supposed to do but poke?

Tucking my hand back in the scarf, I reach for the stick, use my elbow to steer, and pop the truck into third. The gears grind a bit, then settle in. The black road roars under the tires, the forest green rushing by, and the sky overhead a milky blue like a robin’s egg. The botanist in me starts labeling foliage. The enormous Ponderosa pine smells sweet of vanilla or raspberry when you tuck your nose to the bark; the Sitka spruce, the needles dense and short like tiny hedgehogs; the Douglas fir, the needles so soft it wouldn’t bite no matter the hand laid against it; the western red cedar, the smell so strong I can sense it even with the windows up. And the western hemlock, while not poisonous, does get a bad rap among tourists confused by the name. I tick off the names, the identifying traits, clinching my hand between my legs to keep the pain in my palm from springing to life with the prompted thought.

I keep going and list off wildflowers. Tempting the edge of the blacktop are columbines, Pacific bleeding-heart, and lupins. Pain sweeps up my forearm to my elbow in a rhythmic dance of twitches and heat. I flick my hand, hoping to shake it free of the sensation. Is the hawthorn poisonous? No, but it’s irritating. I bite the wound between my teeth and gnaw.

Arbor Hill slides into view just over the next ridge, the road diving into it like a swallow to a moth. The town is quaint; the storefronts are lined up like beautiful book spines. The street names are orchard-related names: Grove Lane, Apple Bloom Way, and Mill Street. I take the first right straight to Main Street and find a diagonal parking spot in front of the local drugstore. The wooden sign, carved and painted green and white, sways gently beneath rusty hooks. Doctor Bryer-Marshall scribed in fairytale script over the front door. First stop bandages, and probably some kind of antibiotic, maybe some tweezers. I leave the scarf, not wanting to draw too much attention, not wanting to have to say, Oh, yes! I had a run-in with a pain-in-the-ass hawthorn bush that was simply doing its job guarding the front stoop. God, please let me get in and out without having to have that conversation. I grab my bag, swing it over my shoulder, hop out of the truck, and make my way to the door. A bell rings as I pull it open, then again when it falls shut behind me.

I take a quick look around the shop, trying to map out my journey without having to investigate every aisle. Spotting a marker reading First Aid, I sigh in relief. I make a beeline to the row, with different sizes and colors, and even mascots stand waiting for me to choose. Do I want hearts, rainbows, or superheroes? I grab the simple skin-colored ones along with a tube of antibiotics that boasts pain relief and numbing powers, and head for the checkout.

A woman with gray—no, blue—curls, stacked high on her head, greets me. She eyes my choices, then strikes up a one-sided conversation about how she’s a fan of the waterproof Band-Aids, or even if I don’t plan to get wet, the ones that promise pain-free removal when you yank them from your skin. I smile, hoping I don’t look like a total bitch, and wait for her to enter the items the old-school way by hand, hunt-and-peck. Just as the total flashes at the readout in weak green, blocky numbers, I hand her my money. She says they have fudge today, and I should really get a piece. It’s special from the chocolatier down the road, who also happens to be her niece. I say sure, hoping the agreement will make the transaction faster, but all it does is prompt her to ask if I’m new to town and if I’ve ever visited the chocolate shop, and that I really should, it’s the best in town, best in the state, actually.

After the longest amount of time I’ve ever spent buying three things—a box of band-aids, a tube of ointment, and a bite-size piece of fudge—I’m back in my truck, pricking the opening of the ointment with the back of the lid and squeezing the promised numbing salve over the stubborn speck, the only evidence that remains of my injury then lay it over with a Band-Aid.

Miraculously, the pain fades, and I glance at the ingredients to be sure there’s nothing too strong, realizing I wouldn’t know the difference anyway, and besides, isn’t this what I had hoped for? “Well, thank you, Dr. Bryer-Marshall!” I say before darting my eyes to the shops along the sidewalk for the market.

With the pain in my hand gone like magic, I grab my bag again and decide to take the plunge. Stocking up is something I’ve never done before in my life, but this little market looks like just the place to try out the idea.

Chapter 4

Three doors down, the market stands wide open, the garage-style door drawn overhead to let the outside in and the inside out. Crates of oranges, apples, bananas, pears, tomatoes, and jars of honey sit at a slant for easy access. There’s an awning, a green strip of scalloped fabric lined with piping in the same color, a fancy gesture but lost to the eye by lack of contrast.

My hand is completely numb below the thumb, but at least I no longer want to throw up from the toxic throb. Grateful, I step back out of my truck and slam the door—this time to use my right mind and buy some groceries. Sustenance to make my new house a home. The smell of earth and life overcoming decay springs to my nostrils as the wind kicks in a fit, and I relish the inhale. I love the way spring smells, and in the woods, it’s even that much sweeter.

My bag hangs over my shoulder again, the wolf logo looking to the world as I pass. The logo is mine, or at least it used to be mine. Back when I was a new graduate with dreams of owning my own business, having partners, and changing the world. The name, Wolfsbane, is a whimsical try at wordplay, but in the end, a failure because it gave the wrong impression. Opening up a plant nursery with a wolf as your mascot and the hint at warding off evil as your namesake? Let’s just say people in the city didn’t get it. But here in Arbor Hill? This might be the perfect place for such whimsy. The thought lingers, and I squint. Maybe my degrees in plant study won’t have gone to complete waste after all, despite the fact that my mom says if I wanted to own a business, I should’ve studied business, economics, marketing, anything else, take your pick. But no, I wanted to have a heart-to-heart with botany, I wanted to know it. Only then did I feel I would have the right to buy and sell the living things.

Two people walk the street as I turn into the shop. The man is dressed as if he stepped straight off a boat from the UK, tweed suit, suede elbows, a flat cap in the same color scheme, herringbone this time, trousers, and leather loafers with miniature tassels—one each. He even has a small black Scotty dog with him, hooked to a leather leash. He tips his hat and bids me a good day, and I expect his voice to hold a British accent, but when it doesn’t, I’m disappointed. I smile anyway and return the greeting. And like the flip side of a coin, there’s a young girl riding a skateboard. Her short goth skirt and chunky shoes go splendidly with her long pink pigtails. She pops a bubble in her gum as she jumps from the curb to the road and races across, not once turning her head to check for traffic. However, when I do for her, there is none.

A single cloud lulls across the sky like cotton candy at a fair, and I wonder if there will be a fair. Maybe I’ll ask, I’ve always loved the rides, the vendors, and the quaint vibe of farm, fresh, family, neighbor. The honey display temps me with a wicked hot pepper honey, and I can’t help myself, two of my favorite things in one jar, hot and sweet. I take one. Grabbing a cart, I make my way down the first aisle, freshly baked bread, a box of granola for lazy days, then up the next. The cart fills, oat milk intriguing me with a label saying it’s locally sourced, a carton of cherry tomatoes, a small roast, a bag of potatoes, and some odds and ends: spices, noodles, cheese, and butter. I rack my brain trying to come up with a menu on the spot. I fail and, blindly hoping I can pull together at least a few meals from the ingredients I’ve chosen, I head to the checkout.

I collide with a man rounding the corner. It’s not so much a collision as it is a full-on assault. My cart crashes into him, making him toss his carton of eggs to the floor, cracking every last one with yellow demise.

Stunned, we both just stare. I grimace, hoping he won’t get mad, hoping I won’t have to defend myself, hoping he’s not the kind of guy to blame me simply because I’m female. Blame me because I’m clumsy, sure, but not because I’m a girl. And just when I’m about to say I’m sorry, let me help you. A laugh bubbles out of him in a bouncing chuckle.

He looks at me and says, “Are you okay?”

The question mixed with the laugh catches me by surprise, and like a deer in headlights, I freeze and blink, then finally let out a laugh. “Um, yeah! I’m fine. Are you? You’re the one who was just assaulted, or maybe we should ask the eggs? Seems they took the brunt of the damage.” I arch a brow to the floor where the makings of a French omelet lie. I never did much like eggs, so seeing them here on the tile floor, the gel of the white translucent, oozing from the cracked shell, strikes of yellow where the yolk works to escape the protection of the membrane, turns my nose up.

After the bag boy has noticed and rushed over with his trash bucket and broom, the man without the eggs now holds out his hand. “I’m Sam.” He quirks a smile that makes me offer one in return, and without thinking, I drive my hand into his and shake.

“Baby.” Pain from the hawthorn blooms over my thumb, and I catch my breath.

“Baby, that’s unique.” I nod. I get that response often. “Can I buy you a coffee?” He glances at the floor, where his future breakfast was discarded, frowns a little, then adds, “For the trouble.”

I let out a quick laugh. “Sure, for the trouble.” I don’t normally say yes to this sort of thing, but in the spirit of a new place, a new home, a new start, I give myself permission. His smile is warm, and a twinkle sparks in his eyes, an actual twinkle. I’ve read about this sort of thing in books before, but anything can happen in fiction. This is real life.

“You still have some shopping to do? Or?” He waits for me to answer, with my hand still in his. I pull it free, the resistance slight but not forceful, just sad in a way. I lick my lips, then rub them together. A bad habit, I know. It gives the wrong impression that I’m trying to draw attention to them, which it does, and he looks quickly, then back to my eyes, and arches a brow. I still haven’t answered.

“Right, yes. Um, I was just on my way to checkout now, actually.”

“Great, how ’bout I meet you at the coffee shop at the end of the block?”

I don’t tell him I’m new to town, don’t give all my cards, and am grateful he gave me directions. “Sure, give me ten.”

“Sounds great.” He nods, then drops his eyes to the phantom eggs and turns on his heel, no doubt to fetch a replacement carton.

I get an odd look from the woman at the register, who’s about my age and stunningly beautiful with long brown hair, wide brown eyes, and the slightest flush of apple cheeks. She darts her eyes from me to Sam when he pulls up behind me in line in an awkward, going the same way at the same time after the goodbye has been dealt, kind of way. Silently, she checks me out, hands me my change after payment, and sends me on my way with three brown sacks, all with convenient handles.

Grateful for the handles, I take my fare to the truck with ease. The flutter of giggles follows me as the girl flirts with Sam, and I wonder if this was the cause of her distaste for me. I had somehow encroached on her territory.

I love my 1984 Land Cruiser, but the back hatch sticks. I have to cram the bags between myself and the truck awkwardly to pull it open. The numbing cream has worn off, and pain lances through my hand and into my arm, threatening to make me spill the contents of the bags to the pavement. Grimacing, I pull hard, the hatch makes its lazy assent open, and I gasp, practically throwing the bags in. They fall haphazardly in a heap, several items tumbling in escape, but none fall to the ground.

The wind blows over my back, cooling the prick of sweat under my blouse. Spring is warm, even with the chill of recently shed winter crisp on the breeze. I prop the bags upright, forcing the escaped items back in, then slam the hatch shut. It bangs with all the grace of an old washer with its drum off balance.

Weakness clouds my head. I clamp my eyes shut and drag into the front seat. The bandage is a poor shield against the world of pressure around the injury, and I pull it off. The thorn prick has bloomed into a red welt, ringed in a halo of white. I rummage through the pharmaceuticals and squeeze on another glob of ointment. The pain subsides, and I wonder again what magic this is, wishing it were long-lasting. Another bandage and a moment to gather my head before letting myself back into the world. Why did I agree to coffee? To meet people, to add to my life. But now all I can see is the work it’ll take. No doubt, Sam is already there, possibly even wondering if I’ve blown him off.

Dread rears its ugly head, the same that kept me from doing most things since my breakup with Derick, promise weak against my cowardice. But with the pain in my hand subsided and my head no longer spinning, I see no reason not to hold true to my word. I eye the end of the block, plotting the way. Grandmama, you coming? I send, silently, hoping she won’t leave me to do this alone, then step from the safety of my Land Cruiser.

Chapter 5

The coffee shop is not at the end of the block but rather at the start of the next. The corner space is fit with windows, doily curtains, pink chairs, white tables, and green flowers crammed in every nook available. The smell of roasted beans fills the air, and I breathe deep. Coffee always smells better than it tastes, even though I do like the way it tastes. Sam sits at a table by one of the windows. His grocery sack stands dutifully at his feet. The scarf pulled from his neck hangs alongside his jacket on a convenient hook behind him. He already has a drink. Coffee, black.

He smiles, stands, and pulls out the other chair at the table. When I sit, he says, “What would you like?”

I turn, spotting the menu. You never know what the drinks are called, with every coffeehouse seemingly finding the need to rebrand in their own image. “Um.” I ponder, then see in a small list tucked alongside the more creative one, are the basics. “Let’s do a mocha with oat milk, please.”

“Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you,” I say, my stomach too jumpy to contemplate food.

He nods, then goes to the barista and places my drink order. She must be one of his many admirers because she strikes up a conversation, albeit one-sided, and keeps talking until the drink is sitting on the counter, ready for Sam to take.

Sam nods his thanks, then pulls himself from her gaze and rejoins me, setting the mug on a pink-and-white pinstriped napkin. The foam, a slick shine, is dusted in a flower pattern with cocoa, and it smells amazing.

“So.” He starts before finding his seat again. “You’re new in town?”

I arch a brow at him. He can tell somehow.

He laughs a little, then gives. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I pretty much know everyone.”

“I’ve noticed that.” I glance at the barista, who quickly stops looking at Sam and busies herself with straightening the display case.

He simply grins, but keeps his eyes on me.

I take a sip of my mocha dream, then say, “I just moved here.” I don’t offer anything else. I feel no need, and besides, the pain in my hand is starting to come alive again. My chest flutters with flu-like symptoms, and I wonder if I should leave or power through. The cold sweat is only on my palms and spine.

Sam smiles, and it’s a nice smile. I let myself watch him, let myself calm. The swirl in my head is a mix of anxiety and a dislike for small talk, I conclude. You’re fine, I tell myself with another sip of mocha. A bell chimes at the shop’s entrance, and three young girls and a boy walk in with book bags slung over their shoulders and the look of homework in their eyes. When I lived in Chicago, I always went to the coffeehouse down the street from my apartment. The smell of coffee and textbook pages dances in my memory in such a way that I find myself yearning for it.

When I look back at Sam, he’s speaking. Something that I most definitely missed the beginning of. I do my best to nod, hoping he’ll give enough for me to catch up, to fill in the gaps. He’s a teacher at the local high school. The four kids are students of his, and they have an essay due: how does Edgar Allen Poe reflect the world we live in today? “It’s due tomorrow, I hope they aren’t just starting.”

I laugh. From the looks of it, they aren’t here to make sure they get a good grade. They’re using the assignment as an excuse to socialize. The table, a tumble of hormones, a glance here, a hand touch there. My mocha slowly drains along with my energy, the caffeine doing nothing to give me stamina for the task at hand, small talk, banter, and eye gazing.

“Um, I really need to be going.” I place the cup on the napkin that now sports coffee stains in ink blot fashion, a butterfly, a face, a cat. “Thank you for the drink.” I give my best thank you smile, hoping it doesn’t slip into an ask me more smile and stand.

Sam stands too, his chair scraping, drawing the attention of the youths. They fall silent, the schoolroom spell working even off campus. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.

And I know I’ve failed. The smile has slipped. He’s going to ask me more.

The air outside is much the way I left it moments ago, spring laced with a stubborn winter chill. But it is nice to draw in, cooling the fever that has found its way to my skin. I swallow. The square is just that, square. And I wonder why small towns always seem to have them. Historical, I suppose, and wonder if that’s the case here. Maybe it was the grounds for an epic battle or a brilliant speech of fortitude. I imagine a man wearing brown leather, his hair unruly under a cap of wool. A rifle at his side, or maybe, a book in his hands, inciting rebellion, or a call to action. My gaze lingers on the spire at the center, where a roundabout encircles it like a Carcanet. The town has done a splendid job landscaping the sight lines, and swirls of flowers, spaced in such a way that there will be blooms no matter the season. Eager narcissi mixed with tulips of all shades, bedded with low-sitting crocuses and hyacinths. Green foliage marks plants that will bloom during early summer and others later as the weather warms, then even some that will wait until the cool of autumn to show their colors.

Sam steps into my view. “I’d like to see you again. Would you join me for dinner Friday?” He reaches for his phone to have me insert my number if I choose to say yes. And with the toxicity at my hand that is claiming territory fast, up my arm into my elbow, I bite my lip, doing my best to choose with a clear mind. In the end, I bob my head up and down, take the phone, and punch in my number.

“Great, I’ll call you,” Sam says, but I’ve already turned to leave.

My truck is only a half block away, but it seems to loom in the distance like a mirage, the ripples of sunlight off the pavement swimming over it. My legs grow heavy. Keep going. The sun sits hot at its peak, high noon. The arch is slightly off-kilter per the season, but the warmth is still enough to make every wave of chilled air on the wind feel like a gift. Then I realize that I shouldn’t be hot. It can’t be more than sixty-five degrees this time of year. A swallow drags down my dry throat, the taste of cocoa and coffee beans lingering on my teeth when I swipe my tongue over them.

Not much further. Sam hasn’t rushed to my side, noticing my weak gait, and I’m grateful. A handful of patrons and passersby go about their day, and then I’m there, hand on the handle, and I pull. The truck groans, and I relate. Friday is three days away, probably not enough time to get over whatever bug has chosen me as its host, and I exhale. Half with relief, and half with regret.

“Yes, I know, Grandmama, I promised you I’d meet someone.” I pull myself into the seat and lay my hands like anchors on the steering wheel. “But it might have to be later rather than sooner.” I can feel Grandmama scowling at me. I turn the key, pull the stick into reverse, and let the truck do the rest.

Chapter 6

The Hawthorn House greets me, the windows reflecting the sun like wolf eyes. The rough driveway assaults me when I pull in. My bones feel disjointed, with my muscles doing little to nothing to keep me intact. I mostly fall out of the truck. The wild carpet of wildflowers shivers with pollen when I land in them. I sneeze, curse, and make my way like a zombie to gather my groceries and drag myself to the front door.

The ceramic of the ornamental keychain clinks as I pull it from my Wolfsbane embossed bag, slip it into the lock, and wiggle. It gives easily this time with the rust knocked free. I shove all three bags into the refrigerator, not remembering what needs to be kept cold and what doesn’t, not having the strength to dig through them and find out. Spots shine like fireflies at the edges of my vision after I close the door. The loft is too many rungs above my head to manage, so I plop into the sofa, a layer of dust mounting like a puffball mushroom when squeezed.

I remember the numbing ointment still sitting on the passenger seat of my truck. Exhaustion has pulled over my brain like a shade, making the idea of going to get the cream impossible. A line like a lightning strike has marked the palm of my hand in static. Hand over head, I study the increasing webbing under my pale skin. With each pulse of my heart, the lines grow like a living thing, drawing up my arm, turning from the red of inflammation to the black of poison until the entirety of my hand is the solid black of a moonless night, the lines meeting my forearm in jagged lines like the roots of a tree.

My breath catches in my lungs with each exhale as I fail to draw in another and then another. The world, my new world, falls away like a dream. I’ve heard hypothermia is a euphoric death, the victim sliding in and out of consciousness until the pain is no more and all that’s left is fire. The body burns itself alive against the freeze that kills every time. Grandmama clucks her tongue. I’ve always been stubborn, refusing to see a doctor. Heat rushes my body like a lover. I know it isn’t right, but still, I don’t fight it, and I fade. The Hawthorn House, a dream, a gift from Grandmama, a figment of the imagination. The woman and her wolf stand at the mantel, watching over me like angels of the night.

* * *

When my world is resurrected, I’m reminded of the time I went rock skipping with my father. He stood over me, a giant to my six-year-old self. “This is how you hold it,” he said, splaying my fingers over the slim edge of the smooth stone. The grasses were tall that summer, the harvest promising to be good. Cattails ripe for breaking. A single pinch, and they’d spill their downy insides. The intoxicating smell of moss, taking over tree bases, pungent to my little nose. I crinkled it, giving concentration to the placement of my hand, the toss of the rock, ensuring it stayed flat so it would skip. Once released, the water gobbled it up after a single skip. Dad’s rock, though, danced across the water, a rhythm of skip, skip, skip, until the stone found its resting place far from the shore, the depth of the pond at the center pulling it under.

The mercury of the Hawthorn House’s windows is black with night. The hum of the refrigeration whispers that it’s doing the job I asked of it before letting the depth of the couch suck me under. Now I wish I hadn’t. My head hammers, and it feels like my world has been mixed in a cocktail shaker and dumped out without consumption. I push myself to sit, and the old pillow that props my arm up sags under the weight. The black gone, the lines of electricity or lightning all gone: a fever dream, I think. The bandage has begun to peel away. I lodge my nail under the loose end and pull.

What was just moments ago a dot of red spurring hallucinations is now nothing. I run my finger over the flesh to feel. Something catches fine against the grain of my fingerprint. I move over the spot again, feeling. The room is dark, and so I fumble for the tall lamp that screams 1960s flare, shells glued together in a maritime sculpture, the olive-green fringe of the shade vibrating against the onslaught of my hand. I pull at the cord. A dirty yellow glows over the house, casting shadowy shapes. Shoving my hand under the poor light, I pull my finger gently this way then that until I spot it. The tiniest fleck of black, the fiber so fine I draw it to my mouth to feel with my teeth. Licking like a cat, I find the protrusion, clamp my incisors over it, and pull. Loosening it, I look again, and this time the fiber is long enough to see clearly. A sliver of wood, wiry like a cat’s whisker. I pluck it between the fingernail of my middle finger and my thumb, then pull it the rest of the way out.

In total, the splinter is two inches long. Invasion washes over me in a shudder. The hawthorn isn’t poisonous, but whatever this is … I’ve never seen anything like it. I grope for my phone to snap a picture and do a database search. There, at the top of the screen, are two texts from Sam. I flick the notifications away, the date and time flooding my home screen. Three days on the couch in the hawthorn-induced coma. Three days since my visit to the town square, three days since coffee with Sam. I flick back to the notifications. The first text is time-stamped three days ago, the second only minutes ago.

Panic twists in my chest as I hold the splinter under the spotlight of the shell lamp and drag in a weary breath. How has it been three days? How is it possible that I haven’t had to eat or drink or use the bathroom, for that matter? The urge, still not present, even with the prompting of thought.

Conflict stirs in my stomach, the needle long and menacing, but my hand shows no sign of the puncture. The flesh is renewed and smooth, not even sensitive to the touch. How had I not felt it under the skin? The length of it would have been hard to miss, even considering the fine thread nature of the wood. It stands firm now, like a needle-and-thread grass seed.

The forest is silent this time of night, the diurnal animals bedding down and the nocturnal yet to come out to play. The Hawthorn House sits quietly as if to listen for that first sound, that nudge to either go to sleep or wake to be amongst the creatures of night. The photo of the woman and wolf now standing over the mantel looks back at me. Their eyes seem to glow with the moonlight. I wonder about her, wonder who she was and why she looks so similar to the woman in the photo. I move to the loft, with her sharp gaze framed to keep it locked on her viewer.

Smack! Something hits the window, the sound ringing through the house like a finger on the rim of a wine glass. I spin my head. There is a shadow the size of a thumbprint dotting the pane, the moon showing a dusting of baby-down feathers. My heart thuds twice. A bird has hit the window. But it’s dark, and no bird would be out after dark like this. My mind reels, the barb still standing rigid between my fingertips. The window, despite the fact that the mercury bears no reflection of the open sky, has invited two birds to hit so hard they’ve left a mark.

I shiver, swallow hard, then drop the barb atop the doily that lies threadbare under the lamp. Pushing to my feet, I go to the window. On the porch sits a small sparrow, the color of a snow-covered mountain peak. He sits stunned, and I hold my breath. Please fly away, I will him. His feathers are fluffed in disarray, one wing held out in injury. Long seconds pass. The moon worries behind the earth’s shadow, only a crescent left to glow against the dark of the night sky.

The wind creaks at the joints of the Hawthorn House, and as if on an exhale, the bird flutters, shakes its feathers, and flies away. My heart crashes inside my chest, grateful that he’s okay. I study the mark on the window, a mirror image of the one from before. Two blots of blood are haloed with white, down-like eyes of a ghost.

Chapter 7

The moon shines on the old marks of blood on the window from the bird. I shiver and stumble back to the couch, dropping onto the cushion with zero grace. My phone wobbles on the cushion with the upset. I grab it and pull it to my face.

SAM: Hey, no pressure, I know we just met, and you don’t know me. But if you’re still interested, I’ll be at The Berkley Palace for dinner Friday night, 9:00. I’d love to see you there.

Before that, another message reads.

SAM: Hey, Sam here. About Friday night, how about Berkley’s Palace? Euro-Asian Fusion, is that your kinda thing?

Grandmama always said I needed to meet more men, put myself out there, mostly because she didn’t like Derick. Turned out, I should have listened to her. Derick was a poor choice, but there is a big difference between meeting men and meeting a good man.

I drop the phone on the cushion and slouch next to it. Do I even have time? Do I even want to go? It’ll mean more small talk. I shake my head, realizing I’m definitely reading too much into it, and growl. Just go, eat, have fun if you can. It’s not like you’re getting married. The pep talk isn’t my first, actually. I give them quite often, such as the It’s time to break it off with your idiot boyfriend and move to a new state pep talk.

A portmanteau that’s older than I am sits at the corner by the bathroom door. In it are all my earthly belongings. The latch is weak, and the hinges are rusted, but I can’t bring myself to part with the relic. I stumbled upon a quaint shop at the heart of Chicago one late evening after the sun had burned out over the skyline, turning the buildings the color of molten lava. The dark of the alley sucked me in like a wraith in the night. I took the narrow step to the underground, where a small, wrinkled man busied himself with organizing and reorganizing shelf after shelf of oddities and antiques. The suitcase lay open with old postcards spilled inside, and a sign marked fifty cents. It took five minutes to get the man to sell me the leather-bound cardboard suitcase and a promise to never discard it—a promise I’ve kept—before he allowed me to buy his display item.

The funny thing about antique shops is they always keep the best pieces for themselves. And I knew that I had to have the piece of luggage if not for my adventures, then for the stories I’m sure it held. The old man threw in a postcard for free. I used it to give Derick my farewell. There was no way I could have left face-to-face. The postcard was my out. In a way, I think the true treasure found that day was that card. It gave me the courage to leave. And the suitcase will stay with me forever as a constant thanks to the man who gave me the tools to cut myself free.

I rummage through the rickety case and find my favorite dress, a tribute to the 1950s pencil dress. It holds my body in a tight hug, a heart neckline, the hem hitting just below my knees. Grandmama never liked this length on me.

“I like it, Grandmama,” I say out loud, studying my reflection in the three-quarter-length mirror that sits at the back of the bathroom door. A ripple creases the glass, giving me a funhouse hourglass, and I smile, admiring the illusion.

Splotching a dab of rouge on my lips to make me look alive, I pin my hair up with a wooden hairpin. My curls fall loosely over the Japanese cherry blossom made of Jade at the end. A pair of stilettos that are too city for a town like Arbor Hill sit at the foot of the chest. I slip my feet in like Cinderella, grab my leather jacket, and head for the door.

I glance once more at the splinter lying on the side table, bite my lip, then pull the door closed. The wood groans against the frame, and I shove the key in and twist. A click of security sounds in the lock. Satisfied, I turn my back on the house. The night air is brisk without the rays of the sun to chase the chill away. My jacket is more summer than spring, but it’ll have to do. It’s the only one I have. The boxes that held my spring wardrobe were left in Chicago with the memories of a life I chose not to live. My long wool trench would have been perfect for a night like tonight. I imagine a woman of my build finding the rare find at the thrift store, her luck turning up. Maybe she’ll use the jacket to get the job of her dreams or meet the love of her life. Or maybe it’ll simply keep her warm in the cruelty of the city’s winters.

My heels click on the steps, then sink into the unruly yard as I make my way to my truck. The Wolfsbane bag swings at my hip, a constant reminder of dreams never realized and the possibility of someday. My hand hits the door handle, the chrome cold with night air, and I start to pull. A whisper of a growl floats through the forest. My breath hitches in my chest, sweat pricks at my back, and slowly, I turn my head toward the call. I bite the inside of my lip, a habit born out of my childhood that still lingers with me today. Blood finds my tongue as my teeth sink too deep. I study the dark, searching. Trees stand near and far, dense and wide-set, shadows playing games with the moon’s light, dancing over branches and rocks in mind-bending phantoms.

Another growl, and with it, two eyes reflecting with lunar radiance find my gaze. The trees seem to part ways for the animal. A slim line of black slips around his body, outlining him against the black beyond. Ears slope away from a triangular head, snout long and narrow, with a broad jaw. All the better for eating you with, my dear. The nursery rhyme comes to mind.

But this wolf is familiar, the look is direct, but not hungry, easy, calm, in a way. The wolf with the woman framed on my mantel is the spitting image of this beast before me. Adrenaline swarms my vision, punctuated with the sudden call of cicadas. I squeeze the button, open the door, and jump in. The running board betrays me, making me slip and scrape my shin. Blood is warm and wet against the broken skin. My heart slams against my sternum like the bird did the Hawthorn House. The speed of my heartbeat threatens to leave its mark on the window of my soul.

I scramble to the bench seat, pulling the door behind me with all the grace of a fall. The keys fumble against the flesh of my palm, the injury from the thorn nowhere in sight and causing me no trouble now, just nerves. Twisting the ignition and ramming the stick to reverse, I let off on the clutch too quickly and peel out. Dirt and rocks climb from their resting place into the air with the spin of my tires.

It takes ten minutes for my head to clear and the road to find my vision, adrenaline easing out of my system in weak tremors. My leg throbs. A curse falls from my lips. I don’t dare reach for the cut, not wanting to get blood everywhere. I will clean it when I get there. The ointment from the pharmacy is still on the bench next to me. Groping for the tube while keeping my eyes fixed on the road, I find it and clutch it like a lifeline. Feeling irrational is a guilt I brought with me from my last relationship. Derick called me irrational when I broke down in tears during our last day together. The scar is one I will carry on my heart for years to come, if not forever. Words are funny that way, even the ones we don’t cherish stay with us, assigning identity without consent and trapping us to live as people we were never designed to be.

I count to ten, the breath of my lungs fueling the silent mantra. One, breathe, two, breathe, three, breathe. Arbor Hill is lit with streetlamps and storefront lights, even though none are open. The corner of Elm and Lupine Avenue is supposed to be just past the square, a quaint part of town according to Arbor Hill Eats, a magazine reviewing all the eateries in town.

The chef is world-renowned and has traveled across Europe and Western Asia studying his craft. He even took a tour with a backpacking outfit to remote cultures in South America, Australia, and New Zealand, bringing back a taste for each stop to make up his menu. Berkley’s Palace is fusion at its finest. I studied the menu before leaving, not liking the spontaneity of an unknown place. I will have the roasted Chilean seabass with king trumpet mushrooms.

The parking spot is easy enough to find. Only a handful of cars are out front. I steady myself, hoping I’m not a fool for coming and second-guessing my choice in outfit. I glance at my bag and wish I had something a little more upscale, but I shrug it over my shoulder when I conclude that there isn’t anything I can do about it right now. I pull my leg into view before opening the door and find that the wound isn’t what I thought. There is no scrape, no blood. It’s not even red.

I frown, wondering at the oddity of the experience, swearing I felt the cut as the skin of my shin met the metal of my truck’s running board. I shake my head, relieved I don’t have a mess to clean, and pop the door open. It does just that, pops, the metal bending against the fender and popping back when I shut it again. The noise isn’t new, but it doesn’t happen every time either. I wish it hadn’t happened here, in front of one of the most prestigious restaurants of the northern hemisphere. I roll my eyes and glance at my watch, 9:05, then yank at the hem of my dress and head for the restaurant.

Chapter 8

Berkley’s Palace is nothing like the town it resides in. The entrance is upscale with art deco glamor, gold and mother-of-pearl inlay, and velvet and mahogany of the deepest red. Floors shine to a high gloss, and fixtures are so grand they look as though they could hold tiny villages. The host is dressed in an impeccable suit of black on black, and when I tell him I’m meeting a man named Sam, he says he’s been expecting me.

Intrigue flares in my chest, and I follow him. My heels click with the echo of walking into the past. The dining hall is straight out of 1920s New York City. Chandeliers with antique brass hardware and amber glass shades, looking like crowns filled with glory, hang from the dark ceiling. Dozens of sconces mime each other from across the room, like flowers of gold mounted on the wall with globes of green depression glass shining like secrets. The seating is one long table that swims through the room, twisting back on itself in a continuous line like a sea serpent, fashioned with geometric marquetry that makes it look as though it moves. Firm, tobacco leather chairs backed with obsidian and ivory inlay wait to be sat in. Delicate partitions of obsidian rimmed in gold stand every few feet along the long table to mark privacy. A bar lines the entire back wall in a magic style that would make F. Scott Fitzgerald smile. Glass, gold, and obsidian, all cut to fit in a seamless symmetry that doesn’t stop.

I follow my host to a chair he pulls out. Sam stands opposite it. His suit is tailored to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist. His height is brought to center stage with the crisp lines, and I feel a little like this must be a dream. Once I sit, Sam nods to the man knowingly, and I wonder what it might mean.

“So glad you came,” Sam says, lowering back into his seat.

His eyes shine with the ambiance of the room, and I fall right in. The dream is too much to resist.

“Of course, this place is great!” I look around once more, mesmerized. I contemplate saying sorry for not responding to his messages, knowing how irritating that sort of thing is. But let it go, deciding it really is none of his business, and besides, how would I explain it anyway? Sorry, I didn’t get your texts. I was passed out on my couch for three days, waving it off with a flutter of the hand. I barely buy it. I don’t expect he’d be able to swallow it secondhand.

A lotus sits between us. The votive is shallow like a pond. I study the sacred flower that represents new beginnings and rebirth, and think how fitting it is at this moment in my life. The Hawthorn House is my rebirth. Arbor Hill, this man, it all whispers new beginnings.

My seabass arrives on black stoneware that looks handmade, with a set of brass utensils. My stomach welcomes the smell in anticipation of my first bite, and when I do sink my teeth in, it melts over my tongue like butter.

* * *

We walk down the sidewalk. The moon is a sliver of light hung in the sky. Stars flood the expanse. The Milky Way shines like an open seam, stars gathered in heavy procession, stacked billions upon billions. A chocolate shop is sandwiched between a gallery and a lawyer’s office, and I wonder if it is the one the woman from the pharmacy told me about, her niece’s. Sam goes to the door and taps on the glass.

“I think it’s closed.” I point at the sign.

A light cascades with the opening of a backroom door, revealing a woman. Her eyes are wide, rimmed with long black lashes. A smattering of freckles splashes her nose against brown skin. She is stunning. She smiles at Sam and pulls the door open, letting the smells of cocoa bean, vanilla, amaretto, and chili seep into the street.

I remember the fudge from the pharmacy and realize it must still be in my truck, no doubt melted into a pile under the cellophane. The woman holds out a small brown sack that is folded over at the top, a logo with a wreath of flowers and the title, Sweet Emily, printed in the center. Her eyes sparkle with enough ferocity to challenge the stars above.

“As promised.” She flashes a smile at Sam, then a shy nod to me.

Sam takes the bag, returning the smile. “Thanks, Emily. I owe you.”

She drops a hand to his forearm and squeezes. “Don’t worry about it.” Although the look in her eyes says she’s happy to have him in her debt. The flirt is subtle enough for a man to miss, but a woman would see it a mile away.

When the door clicks after standing open for a long second after we have turned to leave, I ask, “Good friend of yours?”

Sam fishes out a cube of chocolate-covered caramel and slows his gait until I stop with him. He holds the treat out for me to take. “We grew up together. Earl Grey caramel, her specialty.” He pushes it toward me, and I take it. It’s sweet but not too sweet, the perfect texture, and leaves threads of Earl Grey in my sinuses. I groan in approval and hold the rest to him. He takes it, bites off a corner, and mimics my expression of satisfaction.

I giggle, and with the laughter, he leans in, lets his mouth find mine, and kisses me. It’s sweet with caramel and salty with the taste of him. He tests the waters, gentle at first, his hands finding my back. The paper bag in his fist makes crinkling sounds as he pulls me in. The kiss grows warm. Our lips part with the movement of the others, a dance under the stars. Glitter winks at the sky when we come up for air, and I melt into him like chocolate on the tongue.

He holds me, arms strong at my ribcage, his head above mine, his eyes down watching me. “Can we do this again sometime?”

I nearly lose myself in his gaze. The tone of his voice is the answer that my own can’t find the sound to make. I nod, the pencil dress tight at my chest, making it hard to breathe. He leans in for another, and this time, I do lose myself. My stomach flutters like a billion shooting stars, crackling with fire and heat. My hands, delicate at his elbows moments ago, now slip into his hair, running through it. Seconds is all a kiss really is, but kisses have a way of stopping time, a way of drawing it out or making it obsolete. And right now, time has no hold on me. I want to stay here, like this. Grandmama would be so proud. This man is beautiful, has great taste, and he can kiss. Oh god, can he kiss.

Sam pulls away, slips his hand into mine, draws it to his lips, nuzzles it, then walks me to my truck. The thought of driving home in this state of delirium feels impossible, so when I climb in and he presses the door shut and walks away, I just sit there. My whole body is lit up by the night.

I watch him move easily back to the restaurant, slipping back inside, and wonder what he’ll do. I let myself stay there for a moment before turning the key over and driving away. The highway is dark. The blacktop is inky against my headlights. The yellow line, a guide to keep me on track, I follow it to the Hawthorn House.

There are moments that change our lives, heartbreaks, love, new life, death, some designed to drive us forward, others designed to test our resolve, our will. Grandmama always said you don’t know your true self until you are caught under pressure.

Pain splits at my hand like a blade cutting flesh, making me jerk the wheel, sending my truck off the drive into the unkempt yard. My foot hits the brake so hard my hand slips off the steering wheel, bending backward, giving way for my forehead to meet the wheel in full force. Blood trickles between my brows across my nose, the sensation warm and wrong. Dizzy, I crank the door open and push myself out to the ground. The forest laughs at me with the sway of trees, with the wind kicking them into a frenzy. My brain snaps from Sam’s lips on mine, to the thorn I pulled from my palm just hours ago, to the days spent unconscious on the couch.

The hawthorn is promised to hold various healing properties, but I wonder about the thorn that pricked me three days ago. Could I have been wrong about the bush? Maybe it wasn’t a hawthorn. Was the house misnamed? I search my brain for clues or information to give me understanding, anything to explain my symptoms, the come-and-go nature of them, and the all-consuming pain when the pain strikes. The myth of the blood hawthorn floats to my mind like smoke on a cold night. The myth says the bushes are so similar that they are easily confused. But the blood hawthorn has two-inch-long thorns that curve like cat claws with needle-like black tips. The berries are red, and when crushed, the meat bleeds the color of poisoned blood, black like the pupil of an eager eye.

Chapter 9

With just enough energy to fall from the cab of my truck, I curl over and drop to the ground. The wildflowers welcome me in soft reprieve. My hand burns where the hawthorn pricked me. My bones rub together as the moon makes its way to the crest of the sky, shifting with breath and heartbeat. The memory of Sam’s lips, full against my skin, lights at my mind. The injury left by the cursed bush was nowhere to be seen when he kissed my palm. Now that injury spreads with the pull of the moon.

Desire flares against my veins as the blood hawthorn’s venom lights and mixes with my innocent blood. The moon, a sliver, God’s thumbnail, the slit of a waking eye, is bright with the reflection of the fallen sun. The myth screams true in this light. The toxin cuts through my body. The fuel that feeds the monster inside. The blood hawthorn, the milk from its thorns is white as ash burned twice over, thick like honey, and tempting as sin. The berries look like death, with their red skin and black insides. They’re harmless. The thorns are the real culprit.

Black lines of poison rickshaw across my skin like lightning. The pinpoint centers just below my thumb, where the thorn found its mark three days ago.

Slowly, my skin shifts from fair, almost snowlike, to black, smooth, and velvety. The blood hawthorn poison grows until the wicked lines cover my hand and wrist, shooting up my forearm in strikes. My body changes with the introduction of a myth I now believe. The blood hawthorn is now a part of me, a new form taking over my old one, with each pull of my heart on my veins. A cry rips through me like a howl to the moon, but I am no wolf.

The wind stills, although the trees continue to flutter with anticipation of what the night will bring. My eyes sharpen, resembling those of a cat. The pupils slit like a compass, needle driven north. The light of the moon grows hot in my vision, brightening the night with warmth, giving me sight where there should be none. Whiskers fly from my upper lip in long, narrow wires. The scents of the world around me now are like whispers of information. The shape of my skull transforms from human to the triangle of a feline, high, sharp cheekbones that accentuate the exaggerated slant of my eyes, the narrowing of my chin to a point. The flick of ears curls off the top of my head like an owl. They twist, cocking to listen, combing through sounds, finding the ones that matter.

When I stand, I find my arms and legs are replaced with the limbs of grace and agility. Fur covers every inch of me, in a sleek black pelage. My legs bend at the joints in tight coils, ready to spring open, ready to give me flight in my movements. My feet have pads where the toes should be and claws that retract and extend at will, like razors that curve like a scythe’s blade. I run my tongue over my teeth, stopping on the edge of an incisor against the slick point of a canine, and two more at the bottom row. Four daggers that thread together when I snap my mouth shut.

Quiet, I prowl alongside my truck, my tail giving me balance when I jump, clearing the hood of the truck in a single bound. My mind is singular, a scent that won’t leave. I turn my nose to the air, letting the current direct me. Then, I run. The world flies past, trees bending gently in the breeze, flowers tucked down for the night, and the sky drenched in stars, the moon too weak to compete. The hunt takes over, and my human brain falls away. Sam’s lips on mine, his hand drawing mine to his mouth, the scent so strong I can’t escape.

Arbor Hill’s faint glow halos the ridge where I stop. My body quivers with anticipation. Slow now, to enjoy the hunt, I move down into the town. The pads of my feet are soft against the pavement, soundless, ghostlike. I prowl from the chocolate shop to the restaurant, where my truck was parked, and then to where Sam kissed me. My pupils drive wide, allowing every detail of the square to find me.

The crack of a branch sends my back into an arch. My fur stands straight along my spine. I twist my head to the noise. Sam walks, his gait easy and relaxed, from Berkley’s Palace to a stylish black car that screams money. A cigar is lit at his mouth. The embers are so bright they force my pupils to narrow into blades. With a book under one arm, he takes a drag, then puffs the smoke into the air. It snakes this way and that, looking for the best current to ride. I crouch, moving with the grace of a night hunter until I am only feet away. He does not see me, he does not hear me, but I will have him. Desire and hunger crash between my ears, becoming the same. And just as he expels another long breath of warm smoke, I jump.

When I was a child, Grandmama used to say the creatures of the night were the only ones to fear. But what is there to fear when you’ve become one of those creatures?

The air slices open to let my body through, sound freezing in the second it takes to fly from ground to jugular. Only I don’t. A crash of fur and teeth meets me in midair, and I’m driven to the ground in seconds. My mark scrambles backward, tripping over fear. The cigar lands with a spray of cinders only to die against the cold of the night.

Another night creature has found me, legs tangled with mine, claws digging deep. A scream rips out of my throat in a guttural cry. The park, a pretend forest, offers little coverage, but the dark night sky comes to our rescue. My keen ears catch Sam’s heart crashing under his sternum at an adrenaline-fueled pace. I bound to my feet, legs coiled, ready for a fight, whatever or whoever has interfered with my hunt. I spin, all four limbs gripping the ground with extended claws. And there in the cover of a maple, green with new growth, is a wolf, teeth bared and hackles up.

The wolf stands rigid, ready. My ears twist.

Sam’s voice quivers. “A wild animal, at the town square,” he says.

I study the beast before me. My whiskers pick up Sam’s nervous energy, the click of a camera, and the sirens when they bleed into town. The wolf watches me, too, and I can’t shake the feeling that I know him. I’ve seen those eyes before. But where, and why? I back away, making sure I’m not followed, and leap into the darkness.

Chapter 10

My bed is soft against my dewy skin, and I realize the window is cracked open. The chill of the night is still on the morning air. I shiver and reach to push the window shut. There aren’t many things better than sleeping in, and now that I have the Hawthorn House, I plan to make it part of my daily routine. The slow life sounds good to me. I’ve never had the luxury to enjoy before. Living in the city definitely has its charm, but you’re always on the move. And if you want to keep up, you have to go right along with it.

I roll, facing the wall, and study the photos I brought up, the woman in one and the wolf in the other. They have the same intense look, the kind that, if it weren’t frozen in time, would dig into your vision and find purchase at your soul. Even still, I look away, the likeness is too real. Coffee is a must in the morning, not for the caffeine, but for the warmth and comfort.

Forcing my body out of bed is hard. It takes me several tries over the course of an hour. Tiny cat naps pull me back under with each failed attempt. Finally, the floor under the ladder meets my feet in a chill, and I’m awake. I haven’t used the fireplace yet and wonder. There’s a woodshed behind the house, so maybe there’s still some wood in it from the last owners. I will fetch some and start a fire. I shrug on my leather jacket, promising myself I will buy a coat more suitable for the cold, at least before winter. My flats lay in a forgotten heap by the front door. My pumps are also tossed there, and I remember my date. Sam. My chest squeezes, a smile moving to my mouth as I think of the caramel-laced kiss.

The forest is quiet when I pull the Hawthorn House closed behind me. The door gets easier and easier to work with the more I use it. I drag in a deep breath and relish the smells of leaves leftover from the fall before, rotted with the snow of winter, and now new growth pushes up to take over. Tiptoeing around the house, the dew on the grass soaks through my shoes with each step. I make it to the shed. A crooked door sits over the opening, and I have to yank a few times to dislodge it from the earth that has begun to form around the bottom.

Stacked in neat rows are logs split for easy carrying. I load as much as I can into my arms, force the door closed again with a wet shoe, and make my way back to the house, kicking my flats to the floor when I get there. Crumbs of dirt fall from the soles, sufficiently bringing the outside in. I dump the logs into the open-mouthed fireplace and search the hearth for matches. Tucked in a wooded box with a gold swing clasp is a stack of old newspapers and long-reach matches. My dad taught me one time on a camping trip how to start a fire. You make a teepee of wood and stuff it with kindling, making sure there’s room for air to move through the structure. “Oxygen is fuel,” he used to say. Then you strike the kindling with your fire source.

It takes a few tries to get the logs to stand against each other without tumbling. I rip the paper into smaller sections and crumple them, stuffing the teepee with care. The first match I strike flares only to burn out. The second one stays lit, and I tuck its burning head into the paper and watch the flame grow like a living thing. As the paper burns, I add more, leaning in to whisper breath on the ember-lit kindling until there is enough oxygen to spring the flame from the paper to the wood.

Warmth finds the Hawthorn House, turning it into a home. The next order of business is coffee. I rummage through the cupboards, pull out a cup painted with Amanita Muscaria, the classic red and white toadstool, then glance at the counter and realize I didn’t buy grounds when I was at the market. With a grumble, I change, pulling on the warmest clothes I have: a monochromatic tracksuit, my leather jacket, and some slip-on tennis shoes. I knot my hair into a messy bun and grab my Wolfsbane bag and keys. The Hawthorn House only whispers this time when I pull the door open and then shut.

My truck is parked outside its usual spot, and I frown, not remembering putting it there. When I get to the driver’s side, I see the ground is torn up. Long slices in the dirt, upturning the baby grass and young wildflowers. Rocks are kicked over from the ruts they once lived in. My hand hovers over the door handle as I study the scene. Last night, when I came out to leave, there was a wolf. He hadn’t attacked or anything, but maybe when I left, he pawed the ground. I don’t know anything about wolf behavior, and I glance at the edge of the forest where I had seen him before. His eyes, like twin moons, the story of Red Riding Hood punctuating the image. I had panicked, but the wolf had not approached me. Looking back on it, I realize the quickness of my moves was dangerous, and I’m probably lucky it didn’t trigger him to attack. A predator after prey.

In the light of day, I’m able to keep my heart steady, squeeze the truck’s handle, and hop in. I scraped my shin last night as well. I remember the injury was gone when I checked on it. The evening was the best I’ve had in a long time, but it’s as though a fog clouds the edges somehow, like an overexposed photo, the image there, but not all the detail.

I shift into first gear and bump out of the drive slowly, not wanting to damage the yard any more than I already did when I parked like a mad woman.

Once again, Arbor Hill comes into view, and I’m beginning to enjoy the drive. There’s a spool of yellow tape stretched over the entrance of the park, and I frown. What could’ve happened? A single police car is parked next to the scene, and the officer is talking with Sam. My heart jumps, curious if the tape has to do with him, or maybe he just knows the officer. He does seem to know everyone.

Making sure I can walk to the coffee shop without having to walk near the tape, I park with caution. Not ready to exit my truck, I watch the two men converse. Sam pulls out his phone and shows the officer something. His brow pulls together with determination. Not wanting to interrupt and unsure what the etiquette of a crime scene involving a friend is, I decide to make my way to the coffee shop. The air is brisk despite the time of day, with noon just around the corner.

Today, I get the house blend, black, and a bag of beans, ground, to go. As I come around the door frame to make my way back to my truck, I see Sam standing by the hood. He flashes me a smile, even though I can tell he has something heavy on his mind. I dart my attention between him and the tape blocking off the park, then make my way to him.

When I get to my truck, Sam says, “Did you get home okay last night?”

The question catches me off guard, and I cock my head.

“There was an animal attack, just after you left.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone again, then shows me a picture of a blurred mess of black and gray. He holds it there for me to study. When I don’t give a response, he adds. “Do you see it?”

I bite my lip, placing my to-go cup on the hood. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“There.” He points a long finger at a set of eyes caught with the flash. “It was an animal, two maybe.”

My heart knocks at my chest in anticipation. I was just here yesterday, moments before the attack, I could’ve been attacked. Then I turn my eyes to him and let out a gasp. He was there, close enough to take this photo.

“You were there.” Worry fills my head, and I reach for his hand. It’s lean and strong, and I squeeze. “Are you okay?”

He looks at the photo, a deep ridge forming between his brows, then nods. “I am. Nothing happened. I was the only one around, and it was over quick. I think.” He pauses. “I think one might have blocked the other. I’m not sure.”

I pull close to him, letting my head find his heart. He wraps his arms around me, then places a kiss on my head. The feeling of closeness floods over me like water, and I pull away, not ready to drown. The last man I let myself fall for this quickly hurt me just as quickly. I’m sorry, Grandmama, but I can’t do it. Not again, not just yet.

“Hey,” he says, tilting my face to meet his.

My heart flutters, the edge so deliciously close.

“Can I see you later? I’ll be here all day answering questions, but later? Dinner or just coffee if you’d rather.”

The breath catches at my heart. He doesn’t look shaken. The attack seems to have little effect on him. And I wonder if maybe he’s in shock or if this sort of thing is common. Of course, it can’t be. A wild animal attack in the middle of town? How could that be common? I swallow, study his eyes, the depth of them absorbing me like a melting iceberg in the ocean, and I nod. I do want to see him again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.

He’s so calm, I wonder if he’s experiencing PTSD, denial, or looking for a distraction to keep from addressing the trauma.

He places a knuckle under my chin, draws my lips to his, and kisses me deeply. Breath bleeds out of me with the pounding of my heart.

Then he whispers, our mouths still together. “I’m okay. But seeing you later will make it even better.”

I nod my agreement. “I’ll call you later.”

He kisses me again. “I look forward to it.” He turns and makes his way across the empty street to the police tape.

The officer is still there with his pad and pen out, taking notes. Sam shoves his hands into his jean pockets, cocks his head at something the officer says, then bends under the tape and walks to where the ground is destroyed.

Destroyed. The same way my yard was this morning. My head spins. Did the animal come to the Hawthorn House, too? Was it there when I slept? Was it there for me? Why would it do that? Sam paces the taped-in area, his thumb running along the side of his jaw, and I contemplate telling him about the broken ground I saw in my own yard before I came here. But there’s something I can’t quite see, something about the whole thing that feels out of reach, so I take my coffee in hand and climb into my truck to go home. If I find something to connect the two, then I’ll tell him.

Chapter 11

My coffee’s gone by the time I get back to the Hawthorn House. The white paper cup is empty and stained with brown dribble lines. I park in the spot that I’ve decided is for parking. The driveway and yard are so similar that it’s hard to distinguish where the border originally was. A line of river rocks stands like guards in a row, but the grass and weeds have broken the barrier and claimed both territories.

I hop out, with my eyes fixed on the ground, scanning for any clues that will connect the mess of dirt here to the park where Sam took the picture of the beast. Or beasts, he had said there were two. I imagine the same blurred image here in my yard, two animals covered in fur, tearing at each other, shredding the ground in claw marks. But this ground doesn’t resemble a battleground. The damage here is slight compared to the park.

I imagine the wolf I saw that night before meeting Sam, tearing up the ground. But it didn’t seem aggressive. Maybe it happened later? Or maybe there’s another wolf, and they fought? Curious, I squint, thinking about the photo on Sam’s phone and whether or not the blur looked like a wolf. Heat flushes my skin, making gooseflesh prickle, and I shake off the worry. The scratch marks in the ground are unrelated, I decide, not liking the idea that the violence at the park could happen here so close to me. I nod finally, grab my bag, and turn to go inside, doing my best to shove the thought of killer beasts on the loose out of my head.

The sun has moved to the sky directly above the Hawthorn House. The daisies look toward it like baby birds waiting for a mouthful of grub. I smile and tiptoe my way to the porch. I need to put in a stone walk to keep from stepping on the sweet faces when I come and go.

Inside, the fire has died down to only a few embers, but the house is toasty. I dump my things at the chopping block that stands like a burly lumberjack at the center of the miniature kitchen, then go to poke the fire. Flecks of charred wood spin with renewed flame when I ram the iron rod into the leftover log. After a moment of poking and blowing at the fire’s underbelly, the flame licks back to life, curling toward the flu, letting off wisps of black smoke. The smell doesn’t bother me much, but the ashen dust that seems to magically appear on every surface is oddly hateful.

I drop myself onto the couch and prop my feet, shoes and all, on the coffee table. A slab of wood that someone carved a family of deer into, then laid a sheet of glass over. The glass needs cleaning. I bend my head to the side table and see the thorn. My palm twinges at the sight of it. The image on Sam’s phone pours over my mind. There is something there, something I can’t quite remember or see, or understand. I reach to pick up the thorn, and with the contact, my world spins. The park, the other animal, the crescent moon, my body.

Fur, claws, teeth, the ground outside, the way it felt when I flew through the air. Sam, his cigar, the spray of embers. The night before floods back with a fervency I can’t comprehend with my human brain. The memory rises up, unveiled like a ghost from a grave. A cat, is it true? How?

I flinch from the thorn. The fire burns hot, flames building on each other, mounting like water at the bottom of a waterfall, raging, foaming, billowing. Heart pounding, my brain unable to trust the memory. It has to be a mistake. It’s ridiculous. But as though something else controls me, I reach out, take the thorn, and toss it into the orange flame. Threads of black shoot up like a spirit being exorcised.

My eyes snap away from the fire. My memory clears, with the events of the day falling back into place. I slept in, got coffee, saw Sam, and came home. I shake my head and wonder what I was thinking seconds ago. The flames dance over the log like a brisk allegro. I drag my gaze to the mantel. The woman and her wolf watch me from their new place of honor. A sense of familiarity floods over my head. The eyes in the photo Sam showed me? No, something more than that, something more personal. The more I dig for the thought, the more it floats away. Like a trail of smoke I’m trying to grab with my hands, the vapor impossible to capture, everything in my brain floats away, leaving me blank.

I look to the kitchen, dazed, and remember the steak I bought. I need to use it before it goes bad. Sam and I are supposed to meet tonight, maybe I should cook for him. Two birds, one stone, dinner with Sam, and my attempt to buy groceries like an adult won’t go to waste.

The bag of potatoes sits on the counter waiting to be sliced and dumped into a pot of broth. On a hook, an apron made from a patchwork of scraps is sandwiched between the end of the cabinets and the refrigerator. I grab it, check for spiderwebs, and slip it over my head when I don’t find any. The previous owners left behind a lovely set of stainless-steel carving knives, so I take one, rinse it in the sink, and get to work on the potatoes. Flipping my phone open and setting it to speaker, I dial.

“Hello,” Sam answers on the second ring.

I smile.

“Hey! It’s Baby.” Slice, the knife hits the counter in a plink. I can hear Sam on the other end, smirking. Caller ID gave me away. “Would you like to come to my place for dinner?” I wait, my breath hitched, wondering if the invite is premature. Maybe a second date isn’t the cook dinner for the guy date.

“I’d love to come over for dinner. What time?”

I glance at the time on the phone. “Seven-thirty? Eight?” That should give me enough time. I don’t really have a plan for what I’ll cook yet, but it should be fine. Slice. The potato leaves starch on the blade as it falls in half. “I’m about twenty minutes outside of town. I’ll send you a pin of my location.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful out that way. I look forward to it. See you soon.”

The phone clicks with our goodbyes. I wipe my hand over the front of the borrowed apron. I tap in my location via a map pin and send it.

In the lower cabinet, I find a stacked set of pots and pans and pull out a medium one, then shove the rest back to their storage spot, kicking the door shut with the press of my foot. The water runs cold for a long minute until finally I get some warmth. The potatoes will boil eventually if I let the stove burn long enough. Dropping the small, square potatoes into the water, I crank the propane stove to high and set the pot on the flame to boil.

Now for the meat, I drop it in a pan to sear with a pat of butter. Once the butter burns off, I add another pat with some milk, noodles, and cheese. Throw in some nutmeg, salt, and pepper, and let it simmer.

Once the potatoes are drained off, I study the pot. My mother always made her potatoes with sprigs of rosemary, and I wish I could toss one in. But that’s what I get for not having a grocery list. The potatoes will have to be basic, so in goes some salt, pepper, a healthy scoop of butter—everything is better with butter—and a splash of milk.

The meal could use something green, but of course, I don’t have anything green. I scrunch my nose, considering, then grab the bread I bought and slice several thick pieces, lay them over with chunks of cheese, then place them under the broiler. Once brown, I’ll drizzle it with the hot honey I bought courtesy of the market’s endcap. My mouth waters at the thought of the feast as it begins to come together. The meat and potatoes married with the smell of toasting bread and cheese make the Hawthorn House smell like my childhood, and I smile.

“What do you think, Grandmama? It’s good, right?” I squeal, looking at my watch. Sam will be here soon.

Chapter 12

With the smell of dinner warm in the air of the Hawthorn House and Sam no doubt getting close, I slip into the living room and dig through my suitcase. I throw on a pair of jeans a friend talked me into getting tailored—making them my favorite pair—and a slim button-up linen shirt tied over a lace bralette. Satisfied, I leave my hair in a knot and go barefoot. It feels right.

The fire wanes, so I toss on another log. The pile I brought in is dwindling, but that’s a tomorrow problem. I glance at the woman on the mantel. “Wish me luck.” I wink. “You too, Grandmama.”

Just as I pull the bread out and squeeze lines of honey over the bubbling cheese, car lights slide over the windows. I wait for Sam to knock before going to the door, not wanting to seem too eager, I guess, or maybe I just don’t know what protocol is for this sort of thing. The last man I cooked for was Derick, and we had let all the romance die out between us. This is a different thing entirely. This is a fire in a hearth made of stone, burning hotter by the moment.

Sam knocks, and I sweep the door open. The cold air of the night crashes over me, cooling my pink cheeks and bringing goosebumps to the exposed skin of my chest.

Sam holds out a bottle of wine. “My contribution. From my cellar.”

I smile, take the bottle, and study the black label. On it, a bird holds an arrow in its beak as though it were an olive branch, French words embossed in gold written beneath. “La Flèche du Moineau,” I test.

“The arrow of the sparrow,” Sam chimes in English. The rhyme flows off his tongue in a way that makes me repeat. And smiles. “It’s an old family saying. It means, even the sparrows must be protected.”

Putting two and two together, I ask, “Is the label yours?”

He nods. “My family dates back to the 1700s with an alleged connection to the beast of Gévaudan.”

I walk the wine to the chopping block, grabbing two glasses to go with it. “Oh, I don’t know the story.”

The house is warm with the heat of the kitchen and the fire, making my skin flush pink along my chest and neck. I rummage through the drawers until I find a corkscrew. Sam takes it from me and pulls the bottle open with a pop.

“There was said to be a beast like a wolf that terrorized the village. Some believed it was a shapeshifter.” The liquor stains the glasses as he pours, red like blood. He holds a glass up for me to take and grins, curious if the story lights fear or intrigue in me.

“And what do you believe?” I say, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. Our hands touch as I take the drink from him.

His eyes search mine. “I think anything’s possible.” He swirls his own glass, draws in a breath, and sips.

Anything’s possible. I grin back and do the same. It’s sweet with layers of blackberry and plum, and it finishes with the lingering spice of black pepper and oak. I press my lips together to enjoy the effect of sweetness and spice climbing to my sinuses. Sam leans in, takes my chin with a hooked finger, and studies me. His eyes are bright, deep brown, almost black, framed with lush lashes that sweep the air when he blinks. Then he kisses me, and the wine seems to come back to life with the mingling of our breath.

“You look beautiful, and it smells amazing.” The sentiment is soft against my face as he speaks, pulling away just enough to say it.

“Thank you. We’ll see if it tastes as good as it smells. I kinda threw in everything I had.” I laugh a little, my chest expanding with the closeness of his body. Anticipation of what the night might hold warms my skin.

“I can’t wait.” He steps away, and I finally breathe again, my head clearing, the wine inviting me to take another sip. “The Hawthorn House.” Sam turns and surveys my new home.

“You familiar with it?” I ask.

“The sign out front. My headlights caught it.” He walks to the living area, drawing a hand over the sofa, then the rim of the shell lamp. He arches a brow at me, and I laugh again.

“It was furnished when I moved in, the taste of the previous owner. Although I’m not mad about it. It’s weird in an interesting sort of way, kind of like a thrift store or an antique shop.” I smile, wondering what he thinks.

“I think you’re right. It is weird.” He chuckles, teasing, then moves to the mantel where the woman and her wolf stand watch over the evening.

She seems to have disapproving thoughts because her gaze doesn’t falter. She simply looks back at him, the wolf too. Sam stands there for a long moment, his fingers just shy of reaching for the picture.

His head cocks as though he’s looking for something, but then he turns and makes his way back to the kitchen. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost a week. The house is kind of a homage to my grandmother. She would have liked it.” I think back to Grandmama and her sharp eyes, the dirt under her nails, and the deep lines of her face from years too many in the hot sun. She loved everything outdoors. Everything from tending her flower garden to hiking all the fourteeners she could get her feet on. She would travel across the country in search of the best trails, bird watching, sightseeing, and getting lost, all in her VW bus. I would have inherited the bus as well, but it died a peaceful death on the salt flats of Utah the summer before she passed.

“Were you close to her?” He swirls his glass and takes another sip.

“More than close. I wanted to be her. She was actually the only one in my life who trusted me to make my own choices, I mean, besides my dad, but he died when I was little. She was the only one who never judged me, even when things didn’t look the way they should have.” I sigh and drink, letting the wine soften the ache in my heart. “So, this house is for her.” I smile.

“Well, let’s make a toast.” Sam tips the bottle, topping off both our glasses. “To your grandmother.” He holds up his glass and waits for me to follow.

“Grandmama,” I say, drawing mine to his, and we clink. Grandmama always said you must let your glass clink when you make a toast, or it is bad luck. I smile at the sound, then tip the sweet liquid to my mouth and let it climb into my head.

Dinner is divine, and Sam gives his approval with several moans.

When I start to stand to clear the table, Sam holds out a hand and says. “Let me.” He takes all the plates to the sink, where he starts to scrape and wash. I watch his back and think Grandmama would be pleased. Steam begins to rise from the faucet, the scent of soap drifting to where I sit at the table. I take the last sip of my glass, stand, and go to him.

Soft black curls lay at the nape of his neck. I touch him, my fingers slipping through his hair like a secret. He lets out a small breath, then reaches around and takes my hand. Suds dot my skin in the exchange, warming me. Sam pulls my hand to his face. My body presses against his back. He turns the water off, then places a kiss on my wrist. The warmth of his mouth mixes with the water left from his touch. A shiver runs over my body like a yawn, and I drop my forehead to the divot between his shoulder blades. The cashmere of his sweater is soft on my face. He moves his mouth up my arm. My sleeve is stained with watermarks as he works his way to my elbow, pushing the sleeve away. My breath grows heavy, and my fingers find the heat of his skin above his waistband.

Sam tugs at my arm, his teeth nibbling the inside of my elbow, a sweet spot. My head starts to swim. The wine is warm in my chest. Smart choices slip with the reach of my fingers over the slant of his hip bone, muscle groups defined with hard lines. Desire and hunger blur, and I can no longer see the difference.

Adrenaline floods my veins. Heat races to my heart, blowing through it with quick pumps. I pull my free hand to grip the back of his shirt. Black lightning strikes draw over my wrist, the thorn prick, an anchor for the mark. I watch it grow like a poison riding on the blood that swims through my veins. Transfixed on the mystery, I lean into Sam, using him to keep me upright. The mark moves, taking over my skin, turning it from alabaster to black. The skin fluffs like a bird under a stream of water, black fur replacing it in quick vibrations.

Claws arch in place of my nails, and rage rips through me. Uncontrollable hunger, the need to bite, to claw, to draw blood. With the flick of the wrist, I smash Sam’s head to the counter. A crack shoots like spider silk over the stone surrounding the sink. Sam slumps to the floor. Blood spills from his forehead in a sharp line.

I look at him. My own body is now crouched at the chopping block. My long tail flicks in quick succession. My whiskers pick up on his heartbeat, steady and sound. He’s alive. The scent of blood, acidic at my keen nose. I sniff. Some has gotten on me. I pull my paw to my face and extend my claws. Red sits at the sharp tips, like the inner petal of a bleeding-heart flower. With a shake, the blood flicks off, then I go to work cleaning, licking my paws until there is no sign of the violence.

With the last lick, my body starts to morph back to that of a woman. I blink, my head hammering. The kitchen is hot with the fire of the hearth. I drop to the floor, hovering my hands over Sam’s limp body, and bring my fingers to his neck. He’s alive. I let out a held breath, tears springing to my eyes. What did I do? I pet his face, running my hands over his cheeks, hoping to wake him, smoothing his hair with each caress. He has three thin cuts along the back of his neck, a cat’s scratch. The image of me licking blood off my claws drives to the front of my mind. I did this.

I gather him to my lap and will the thought away. There’s no way I did this. It had to be a hallucination or accident or something, anything. I cry, draping my head over him, waiting for him to wake up.

Time is a strange thing. It goes slow when you wish it would go fast and fast when you wish it would go slow. The minutes tick by at a snail’s pace, with my tears wetting Sam’s face. Worry fills my head, the phone waiting to call 911. But I don’t. I wait. His breath is even, and his pulse strong. The fear isn’t that he won’t wake, it’s that I’m the one who hurt him. I try to comb through the moments before: our bodies close, his lips on my skin, the warmth of his stomach at my palm. Passion built with each brush of skin-to-skin, and then something took me over, a desire that seemed to grow from my soul, a familiar one. The park last night, I was there. The picture Sam has on his phone is of me.

I remember. The events crystallize. My body morphed then, too. I had tried to attack Sam, with the moon a crescent in the sky. But there was someone else, something else. A wolf, it had kept me from laying tooth and claw on Sam. My heart explodes. My world spins on an off-kilter axis, threatening to fly apart. Air rips at my lungs like a caged bird unable to fly, and just when I think I can’t hold on any longer, Sam sucks in a breath. And it dominoes into me, blowing air into my own lungs.

I scramble, my hands pulling at him, reaching for anything to help. His eyes are wide. I fight the truth. It’s too unbelievable, and I look for an acceptable lie. “You fainted.”

He frowns, his thick brows knitting together in disbelief. Eyes darting, mouth agape, Sam pushes himself to sit, then to his feet. I follow with weak arms to brace him. He leans on the counter, a mark of blood dashed at the edge. His hand lingers at the sight before touching his forehead. When he pulls it back, blood covers his fingertips.

Chapter 13

It takes a couple of tries for Sam to convince me to let him drive himself home. But in the end, I concede and watch as his taillights disappear under the moonless sky. My head rattles with what happened. The beast that took over my body, the cat I transformed into. The marks on Sam’s neck are proof, even though he bought the lie that he’d fainted. I don’t know what he’ll make of the scratches when he discovers them.

I study my nails, with the door of the Hawthorn House standing wide to the dark. The hawthorn bush stands guard with me. No, it’s a blood hawthorn. It has to be. With the kitchen light faint at my back, I reach down to inspect one of the thorns. They’re not long, maybe an inch, but the one I pulled from my palm the other day was over two inches. I wonder at it, the shadows of the house making it hard to see. Shivering with equal parts night chill and nerves, I step back inside and close the door, leaving Sam to make his own conclusions, and ignoring the truth about the bush alone.

My bed welcomes me with a puff of air when I land on it. I pull my pillow over my head and try to think about the beauty of the night instead of the horrors. The way Sam felt under my hands, the way his mouth brushed my arm, the way he smelled, but with every conjured image, I am challenged with another: blood. The blood on his forehead, the blood on the counter where the stone fractured from the pressure, the blood on his neck. Three perfect claw marks.

Sleep must have come because I wake to a sound at the windowpane. A crack that rings through the house, forcing me to sit up, like a corpse from a grave. I spin my head around, looking for the source, the window downstairs. My chest slams with every beat of blood through my heart. The woman in the frame by my bed watches me with sharp eyes, and I take it as encouragement. I pull myself from the covers and make my way down the ladder. The floor is cold against my feet as I tiptoe to the window where a blotch of downy feathers marks the mercury glass for the third time.

Adrenaline spills into my bloodstream like ice water. Curiosity chases worry away. The bird has proven himself, flying away every other time, despite the blood and feathers left behind. But at night, like this, especially on a moonless night, the bird should not be out. Birds don’t come out when it is dark, bats yes, but bats don’t leave white feathers. I peer out and see the bird has found a brace at the edge of the porch to nestle against. My eyes narrow, finding him with night vision pulled from the stars. His heart flutters like hard rain on a pond’s surface, quick hammers.

With every slight twitch of his wings or head, I draw closer to the window, my breath working fog against the pane. I reach for the window and push it open with a groan of ancient wood. My body shudders, and just like every time before, the black starts at the meat of my thumb. The thorn prick drives outward in streaks of coal that shift my skin to fur. Then I find my body is sleek and long, narrow with the slim muscles of a cat. My legs bend at the joint in a coil set to launch. And I’m out the window, with the bird in my sight.

With a single bound, I am where the bird had fallen, but he has taken flight. And like a house cat, I give chase, the bird acting as my feather on a stick. It is a game where the only end will be his death and my mouth full of feathers. The bird seems to know it is a game because he baits me, darting this way and that, the stars do their best to light our dance, but like flashlights with dying batteries, they wink until the trees kill their illumination altogether. Left to lean on the blur of my cat vision, gold against black. The bird disappears around a huge tree. His wings catch glimpses of starlight.

Instinct kicks in, and I freeze, crouching low. The ground is moist with spring dew, making the fur on my paws wet. The air around me makes my whiskers twitch, and I spot the heartbeat of a person. I sniff, looking for clues beyond sight. It’s a male, the scent familiar. I step closer, keeping my belly low and my legs coiled. The grass sponges under my feet. Sam steps from the tree, white downy feathers fluffing from him like a dandelion being blown. Now, he wears black jeans and a black cotton button-up under a black leather jacket. In contrast, silver blades glint at his thigh, ankle, waist, and back. And a pistol sits at each hip, the smell of gunpowder acidic at my nose.

I blink, unsure what I’m seeing. How is he here? Why is he here? He reaches for the gun at his right hip. I study him, my body telling me to prepare for the worst. He draws the gun at an angle, then points, his face torn between two thoughts. He pulls the trigger. I dart to the side before the muzzle even flashes, the bullet missing me by a split second, blowing through the forest and crashing into an ancient redwood, making the bark splinter into the air.

Fur stands on end along my spine as I pace back and forth, the instinct to run clashing with the rage to fight. But at the same time, memories of his body soft and gentle next to mine pour into my head, confusing me, and I shake my head, desperate for something, anything, to explain this dance between us. He steadies, takes aim again, and I launch myself to him. The barrel of the gun drives past my ribs with the force of my attack. The flash forces my pupils to slits, the brightness harsh against the dark. The sound is loud against my sharp hearing, and this close to the source, it’s deafening. We roll. Sam is desperate for purchase against my limbs. The claws on my paws extend, catching the ground until we stop, and I have him logged under me. The breath of my feline nose mixes with the cloud pumping from his mouth. His heart beats with determination, and I sense the shift of his arms, a dagger at his thigh drives into my waist. I don’t know the anatomy of a cat, and I don’t know if science applies to whatever I am. But pain finds no reason not to rip through my body, and I scream an unearthly cry.

Once, when I was a kid, I heard a mountain lion scream, the sound like a woman being murdered is now here in the woods, under the cover of the moonless night, only the stars to see by. It floods out of me through my cat mouth. Under the magic, I’m a woman disguised as a cat, and if that knife finds its mark, I will be killed. In the same second, another body slams into me, knocking me to the ground. Earth, grass, and fallen branches catch as I slide out of control over them, leaving a mark of overturned dirt.

My head spins, pain finds every nerve in my body, and I’m left to lie defenseless in the forest. A wolf, the same one from the park the night I attacked Sam, stands before me. Only now, he’s facing off against Sam, not me. He sways, his gait mangy like a rabid animal. I push to stand on all fours. My legs are weak, and I fall to my side again. The wolf shivers, his gray fur ripples with starlight, making it look silver, then he morphs into a man. He’s tall and narrow with long arms and legs. Slim muscles line his arms and stand out under the clothes he wears, jeans and a simple tee shirt.

Black hair that falls into curls along his dark neck, reminding me of Sam. I blink, trying to make sense of how he shifted, why he resembles Sam, and why he saved me from being stabbed to death.

“She can’t control it,” the man bites, the words clear, directed to Sam in a tone that suggests he knows Sam. Maybe even that they have unfinished business.

“Jackson, you know that means nothing to me,” Sam says as he draws himself back to his feet. He shrugs off the dirt covering his body, then looks at me, his face clouding a little. “Just because we’re brothers doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

My heart flies to my throat. Brothers.

Jackson takes a step toward Sam, his hand raised. “Sam, please. We’ve done this dance before, just let me try and remind her.” His voice drops. The whisper is nearly swept away by the wind.

I drag my cat legs under me, dripping blood from the wound in fervor. The ground is covered in my life-force, and I brace against the pain left by the dagger. Remind her, what does that mean? Is he talking about me? I take a step, willing my body to cooperate. Wishing that whatever magic this is, it’d let me take my human form again, let me have my voice. But wishing brings no change, and I remain a cat with a stab wound that, without treatment, will no doubt be the end of me.

Sorry, Grandmama, I think, a snicker curling from my cat mouth like a purr.

Sam grabs his other pistol, the first lost to the night, and aims, a laser point, bypassing Jackson. “I promised you could have her if you could get to her first, but she’s a proven danger, uncontrollable. I have the scratches to prove it.” He reaches to his neck and touches the three cuts I left there only hours ago.

My heart drops, realizing that Sam knows who I am, that I hurt him, and now, he will kill me. Uncontrollable, he said. Maybe I am, maybe it’s for the best. Weak, I make my way into a clear shot, the bullet will find me, and even without understanding, I’ll die. If I’m dangerous, I should be put down.

Sam squeezes the trigger.

“No!” Jackson shouts, slipping back to his wolf form, and lunges at his brother.

Sam’s aim jerks to the side only by a hair, but the bullet misses. My heart ramps, pumping blood so hard my head swims. The pounding of my heartbeat forces blood to fall from my body in haste. Jackson growls, and the rumble makes the trees shiver. Bats take flight, finding the gaps in the branches, escaping the violence. Jackson’s wolf body rams into Sam, the gun flying from his grip. The red laser looks into the brush aimlessly. Standing over Sam, Jackson snarls, his teeth showing saliva against the starlight. I tumble back to the ground, the wet grass meeting me in a bloody bath.

Jackson jumps from Sam before he can land a blow with a blade. Jackson’s paws are quiet against the forest floor, fallen branches not daring to snap under his weight. With a gentle grip, he takes me between his jaw and tosses me to his back. On instinct, I grab hold, my claws finding his skin beneath deep fur, and he flinches, letting out a small whimper.

Then, with a tilt of the head, Jackson takes one last look at Sam lying in the grass, dagger in hand, and we go.

Chapter 14

The forest keeps quiet as Jackson takes me away from the heartbreak of Sam with his weapons and his eye of disappointment. My brain falls in and out of consciousness. The ground races past in a blur, my cat vision doing little to show me where we are going.

The wind kicks up a tantrum, knocking freshly bloomed leaves off their branches, making them flutter around Jackson and me as we retreat. I watch his gray feet move, with his toes splaying the weight of my body on his back. A trickle of blood drops to the grass every few steps. My heart does its best to keep the issues flowing through my veins, keeping me alive. Supernatural or not, the stab to my abdomen is proving to be more than I can take. I wonder where Jackson is taking me and why he chose to save me tonight rather than fight me like the last time. Then I remember. I was attacking Sam, his brother.

You don’t get between a man and his brother, Grandmama had once said to me when gossiping about a girl from my high school and the love triangle she had found herself in. The triangle was not taboo in Grandmama’s eyes so much as it was dangerous. She swore that brothers were the most loyal of any creature. My mind bounces with the notion of creatures—me, a cat, Jackson, a wolf, and Sam… What was he? Anything? I suddenly recall the bird, the plume of feathers falling from his body when he revealed himself. Sam, a bird.

The ground shifts from grass to rocks and then to cool air as Jackson makes his way up the mountain. Trees thin, giving way to the sky, which now has a slight glow at the horizon. Morning. Will the spell wear off with the sun, I wonder? We follow the ridge. Arbor Hill sits quietly, awaiting the strike of dawn to open its sleepy eyes and welcome its citizens. An outcropping of rocks opens with the tilt of perspective, yawning to let us in. The growing morning sun disappears just as quickly as we descend into the cave.

My cat vision is no match for the pitch black that consumes us, and my heart springs to life, adrenaline shoving its way through my body like a hot poker. I thought I could trust Sam, but now? I scramble, my eyes sweeping desperately to find anything to see, anything to show me the way, how to escape. Jackson stops, reaches around with his mouth, and pulls me down. I land ever so gently. The floor is warm to my surprise. Lights glow to life in the ridges of the ceiling, and Jackson stands only feet away. The breath of his lungs makes his ribs move in and out, and I study his wolf’s body, wishing my own would turn or at least let me stand, let me leave. Although the pain is no longer noticeable, I’ve lost too much blood and can’t move.

Jackson’s body begins to shift, morphing from wolf to man. His arms and legs shape back into lean muscles, his face angular, and a slight five o’clock shadow over his jaw and lip. He has the same black hair as Sam, but his eyes are sharp and blue, the same as the wolf’s. My sight changes, the night vision fading, clarity dimming until I realize I’m a woman again. Why have I changed back? It wasn’t on demand. Maybe the unseen sun outside prompted the magic to retreat. I don’t know. I shiver. The absence of fur makes it cold, despite the thankful truth that I’m still wearing my night clothes. A matching silk camisole and shorts set with tiny mauve flowers on a background of red, trimmed in mauve lace. Goosebumps pull over my skin, acting as a kind of armor, sending my teeth to chatter.

“You lost a lot of blood.” Jackson stands his ground, the muscles flexing in his forearms. He’s measuring the situation, trying to decide how deep he should get with me. Deciding if I’m coherent. My teeth clack. My jaw is unable to clamp them into place. Jackson bites hard, his jaw bulging. There isn’t time.

“Shit.” He curses, quiet, soft, sad.

He hurries to me, sweeps me into his arms, and carries me to a table. Reaches for a lamp that stands on a spring arm, pulls it to himself, and flicks it on. The bulb burns at my retinas, making me flinch, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I finally work them open, the pain newly awakened by my placement on the table, I see Jackson has a needle and thread.

“This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning I get before he plunges the needle into my side and stitches.

I don’t have time to prepare myself, think, or ask if he even knows what he’s doing. I simply scream. The sound of my voice, human, echoes over the walls of the cave, but the walls don’t sound like stone. They sound wooden. Jackson moves quickly, and before I can find a curse to lash him with, he’s done. He presses a bandage drenched in antibacterial ointment over the sight. I suck in a breath, hoping my head will calm enough to ask the questions banging at my skull. Where am I, and what just happened? How is he a wolf? Does he know why I’m a cat, and Sam, what’s the story there?

Jackson turns to find a switch on the wall and toggles it, revealing that the cave isn’t a cave at all, but a house. The walls are wood tongue and groove. Wide, dark planks line the floor in a well-worn finish. Two sofas stand at attention facing each other with matching club chairs between. An open-face hearth, like the Hawthorn House’s, only much bigger, fills the wall. I’m not on a table, but on a stone kitchen counter. Lights dangle in groups of odds, and overhead is a lattice work of metal. And beyond that, a glass wall showcases the bedroom that overlooks the downstairs.

I gape. Did I imagine everything up to this point, or is this all a hallucination? “Where am I?” I ask, my throat raw with trauma. I start to push myself up. But a dizzy spell swims over me, and I lose my balance.

Jackson catches me just as I start to topple.

“Hey, hey!” He pulls my arm over his shoulder and helps me to one of the couches. The leather is buttery under the bare skin of my legs, and my world fades.

Chapter 15

The first thing to come back is my hearing. The sound of Jackson squeezing a ball in his fist. He sits in one of the club chairs, pulled to face me. An IV tube runs from his forearm to my wrist, blood flowing from him to me. The next time I wake, the IV is gone, replaced by a bandage that has tiny cats drawn over it. A blanket lies over my body, the fire’s warm, glowing against the edges of Jackson’s face. He’s asleep, and I can’t help but wonder: who is this man?

I fall asleep again, the weight of trauma too heavy to let any logical sense of worry keep me awake. The next time I wake, Jackson sits in the chair, with his eyes turned toward the fire. He holds a cup of coffee, sipping. When I shift my body against the sofa, he casts his gaze at me. The blue there captures me, and I freeze at the eyes of a wolf and a man all at once. They mesmerize me, and I fall still.

He reaches for a glass of water at the side table and hands it to me. “Drink.”

I hesitate, looking between him and the glass. His brows arch, pleading. He looks to the glass, too. “Water,” he says with a nod of encouragement.

Even though I haven’t decided if I trust him, I am thirsty, so I take the glass and drink until I have no air left. I gasp for breath and hand the glass back, and he takes it with a gentle grace that draws me in. I find myself leaning toward him.

Catching my body responding to the unseen force, I lean back and pull the blanket to my chest, suddenly feeling very naked despite the covering of my pajamas. “Where am I?” The question comes out this time without the fog in my brain, and I think back to the blood he gave me, curious how he knew to do that. How’d he know it’d be safe? I swallow, pulling my bandaged wrist into the folds of the blanket as though the barrier will somehow guard me.

“You’re at my place.” He says it like it is the saddest thing he has ever said in his life, and I wonder. Loosening my brow, I soften toward him. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he saved me, gave me his blood, stitched me up, or because he seems like he’s hurting more than I am in this moment, but my heart opens. I can hear Grandmama chiding me with every second I’m not running as fast as I can away.

“And where exactly is your place?” I ask, deciding to ignore Grandmama and let the fantasy sitting before me give me his story.

He moves in his chair, the leather quiet even though it is pulled taut into a dozen tufts. “The mountains just outside of Arbor Hill.” He pauses. “Two miles up Alpine Drive, to be specific.”

I laugh a little, not expecting him to give me exactly what I asked for. “What was that back there, in the forest, I mean?” Knowing he also possesses the ability to shift makes the craziness of him being a wolf and me a cat null, and all I can think about is the connection between Sam and him. “Brothers,” I say.

A cloud falls over his blue eyes, and again, I find myself leaning in. An urge outside of myself draws me to him, something other makes me want, more than anything, to know him, to understand him. My chest hammers with nerves, grateful for the blanket to hide my shaking hands. I pull it tight to my body and wait to see if he’ll give me any part of him.

“Sam and I have always had our disagreements. But that one,” he tosses his hand up, “is the hardest one of all.” He runs his long fingers through his hair and lets the dark locks fall every which way, making him look boyish.

I smile. My lip finds its way between my teeth, and I feel like I know him. But then I realize it must be because he looks so much like Sam.

“Hard?” I question, pulling my legs up to tuck under my elbows. My eyes are wide like a child at the feet of a storyteller.

He doesn’t indulge, and I realize I’m getting greedy. Don’t forget there’s an element of supernatural at play, and you just arrived in the middle of what seems to be an age-old quarrel, I tell myself in an effort not to lose heart.

Jackson grabs the empty glass, stopping next to me for just a moment before moving on to the kitchen. Water runs into the glass with a quick slosh, then he brings it back and hands it to me. My throat yearns for the cool relief. I take it and drink.

The water floods my insides with welcomed eagerness, and I suck in a deep breath of air before setting the glass back on the table. The warmth of the fire grows hot with the layer of the blanket. I push it away, letting the air of the room find my skin, cooling the sweat that has pricked over my arms, legs, and chest. Jackson stands over me, unsure what else to do for me. My wounds have been tended to. I reach to feel the bandage at my waist. The pain gone, I turn, uneasy, and try to stand. Jackson reaches to steady me. The touch is electric, and I snap my eyes to him.

Love at first sight is a hard sell, but when you feel it, it’s impossible to deny. My head swims with curiosity and desire. My body wants to forget everything and press into his space, where I’m sure it’s safe and, illogically, where I belong. We’ve spoken all but ten words between us, and I’m ready to give him everything. Grandmama warns, and my heart and head battle. Danger or fate, which is it? The flesh is a bully, and my brain falls away like mush. Jackson lets his fingers slip from my elbow to my wrist, the gentleness making me crazy. Every nerve under my skin vibrates with a single message: I want more.

Jackson turns my wrist to the ceiling, his finger smoothing over the kitten Band-Aid. I wonder if he picked that one specifically for me.

“Are you feeling better?” He keeps his eyes down.

I want to tilt his chin so I can see the blue of his irises. I want to swim in them, let them move me, let them convince me.

I stand. Jackson is head and shoulders above me. My bare feet are smooth against the wood floor. The blanket falls from my grasp, and I find my hand drawing lines over his. I can’t shake the feeling that I have somehow been here before with him, that I know him. No, you know Sam, I correct. This is not Sam. Guilt stirs in my stomach. Sam tried to kill me, so I can assume whatever we had is gone if it was ever even real. I don’t know. I think back to the first night I changed and Sam in the park. Had he known then, had he known before? The thorn had found my skin three days before our meeting in the grocery store. Was it by chance or designed? I search for clues, but nothing comes.

“What is Sam?” The question falls from my mouth like a desperate breath, and I don’t dare look at Jackson now. Talking like this with his touch on my skin, they don’t go together, and I don’t want to spoil either.

“He’s a hunter.” Jackson’s voice is a low, defensive growl.

The wine Sam brought to dinner. The label held an image of a sparrow with an arrow at its beak. “I saw a bird earlier at my house when I changed. I chased it, and then I saw Sam.”

“La flèche du Moineau,” Jackson whispers. “The arrow of the sparrow.”

“He wants me dead.” A tear forms in my eye, unwilling to fall. I haven’t opened my heart to anyone since Derick. How could I be so foolish? How could I let this happen? Panic knocks around in my chest. My breath mingles with adrenaline and fear, forming a painful lump in my throat.

Jackson squeezes my hand. I flash my wet eyes to him.

Jackson frowns, taking my chin in his hand, making me look him in the eyes. “He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”

And like the calm at the eye of a hurricane, everything falls still. I blink. The tear falls, splashing at my feet. The fire crackles, embers freeing themselves from the logs. History crashes into the present, and I see that who I was isn’t who I am. Right now is all I have, all I can hope for. I lose myself in Jackson’s gaze, in the blue of his eyes, glowing with the fire. His face lowers to me. My feet push to close the distance, and we kiss. Heat blows through me like a long-forgotten love. My hands find his shirt and twist into it. His arms sweep around my back, crushing me into him. There is no time to breathe, no time to feel guilty or afraid, only time to feel this, his mouth on mine, our breath becoming one.

I jump, and he takes me. The stairs groan with our ascent. Grandmama screams in my head. Not yet, you must know more. Be careful. Her voice fades with each kiss, with each touch of Jackson’s hands on my body. My silk pajamas slip easily away. The bandage at my side is the only thing he’s careful of. And we lose ourselves.

Chapter 16

I’ve never had the best luck with men, probably my own fault. I fall hard, and I fall fast, most often before learning the whole story. Sometimes, I fall so deep I can’t climb out without losing a piece of myself in the process.

Jackson’s bed is soft, the sheets’ thread count so high that my skin can barely feel them, and the down comforter is so light it’s like a cloud. When I stir, the bed is empty, and I roll to find if I am truly alone. Standing at the window overlooking the living area below is Jackson. He wears nothing but boxer briefs. His arms are crossed over his chest, making the V of muscles cut along his narrow back flex with noticeable tension. I pull on the comforter. The rustling catches Jackson’s attention. He turns, softening his blue eyes when he sees me.

“Did you sleep okay?” The question is genuine but laced with worry.

There’s something he knows, something I don’t. I swallow, then nod. My eyes search for the secret he holds. What more could there be? Something bigger than the magic that binds us both. He drops his long arms to his sides and walks to the bed, climbing in, jostling it only slightly. He takes my hand in his, and I watch, heart pounding, as he makes his way over the knuckles with his lips, then over his nose and eyes, letting my skin brush his face like a memory.

“Who are you?” I ask the question wildly late and painfully strange.

I know things about him that are deep, profound even, but I don’t know him. I feel as though I should, as though there’s a thread in my brain that has fallen short, a synapse that hasn’t fired in a long time, but what’s even worse than forgetting is suspecting that you’ve forgotten.

He pulls my hand from his face and opens his eyes as though I’ve woken him from a dream, and now, he’s left with the rules of reality. My heart drops. It’s a look I’ve seen before. The shit, what have I done look. My heart collects itself, and I start to pull my hand away, burned. Anger works quickly to replace hurt.

Jackson sees it because he reaches, his body moving in unison to get closer. “No, it’s not what you think. It’s …” He trails off.

I wait, rage hammering at my chest. My lip begins to quiver. I can’t lie here like a fool while he tries to pacify me. I have to leave. I should’ve heeded Grandmama when she warned me, should’ve run when I had the chance. I throw the comforter off, the flurry catching cold air at my bare skin. Shit.

Ignoring my mistake, I grab my clothes off the floor and yank them on. Jackson reaches for me again, this time catching my wrist. The kitten bandage is still there. Black lines strike over my palm, cracking up my arm in quick succession. The black grows. Jackson’s eyes widen. “Is this normal? I mean, when you get angry?”

The question is, of course, stupid. It isn’t normal. None of this is normal. I glare at him, hate snapping at my cat eyes. The room glows with a sort of vibration, night vision where it isn’t needed. Overexposure. I go to speak, but a hiss comes out instead. The black has found its way over my entire body, leaving me covered in fur. I jump from the bed. The scents of yesterday are hot like fire, drawing a line over every place I’ve been. Without looking back, I run, cat legs agile and quick. The house morphs into a cave as I go, the entrance dropping open when I find it. I fly down the mountain, leaping over fallen trees, boulders, and a river that rages with foaming water.

The Hawthorn House looks on as I bound into the yard, dirt kicking with the end of my tantrum. My truck is in the drive. Nothing’s changed. There’s no sign of anything unusual, anything supernatural.

Baby, you need to calm down and use your rational head. Grandmama’s voice floats back to the forefront of my brain, and my breathing slows. The sense of home pulls at my heart, and with the prompt, my body slips back to its human shape. The morning is too cold for the silk that so weakly tries to keep me from the elements, and I stagger to the house and crash through the door. Air blows through me with spent adrenaline. What has my life become? Have I gone crazy? What is happening? I look to the kitchen, full of half-washed dishes, and I cry. The image flashes of Sam, before I knew him as the hunter, slumped on the floor, blood seeping from the cuts at his neck, the ones I put there. What have I become?

I stumble to the bathroom, pull on the faucet, and let the water run hot. Steam fills the room with a cloud that hangs heavy with no escape. My silk camisole and shorts fall to the floor, and I step under the flow of water. Heat scorches me until my skin is red, biting at the wound on my side where Sam stabbed me and Jackson stitched me back together.

Dirt snakes down the drain in a hurry with the current of water, and I drop to the floor and let the water hammer me like a form of exposure therapy. My head spins, with the night turning over and over like a film designed to prove I’m the villain. You attacked Sam, you fell for Jackson, and you ran without answers. I pull the bandage from my side. Blood sneaks to the surface without the protection. A stream of red mixes into the shower water. The veins of water find the contour of my body like a river over land, pooling at the crease of my waist, then dripping over my hip and down my leg.

As the water loses its heat, I push the faucet off and reach for my towel. The bathroom is humid and hot with steam. Drops of water race from my hand when I run it over the mirror. The attempt is fruitless. The glass quickly fogs back over. I stand, looking at the misted mirror. My reflection is faint and blurred.

The towel does little to absorb the water on my skin, leaving me sticky as I try to pull my robe on. The cotton sticks to my body in awkward folds, and it takes a couple of tries to get it to cover in a manner that’ll keep the chill of the house off once I exit the bathroom.

The door stands shut, my hand hovering over the knob for a long while. I’m unable to conjure the strength to move on, to let the night go and look to a new day. My mysterious problem is deeply rooted, yet just far enough out of reach for my brain to have any hope of solving. Guilt, worry, and defeat swim around every thought of Sam and Jackson, brothers, that I somehow suspect are two sides of the same coin. The beast and the hunter. And me, the fly in the ointment. I growl, grab the knob, and yank it open. Humidity floods from the bathroom in a plume of steam.

Chapter 17

The coffee does little to warm me. The cup is hot under my hands, the couch soft at my back, and the woman and her wolf on the mantel. I study the framed picture. The wolf is so like Jackson, I have half a mind to go to the mantel and flip the photo around to face the wall. But I don’t because the woman watches me, her eyes sharp with intent. Almost as though she wants me to see something, to remember something. Or maybe she wishes she could tell me something. Something about the wolf, I wonder and shake my head, no, something else. But what, I don’t know.

I stand instead to toss another log on the fire and kneel at the hearth. The stone is warm under my knees. The flame dances, and I think back to the thorn when I tossed it in. The thing two inches long, pulled from my skin, the repercussions of the bush, a burden that marks my heart with black. With the cat living under the surface, every emotion is a threat to losing the feral animal. Worry floods my stomach, and I shove it down, not wanting to let the beast out, afraid of who it will hunt. Sam again, or will it be Jackson this time? Someone from my past? Will the cat travel, or is the magic confined to the cozy town of Arbor Hill? I look at my palm. There’s no sign of the black lines, the poison that lives under the skin, or the injury sight where the thorn found its mark all those days before.

The memory of Jackson’s body against mine lights in my mind. And I close my eyes, letting the fantasy float through my chest in a flutter. His last words to me—it’s not what you think—ring in my ears. What did I think? That he had rejected me after I’d fallen for him, no questions asked, but that wasn’t what he meant. He couldn’t give me the answer to the real question. Who is he? That is what he couldn’t give, the truth about who he is. The revelation pulls at my stomach, and the coffee is suddenly too much to pour into it.

Frustration jumps at my chest with the rhythm of my heartbeat, and I pinch my hand. The thorn prick is nowhere to be felt. Still, I dig, my nail running over the sight until the skin grows numb from repetition. Daylight is at full force, the night came and went as though it never happened—my bed, still made, the mysteries of the turmoil of the shift like a dream, far off and faint.

As the fire burns, so does my urgency to understand. The need for answers drifts away like smoke from a chimney into the wide expanse of the sky. My stomach growls. Trauma, mental and physical, has burned through my energy source hours ago, leaving me famished. And I look at the bare kitchen. My meal with Sam used up all the groceries I bought.

Arbor Hill is the last place I want to go. In fact, anywhere outside the Hawthorn House sounds miserable, but I can’t live without food, no matter the magic that flows through my tainted veins or the threat on my life. I frown. Sam, with a gun in his hand and an eye for aiming, the image is hard to believe, even though I saw it for myself, even though the bullet was meant for me, even though his dagger found my flesh.

Would he kill me in the middle of the town square in broad daylight? I didn’t know, but his coming here is just as likely, maybe even more. “I can’t stay here and wait to die, not when the whole point of coming here was to have a new life,” I say out loud to Grandmama, the house, the woman on the mantel, her wolf, whoever cares to listen. Myself.

With both hands on the mug filled with coffee grown cold, I stand tall, straighten my back, and shake it off. I came here to find a new life, and that’s what I’m going to do. No curse, fate, or secret will stop me. I growl and look at my hand again and wonder. If I got rid of the bush, would the hold the magic has on me remain?

It’s settled. The bush has to be cut down. I run my palms over my robe, turn to the monotone tracksuit I discarded for my date last night with Sam, pausing when I realize how recent that was, clamping my jaw tight to steady myself, then change. Instead of the pants, I slide on a pair of worn jeans with the sweatshirt and tie my hair in a high pony. The curls all gather into one big wave and twist at the bottom. I shove my feet into my flats that now have water stains from using them to walk to the woodshed in the morning dew.

The sun is stunning, sitting in the sky, the color of a blue flax at the height of the day with its petals open wide. I bite my lip and study the bush, innocent, looking exactly like a hawthorn. “I see why they named the house after you. The resemblance is undeniable.”

Tiny buds have formed at the woody branches, slivers of white peeking out of green cocoons waiting for just the right amount of warmth to bloom. A day or two, and the bush will be covered in white flowers with the smell some say resembles death, others that of lust. The blooms will make the bush stunningly beautiful, like a wedding gown. But the wickedness of the blood hawthorn isn’t in the beauty of the bush or its wildness but in the heart of the thorns, the poison deep within the little devils. I grab my leather gloves from the shelf just inside the door, along with my trusty pruning shears. The blades are sharp even after years of use.

Brandishing the tool like a weapon, I kneel on the porch and go to work. This time, instead of trimming the bush for appearance’s sake, I go to the base. I know that the bush will grow back. I will have to pull it by the roots, but with the threat of thorns and the porch protecting it on all sides, I’ll have to cut it down first. Snip, the first branch goes without a fight. The sun is warm at my neck, sweat starts to form on my chest, and I yank up my sleeves. Snip, the next branch, and the next until nothing but a collection of small stumps sits huddled in a circle where the bush was moments before.

My back protests when I stand, forcing it straight. Surveying my work, I wonder how to dispose of the branches. Fire, I think. I scoop up a few of the branches at a time, careful not to let the long-reaching thorns touch me, and take them to the smoldering fire in the fireplace. When I drop them in, the flame licks back to life like a frantic monster, looking for a place to bite. Black smoke clusters unyielding to the flu until finally releasing up the chimney in a rush. I bring in the rest and stand guard until the fire has consumed the branches to ash. No doubt a placebo effect, but I feel better. Can it be that simple? I wonder and stir the ash into the ash pit, which I’ll have to walk to the back of the house to empty using the clean-out door that’s built into the rock of the chimney. But for now, I’ve done everything I can to rid myself of the hellish bush. Maybe I’ll find a replacement, a true hawthorn, one from a nice, unassuming nursery.

I make a list for the grocery store, having learned my lesson last time. In Chicago, I lived close enough to the market that I could buy groceries daily, and it didn’t eat into my day, but here, with the commute, I’m going to have to learn to prep. Tapping my pencil to my chin, I rummage through the mostly empty refrigerator and the cabinet holding what is left of my dry goods. Scribbling a weak list, I shove the note into my back pocket.

It is strange how something so all-consuming can seem small, nearly made up, in the light of day. I pull my hand to my face to double-check. There is no mark. I drop it, letting a smile of relief find my lips. The woman on the mantel looks unimpressed with my optimism. Grandmama watches in my head, with her hand on her hip. The look of please, child, don’t kid yourself blazing in her eyes. She never judged me, but she would often ask me to judge myself, claiming we are only as good as the test we put ourselves through.

“Well, not this morning,” I snap back, my defiance an equal match for her stubbornness.

Swinging my Wolfsbane bag over my shoulder, I head out to the truck. Just as my foot passes the threshold, something snags the leg of my favorite jeans, and I curse. I snap my eyes down. Standing there, as though I never even touched it, is the blood hawthorn, as overgrown as it had been when I first moved in. My heart flies to my throat, letting out a squeak of bewilderment. Heart hammering, my body starts to quiver. I yank my hand to my face, checking again. Would the black return with the impossible return of the bush? Nothing, the flesh is clear, the thorn prick healed. I watch my hand intently, waiting for the change, the shift, the black, the fur, the cat to emerge, and for me to go on some ridiculous hunt. But minutes stretch under held breath, and no change comes. The hunt doesn’t ensue. I’m safe.

I rack my brain for a way to remove the bush. My truck? I could pull it out. Or fire? I could burn it out. With that, I rush back to the hearthstone and see the ashes are still swept away, the branches gone. Relief floods my stomach like a cool bath, and I suck in a deep breath. The wolf catches me in his gaze even though he’s frozen in still life. I shudder. The photo is nothing but a rendering of a truth that’s long past, but somehow, the eyes glow blue.

Tripping over the faded rug as I stumble back to the front door in reverse, the wolf’s gaze locks onto me the whole way. Nervous sweat forms over my skin like dew, and I have to yank on my clothes to fan my body. Spring air blows up my shirt and out the neck hole into my face with each flick. I slam the door, catching my leg on the damn bush again, and curse.

I shove my hand into my bag to grab my truck key, only to stab myself on the ornamental hawthorn branch linked to my house key. The enamel thorn doesn’t break the skin but does leave a red mark. I growl, shove my truck key in the ignition, and twist. The Land Cruiser roars to life with force. My foot is heavy on the gas pedal and clutch at the same time. I rip it into first and lurch forward. I’ve been driving the truck for years, but apparently, the reincarnation of a demon bush is enough to turn me into an amateur.

The Hawthorn House grows small as I peel out of the drive and head to the blacktop. The frantic thump of my heart slows with distance.

“Fine, Grandmama, you’re right. I am kidding myself. But I don’t know what to do!” I slump back into the bench seat and let the yellow and white lines guide me to Arbor Hill.

Chapter 18

The small town stands on the other side of the hill like an old friend, waiting and reliable. I make a beeline to the grocery store, doing my best to keep my eyes to myself while also scanning for Sam. I don’t expect to never see him again, but our relationship is at best awkward and at worst deadly. I need to know when he’s coming, even if it’s in the center of town in the middle of the day.

He won’t hurt me. He probably doesn’t even know it’s me, not really. Just because he came to the house and saw me in cat form, he can’t know. I chant the speech, trying to convince, if not for a change of heart, then for the courage to keep from being trapped behind the doors of the Hawthorn House.

The Land Cruiser jostles as I swing it into a parking spot just down from the grocery store door. Today, there are bananas stacked like mounds of crescent moons. I grab my Wolfsbane bag and head in, scooping up a cluster of the yellow fruit in one hand as I grab a cart with the other. My heart hammers, soft enough to still hear over its beat, but hard enough it takes my breath away, forcing me to suck in air every few steps.

This is only my second time in the market, and my first time trying to manage the aisle with a list in hand. I try my best to search the shelves, then my list, before moving to the next. I’m not entirely sure what’s appropriate to stock and what’ll go bad before I have time to use it. I decide to take a chance on everything. This will be my baseline. The cart fills with everything from milk to toilet paper, and when I make my way to the checkout counter, I spot a shelf with BBQ supplies: charcoal briquettes, lighter fluid, extra-long tongs, forks, and bristle brushes for grate cleaning. Fire, I think, is the only thing left to try to remove the hawthorn imposter from the ground. I grab a bottle of lighter fluid and wedge it between the toilet paper and clothesline pins.

The same girl from last time stands there, and from the look on her face, she recognizes me. Also, from the look on her face, she wishes I wasn’t staying, but a quick assessment of my shopping tells her I’m here for the long haul.

Her shoulders grow rigid when I start loading the conveyor belt. She’s readying to be social even though last time I clearly got in the middle of her and Sam. I laugh a little to myself. Well, girlfriend, Sam and I won’t be a problem for you anymore. He’s all yours.

“You find everything?”

The small talk is stiff at best, and I nod. I don’t bother returning the effort to converse.

After I pay, I use the cart to drive my sacks to the back of my truck. The hinge grinds when I pull it open. I haven’t seen Sam, and I’m more than grateful. My chest still pounds with anticipation and worry. How would that conversation go?

Um, yeah, so I know you want to kill me. Is that for sport or survival? The pretend conversation rings in my head, Grandmama just beyond it, shaking her head in disbelief, wondering how I can be so naïve about the whole thing.

“Everyone has a survival response, I guess denial is mine.” The words come out audibly, and I slam the car door, letting it pop with the force, and climb into the driver’s seat, exhausted. Shopping can take a lot out of you when you’re hoping you don’t get shot or worse, transform into a bloodthirsty cat.

I bang my head against the headrest and growl, then pull the Land Cruiser into reverse and let off on the clutch. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sam, his dark complexion and dark hair standing out like the North Star. My heart skips around in my chest, like a bird looking for a way out of its cage. When I pull the gear into first, the tires squeal a little with the haste, and he turns his eyes to me. I snap my attention to the road ahead. Unwilling to give space for him to reveal himself to me or me to him, I drive. The road out of town is the same, only in reverse, then the hill meets me, the forest line swallowing my exit with the cover of pine and the new growth of spring.

There are only a handful of driveways off the main road as I continue, and it isn’t until today that I notice the names. Archer Way, Pine Avenue, Alpine Drive. Alpine Drive, to be specific. Jackson’s voice comes to mind as I remember his honesty, giving me exactly what I asked for, my location when I was at his house. Without even realizing it, I’ve slowed. The road sign marks the exit with white letters on green metal. Now my heart does a different dance, the adrenaline in my veins feeling the same, but my brain interprets the rush of excitement as desire instead of worry.

The crunch of gravel resonates under the rubber of my tires as I make my way off the blacktop onto the dirt road. The mountainside is steep, a cliff sheer to the left, draping toward Arbor Hill, and a cliff sheer to the right reaching toward the peak. I steady my hands on the wheel, wondering what happens when two cars meet on the narrow road. Then, of course, I realize Jackson’s house must be the only one up here, and of course, he doesn’t have visitors. Wishing I could turn around, make my way back down the drive, I continue. There’s no room for a change of heart.

The road continues until I reach a clearing. The gravel sweeps into a circle in front of a luxury home, which is modern with sprawling oversized windows filling the front and a balcony on the second floor. The same one Jackson stood on the morning after I fell into his bed.

The mountain gives way to a breathtaking view of Arbor Hill. The clouds skim the next mountain over like a halo, giving the valley a Swiss Alps ambiance. Forest, bright with rebirth, pours over the dips and grooves of the rock formations that horseshoe the town. My eyes travel from the awesome display of nature to the house, curious.

Déjà vu floats over my vision in a kind of fog. Jackson comes to a window on the second story. His dark hair catches the wind when he opens the door to the balcony. My heart jumps. I’m not ready to see him. The truck takes me away with a simple press of the gas pedal. The side mirror shows me a shrinking image as I drive. Jackson watches me, his eyes impossibly blue despite the distance between us.

My heart hammers as I navigate the sharp turns, a few brave trees finding purchase at the mountain’s face, roots showing their commitment to the dirt that stands between the road and the cliff. I shake my head, wondering why I came, why I chose to explore something that will no doubt take me even deeper into a mystery I don’t want any part of.

I’m a fool. The bush at the Hawthorn House, that’s what I need to pour my energy into. I need it gone. The lighter fluid sits in the back of my truck, and with new fervor, I press the gas pedal, the blacktop finding my tires not a moment too soon, guiding me home.

Chapter 19

The bush stands at the door of the Hawthorn House, looking ready for a fight when I pull in. My knee hits the steering wheel when the truck bounces over the ruts of the unkempt drive, letting loose a curse from my lips. The dirt kicks up when I grind to a stop.

Grandmama’s voice is gentle in my head. Is the house worth it?

I frown, wishing she hadn’t said it, because I don’t know. If the cat that has possessed me is because of this house or that bush—they are somehow connected—will getting rid of the bush even matter? Or is the house the problem? I don’t want it to be. I want the dream, me in the woods, this house with all of its stunning woodland. I want it to be my home, to give me and Grandmama the new start I had promised when Esther handed over the key that first day. My heart melts at the dream, and I sit, watching the house. The sun slides over the sky, warming the truck until I realize my groceries have waited long enough. They need to be brought in out of the heat.

Birds chirp when I step out of the truck. The pop of the back door sends them into an irregular rhythm for a moment before they settle back to the singsong of the afternoon. There are four bags, and I load them along my arms like bells on a headstock. When I get to the front door, I wiggle the key in and twist, then scooch past the angry bush, hoping it can’t somehow read my mind and see the plans I have for it.

Inside, I empty the contents of my grocery sacks into their allotted spots. The refrigerator and cabinets fill, giving me a renewed pleasure.

“This house is worth the fight,” I whisper. And somehow, I think Grandmama sighs in relief right alongside me. I know she wants it just as much as I do.

The only thing I kept from the breakup was a jet-age style Ronson Veraflame lighter. Derick’s great-grandfather, Walter, brought it back from the UK when he was a teenager. The piece reminds me more of Walter than Derick, having heard story after story of the adventure-driven man. My heart was drawn to the person I never knew, but felt could have been a soulmate if I had. Part of me always wanted Derick to be a version of his great-grandfather, but no matter how long or hard I tried to see the resemblance, it just never revealed itself.

When we parted, I tucked the lighter into my things. Maybe it was in hopes of safeguarding the memories, or maybe, in a way, I was unwilling to let Walter go along with Derick. Now, I fish the chrome beauty from my portmanteau, flick the strike once, and let the flame burn before tucking it into my pocket. I suck in a deep breath and resolve myself to what’s to come.

The lighter fluid stands at the center of the chopping block like a pistol in a game of Russian Roulette. The spin promises nothing but chance. I shake the feeling off and grab my leather gloves and the bottle of fluid.

The sun has started its journey over the trees westward, pushing shadows to the ground below them. Birds stir the air with song and the calls of preparation for nest building. Insects hum, with bees and beetles working hard to make the most of the warm day. I steady myself as I walk out the door around the infringing bush. The placement of the thing is impossibly precarious, and I hate myself for even considering putting the house at risk by setting fire to the bark, but I can’t shake the feeling that this bush is the origin of my plight.

I swallow hard, adjust my angle to the bush, pull the safety seal from the lighter fluid’s nozzle, then squeeze. My stomach turns at the smell and the unfortunate truth that I am killing a bush that is perfectly healthy, robust even, on purpose. The wind pushes just for a moment, then calms. The smell of gas is sharp in my nose. I stand with my hand in my pocket, fingering Walter’s Veraflame, unable to ignite the bush. After a long moment, I pull the lighter out and feel it. The metal is cool against my warm skin. The Hawthorn House reflects in the chrome, and I watch as it distorts over the space-age design of the lighter’s case.

Pain drives through my hand, the prick point of the thorn acute at the meat of my thumb, and I flinch. Panic blooms over my chest, and I run my thumb over the wheel to strike the flame. Pain stabs again, the flame rippling with the jolt of my hand, and I drop the lighter to the kerosene-drenched bush. Orange and red and white race like blood from a critical wound, and the bush catches with an all-consuming fire. Breath pulls from my lungs. The thorns gleam red. The buds, nearly ready to flower, disappear under the flames. And then a burst of regret in my heart, the pain in my hand, the black on my skin. The house is too close to the threat.

Grandmama. I breathe heavily. What’ve I done?

Fire rips over the side of the house at an alarming pace. At the same time, black rickshaws over my forearm, covering my hand in slick black fur. Air floods my lungs only to fall from me heavy and quick. I stumble down the step to the forgotten garden. The flame has found its way to the roof. The ground surrounding the house wilts under the heat. Frantic, I look for anything to save the house. Water? There is none. The fire is too big to stop. The cat grows against my skin, the fire grows at the Hawthorn House, and my dream dies in its wake. But as I stand there realizing that I have lost everything with no hope of salvation, the black at my arm slowly pulls away, giving way to my human flesh. The house burns, but I do not change.

My eyes dart from the two, skin and fire. Is this the price I had to pay? A tear forms in my eye, the pressure of loss pushing it to fall, then another and another. The pain of the exchange cuts deep but is silent. I watch as the house burns. Everything I own is inside, all the things I wished to keep from my old life, the things I didn’t want to part with, even Walter’s lighter, a secret keepsake, is lost in the flame, now given in sacrifice for the freedom of my body from the cat. I wonder, unsure if it really is over, or if I’m too optimistic, something I’ve been accused of before.

Chapter 20

My heart breaks as the embers die. The Hawthorn House, little more than bones now, stands charred to black. Smoke curls over the forest, looking for an air current to draw it away from the desperate scene. My heart goes to the image of Jackson standing in front of me, Sam holding a gun, poised to shoot. He had tried to save me. Something like fate tugs at my stomach, and I go to my truck. Jackson’s house is a refuge. I don’t know how I know this, but the truth charges through me with the kind of assurance that comes with experience.

There’s nothing to bring, all my possessions are burned or scorched, so I don’t salvage the sight. I just go. The truck seems to know the way as I pull onto the blacktop, the sun dipped low behind the towering mountain, a flash of red and pink staining the clouds. The sun will be gone soon, giving way to a waxing crescent.

I don’t know what I’ll say to Jackson when I get there. My house burned down. The hawthorn bush is actually a blood hawthorn. I have no place to live. The cat will come for me if you don’t keep watch. Sam—your brother—is probably in the woods now, waiting to hunt, and I’m ripe for the takedown.

Will Jackson even take me in? I don’t let myself go there. The thought hurts like a broken heart. I want to be with him. My body is drawn to him, and my brain feels as though we have a history. But, of course, we don’t. Of course, I’m losing my mind, and of course, the circumstances are so crazy, love isn’t an option for us even if we did have time.

Alpine Drive meets me with the peel of rubber to gravel as the Land Cruiser finds purchase and drives up the narrow mountain road. The sunset strikes the sky in the most amazing colors, growing more and more saturated as I ascend. The sun and I are two ends of an axis, with it falling and me rising.

The windows on Jackson’s house shine with the reflection of the painted sky. I pull around the circular drive, then yank up the parking brake to keep the truck from rolling down the hill. My heart flutters like a girl getting ready for a first date, and I suck in a deep breath. The nerves I understand, but the excitement, I shake my head at. My eyes dart from my hands, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, to the front door.

When Jackson brought me here after Sam’s dagger drove into my abdomen, we came in through a different way. A cave leading to the house from the back or lower level? I don’t know. I reach for my Wolfsbane bag, but when my hand hits the bare seat next to me, I remember the bag is another casualty of the fire, and my body goes weak. A groan resonates from the hinges when I push the truck door open. The wind blows off steam, swirling my hair into a tornado as it kicks over the mountain’s edge. I bite my lip and force myself to go.

Approaching the house is like coming home, and I gasp a little. Something familiar tugs at my insides, making each step easier as I sink into them. The entire front of the house is sectioned into windows, with lines of steel separating the glass panes. The door is no different, two tall rectangles of glass standing side by side with matte black handles. I reach out, a green light glows under my hand when I touch it, then a click, and I pull. The security system knows me, and I swallow, curious. I step in and see the open kitchen and living room that I remember from the day before. The bedroom sits high overhead. The balcony to the outside faces Arbor Hill in the valley. Everything falls into place as I orient myself.

The door closes behind me, and I study the house, my muscles frozen, unable to bring myself to take another step.

You shouldn’t have let yourself in, Grandmama chides, and I clench my teeth, knowing she’s right.

My voice is small, dread staring at my gut. “Jackson, hello.”

The house echoes in answer to the announcement, but Jackson doesn’t. He’s not here. I wipe my hands on my jeans, smiling at the realization that I still have them. I see a row of shoes standing by the door. In response, I slip mine off and let my feet feel the smooth wood planks underfoot. Loosed from the spell that froze me at the door’s entry, I tiptoe to the kitchen. My hand falls easily over the back of one of the leather couches with flashes of Jackson giving me his blood, the IV at my wrist. I stop when the softness of the blanket Jackson pulled over me that night touches my hand. Drawing it to my face, I drag in a breath of air through my nose and smell pine and amber just like him—how I know this is a mystery, but I would know it anywhere, I realize.

With the blanket in hand, I walk through the kitchen. Beautiful black marble counters waterfall over each edge. Black fixtures, sink, and appliances. Pendent lights hang in clusters like drops of starlight. The sun out the window dies with each second that the clock ticks, eventually giving way to the night. The moon hangs now, the edge working its way toward half. On instinct, I take a seat on the couch, the same place Jackson nursed me back to health. I don’t cover over with the blanket, but instead, I hold it like a stuffed animal, a security blanket, tight under folded arms against my chest.

Just as the room begins to cool with the absent sun, the gas log strikes and a flame roars to life unprompted. It’s set to a thermostat, I realize. The warmth bleeds over me, and I drift. Sleep comes easily. The moon keeps watch over the house that belongs to the wolf, housing a cat.

A faint tapping of wood wakes me, and I sit up. Disorientation sweeps over me like a tide. I twist my head from side to side, looking for the sound. Just past the kitchen is a pair of glowing eyes, the firelight shining off them in reds and yellows. A wolf, Jackson, I realize just as the hair stands at my neck.

He watches me, and I don’t know if I need to tell him who I am. Does he remember, or maybe things are different when he’s a wolf? Maybe the two minds don’t share memories. As I start to open my mouth, a soft whisper builds at the back of my throat to give voice to my name and why I’m here, he shifts. The wolf sheds away like clothes, the man revealing to take center stage.

The dark of the night touches him like a friend, cloaking everything but his sharp blue eyes. They watch me, and I try to start again.

“It’s me, Baby.” My name sounds foolish, like I’m having to remind a one-night stand the morning after. I shake my head, realizing that obviously, I need to give more. “I, uh …”

“Are you okay?” His voice is confident, clear, and knowing.

I stop, curious how I should answer. No, I’m not okay. My life is over. But instead, I say, “I just needed a place to stay, and I didn’t know where else to go.” I start to add the explanation of why: my house burned down, or more specifically, I burned my house down while doing my best to ignore Grandmama as she clicks her tongue in my head at my stupidity.

Jackson wears a pair of camel-colored joggers that sit low on his hips and a long-sleeve tee shirt with the sleeves pushed to his biceps. His black hair is unruly, and my chest fills with electricity.

“Your house. I smelled the smoke, and you weren’t there when I looked.”

I drop my gaze, the realization that the whole thing was a foolish mistake and that he’d gone there to make sure I was okay, swirls like oil and water in my stomach. “It was stupid, but I thought if I burned down the bush, I would …” I pull my hand to my face. The meat under my thumb is unblemished. “I thought I could get rid of the cat.”

I still believe the logic is sound, but saying it out loud makes me feel borderline insane. I have to remember I just saw Jackson morph from a wolf, fur, and fangs to a completely human man right before my eyes.

He licks his bottom lip in thought, then takes a step toward me. My body hums in response. He takes another, and after what feels like a lifetime of waiting, he has his arms around me. The smell of pine and amber floats over me like a forgotten song, and I feel as though I belong. This is where I’ve always belonged. Unwilling to give in to my unreliable brain, I watch him with intensity, watching for anything to clue me into the fact that I’m losing my mind or diving headfirst into a romance that I’ll most definitely regret. But I don’t pull away, and I don’t flinch. His arms are perfect for the shape of me. We fit.

Chapter 21

The night sky is a blanket of calm for the attraction that spills into desire and satisfaction. Jackson’s mouth catches mine with gentle desperation, a deep drive that wakes me, my soul yawning to life. A life forgotten builds like bricks, stacking to reveal a house, a home. There’s nothing new about the kiss, but like air found just before the threat of death, I suck it in, letting it fill me with remembrance.

Jackson pulls me to his waist. My mind races. He’s mine, and I’m his. We were lost, but now we find ourselves in each other. I gasp when our lips pull apart. He looks into my eyes. The blue there is like a never-ending ocean, holding secrets that will take a deep dive to discover.

He whispers, “You remember?”

His voice makes the final piece fall into place. The history I didn’t know was mine, but now I can’t deny it. The woman in the photo at the Hawthorn House, her wolf, and the woman with the sharp eyes propped up in the loft, they are the same woman, the resemblance suddenly impossible to ignore. They are the same woman, and they are me. Her wolf is this man, Jackson. My brain opens like a door to an archives room, memories spilling out like overturned files.

We’ve lived lifetimes, so many I can’t decipher them as individual times. They blur into a singular expression, our life.

“I remember.” My heart jumps.

This time, he found me. Other times, I found him, but in the end, we always come together. Fate, soulmates, divine, destiny, whatever you want to call it, it’s home. He is my safe place, my refuge, my sanctuary.

His mouth curls into a smile that I love, boyish, mischievous, contagious. Jackson takes me up the stairs, not for the second time, but for the thousandth. This dance is eternity in the making and will continue for an eternity still. The bed meets us with plush warmth. Jackson takes his time to study every inch of my body, with my eyes watching him look. Then, with a kiss at the curve of my shoulder, he goes to work. In all the lifetimes we’ve lived together, it’s always like the first time, passion, hot with wanting. Me wanting to hurry, him wanting to take his time. We battle for the middle ground in a tangle of sheets and blankets. The moon charges across the sky, a diligent guard to our discovery.

When we’ve finished and he finds his arms around my waist, our bodies are pricked with sweat, tucked against each other.

“I’ve missed you,” Jackson whispers into my hair.

The breath of his mouth tickles the skin by my ear. I shiver and draw into him with the need to make up for the years it took for me to remember, to find my way back.

“When did you know?” I ask, wondering how the magic of us worked this time.

Sometimes, we find each other as children, fate allowing us to grow up together—with love something that waits for our hearts, bodies, and minds to grow into. Other times, we find each other in old age, families and children of our own under our belts, the connection coming only in time to give us a sweet release before we have to start again. How the cycle ends and starts, I don’t know. It’s not death, but more of a reset—a forgetfulness, the body rebirthing into a new life. The end never feels like death but rather a fading away from one life into the next.

“I saw you the day you bought the Hawthorn House.” His voice is almost serious, worried, maybe.

I turn to face him, his arm draped under me, not letting go, not entirely. “You saw me? Why didn’t you come to me?” If I had seen him, the remembering could have started sooner. I could have found myself in his arms days ago.

“I was in my wolf form.” That is the contingency, the magic won’t let us come together without a balance. If he had shifted from animal to man in front of me, we would’ve been lost to the cycle of one of us being human and the other animal until the reset. We would’ve had to wait for the next life to be together.

The woman in the photo with her wolf, I remember now, that was when we learned of the inconvenience. Jackson had found me when he was in wolf form, and I had not discovered the cat inside me yet, so when he tried to shift to show me who he was, it trapped him in his animal form. We lived that life with me as a woman and him as a wolf. The photo was a reminder of the revelation. Even though we had found each other, we could not be together. I never awakened my animal form during that life, and he remained in his until death.

This time, he had resisted the temptation to approach me until the time was right, waiting for me to shift, knowing that only then would we be able to be together, truly together.

“You watched me date your brother that whole time.” I frown.

One life, I had found Sam and never Jackson. The love was deep, but not home, not complete. That’s a life I always regret, with guilt that it hurt Jackson to know I’d been with Sam, but Jackson never held it against me. The heart is a hard thing to fault. Sometimes, it’s foolish, and sometimes, it’s blind. But if you wait long enough, it will always find its way. Jackson waited, and in the next life ,we met as children. It was the only time we got to spend so many years together. Our hearts intertwined in a way that felt like one, inseparable.

“It was hard to stop you when you tried to attack him. I kinda wanted you to do it.” Now, he laughs.

I snuggle against him, the warmth of his body still radiating off his skin, and plant my mouth on his. He tastes like sweat, and I relish the taste. It’s only a stronger reminder that we’re together.

The sun rises as we make love again, something I know we’ll never get enough of. Jackson’s hands are strong against my back, a constant I can rely on now that we’ve found each other. Until this life is over, and we must start again.

Chapter 22

Sleep comes and goes, Jackson’s arms are around me as we take the morning slow. Noon strikes with sunlight pouring into the picture windows that overlook Arbor Hill.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

I let his gravelly voice resonate through me, never wanting it to leave. How does a heart beat without its anchor? I’ll never know because now he steadies me, and I want nothing more than to let him take the lead, let him show me his world, the one he’s built in preparation for us.

I think about the Hawthorn House, Grandmama, her—our—dream. Does it still count now that I’m me and not the girl who made the promise? Yes, I decide. Grandmama is one of those pieces that will find its way into my baseline. She’ll be with me forever, and no amount of life lived will blot her out.

“I want to see the Hawthorn House. Maybe …” I trail off. I want to hope it didn’t burn down, but of course, it was a step in the unavoidable journey placed by fate. The Hawthorn House was destined to burn, the bush was destined to guide me, and they both did their job. Now it’s up to me what I do with the fallen pieces. The things left in this life’s wake.

“The fire was hot and fast, so some of it might still be standing.” Jackson knows my heart, and he guards it with care. He gives me hope, and I love him for it. “I’ll get some food for us, then we can go.” He pushes his body to stand, then leans over and kisses me, both knowing I’m not going anywhere and not wanting to waste another minute. The kiss tips on the edge of him falling back into bed, but he refrains and pulls away to start the day. We have the rest of this life as well as the rest of every life after, to kiss, make love, and be together.

His back flexes as he dresses, and I watch, mesmerized for the trillionth time at how beautiful he is. Then he disappears down the stairs, and I listen as he busies himself in the kitchen. I pull the blanket away, letting the cool air of the house find my warm skin. Tiny goosebumps rise in response.

The closet stands with rows and rows of clothes, half his and half mine. After an eternity of knowing a person, you learn their ways. He has curated a wardrobe of vintage and retro items, all with the heart and mind of my likes. I smile and pull a vintage, oversized Columbia University sweatshirt from the collection.

The memory of me in another life, a young girl in college, blows over my mind like a photo developing in a dark room. I had just discovered my transformation several weeks before when I spotted Jackson at the school. We shared the campus for two years before he found his animal form, and I was able to approach him. I watched as he dated, fell in and out of love, struggled with classes, changed majors twice, and then we were together. The school was a stage for our romance in a way that only college could be.

I tug the sweatshirt over my bare chest and hug my arms around myself, remembering our time at the university. The smell of Jackson floats over my face as the soft fabric warms with my body heat. I find a pair of well-worn jeans to pair it with. A row of shoes for any and every occasion lines the wall. I pick a pair of leather loafers, and they fit like a glove.

When I make it downstairs, Jackson smiles, and my heart skips like a child on the playground.

“Good morning, or afternoon.” He grins wickedly, biting his lip a little, making me want to bite it too.

But if I do, we won’t make it out of the house, so I bite my own instead and take a seat, giddiness swimming at my chest, threatening to pull me under. “Good morning, afternoon.”

Breakfast, because we just woke, but lunch per the sun in the sky, consists of blackberry muffins and freshly fried bacon. The house fills with the smell, and my mouth waters. Jackson hands me a black stoneware bread and butter plate. I fill it. The muffins are soft and the bacon crisp, just the way I like. Jackson takes the stool next to mine. His hand finds my shoulder, only to work its way to my neck. His fingers thread through my red hair. Then he tugs me to him and kisses me, with the sweetness of blackberries on his lips.

We make our way through the muffins and bacon with kisses between bites. The conversation is gentle. Both of us know the other has lived their own lives up to this point. There were lovers, families, jobs, losses. They were real, and we honor them by letting them stay safely tucked away in our hearts. There are times when we share, and others when we keep that before life private like a secret. I don’t know what this time will hold, but for now, the days and years that led to this moment are left unjudged.

I watch Jackson, study his every movement—the way his jaw flexes when he chews, the way his lips glisten when he licks them after each bite, the way his lashes flash against the blue of his eyes when he draws his attention to me. He studies me as well, drawing a finger over a strand of my hair, pushing it behind my shoulder to look at my face. His eyes dance as they frantically look for a part of me to land on, starting at my hairline, then my eyes, nose, mouth, my neck, arms, then back to start again. The desire to see is hurried with the need to absorb.

Jackson takes the dishes, and I wrap up the leftover muffins. Our dance to clean up pauses for moments to indulge in a hug, or kiss, or actual dance. With my hand in his and his arm around my waist, we twirl.

The sun has started its march over the western sky when we step into the fresh air. My truck waits as if wondering if I’ll still want it, and I laugh. Of course, I still want it. In every life, I find a vehicle that suits me, and I don’t let it go until the inevitable do-over.

Jackson doesn’t ask but climbs into the passenger seat. He knows I like to drive, and he doesn’t mind. I hop in and twist the key. The engine roars to life in a kind of thank you for choosing me way, and we head to the Hawthorn House, or at least what is left of it.

It is my dream, honey, but let yourself live yours as well, Grandmama says in my heart.

I smile. Nice to see she stuck around.

Chapter 23

The blacktop takes us back to the unkempt drive of the Hawthorn House. The truck bounces with its usual flair over the ruts until we skid to a stop. Standing like the black bones of a broken body is the frame of the house. The outside and most of the roof are gone. The porch is scorched, with holes lined with white ash where the wood burned hot. Jackson and I get out of the truck. The doors ring out over the forest like bells tolling a death when we slam them shut.

My heart climbs to my throat, making it ache with disappointment. The foolishness of the fire is still an open wound on my ego.

And as though Jackson can read my mind, he says, “The fire was inevitable. Don’t forget.” He’s right. The house would have burned whether from my hands or another’s or even nature’s. The mode doesn’t matter. The means were set in the stone of fate, and that’s that. No amount of doing it differently would’ve saved the house.

With careful steps, I make my way up the porch. The door stands open. The boards are warped by heat and broken under pressure. There, like a plant sprung from volcanic ash, is the blood hawthorn, defiant against the will of the fire. I don’t hate the bush, not anymore, but a tear falls when I realize how I’d felt before and the truth I remember now. None of it was personal. It was all simply a road to a destination, a way to get me where I needed to go. In a way, I love the bush now. Without it, I would’ve never been able to find Jackson. My mind would’ve never been able to start searching for what it was missing. And without the fire, I never would have retreated to Jackson.

But my heart aches at the charred remains. The house was a tribute to Grandmama, and even though she isn’t a part of the bigger story—the eternal story—she is a part of my heart. Her voice will forever guide me with warmth and wisdom.

Under the bush, like a phoenix, sits Walter’s lighter. The Ronson Veraflame shines against the sun like a mirror, prompting me to fetch it. I run my thumb over the strike, and it springs to life.

I smile, eyes wide. “It works!”

“What works?” Jackson asks from his place at the corner of the house where the roof meets bare ground. The flame torched the spring wildflowers in unrelenting heat, killing them.

I hold up the lighter and flash a toothy smile. “The thing that started the fire!” I arch my brow then amend. “Well, I guess I started the fire, but this is what I used. I thought it’d be lost.”

Jackson comes to me, a mark of soot on his jawline. He stands at the bottom of the steps. His head is just below my line of sight. I smooth my knuckle over his jaw to wipe the black away. His eyes sparkle, a light in the dark of the aftermath. I hold the lighter up for him to examine. Vintage things don’t hold the same space in his heart as they do mine, but he knows when he sees one.

“How old?”

“Um?” I screw up my lips, thinking. “Half a century, give or take?”

He doesn’t ask where I got it, another unspoken rule about keeping the past sacred. I slip it into my pocket. I shove my sleeves up. The warmth of the day is hot against the black of the burn site. The wind kicks a little, making leaves sing in the surrounding forest. I drop my arms around Jackson’s neck and pull him to my body. He leans in and kisses my neck. His arms find my waist. His hands search under the back of my sweatshirt.

His eyes swallow me, and I lose myself. His touch is the only thing keeping me from flying apart. The creak of wood on wood catches us from our reverie, and we look. A squirrel bounds over the blackened bones of the house, bits of something stuffed in its cheeks.

“Shall we check out the inside?” I ask, looking back to Jackson.

He nods. “Are you inviting me in?” He smiles. It’s silly, but the tease helps make the daunting reality manageable.

“Yeah, but I don’t have any coffee.” I pause, scrunching my nose. “Or anything for that matter.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You lead. I’m right behind you, Baby.” The name slips off his tongue like it’s the only one he’s ever used for me. And I like it. I’ve had lots of names over the years, but every name I’m given at the start of a new life is the one that seems to fit. I can’t explain it, but this time Baby is who I am, all I can imagine being.

The Hawthorn House doesn’t seem to hold any grudges when I enter. The door keeps hold of its hinges, and the floorboards feel oddly solid. The kitchen is mostly gone. The cabinets were chewed away by flame. The stone counter, still cracked from where Sam’s forehead hit it, lies on the floor. The bracing is eaten away from under it. The chopping block is charred heavily but still stands like a stubborn man, broad and proud.

The living room is gone aside from the fireplace. It’s blackened by smoke and flame but unblemished in any way that matters. The mantel hangs like a dark halo over the stone hearth. The framed picture of the woman, me, and her wolf, Jackson, sits untouched. The fire had no effect on the captured memory. I go to it and stare. The woman seems so far away, but so close and intimate at the same time. And now, as I look at the wolf, I don’t see anything but Jackson. His eyes are unmistakable even in the black and white rendering.

I feel Jackson move behind me. He reaches around and takes the photo. “It’s us.” He gasps. “I remember this. How is it here?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” And with that, I dart my eyes to the loft, the woman in that photo, me as well. Could it be okay too? I step away from Jackson and find the ladder to the loft is gone, a pile of debris marking the floor. I spin, looking for a way to get up there, landing on Jackson.

“Hey, give me a boost.” I cock my head to the loft.

He places the photo of us in another life back on the mantel and strides toward me. His hands reach down to form a foothold.

The loft is barely burned. The fire died out before it could take purchase on the sleeping nook. The photo of me staring at the camera with sharp eyes looks at me now, and I fish it from its safe place along the wall’s edge and my smoke-absorbed mattress. Tucking her—me—under my arm, I climb back into Jackson’s grip and to the floor. I give him the photo, and his eyes widen with nostalgia.

“Wow! I remember taking that.”

I smile, biting my lip, remembering now that the only way a girl could have this look in her eye is if her photographer was topless, which Jackson was. It was all I could do not to go to him. His lean body just beyond the camera was enough temptation to prompt the gleam in my eyes. After, we had the most magical night under a canopy of stars, the trees our only companions.

“That was your photographer phase.” I grin. “We had fun during that life, didn’t we?”

The memory floats into his eyes. He had asked me to model for him in every way imaginable, and I had fun doing it. That’s another thing about living multiple lives: you can be every version of yourself without limitation. The creative juices are like a well of unending flow.

“We should rebuild this place.”

The suggestion is like poetry put to music, and it warms my soul. He smiles, tips his face to mine, and nuzzles it. He’s my safe place, my home, and I miss him so much. The pain from my relationship with Derick is still raw in my past, but Jackson’s heart is gentle against that wound. And I let him be my rock now and my arrow to the future.

“Jackson.”

He looks at me, his eyes deep, oceans that even after all these lifetimes I have yet to find the bottom of.

“I love you.”

He crushes his mouth against mine. Our breath catches with the connection. His teeth and tongue search and feel. Mine move in response. Our hearts beat hard, the vibration of them finding each other in rhythm. His hands pull me to him hard. My arms press against his chest, the space tight, but I want to be closer, impossibly closer. The kiss slows. Our breath finds the break.

“I love you.”

The words blow into me like oxygen to a fire, and I burn.

Chapter 24

The woman and her wolf make a nice addition to Jackson’s place. He hangs the framed photo in the stairwell. The one of me standing in front of an unseen, shirtless Jackson gets the honored space above the fireplace. The image is haunting, a life long since lived, but still holds space in both of our souls.

I catch him studying the picture when I come out of the bathroom. The shower removed the smell of smoke and the soot on my skin. Concealed by a flowered chenille bathrobe, my body is pink from the hot water, making the freckles stand over my skin like a star-filled sky. My favorite kind of sky. The years when I’d not yet realized I preferred wilderness over the city were the saddest, leaving me with a longing that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. The city never drives me away. In fact, I’m almost always drawn to it pre-transformation. The animal is a trigger that always brings me to the wide-open spaces, high mountains, or low valleys. Either way, I can split my lives into the two categories: the time without my animal form— without Jackson—and the time with them. The animal and the man, two sides of a coin that complete me.

Barefoot, I walk to Jackson’s back and nuzzle into his still-smoke-filled shirt. He lets my arms find their way to his chest before he captures them with his hands. We stand there for a long time, with our hearts beating in unison. Again, two halves that make a whole.

The moon beats us to the punch, finding its place in the sky before we make it back to the house. It glows. The edges shimmer with the desire to grow full. White light bleeds over the world outside. The house is only lit with a faint lamp between the two club chairs, just enough to cast a soft glow over the me who stands above the mantel.

“Do you miss her?” I ask.

“Why would I miss her when she’s right here?” He pulls on my arm, bringing me to stand in front of him, the photo of me just beyond. His eyes search mine. “You are so beautiful.”

He moves his hands to my jaw and cups my face. My wet hair falls over his hands and wrists in waves of saturated red. The contrast of our tones softens when we come together.

I reach onto my tiptoes to reach his lips and kiss him. He holds me steady with his arms around my waist. My fingers plow through his loose black curls, landing on his neck, where they circle like the furled fronds of a young fern.

“So are you.” I smile, the woman in the photo coming to life in my bones. “Actually, I’d kinda like to look at you a little if you don’t mind.”

He pulls his lip between his teeth, thinking about what I just said, and grins knowingly. I take a step back and arch a brow, waiting. He reaches over his head and pulls the back of his shirt over and off. The lines of his body are like the ridges of this mountain, sharp, flowing from one to the next. His arms flex with the movement, and I giggle.

He looks at me cocking his head. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Please continue.” I clamp my mouth shut and force a smile. It simply moves to my eyes.

His tongue finds one of his canines, then he growls and rushes to me, grabbing me in a single swoop. My legs wrap around his narrow waist with ease. The robe falls away from them, giving us skin-to-skin contact. The ridges of his hips stand under my thighs like a staff holding the notes of a song. Passion overcomes us, and we let it take the lead. The night pours out like wine to hungry bellies, and when we’re finished, the world is that much more pleasant.

The shower runs for a second time. Only this time, we share the warm water until it’s cold, and we have to rush out. The chain of events is always the same: we find our animal form, then we find each other, and after some time, we re-learn control. The animal form is not tame, and it will kill if we don’t master it. Together, we’re stronger. Apart, it’s harder, but we do our best to stay out of temptation.

Considering the years we’ve lived, the number of people killed at our hands is small. Jackson, four. The first two were his mother and father, from a time near the beginning, if there ever was one. The earliest life he can remember. The transformation left him vulnerable with rage and bloodlust. His parents were casualties of inexperience. Then we discovered the love of a past partner can be confused with bloodlust. Jackson’s third victim was a woman he had loved for twelve years before turning. The night of his transformation, he killed her with the sweep of a paw to the throat, a mistake he still lives with. The fourth happened in an attempt to save another, the rescue ending with Jackson’s teeth at the open throat of a murderer.

Me? I have seven kills. Letting the attraction of love blur with the need to kill is apparently still something I mix up. Both nights I attacked Sam were because I’d confused desire with bloodlust. There were four other men not as lucky as Sam, who became victims of my transition, falling in love before only to die at my hand after. One of my kills was also a transgressor, a man who I discovered was beating his wife. This kill I planned, and my last was a girl, my sister. Never before or since have I had a sibling, and whether it’s a punishment or a safeguard, I’m grateful. Losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to live with.

Dressed in warm clothes to ward off the chill of the night, I follow Jackson into the cave entrance at the back of the house. A light runs the length of the tunnel like a missile silo. The high tech clashes with the primitive nature of the cave. The rocks give off a damp smell, humidity cranking up a notch with the spring water that runs through the mountain, a vein that feeds the house just behind the stone the house is built on.

“Can you control it yet?” I ask Jackson, realizing I haven’t asked when he found his animal form.

For all I know, he could’ve been waiting for me for years, decades even. The cave echoes with my question. Jackson’s footfalls don’t make a sound. There are things we retain. For him, stealth has always been a part of him, coded into his DNA. For me, it’s the power of smell, for better or worse, no matter when or if I find my animal form. During some lives, the heightened sense of smell felt more like a curse than an asset. During the dark ages, the Black Death bled rancid in the air for miles and miles from the disease, regardless of whether it invaded thousands of bodies or only one. It was all I could do not to go crazy, the smell of death at my sinuses with no way to rid my awareness of it. During that life, people would come to me for diagnoses and daily check-ins, hoping that I’d tell them they were safe, that death hadn’t come for them, but it always did. It took me three lifetimes to get over the memory of that smell: blood and disease eating away at flesh. Still, if I think on the memory too long, the sense memory drifts to the front of my mind, and I have to dunk my head in a bath of cold water to rid my brain of the evil.

Jackson eyes the tunnel. “I’ve been practicing, but you know how it is. Without you, the control is unreliable.”

He flashes me a look, and I nod. Control must have an anchor, and without each other, there is no tether.

“I thought we could work in here. There’s an exit about a mile that way.” He points. “But no one knows about this place, so we should be safe from unwanted eyes and ears. If one of us loses control, there should be plenty of room to knock them out before…” He doesn’t finish, but I know he means: before the risk of attacking an innocent.

Once turned, without control, the hunt can become overwhelming, leaving us slaves to the bloodlust. Here, now, Jackson and I put our trust in each other to keep the world safe from our animal brain while we work to break the animal to our human will. The battle to win dominance is real. Without training and control, our transformation will lead to bloodshed, and our human hearts are not designed to withstand such a cost. So we will train, we will lean on each other, and we will find balance, control, and submission.

“I’ll go first,” Jackson offers.

I’m grateful. He knows my shift is too new to pull on demand. But the show will prompt me to morph. I take in a breath, shaky and shallow. His transformation has always been stunning, the wolf bleeding from the man in a luxurious display of gray fur, teeth sharp enough to cut bone, and eyes the color of fire.

He shakes his head, centering his mind, and closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, long and steady. Then another breath, and another, this one bringing with it the wolf. He emerges with a flick of fur at Jackson’s neck. The fur quivers, rippling like grass in a powerful gale. Jackson snaps his eyes to me. They glow, fire against ice, the blue melting under the heat. His arms and legs transform into the strength of a beast. His head finds shape, teeth carving over his deep split jaw, saliva forming like honey over his canines. And then it’s finished. He stands tall, paw to shoulder, three feet high. And from nose to tip of tail, over six feet. He studies me with eyes I can’t deny are his. The control is incredible, and he takes a step toward me.

My heart thrashes in my ribcage. The cat inside me is desperate to be set free. Jackson stares at me. His eyes call me to follow, to shift. I look at my hand, the thorn prick marking my skin with a black dot. The strike of black rips up my arm. Control is nowhere to be found as fur and skin coil. My body takes the form of a cat, small in comparison to Jackson’s wolf body, but I am built for agility. My back feet are long, my muscles taut. I can feel the bands of them pulling tight, desperate to be let loose.

Jackson snorts, my sign to let the cat run. I push off, with my legs powering me forward like a bullet from a gun. The cave rushes past at the speed of light. Jackson is at my heels. His breath is a beacon at my ears. When I get too far, he nips my heels, a warning. I hiss. The cave resonates with my cry. The cat wants more, but I take Jackson’s direction and slow. The mouth of the cave yawns before us. The white of the moon’s light pours in. Just beyond it is Arbor Hill. Soon, the moon will be eclipsed. With the Earth’s shadow, my cat strength will be compromised, but tonight, I relish the power. The smell of a town filled with innocents pours over my head, my claws rip the ground, and my mind spins. Jackson barks a warning. I snap my cat eyes to him, and just as I’m about to relent, I catch an even stronger scent. Sam.

Chapter 25

My cat brain explodes with the smell of Sam, hot against my predator instincts. The cave gives way to the world outside. Spring air is warm against the fur I now have as a barrier against the dark. I blend like oil into the night. Jackson is quick, but with my hunting instinct triggered, I’m faster. The power of my legs drives me forward.

There are times when a past lover will become a fixed point for the hunt, a single glimpse of them on a current of air. Their scent is like fire drawing a line to where they are. It doesn’t always end in an attack. Most of the time, we have just enough of our human brain active to give the animal logic and clarity. But tonight, with Jackson newly restored to my heart and mind and Sam so fresh in my past, the scent is too hard to ignore. I run, the mountain giving way to my descent. Rocks and dust fly from the ground in tiny mushroom clouds when my paws land in force.

Sam must be out hunting as well. The smell of gunpowder, acidic, lies over the sweetness of his skin. The sharp tang of iron, like pure blood, drifts off the blades he carries. The bird that came to the Hawthorn House flitters through my mind like a feather on a string. Sam is a shapeshifter, much like us, although he has no bloodlust. Fate has called him to a different task—counterbalance. He exists to set the scale back into balance, to hold memories from every life even before the shift takes him. He is a constant in our ever-changing eternity. His world is filled with the weight of our mistakes and the rules of our existence. Jackson and Sam don’t always find themselves as brothers, and to be honest, I’m not even sure they are true brothers. But the magic that holds us to this life always finds a way to tether the two with the bond of brotherhood. They always grow together, learn together, and when Jackson and I find our transformation, Sam is there to rid the world of our brand of danger.

I know Sam in every life. Memories of him drop into place the deeper I settle into the cat, but feelings of romance toward him feel new. The attraction we shared pulls me to him like a habit. This compulsion is stronger than the times I hunted an old flame in the past. This is personal. The romance between us is a spark that will forever give me access to him, regardless of how far apart we are. The need for balance is finally being challenged to its core.

The forest swallows me with overhanging limbs and overgrown grass and bushes. I slow. The scent swims like a fish upstream. My eyes grab what moonlight they can through the canopy of pines, throwing night vision in front of me like a flashlight. My shoulder blades arch like points on wings as I crouch to the ground and sneak forward. My footfalls are silent, the stealth of the cat is a perfect match for the leaves and fallen branches on the forest floor.

Jackson catches up a moment after I have started my slow approach. I ignore him. We’ve hunted together before, and we’re good at it. His feet are practiced in their stealth, but I can feel his presence like the moon to the tide. He’s my anchor. A low grumble catches my sharp ears, and I know what it means. He wants me to stop. Now is not the time to confront Sam. We will get a chance, we always do, but we must learn control. We must develop our connection here in this life before we engage Sam. Before we let Sam challenge us.

A slight hiss sizzles through my teeth, irritation at his reminder. He’s always been good at the waiting. Me? Not even a little. He nudges my side with his wolf head, coaxing me to go with him, to let him help me come down off my high. I take another step. The smell of Sam is everywhere, like a volcano has erupted. Something isn’t right. I should be able to pinpoint his location. Jackson senses it, too. A growl vibrates from his throat, not at me but at the indistinguishable smell of Sam.

The fur along my spine lifts into a ridge of spikes. My tail fluffs, doubling its size. When Jackson has a reason to be on edge, I know it’s justified. Every one of my senses heightens to a level so clear I can barely feel my body anymore. We freeze, our legs mid-stride, our ears the only thing moving, twisting to find Sam, or whatever is causing the over-saturation of blood in the air. Then I see, blood covers the trees in every direction, Sam’s blood. My fur bristles. Jackson notices, too. He drops his forefoot to the ground. The leaves underfoot let out a pungent stench, more blood.

My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free from my chest. Has Sam been killed? If so, by what or—my head spins—by who?

I click to get Jackson’s attention, then let my nose test out the air around me. Faint, under the screen of spilled blood, is another scent, this one thick with fear and death. Jackson glances at me, and I can see in his eyes. There’s something else, something even more dangerous than the test that is Sam. Whatever this is, it’s here to end us. And it most likely has already killed Sam. Sadness floats off Jackson in a wave of grief. He’s mourning the possible death of his brother, not the one who has been sent to challenge our control, but the one he grows up with in every life. The brother he falls out with in every life.

I can’t let it end this way. We have to find Sam, have to bring him home, bury him, something. Jackson needs closure. I let the moon give me vision and sweep the ground. There’s no way his body isn’t here in the middle of this blood bath. And there, under a young elm, is Sam. Blood still flowing from his veins into the ground, he’s alive, but just barely. I give a click to show Jackson where to look and another in warning. It could be a trap.

Jackson goes first, his paws gentle over the forest floor. Decay and rot from the long winter, mixing with the new growth of spring, give under his weight. I stay rigid at the edge of bloody sight, waiting to see anything Jackson might’ve missed, waiting to warn or help. When Jackson gets to Sam’s body, he nuzzles him, finding no sign of life aside from the beat of his heart that is desperately trying to pump what little blood has left through his veins. Jackson grabs Sam by the shoulder. The sound of teeth cutting flesh finds my ears. The bite is a necessary evil to get Sam over Jackson’s back. Sam’s arms fall to one side. Jackson takes one of them in his mouth to keep Sam from slipping off and starts his slow escape from the horror.

When Jackson and Sam are next to me, I turn and follow. Our return to Jackson’s house is painstakingly slow. Blood draws a harsh line over our path. Every few seconds, I turn to look, curious what must’ve happened and where the person is who did this. My brain claws over possibilities. A human hunter that made a mistake, an animal looking for a kill, a new hunter from the same magic that sent Sam—one to make good on his duties, to make up for Sam’s leniency. Our history bobs through my head, all the times Sam turned his attention away to let us go, to give us a second chance. And now, maybe, he’s been replaced.

The speculation grows sure in my gut with evidence I conjure with each step toward the forest’s edge. A sound that almost belongs but is just a frequency too supernatural, pricks me, and I spin on my heels. A hiss rips from my throat, and Jackson barks frantically a few paces beyond me. Sam is strung over his now bloody back. I let out another cry, telling Jackson to go, to get Sam to safety. I can feel Jackson hesitate. Then, with another shrill cry from my mouth, he goes.

In the shadow of the trees, a pair of eyes watches me with such fixation I know they’ve been following us. The creature moves with the shadows, and I realize the only way to have any chance of fighting it is to lure it into the moon’s light. I hiss, then run. My legs carry me in the opposite direction from Jackson. If he needs to find me, he can. We’re tied together by more than scent. I bound over rocks and logs. My claws dig deep into trees as I launch myself forward, cutting through the forest at full speed.

When I get to the opening where an old forest fire burned several years before, I stop. And just as quickly, before I can even turn to see if the beast has followed me, I’m slammed to the ground. A rip at my side blows fire through my nerves, and I feel every pain I’ve ever felt in every life I’ve lived at the same time. Seconds feel like lifetimes as I try to recover, try to find my footing, and identify where my attacker is.

Standing on hind legs is a massive, ten-foot-tall bear. His claws hang like curved blades at his wide paws. Teeth stand white against the moon. His fur is reddish with a mark of black over his throat. My heart plummets to my stomach as my will to fight cowers against the sight of my attacker. I scream a guttural cry that ripples over the treetops, making the pines quiver. In return, the bear roars. I shrink back at the force, knowing there is no way I can win this fight alone.

Chapter 26

Just as the bear drops back to all fours, a growl rips through the clearing. Jackson. A gray flash of fur flies through the air. Without a single thought for his own safety, he lands on the bear’s back. The bear roars, bowing against the attack. I don’t need direction with Jackson’s leap of faith. I know what my job is. I will fight with him, no questions asked. My cat legs launch me toward the bear. My claws find purchase on the beast’s giant arm. The bear shrugs, flinging me to the trees. My shoulder cracks against a redwood that stands wide and solid. I fall to the tree’s base and whimper. Jackson thrashes. The bear is too big to force into submission. Jackson’s teeth and claws are no match for the bear’s thick fur and dense muscles.

It takes everything I have, but I let a guttural cry rip from my throat. The call reaches Jackson’s ears despite how deep in the battle he is. There’s no hope. The bear is too big, too powerful. We have to retreat if we want to survive. With my cry, Jackson launches himself at the bear’s face. His teeth meet the bear’s eyes, and he bites wildly. Blood spills like overflow from a pond, red seeping over dark fur. Jackson takes advantage and jumps away. He comes to me on the ground. My ribs are broken, and my shoulder is shattered.

With haste void of gentleness—there isn’t time—he grabs me with his teeth. Pain rips through my body, and he pulls me to my feet. We run, my foreleg tucked up to my chest. The way is long, but with the bear’s vision damaged, we make it.

The cave welcomes us with relief, and I slow to a walk. My shoulder is tender when I drop my foot to limp the rest of the way. Jackson shifts, his clothes replacing his fur, and he comes to me. I don’t shift. The damage to my bone structure is too severe to let the transformation take place. Jackson eyes me. My ability to communicate with him now that he’s human is obsolete. But he watches me with blue eyes, judging how to approach. The bones need to be set and bound before they can heal. Only after they do will I be able to shift back to human.

Jackson pick me up,wrapping an arm across my chest and another behind my legs. He carries me like a pet into the house, placing me on the floor. I cry with the movement. Gently but with deliberation, Jackson goes to work. He places a hand on my shoulder and shoves his body weight against the break. A snap resonates through the house with a ring off the windows. I hiss, letting him know that, in this moment, I hate him.

“Okay, you don’t like that. I get it. But we need to set all the breaks before they start healing if you don’t wanna have to rebreak anything,” he says.

I growl, lifting my lip to show my sharp canine. He’s right, but my cat brain promises to bite him if he hurts me again.

It takes several minutes to move the bones back to where they belong. Jackson hurries, doing his best to make the task as quick as possible while also keeping himself safe from the snap of my cat teeth. The adjustment is agonizing. I scream with each push, but when Jackson is finished, the pain relents, and my body heals quickly.

Moments later, I’m shifted back to my human self, stretching my arm over my head to relieve the tension. The question of what the beast in the forest was and why it wanted to kill us hangs in the air unspoken. I start to open my mouth when Jackson speaks.

“Sam’s in the bedroom, just so you know.” His eyes flick to me, a hint of worry like he’s somehow betrayed my trust. I know the bond between Jackson and Sam is a strong one, and I’ve never challenged it. I’ve never had to before now.

With the confession, I realize I can smell Sam’s wounds. I’ll never expect Jackson to turn his back on his brother, especially not when he’s in this state. “Of course.” I pause, sad that Jackson feels he has to defend his choice to save his brother. “Is he okay?” I offer, hoping to ease the tension. I want Jackson to know that I will always pick him, and right now, that means picking Sam.

“He lost a lot of blood, but I got him hooked to an IV before I came back for you.” He falls silent.

I know he doesn’t like the way it sounds like he’s put Sam before me.

I step toward him. “Jackson, Sam needed help. You did the right thing.” My shoulder hurts more than the heartbreak, but I ignore the flash of pain and reach around Jackson’s neck. “You had to save him, I understand.”

Jackson’s blue eyes find mine, and he blinks. Tears blur, looking for a way to escape. Then he drops his forehead to mine and shudders. “What was that, out there?”

I shake my head. Our world has been threatened in a way that we’ve never known in all the lives we’ve lived over the past eternity. “I don’t know.”

A hush falls over us, and I know that there’s a new magic at play, one we have never known. A moan floats to our ears from the bedroom, and Jackson pulls away, turning to the balcony above.

The fissure in my heart widens as I watch him walk up the steps to his brother, the worry that Sam won’t make it digging deep. I know what it feels like to lose a sibling, and I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone. Maybe it’s the connection Sam and I had, even if it was brief, but despite the pressure he’s put us under over all the other lives we have crossed paths, I care about him. Jackson needs him to live, and now, so do I.

The house is quiet aside from Jackson’s whispered footfalls and Sam’s ragged breathing. I busy myself making tea with honey scraped from a honeycomb. The smell saturates my nose, forcing me to think about the bear that no doubt lingers in the wilderness, waiting. I don’t know why it didn’t follow us. Our scent most definitely carves a path from the clearing straight to us.

When Jackson comes back down, I hand him a warm cup, and he sips, steam drifting over his face in a tiny cloud.

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.

Jackson nods, the look of concern still there. Hope floats to me when he exhales, tea and honey on his breath, and I believe him. We stand, face-to-face, grief of the unknown heavy in the air. I reach out a hand and take his. He lets our fingers intertwine before drawing our embrace to his face, leaning his cheek against my fingers. The touch is so soft, so gentle, I want to gather him up and hold him. But when I lean toward him, he twists me into his arms and holds me instead.

The moment is a mix of relief and worry, and I bury my face into his neck and inhale. In turn, he drops his nose to my head and drags in a staggered breath. Our hearts find each other in rhythm, and we wait.

Chapter 27

The fever burns Sam alive, the shapeshifting magic doing its best to heal his broken body. Heat floods off him down the stairs, finding me no matter where in the house I go. Jackson keeps a fresh supply of ice packs tucked around his body to keep his temperature down. The moon falls and rises again and again until a week has passed. The recovery is quick considering the extent of Sam’s injuries. Breaks and lacerations cover his body in so many places. It was hard to know where to start when it came time to bandage him.

Nights come and go. Jackson and I wonder if and when the bear will find its way to our doorstep. Worry saturates every moment of our existence as we work to keep Sam alive. The magic in his bones is persistent, and eventually, he wakes. My heart thuds when I hear him groan, my eyes flashing to Jackson, who’s just closed the freezer with a new ice pack in hand. Jackson flies up the steps to the bed. I stay put, listening for what’ll come next, holding my breath in hope.

Sam whimpers first, then screams. Words fall from his mouth, panic rendering them incomprehensible. I clamp my eyes shut and brace myself against the wall, with the bedroom just overhead. Every part of my body is frozen because even though I want to go to Jackson, this moment belongs to him and his brother. The bond between them is what Sam needs right now, and no amount of attraction Sam and I found during this life is strong enough to penetrate the confusion of seeing me right now. The need to kill, to hunt, would flood his system to the point of overwhelm, and he’d go into shock. So I wait. Jackson will let me know when it’s time, when my presence is necessary, and even if he never calls me, I will wait.

The sun descends. The sky bleeds hot orange, snaked through with red when Jackson comes down. The screaming has subsided. Only groans of defeated exhaustion find my ears now.

“Is he okay?” I whisper.

Jackson drops the melted ice pack back in the freezer. He nods, with his shoulders slumped. “The fever has broken. Now he just needs to rest. The healing is almost complete.”

A frown forms between my brows when I see the toll this trial is taking on Jackson. The line of love and hate for a brother who exists only to keep him from his soulmate is being challenged in a way it never has been before. The threat of death brings to light a new depth of the love he has for his brother. Oddly, it’s doing the same for me, only in a more roundabout way. I would give almost anything to keep Jackson from having to watch his brother go through this pain, not because of my love for Sam but because of my love for Jackson. I wrap my arms around Jackson and let him fall into me. His body is weak from trauma. Tomorrow, the lunar eclipse will weaken both of us, and I worry. The bear is still out there, and if we aren’t at our best, it will no doubt sense our weakness and come in for the kill.

Come dawn, the moon seeks the shelter of the mountains, and the sun rises again. Pink strikes the muted blue of the morning sky. Jackson’s chest is pressed hard against my back as we lie on the couch. His arm is draped over me like a cocoon. I twist until we’re face-to-face, careful not to push him to the floor. He shifts, his eyes fluttering open, my movement waking him.

“Morning.” I smile.

His eyes are a clear blue with the early morning light.

He moans, nuzzling his face to my neck. “Go back to sleep,” he says, voice muffled against the slope under my jawline.

I drag my arm to what little space is left between us and let my hands lie flat against the harness of his chest. His breath finds rhythm with his heartbeat as he starts to fall back to sleep.

I clamp my eyes shut, happy to be here with him, my world set back on its axis with him in it. It doesn’t matter that Sam is upstairs, that a new beast has been unleashed to hunt for our demise, none of it. Jackson here with me, the two of us in each other’s embrace, is the only thing that counts, and I let myself have it. The lunar eclipse will come tonight, and with it, a weakness that we have experienced many times before and will many times after. But even still, together, we are better. I pull back and study his beautiful face, the slice of his jaw, the curl of his black hair against his tawny skin, and the rim of lashes that press against his cheeks. I miss him so much, even being so close. I can feel his heart against mine. I miss him. All the days we were apart are like a chasm I’ll never be able to cross, time that’s impossible to catch up with. I lean back into him, with his face at my neck, and pray that this life is long enough to at least give us the chance to try.

Bed sheets rustle, and Sam’s bare feet hit the floor. I listen as he makes his way to the steps. He clears his throat when he gets to the bottom.

I take a deep breath. “Jackson.” I nudge Jackson with my cheek to wake him. “Sam’s awake.”

The couch doesn’t offer much room for grace, so I hold Jackson as he turns to get up.

“There’s food in the fridge. You hungry?” Jackson says making his way to the kitchen not waiting for Sam to answer.

The tension between them is like that of estranged siblings. Which I guess they are. They most likely haven’t been close since childhood. The magic always drives a wedge between them when they hit their teen years, sooner even, if the transformation is realized sooner. Sam nods, with his hair a mess from the days in bed and his gait stiff from the healing. He follows Jackson to the kitchen at a distance, and I can see a slight tattoo peeking from under the tank he wears. A white bird in flight over his shoulder blade, his shape of choice. He is the sparrow. The movement of his arms as they swing makes the bird move over the bone like it’s flying.

I keep to the couch as Jackson gathers a spread for Sam. He brings me a bowl of yogurt with granola and berries, a favorite of mine in every lifetime, and my stomach growls with the first bite. We eat in silence. Jackson sits next to me. His body is so close I shield him from Sam, who stands next to a barstool at the bar. Jackson places his hand on the small of my back. The touch anchors me.

“Do you remember anything about the attack the other day? What it was?” he asks.

I watch Sam as I stir the yogurt around my bowl.

Sam takes a bite of lox rolled with cream cheese and capers, swallows, then says, “Another shapeshifter, it came out of nowhere. A new player in the game, I think.”

Game. My heart thuds at the idea that the bear is here for Jackson or me. And I wonder if Sam worries that the bear might be here for him—a new weight in the balance of our existence.

Chapter 28

“Tonight’s eclipse is an Eternal Moon,” Sam says from his place on the couch across from Jackson and me. His voice is grim, a contrast to the color that is returning to his face. He’s healing quickly.

Eternal? I ponder what this might mean. Every eclipse brings with it a special kind of hindrance to our shapeshifting, but this sounds unusually ominous.

“What does that mean for us?” I ask.

“You won’t be able to turn,” Sam says.

The words hit me like an avalanche, ripping me like a tree from the ground, from the security of what I have always known. My skin pricks with nervous sweat, and I swallow dryly.

The lunar eclipse has always meant weakness for us. We are still able to turn, but our strength is always compromised. Every other life, we have had to survive Sam’s hunt by hiding. The Earth’s shadow on the moon gives Sam the advantage in a fight. Hundreds of lunar eclipses have ended with either Jackson or me dead at Sam’s hand, only to have the cycle start again. In some lives, we find each other and live together a long time, while in others, we barely learn about the threat before dying. Either way, having to start again is the worst kind of torture. I only just found him.

This time, though, for the first time in our existence, Sam is not hunting us. He’s helping us. The bear is the hunter, and the three of us are at the mercy of the Eternal Moon.

“What about you?” I ask, worry clouding my head. I can’t help but care about him, fear for his life. He almost died only days ago at the hands of the bear.

Sam looks at me, the same eyes that made me melt only days before I found Jackson, staring with an intensity that could easily be confused with desire. I blink, trying to hold my ground. My connection with Jackson is too strong to shake, but still, it’s a pull I can’t ignore. I flash my attention to Jackson, hoping to find my anchor in him. Hardly a second passes, and the flash of blue forces me to remember the truth of who my mate is. I sigh a breath of relief and wait. Jackson’s the needle of my compass, the one who guides me.

Jackson nods, reading me with ease, then looks past me as I tip my head down in submission. “Sam, you should stay for the eclipse.”

My eyes widen in thanks to Jackson for voicing the one thing I knew I couldn’t express, the need for Sam’s safety.

Sam adjusts his footing, scuffing the floor. His heartbeat finds my ears as it slows into a steady rhythm. I don’t have to look to know he’s nodding, accepting the offer.

“We need to go over a plan, what we’re gonna do about the bear. None of us are safe and—” He pauses, drawing my attention. Dread swirls in his dark eyes. “If he kills any of us, that’s the end.”

My heart pounds. “What do you mean, the end?”

“You won’t come back. This life will have been your last.” A grievous look envelopes his entire body.

I want to go to him, hug him, tell him that it can’t be true, that our lives will simply reset. That this, like any other death, will only be a setback, not the end. But I freeze. Sam is the only one who never forgets. He is blessed and cursed with every memory, from every life, start to finish. He knows his fate even before Jackson has realized his, and the pull to stand in the way of his brother and his true love guides him from the time of birth until death. A singular goal that makes bonding and love and living his own life impossible. So when he says there are new rules to this game that is our life, I don’t question him. I simply wait for him to explain them.

“How do we fight this?” Jackson knows, too, that Sam is the only one who can comprehend the severity of what’s to come. He’s the only one who can guide us if we’re to have any chance of living.

“The bear was summoned by the Eternal Moon. If he kills any of us, we’ll die forever, no next life,” Sam says.

I grow rigid thinking about the finality of not having another life to fall back on.

“You won’t be able to turn, but you will have your strength. The eclipse will hide your transformation, but it will draw out your animal strength.”

I frown, my brows crowding together. “What about the bear? Will he be human?” The question again seems futile. How can we prepare against something that holds the power to end our eternal existence? I ask anyway, searching for anything to give hope.

“He’ll be in animal form unless he chooses to shift. But his strength will be the same as you experienced the other night.” Sam sighs.

“Which, if we’re gonna be honest, was impossibly strong,” Jackson adds next to me. His hand finds my leg, where he takes up my hand and tangles his fingers around mine in an absentminded attempt to be closer. The idea of being separated forever is too much to keep him from seeking the closeness we both crave.

“If we stay together and fight, there is a chance we can make it out alive. If not all of us, at least some or one of us. The way I see it, the life of just one of us is worth the risk.” Sam runs his hand over his face.

I know he understands the connection between Jackson and me. But the truth is, if Jackson were to die, our connection would sever, and I’d die, too.

I give a sad smile. “I’m in,” I say, squeezing Jackson’s hand. This life has bound me to Sam in a way I’ve never experienced, and right now, I do believe that if he were the only one to survive, it’d be worth it.

Jackson squeezes my hand back in agreement. “Me too.”

“There are a few other rules if you will.” Sam throws his hands up in air quotes. This existence has always had rules. You can’t have eternal life without balance.

“Shit, of course, there are.” Jackson looks at his brother as though he’s deliberately making it difficult, even though we all know we’re simply playing the parts we’ve been assigned, acting out our nature. With some things, choice has no place.

“Would you like to hear them, or would you rather figure it out as you go?” Sam looks pointedly at Jackson, stress wearing his patience thin.

Jackson leans back, conceding.

Sam continues. “Not only will you not come back if you die, but if any one of us does manage to survive, this will be their last life.” This is part of the burden Sam carries, knowing everything from the start, all of fate’s dirty tricks.

My heart shutters. This is the last life we will live, regardless of whether or not we defeat the bear. Fear rips through me like a branding iron, and I choke. “Why?”

“Balance.” Sam shrugs, defeated. His voice is a low hush.

Chapter 29

I hear Jackson talking to Sam from the other room, and by the time I enter, Sam has made himself scarce.

“I asked him to give us a minute.” Jackson reaches for me, his hands gentle. The length of his fingers encircles my wrist with ease as he pulls me to him. “If this really is as dire as he says, I can’t die without…” He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t have to.

Our mouths draw close, warming the space between us, but our lips don’t touch. My breath beats out of me like butterflies fluttering in the wind. Jackson’s chest hammers against mine. The air from his lungs is sweet to my senses when I draw it in. Then our mouths meet. The kiss is long and hard.

The threat of death drives me to lean in, to give him my whole mouth, to let my body press into his. He licks my lips, his tongue slipping between my teeth, imploring me to let him have me. I do. We only just found each other, but if this is the last time we’re together for the rest of eternity, I want to know I didn’t hold back, didn’t leave any part of him undiscovered.

The counter is unyielding when I shove Jackson against it. He reaches under my backside and lifts me, twisting to set me on top of the stone. His hips are sharp against the inside of my thighs. All the lives I’ve lived are not enough to satisfy my need to feel him, to love him, to enjoy him. But this moment will be the conclusion of the epic romance we’ve chased for an eternity.

Jackson moans, with his mouth at my neck, my head tipped back, and my hand under his shirt to feel all the beautiful lines that make up his chest. With a tug, I have him shirtless, and I drop my gaze to memorize every sharp line, every hard slope. I reach around, dig my fingers into his back, and pull him closer, our bodies painfully divided.

“Please,” I whisper.

He nods, scooping me into his arms, my legs finding purchase at his hips, my ankles locking to keep me close. The way to the bedroom is too long, but I want it to last forever so it’ll never be over. Jackson carries me with ease, keeping silent in reverence. Then we’re at the bed. The drop to the sheets feels like a fall off a cliff until Jackson meets me again.

He pulls a strand of my hair between his forefinger and thumb. It curls at the touch. I look past the caress to his blue eyes and study them. The light brown of his skin is dark where his stubble has grown in. I like him this way, unkempt and wild. It makes me want to push him to be wild with me. The cat purrs inside of me, enjoying the wolf that resonates inside him.

Jackson slowly undresses me, taking in every second, every movement of my body, until I lie pale against his dark sheets.

Chapter 30

The sun sets, bathing the evening in blood red. The moon makes its way to the apex of the sky, where the stars stand as spectators. The eclipse is already having its effect on our ability to turn. My body feels heavy. The urge to shift teeters on the edge of my control, unavailable when I try to tap into it. There’s no way to satisfy the need to let the cat take over. The pull hums in my bones, letting me know that the full eclipse is only hours away.

Sam stands in the cave with his pistol at his hip and several daggers sheathed at his legs, looking ready for a fight. Jackson and I are unfamiliar with hand-to-hand combat. The need was never necessary. Even when we were weaker during previous eclipses, our ability to shift always made up for our shortcomings in strength. The animal teeth, claws, and reflexes were always more than enough to keep us safe. But tonight, we’ll be human. Strength will be on our side, but it won’t matter if we don’t know how to use our human bodies to fight.

“You’ll need to carry some sort of weapon, probably a knife. A gun takes a considerable amount of accuracy to wield. A knife is the most similar to claws, and you already know how to swipe a mean fist, so I’d say that’s your best bet.” Sam looks at the box in front of him. It’s a military-grade metal container with heavy latches.

The clink of metal on metal feels ominous when he opens it, and I cringe.

Jackson’s eyes light up, the blue glowing with the wolf inside wanting to be set free, but bound by the eclipse. He always has a little wolf in his gaze, a nature I’ve always found breathtakingly stunning. Sam steps aside to let Jackson pick his blades, then hands him sheaths to strap them to his body. While Sam shows Jackson how to strap one leather sheath to his thigh and another across his back, I take my place in front of the box.

There are dozens of blades, and they gleam as if to have a light source all of their own. There are curved ones and short-wide ones. One is longer than my arm, and I wonder how heavy it might be. I take it. The strength of the cat inside me bolsters my muscles. The sword is heavy but easy to lift with the strength I possess under the Eternal Moon. My hand grips the hilt, and my heart pounds. It’s a beautiful weapon, something that I’d like to take the time to properly learn to use—if I survive. Sam steps behind me. His body is warm in a way I’ll never forget from our brief attraction, and he helps me into a sheath that splays across my back, with the straps crisscrossing my chest. He pulls the straps tight, and my posture straightens, shoulders back, chest up with the support. I catch sight of my reflection in the stainless-steel door and marvel at the way I look like a video game character.

“Here, I found these at an estate sale a while back and thought of you.” Sam holds out a pair of gloves sporting what look like claws, tiny curved blades at the knuckles. “When you flex a fist, they’ll act much like your cat’s claws.”

They’re beautiful, but wicked, and I can’t help but think of the life they must have lived before this one. He straps my wrists with simple buckles that can be lifted and slipped away for quick release.

“Thank you.” It’s all I know how to say.

They just might save my life, and Sam giving them to me elicits a mix of both closure and the love I have for him in this life. The feelings are hard to discern. I don’t want to slip, so I just smile and hope he knows how I feel. He’s become important to me, so important that I know in a different world, he and I could’ve been more than this. We could’ve been each other. Sam nods, letting his eyes fall to the ground. He takes a step back and busies himself with the metal box. The sound of metal grinds as he shuts it, pulling the latches closed.

Jackson comes up behind me, slipping his hands around my waist, feeling the way the straps of the sheath fit over my back. “You look really good.”

The comment is playful, and I laugh.

“We don’t have time for that,” I whisper, wishing for all the world we did. The last time for anything is never enough.

Jackson groans. “We might.”

I turn and look deep into his eyes. They are glaciers. The blue is almost white, with light filtering through to the surface. He is my dream, and I never want to be without him. We all have to survive this test. And for the first time, I believe that together, we can do it. We can win this fight. The bear is strong, impossibly so, but together, we’re a unit. And that’s what’ll give us the edge.

Jackson grins, his mouth turning up wickedly at the corners. He kisses me with abandon, the pressure and openness of his mouth making me want more, making the cat pace inside me like a hungry animal in a cage.

Sam clears his throat from across the room. “She’s right. There isn’t time.” He isn’t being an ass, just honest.

The moon is only an hour away from its apex. When it reaches it, we’ll step out into the night and hunt the beast that has come to threaten our existence.

Jackson snaps his eyes to Sam, raw anger flashing for a second, but he softens when I reach up and place my palm to his jaw.

“We survive this, we can do anything we want for the rest of our lives,” I say, hoping to keep the wolf in Jackson from turning on our own.

A slight growl resonates from Jackson’s throat in warning, but I know his human mind understands. This battle is us against what fate has in store, and we need to stay together. I pull his mouth to mine and kiss. The blue of his eyes clears, and I see him again.

I nod. “We can do this.”

Chapter 31

The chill of the night air bites at my skin. The weather is impossibly cold for spring. Jackson falls behind me, and Sam flanks my right. The triangle is animal and untaught—instinct. Our breath hangs as we steady our bodies to what we’re about to ask of them. We don’t have to speak. The movement through the forest is instinct-driven. The cat in me is heightened even though my human body is still present. I snap my eyes to Sam. He feels it too. The world is crisp with sharp bits of information. I don’t need to turn to see if Jackson feels it. He’s always possessed the ability to sense his surroundings. Even in human form, the wolf is never too far off to lend a keen eye or ear.

My boots crunch on the rocks as I move over the gravel and boulders that make up Jackson’s wilderness backyard. The mountain is steep but familiar. The cat gives me access to every animal’s path that walked this area over the last month, turning the mountainside into a map of sorts. I can sense every slope, every crevice, every outcropping. The wild animals of the forest have taken shelter. They know there’s something out there, something otherworldly.

We stop, and the height of the mountain gives us a world view of what lies below. Each of us surveys the land for clues, anything to give us sight.

The hair on my neck prickles, and I jerk my head to Jackson and Sam. “You catch that?”

A thread of air that smells of death. Not like something or someone has died, but like death itself is upon us. They nod in agreement. Sam pulls his pistol from the holster and draws it to his line of sight.

He cocks his head and takes the lead. Jackson moves to his side, and I find the rear. We move as though we’ve hunted together before, and it feels right, like we are an ever-expanding fortress, conquering the land as we go. The threat of death slips over the mountain and down into the valley like blood from a wound. I had wondered why the bear hadn’t come to our door, demanding our acceptance of his challenge after the moment in the woods. He’s been scoping the territory, readying for the battle, waiting for the Eternal Moon and the disadvantage it brings us. My blood chills, and I force myself to ignore the truth that the bear is far more prepared than we are.

The moon slides behind the Earth’s shadow, the eclipse finding its full glory. A fine sliver of light circles the dark spot in the sky, with stars blinking nervously around it. The sun does its best to light the moon despite the Earth’s interference. It’s an odd sight, a glow of blue—the color of Jackson’s eyes—floods the sky in a shock, temporarily illuminating the ground and snuffing out the stars. Then it’s gone, replaced by a red so dark it looks like a pool of spilled blood.

Under his breath, Jackson whispers, “Shit.”

My body shivers in response. The Eternal Moon’s display is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in all the lives I’ve lived. No doubt scientists and religious leaders alike will have words to say come tomorrow. I swallow hard. The air grows colder the deeper we trek into the forest. The eclipse is nearly blocked by the tree cover. Our triangle moves into a tight formation, with Jackson at my side and Sam only a step ahead.

Death is something that, once realized, is welcomed. The victim succumbs to its persuasions almost willingly, sleep or exhaustion, followed by the surrender of soul and spirit. I’ve felt the pull a thousand times over my eternity. But in this moment, death feels less like a sweet release and more like a challenge, a schoolyard bully pestering until you no longer have the strength to fight, forcing you to yield. My chest hammers with panic.

The bear lumbers out from the tree line on the other side of the clearing. The river divides the two sides of our final stand.

It lets out a roar that makes the trees quake. Sam takes aim and pulls the trigger. Time seems to slow. The bullet catches my vision like a shooting star meeting the bear with a spray of blood. Then again and again. The bullets find their mark with ease. Blood and fur fly away from the beast upon each contact. The bear growls in protest, gnashing his teeth in the air. The Eternal Moon glows red over the clearing as the eclipse begins to wane. My cat vision kicks in. I can see each and every bullet hole, the red marks they paint on the bear, but he doesn’t stop.

I clench my hands into fists, the claw-like daggers flashing violently. Jackson reaches to his thigh and pulls two blades, then jumps across the river with an easy grace that belongs to an animal and makes him look surreal in his human form. My heart races. I have to stay by his side. It’s the only way to make sure our fate is the same. Live or die, we’ll do it together.

I crouch, digging my heels into the moist dirt surrounding the river, and push. I fly through the air. The cat gives me power and stealth. My human legs find the adaptation easy. Wind blows through my hair, making it look like fire in the night. Sam follows, his gun holstered, a sword pulled from his back. The three of us land, dirt and grass scattering upon impact. Like a dance, Sam and Jackson spin on the beast. The blades of their weapons flick against the moon’s light as it begins to return. The Earth’s shadow falls away as though it’s giving up its pursuit for dominance.

The clearing slowly turns from red to white as the moon finds its place in the sky once again. The cat in me is still held at bay with the lingering pull of the eclipse. The effects will last until noon the next day. So, I ready myself, with the daggers at my knuckles, sharp and poised. I launch myself at the bear. His body is harder than it looks, nearly knocking the air from my lungs when we collide. Jackson slashes the beast’s legs, blood punctuating every slice. Sam twists and turns, his training giving him an advantage. He ducks under the bear as a huge claw-ridden paw swipes the air, just missing his neck. The black of Sam’s hair tosses as he dodges the attack.

A scream drives from Jackson’s mouth straight to my ears when the bear spins on him, shoving him to the ground. Something snaps, and I whip my eyes to Jackson on the ground, with my chest squeezing. I know he’s hurt. How bad, I’m not sure. It takes everything I have to keep my grasp on the bear as he thrashes and bucks, burrowing my hands deep in the fur of his back. Sam wields his sword like an extension of himself. The beast roars with every landed blow. I scramble to his head, using my claws to keep him from tossing me to the ground. Jackson stands to his feet far below me and I let out a breath of relief that he’s okay, and force myself to focus.

Cinching my legs tight around the bear’s neck, I throw my fists across his skull. The claw-like daggers break the skin until blood and fur are all I can see. The bear shakes his head viciously. I am but a fly to him. I throw my hands into the air and bring them down hard and fast. The daggers find the bear’s eyes. I dig until I hear metal on bone, then pull my hands away. Blood covers me with the smell of death, slick and sticky. I fumble with the buckles to release the gloves, tossing them to the ground and freeing my hands.

Jackson is standing now. He races to the beast, guiding the blades in his hands with precision. Sam continues to slice and dig. Tendons snap, bones grind, and the bear growls. The forest turns into a blood bath. How long can the bear take this, I wonder? Our attack is violent and unmatched for his counter. He raises to his hind legs and drops again to all fours, tumbling me to the forest floor. A tree meets me with such force I hear a rib crack. A whimper falls from my mouth breathlessly.

Sam reaches for his pistol, a new magazine inserted. He runs to the beast, launches himself to meet its head, grabs hold, and shoots. Twelve shots all ring against my hearing, with the sound of Sam’s body struggling to hold tight, to keep the gun between the bear’s eyes. A headshot, is this what will finally bring the bear to the ground?

The moon now stands proud, illuminating the mess we’ve made. I shove myself to stand, pain slicing at my lungs. Air tries to find them, but fails when I can’t breathe through the pain. Jackson has sliced open the bear’s belly. Intestines threaten to fall from their safe place behind the shield skin and fur. My heart skips a beat as I watch the bear falter, his wounds too severe for him to keep going. We’ve won. The fight is all but finished. Sam clings to the bear’s face, nearly unrecognizable, only teeth and fur.

Sam studies the bear, waiting for his surrender to death. The bear slows, his feet stumbling against the ground, with rocks making him stagger. A fallen tree tips him, and he starts to fall. Sam looks to the ground, then jumps. When he lets go, the bear reaches for him, driving his long claws through Sam’s side and out through his chest.

Air yanks out of my mouth in a scream. Jackson whips his attention to me, then follows my line of sight to Sam. Blood bubbles up in Sam’s mouth, coloring his teeth bright red. Shock flashes in his dark eyes, and I reach to my back and grab the sword he put there. I swipe it twice, then force my legs to launch me to the bear. My lungs scrape against my broken rib with each breath I take, but I haul myself toward the beast as he tries to catch his footing. My blade finds his heart. The flash of moonlight glints on the edge of my sword as I drive it in to the hilt, my hands burying into the bear’s flesh. Blood hits me, hot and vital. A scream floods from my throat in raw hatred, and I let go. Shaking, I survey the damage. The beast falls, lolling his head to the side. His intestines are splayed over the forest’s floor.

My heart pounds, my own blood working overtime to find all the veins in my body. Something isn’t right. I’m losing blood and fast. My vision blurs. The moon winks. Sam, I remember the bear’s claws cut through his body. I try to find him, my world fading. Jackson is there, pulling Sam from the beat’s grasp. Blood, there’s so much blood. The skin on Sam’s face is dull, and his hair is matted from the damage of the fight. Out of reach, his pistol and sword lay abandoned.

Chapter 32

I force my body to stand, the healing abilities of the cat doing their best to stitch me back up despite the weight of the eclipse. My lungs are rigid, but I manage to drag in a life-sustaining breath. The forest has been beaten, the ground looking like a meteor shower struck, dirt and trees blown from their resting places, rocks cracked and strewn. The beast’s claw is still impaled through Sam’s body, hatefully. My heart breaks at the sight, but hope persists. Maybe the bird in him can still offer him its healing power, the way the cat does for me. I shoot a glare at the moon, willing it to move across the sky faster.

Gently, Jackson takes Sam in his arms and pulls him from the beast’s grasp. Sam’s bleeding has stopped, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting better or because his heart isn’t strong enough to pump blood. I hold my breath again. My lungs grow tired of the change in pace. Jackson slips Sam to the ground. The lifeless beast is massive next to them. Hope falters when I see Sam’s hand fall, limp. I rush and kneel by Jackson, who holds Sam’s head in his lap. The blacks of his eyes are dim, with only a touch of light that fades fast.

“Sam!” My breath cuts at my injured rib, but I ignore the pain. I can’t worry about myself now, not with Sam so close to death. Jackson pets Sam’s curls from his face, wiping away the blood that has covered his beautiful brown skin.

“Is it over?” Sam chokes out, his body unable to give power to his voice. Blood gurgles in his mouth, then slips, bright red, out and down his cheek.

Jackson swipes at it as though wiping it away will put Sam in the clear.

Tears spill over the banks of my eyes. My chin quivers. I glance around and see that, yes, the fight is finished, then bob my head wildly. I force a smile, biting my lips to keep a cry from escaping.

Sam jerks his eyes to Jackson. “With the bear defeated, you won’t have your abilities anymore.” Blood garbles the words.

Confusion climbs into my chest, making it feel heavy. I shake my head, sure I’m misunderstanding, then realize it must be another rule.

“Are you okay?” Sam adds.

Jackson shakes his head, tears swimming in the blood and dirt on his face. “We’re okay. You’re gonna be fine,” he says through the heartbreak.

The pain of losing a sibling was the closest thing to death I ever felt.

Sam shudders, his body giving one last breath, and then he’s gone. Jackson shakes, heartbreak pouring through him like an all-consuming fire, and he screams. His head drops to Sam’s chest. The cries rip from his body in tremors.

Jackson grieves for his brother in waves. The silence between the tears leaves him still, frozen in his memories. Sam will not come back. This was the promise that came with the beast’s arrival. If it were able to kill any of us, we’d die for the last time. My stomach twists at the finality of it. For us, death has never been the end, simply a restart, a reset. But knowing I’ll never see Sam again and that Jackson will never grow up with him again or fight with him again, it leaves a hole.

The moon watches us as it slips to the horizon.

“We need to leave.” I reach for Jackson’s shoulder and lean into it. The forest is quiet. The wind holds its breath, with the trees not daring to sway. The roar of the river is white noise in the void of dawn. “I’ll help you carry him.”

We need to take him somewhere safe, away from prying eyes or accusatory questions. The world cannot know who or what Sam is, nor would they understand.

“We need to burn the body.” For a second, I think Jackson means Sam, but then I realize he means the bear. And he’s right. This kind of magic can’t be stumbled upon. It’s too foreign, too strange.

I look around for a way to make a flame. The bear will burn easily. I don’t know how I know. I just do. There are piles of broken branches and splintered logs from the battle.

“I don’t have anything to light it with.” My words bob, sadness creeping into my chest. I don’t know how to make Jackson’s pain go away, and now, I can’t even do this one simple thing.

Jackson reaches into his pocket and pulls out my Ronson Veraflame. The jet-age lighter glints in the low light of the moon. I stare at it, wondering how he knew it’d be valuable during this fight.

“Something told me to bring it,” he says simply.

I take it with reverence, roll my thumb over the wheel, and watch the tiny sparks spring to flame. Swallowing hard, I walk to the beast and set it ablaze. The cool of the night is chased off by the heat of the fire. The bear will be gone in minutes, leaving only charred wood in its wake. I glance at Jackson to see his eyes churning in the firelight. The moon has ducked behind the mountain. Soon, the sun will make its appearance. A new day approaches, one that will be unlike anything we’ve ever experienced. It will be the beginning of the last life we’ll ever live, and it will be entirely human.

When the fire has burned down to nothing but a few embers, I kick dirt over them and grab Sam’s weapons, driving the sword between my back and my own sword and tucking the pistol in my belt. Jackson stands, scooping Sam into his arms, and we walk, the dawn lonely without moon or sun to usher it in.

Chapter 33

A hollow feeling drops into my stomach as we make our way to Jackson’s house. The absence of the cat weighs more heavily than I realized. My body is painfully human, and the power of healing stopped short of complete. Jackson staggers every so often. The agility of the wolf abandons him as the magic slips away. It’ll be hard to be human after living with our animal sides for so long. It was hardly a month ago that I learned of the cat’s existence, but already that feels like a lifetime. I’ll be okay, and so will Jackson, I promise myself.

I let Jackson carry Sam on his own the whole way. It’s a tribute, and I won’t get in the way of brotherly pride. For Jackson, it’s how he will honor his brother’s sacrifice. I follow on wobbly legs. My lungs sing pain through every fiber of my being with each breath. But we have each other, and with that, I know we can live through anything.

The sun crests the peak of the mountain just as we start into the cave. The mark of a new day, an accolade to the lives Sam lived and the lives he saved today. Jackson lays him on a table in the cave, pulling a wool blanket over him in reverence. The cold air of the cave will keep him safe until we can bury him. The tears don’t stop, and Jackson’s face is streaked in lines of sorrow. I cry too, but it’s different for me. While in this life, I did love Sam in a new way I’ve never felt, but he was not a piece of me. Sam has been Jackson’s brother for an eternity, and now, he’ll never have the chance to try again.

“We can bury him at the Hawthorn House.” I don’t know if Jackson will like the idea, but it seems right.

He turns to me and tucks his body into mine. His face falls to the curve of my neck, and he cries. I pull my hand over and over his hair. Grime is thick on both of us, success and defeat mixed over our clothes and skin in a bloody mess. I hold Jackson, letting him mourn his brother until he has no more tears to give. The cave does its best to keep the resonance to a minimum.

* * *

The shower is hot against my skin. The rain head drives the dirt from my scalp with such force it drowns out the pain in my weak muscles and injured rib. It’ll take weeks for my body to mend without the help of the cat. But slowly, second by second, I start to feel like this whole human thing could be an amazing adventure. Jackson and I have never been lovers as only human, nor have we ever had to live life as though it were our last. There’s something about knowing you only have one life to live that makes it that much more sacred.

Jackson lies in the bed when I climb in. His face is smoothed over with sleep. My wet hair splays over the pillow and I pull my half of the blanket over my body. I let myself drift into Jackson like he’s my North Star and fall asleep.

The sun is high in the sky when we wake. Clouds race to cover it as a storm moves into the valley below. I reach my arm around Jackson’s chest and pull even closer. The space between us is barely wide enough for breath.

“I love you.” My voice is small, even though my heart feels too big for my body to contain.

He twists a little, placing his chin on my forehead, tips his head down slightly, kisses me, and says, “I love you too. Forever.”

The sky, enjoying the drama, flings a lightning bolt, followed by a crash of thunder that shakes the house.

I’ll live and die with this man. Fate is no longer calling the shots. I am, and I’m not going to waste another second being without him, or not living my dream.

Our dream.

I blink, realizing I haven’t heard Grandmama’s voice in a long time. But she’s back.

That’s right, Grandmama, our dream, I say in my soul. I smile and look to catch Jackson’s eyes. “I’d like to rebuild the Hawthorn House. We could make it a home for us.”

Jackson grins, looking around as though he’s forgotten something. “Wait, I thought this was our home,” he says.

“Well, it is, but I just, I don’t know, thought I’d be fun.” I bite my lip.

“Baby, I spent a long time filling that closet just for you. You know how many awkward looks I got curating all that.” He pulls away in mock offense.

I shove him. “Well, I think we should bring all your hard work with us.” My eyes light with excitement. Jackson grabs my wrists and pulls me into him. His mouth reaches for mine, and I smile, keeping away just far enough that he has to work for it.

He growls, reminding me of the wolf he used to have inside, and I make a purring sound with my tongue. He jerks me close, drops his mouth to mine, and kisses me deep and hard. My body rings with pleasure, and I can’t wait to live every day, every second with this dream realized.

The storm outside rages. Sheets of rainfall and lines of lightning cover the sky with bolts of electricity. Late in the afternoon, when the storm has finally climbed over the other side of the valley, we pull on our shoes and drive Sam to the remains of the Hawthorn House. The forest has done a good job reclaiming the abandoned burn site. Wildflowers shoot up everywhere, ash-covered soil doing little to dissuade the new growth. The blood hawthorn stands proud, happy to show me that a little fire is no match for its hardiness, and I wonder if it is now a simple hawthorn, the magic having left it just like it left us.

We find a cozy spot under a low-hung pine for Sam’s final resting place. Human strength makes the job slow and hard, but we dig a beautiful hole and lower Sam in gently. A blanket is wrapped around him and tied with leather straps. I lay his pistol and the sword wielded against the bear over his heart. They belong to him, these symbols of his sacrifice, and they should lie to rest with him. Jackson reaches his hand out and I take it.

“You want to say something?” I ask, squeezing my fingers around his in support.

A long moment passes, and just when I think he won’t have the strength to speak, he says, “Eternity requires balance. Thank you for being the balance to our eternity.”

My heart thuds, and a tear slips down my cheek. “Thank you,” I echo.

Sam had a hard job, one that meant he could never truly live his life as his own. Despite that, in the end, he was willing to stand by our side and fight for us, and we will be forever grateful.

Chapter 34

Sam’s headstone is made from a slab of granite that Jackson pulled from the creek behind the Hawthorn House. On it, he carved his final words to his brother. Eternity Requires Balance. Thank you for being the balance to our eternity. I planted snow-in-summer in memory of Sam’s white sparrow.

Eternity requires balance. Jackson’s words ring in my soul as I stand over the grave. The forest is noisy today. The birds and bees are busy with their summer tasks. It’s been several months since the death of the bear and Sam’s sacrifice. Jackson walks up behind me. His body is warm against mine when he wraps his arms around my waist. It took weeks for our injuries to heal—Jackson with a fracture to the fibula and a torn shoulder, and me with a cracked rib and a bruised lung.

“I could use a hand,” Jackson says, his mouth close to my ear.

I shiver and snuggle closer, turning to face. His blue eyes drive through me, making my chest squeeze.

I smile. The Hawthorn House is being reborn behind him. The bones of the house are going up slowly, but with love. Soon, we’ll add the roof and siding. The goal is to bring it back to its original glory. I’ve already found several pieces to furnish it with: an old orange leather couch that I know would make the previous owners proud, and a lamp made of petrified wood paired with a green lace lampshade. Jackson turned his nose up at the shade, but I reassured him that it was so ugly it worked, then I kissed him, and he agreed that we should get it. The house is mine, he keeps reminding me, but I know that from now on, everything we touch belongs to both of us. We are two halves of a whole, and our lives are one.

“I would love to give you a hand. What are we working on today?” I ask, gazing into his eyes, torn between never wanting to let go of him and eager to finish the Hawthorn House so we can move in.

He pulls on my waist, making me tip into him a little. “I brought some things from the cliff house to add to your collection for the Hawthorn House.”

Intrigued, I arch a brow.

“Come.” He lets me go, then slips his hand to mine and twirls me once, leading me to the car.

My Land Cruiser is parked with the back hatch swung open. Inside are a few boxes and two framed pictures: the woman and her wolf, and the woman with the sharp gaze—me. I love these photos now more than ever. They are the only evidence left of the lives we lived before the death of the bear, before the magic ran out. I look at the woman and admire her for always finding her way.

“I want to take your picture,” Jackson declares.

The words send a sense of nostalgia through me. He reaches for one of the boxes and pulls it open. Inside is a tripod and a camera.

I’m wearing my favorite pair of jeans, the only item to survive the fire, paired with an oversized shirt that belongs to Jackson. The collar is torn from use. It’s my new favorite piece because it smells like him. The cotton is so soft it feels like silk. Jackson sets the camera up, tuning it to his desired settings. The sun through the forest casts dappled light over the ground. I slip my feet out of the work boots I’m wearing and go barefoot. The ground is spongy with moss and cool from the chill coming off the river. I shove the hem of the shirt into my pants and prop my hand to my hip. The other, I raise to eye level and point.

Jackson snaps the camera as I change poses, morphing from serious to playful to seductive. Then he sets the timer and runs to grab me, spinning me around in the air. My feet brush the rouge flowers that reach up and kiss my toes. He places me down, bends me backward, and kisses me with such passion I moan.

“I love you, Baby.” The words breathe into my mouth. His hands slip under the back of my shirt. The soft cotton gives way to his strong hands. He feels the curve of my back, the slope of my waist, then the blades of my shoulders.

“I love you too, Jackson.” I lean in and revel in his touch.

I want to be here forever. This life was made for us, and we will live it. The camera clicks and clicks and clicks.

Acknowledgments

First and forever, thank you, Mom. You gave me a love for words that has bloomed into a curiosity strong enough to sustain storytelling. You taught me to laugh and to dream. This book is the very expression of that education.

Aaron, for giving me the space and freedom to explore a very expensive hobby that turned into a dream manifested.

And to my kids. Your love and humor make everything better.

I give an enormous thank-you to my amazing editor, Alyse Bailey. I appreciate your eye for story as well as your heart for encouragement. I wouldn’t trade our video chats for the world.

Thanks, Keri, for being my bookish friend. I’ve never had one of those before, it’s great.

Finally, thank you, Jesus. You gave me these words and the courage to share them.

Thank you to my online community and to my readers. Your feedback and support have made the abyss that is the World Wide Web feel less big and approachable.

Writing a book is big and full of ups and downs, but in the end, it’s so worth it. Thank you to everyone who has been here with me along the way. A good support system is the lifeline that keeps authors from falling into the darkness.

Thank you ❥

About the Author

Jennifer calls a valley in the San Juan Mountains north of Durango, Colorado, her home.

She spends her days writing stories that scratch that relentless itch of why. When she isn’t typing frantically, she is tending to her two dogs, who can’t seem to decide if they’d rather be in or out, her two cats, who must be loved on nonstop or they cry, and the occasional wandering bear, who ironically, is the least demanding animal in her life.

She’s known for her love of free writing and breaking any writing rule that doesn’t suit her. She thrives in challenging herself. Hawthorn House started as a challenge to herself to do something she’d never done before: brainstorm, plot, and write a novel all in thirty days.

Spoiler: She did it! Although it has taken two years to get ready for the world’s eyes.

Hawthorn House was imagined, lightly plotted, and drafted in thirty days, although it has taken two years to get ready to release into the world.

Hawthorn House is her debut novel and the first in a series. She has written seven books across various genres because life is too short to stay inside the lines.

Find her at:

www.jenniferprotherobooks.com

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