LUNATIC FRINGE

By Allison Moon

Copyright 2011 by Allison Moon

Smashwords Edition

Cover by: Julianna Parr, juliannaparr.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-98383092-4

(Paperback version ISBN 978-0-9838309-1-7)

For more information:

http://www.TalesofthePack.com

moon@talesofthepack.com

For Reid, my champion

The cave stank of urine, sweat, and blood. Lexie pressed her back against the steel door, her knife’s sheathe digging into her hipbone. She wiped her hands on her jeans, watching the women’s faces.

Blythe kicked the man in the stomach and he fell to his knees. The hood over his face puckered as he coughed and sputtered, gasping at the word “Please.”

Blythe used the rope to wrench his arms back and ripped the hood from his head.

“You like attacking girls, Frank?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he pleaded, his ham-hands curling into purple fists behind his back.

“You’re a liar,” Blythe growled, “and a beast.”

He shook his head, drops of blood and sweat flying like water from a dog’s coat.

“Alright then,” Blythe said. She kicked him in the stomach, forcing more blood and spit from his mouth with a cough.

The women set in, taking turns beating the breath out of him.

From between her fingers, Lexie watched the man beg and struggle to rise between blows.

“I can’t--” Lexie flung the door open, running into the blessedly cool, clean air.

As the door slammed shut behind her, she thought she heard a whimper become a snarl. She didn’t stop to find out, running until her lungs and legs burned and the sky turned indigo with the impending sunrise.

Chapter 1

“Stop helping me, Dad. This is a dumb reason to re-injure your back.” Lexie Clarion walked to the rear of her pickup truck, wearing a groove into the gravel driveway, and slid another box along the bed to join the others. As she relieved her burden of packed books, bedding and clothes, her father, Ray, stood at the front door presenting another box for her collection.

“Sending my daughter off to college is a great reason.” He offered her a wistful smile with the box. “This is a light one,” he said. “The quilt Mom gave you, I think.”

Lexie sighed and walked towards her father, the gravel crunching beneath her tight-laced boots. She dried her palms on her flannel shirt tails and tossed back the twin braids that bounced alongside her face. She didn’t care that they made her look at least three years younger than her eighteen-year-old self. So little of her had changed in that time. The same chipmunk-auburn hair hung from her head. The same freckles that she had naively expected to fade with age stubbornly dotted her nose, and she had yet to grow into her front teeth. Now, on the far side of adolescence, Lexie had lost faith that any of these things would change. She learned to accept her face, just as she did her bony body. Still, she held out hope that she would eventually eke out a bit of curve to her hips or something more than an A cup, just a simple softness, however slight, somewhere along her angles. Until then, she would feel forever balanced on the cusp of childhood and something only barely more.

Taking the last box from her father, Lexie noticed the curve of his shoulders and the stress lines on his brow. Nine years on your back must take a lot out of you, she thought. She hugged her arms around the box’s stiff corners and took it to the truck while her father stood silent in the doorway. Lexie thought ahead to the coming afternoon, wondering what her father would do with himself in an empty house. The muffled voices of afternoon news anchors droned from the living room as if in reply. She slid the final box onto the truck with a sigh and looked to her father. He flinched and drummed his lower back with the tips of his fingers. He needed to lie down.

Instead, Ray shuffled to help her strap a blue tarp over her belongings. His eyes darted around the truck’s load.

“I still don’t know why you can’t stay here, Lex,” he muttered.

“It’s only fifty miles away, Dad.”

“You’ve got the truck. You could commute.”

“I’m going to be odd enough as it is. They’re all a bunch of rich kids from big cities. I don’t want to be the hick weirdo who can’t even afford the dorms.”

“Doesn’t matter where you came from, Lex,” he said, a deep divot forming between his eyebrows. “Only matters where you’re going. You should be proud of that scholarship.”

“They’d give it to any townie that wasn’t brain-dead.”

“You know that’s not true. They gave it to that Ward boy, and he’s one bright kid.”

“Duane’s an exception. He’s always an exception.”

“Most of those spoiled city kids never had to work for anything in their life. You busted your ass for this,” he said. “It’s gonna serve you good.”

Lexie tugged at her braids, eager to hit the road. She took a tentative step forward to embrace her father, but he stepped back into the shadowed interior of the house, returning a moment later with a white cardboard box sealed with two pieces of scotch tape. Affixed to the lid was a pink, store-bought ribbon.

“Dad, come on. This isn’t necessary.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he replied, managing a grin.

Lexie pursed her lips and opened the box, her fingers searching beneath a layer of crumpled newspaper for the gift inside. Her fingertips grazed leather, and she pulled out a large hunting knife in a hand-stitched sheath.

“Whoa,” Lexie said. She unsnapped the sheath and slid a freshly honed, eight-inch blade free of the leather. The steel of the blade glimmered in the hazy afternoon sunlight. “Jeez, Dad. I’m going to college, not the Yukon.”

“Girl can always use a good hunting knife. And, you can always pull it on any of the boys if they get fresh with you.”

“Fresh. Ha.”

“Just take it,” he said. “It’ll make me feel better about you being all alone out there. Those rare wolves aren’t getting any tamer.” He paused as Lexie inspected the knife’s steel hilt, which bore a crude etching in the shape of a circle and two crescent moons. “Maybe you should take the twelve gauge, too,” he added.

Lexie laughed. “Oh, I’m sure the R.A. would love that.”

“Rare wolves aren’t something to laugh about, Lex. They’re not like normal gray wolves. They don’t run in packs, they aren’t afraid of people, and they’re highly aggressive. No one’s taken one out since back in ‘ninety-nine. You heard about Hank’s friend in forestry, just got attacked between here and Milton last week. And that poor girl back in June? She was a student at Milton, you know. And then there was that rash of deaths a couple years back.”

“I know, Dad.” Lexie grumbled. “Every kid in Wolf Creek grew up with a ten o’clock curfew because of it.”

“Well, they don’t have curfews in college, and I don’t like the way Milton handles the wolf issue. It’d make me feel better knowing you can defend yourself,” he replied. “Let the other kids get ate. You’re all I’ve got.”

“I know, Dad,” Lexie said, more in apology than acknowledgement. “I just don’t know if I’m a hand-combat kinda girl.” She had hunted with her father countless times and bagged her first buck when she was thirteen, but she’d never had the nerve to end a life with a knife, and she didn’t think she ever would.

“We’ll get you there someday,” Ray said. “In the meantime, use it to clean fish or open cans of soda.”

“Not beer?” Lexie asked with a smirk.

“Not yet, smart ass.” He bopped his daughter on the back of her head.

She batted his hand away, but she was still focused on the blade. Lexie hefted the knife to test its weight and rocked it in her palm to find the balance. The handle was worn smooth, the varnish rubbed clean off in the finger grooves.

“Is this an antique?” she asked.

“You could say that. It belonged to your mom.”

“Mom hunted?”

“Not really,” Ray said. “Family heirloom, I reckon.”

Lexie examined the gift anew, its quality heightened by the added history. It gave her something to focus on besides the familiar, awkward silence.

“Best hurry then.” Her father’s monotone interrupted the tension. “Looks like rain.”

He opened his arms and pulled Lexie into an odd and awkward hug. He released her with a grunt and a nod, then she was off.

Lexie squinted against the setting sun as she drove westward. Today marked the beginning of the autumn sky. Weighty clouds peered over the land like jealous giants, rumbling indignantly, threatening to drown the valley. Beneath the cloud line, the sky burned yellow as the sun began its initial descent.

Her old Chevy Bonanza jerked forward, its gears struggling to shift as she merged onto I-5. Lexie knew this part of the drive well, having traversed this bit of highway countless times on her high school commute. She smiled, remembering her first taste of freedom behind the steering wheel of her beloved truck, free from cramped and smelly carpools, with their suspicious, judgmental parents and odious male classmates.

The first raindrops hit the windshield just after she crossed into Milton. Lexie pressed her foot on the gas, eager to get settled into her new home before the storm. Just inside the town limits, the dense forest broke into open fields, and Milton College appeared. It looked far too pristine to be a part of Lexie’s world, as if it was trying to pretend that this gray, forested place was New England rather than rural Oregon, and that the college was part of a long line of dignified and stodgy New England universities, instead of one of a handful of liberal arts colleges that had sprung up in the West over the last century.

Nevertheless, Milton had cultivated an admirable reputation among the moneyed and artistic families of the west coast. Parents sent their children to Milton to prove that encouraging artistic endeavors and emergent radical identities was no threat to their status quo. Most Milton families wore their open-mindedness like a merit badge, scoffing at schools like Brown or Vassar, claiming they stamped out one’s natural tendencies towards artistic authenticity. Yet despite such notions of liberality, there was still the issue of money, specifically that Lexie had none, while every other Milton student seemed to have it woven into the threads of their clothing. For this reason, Milton College was perennially at odds with the working-class townspeople. In an effort to improve its regional standing while maintaining its elite status, the school had established its Resident Scholarship Fund to bridge the gap between the coddled out-of-town students and the GED-wielding townies. Students were awarded the scholarship based on need and merit. Lexie was one of two students from her school to receive a full ride; she was the needy one. The other was Duane Ward; he was merited. While not particularly eager for his company, Lexie still hoped he would be on campus when she arrived, until she remembered that the Wards were still in Spain, celebrating the completion of the stellar high school career of their first Golden Child.

The college square stood empty, an effect of the rain. A red banner advertising the Campus Socialist Society dangled limply from one column of the Student Affairs building. A folding table supporting stacks of fliers sat unmanned on the sidewalk, its surface covered with a sheet of plastic. The hand-painted words on a nearby sign, Milton Animal Rights (MAR), lived up to their acronym as the rain washed the paint down the posterboard. The interruption of what must have been bustling activity added an air of the ominous to the campus, like a prominently placed alleyway in a film noir. Lexie wondered how long the eerie silence would last, hoping she could use it to steel herself for the arrival of her new classmates.

By the time she pulled up outside Rice Hall, the raindrops were thick and heavy. Deep puddles had already formed and rivulets raced down the gutters. The dormitory was ugly, and the weather did it no favors; it was a drab box of brick and stucco from the seventies, when architects seemed to be the only people for whom psychedelics did not inform their creative output. The plain, two-story building seemed utterly out of place on the campus, where stone Tudors and a Gothic sensibility, however false, dictated the aesthetic.

Lexie sighed with equal parts relief and anxiety as she turned off the engine. She was alone for the moment, and she feared it would be her last moment like it for a while. The raindrops fell cold and heavy on her scalp as she raced to the dorm. She swiped her keycard and took the stairs two at a time to reach her room on the second floor.

The dorm was as empty as the streets below. She felt like the first one to arrive at a party, while the host ran out for more booze. Lexie took in her new surroundings, a simple room of cinder block and cheap wood paneling, reminiscent of a bomb shelter or a prison. A meager mattress lay on a simple wooden bed frame. There was a desk with an upholstered chair, a small nightstand, a dresser built into the wall, and a closet. It was carpeted, which seemed nice until Lexie noticed that its dark burgundy concealed numerous blotchy stains. She pulled aside a pair of drab beige curtains that framed the window and looked out onto a massive oak tree.

“Oh! Hello!” a voice hooted from behind her. “Are you Alexis Clarion?”

Lexie turned to see a squash-shaped girl standing in the doorframe.

“I’m Anna, your R.A., or ‘Resident Advisor’.” She added air quotes with her fingers. “I see you found your room. So listen, this is a single, right? You were supposed to be on the first floor in an open double, but I’m afraid your roomie had a bit of a . . .” Anna paused, pursing her lips and wiggling them from side to side. “Well, I guess I can tell you since you’re never going to meet her. She tried to kill herself. Terrible, right? But she didn’t do it here! Ha ha!” She waved her hands as though trying to strike down flying insects. “Don’t worry, no crazy roommates for you. You get a single! Congratulations! Everyone else in the dorm is going to hate you!”

Lexie stood dumbfounded as Anna sped through her monologue. To hear the solemn silence of the dorm so crudely interrupted made Lexie want to hide under the covers of her bed. Unfortunately, everything, including her mother’s quilt, was still in the truck, likely getting soaked as Anna prattled on.

“Anyway!” Anna said. “Neat! You’re here and you’re settled. I have to run off to a meeting, but make yourself at home. The upstairs bathrooms are girls only and the downstairs are co-ed. The dining halls start serving dinner tomorrow. And make sure you have your parking tag displayed on your dashboard or else you could get towed. Oh! And here’s your wolf-slash-rape whistle, you know, just in case.” She lurched forward and threw an orange, plastic whistle around Lexie’s neck, then pulled her into a thick and awkward hug. “Welcome home!” Anna’s head fell just above Lexie’s breast. Lexie held her breath until Anna released her.

With that, Anna hurried away, her footsteps echoing down the linoleum stairs. The only other sound was the buzz of the fluorescent lights casting their greenish hue over the hallways. The silence chilled Lexie as it draped itself throughout the space. The house she shared with her father had always hummed with the muffled voices of news anchors, soap stars and ad men, droning from the TV set in the living room. These voices had been the soundtrack of her adolescence. Though their absence discomfited her, she would not miss them.

Years before, Lexie’s father had been injured on the job, leaving him stranded on his back in front of the television all day, every day. When he slept, which was as often as it was fitful, Lexie tiptoed around the house, haunting her own home as she skulked from room to room. Her father had once been a hunter, a hiker, a fisherman, and a climber. His skills as an outdoorsman were what established his career at the Department of Fish and Wildlife as a large game surveyor, and a shoddy tree stand was what ended it.

Lexie imagined that this same woodsy nature had also landed him his wife, the strange and beautiful Summer Pace. Though Lexie had only vague memories of her long-disappeared mother, she remembered her family’s shared love of hiking and canoeing. Those airy days were long dead, though, and now her father idled away his life flipping between the sordid stories of daytime television.

Lexie looked forward to exploring the unfamiliar quiet of her room, where she could unpack and collect her thoughts. In two days, the rest of the students would arrive and fill the halls with music, shouts, laughter, and all the other sounds endemic to college life. She hadn’t even thought about classes yet, focusing instead on the possibilities of skinny dipping, drinking, staying out all night. These things she had never done before, or at least not with the facility and comfort she pictured her new, collegiate self to have. The new Lexie, she decided, was going to be sexy, savvy, and strong. She would be invited to all sorts of things, and, standing in her room’s doorframe, she promised herself that she would always say “yes.”

It was during her third trip to the bed of her truck, the hazards tossing yellow light against the damp asphalt of the darkening driveway, that Lexie finally saw more people. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, and two pairs of footsteps echoed on the pavement around the corner, accompanied by the hushed conversation and giggles of young lovers. Lexie paused, box in hand, wondering what to do. It felt somewhat pervy to wait and see what these people were up to, but if they were two well-disguised murderers, well, it’d be better to meet them head-on. She reached to the back of her waistband, expecting to find her mother’s knife, until she remembered that she had stowed it in the duffle bag in the cab of the truck.

From the shadow of the dormitory, the couple emerged holding hands. They were too far away for Lexie to make out their faces, but already she felt foolish for having panicked. The woman was tall, thin, and improbably blond. She was so pale she could pass for another street lamp, her hair a spiky nimbus about her head. The boy was smaller, squarish, with brown hair cropped close to his scalp. He wore the cuffs of his shirt buttoned, but the collar was open revealing the v-neck of the white t-shirt he wore beneath it. Despite the rain, they were barely wet, as though they had just emerged from shelter.

The pair clearly didn’t notice Lexie, who stood frozen in uncertainty beside her truck, as though she had interrupted them rather than the other way around. The luminous girl leaned against her date, pushing him up against the brick wall of the dormitory. She pressed her mouth to the boy’s, while his hands wandered up and down her body. This was about to get awkward. Lexie wouldn’t be able to get into the building without disturbing them, but hiding in her truck seemed childish and absurd. What would the new Lexie do in this situation?

Setting the box back in the truck bed, she tiptoed to the driver’s side door, opened it, and slammed it shut. The boy whipped his head toward the origin of the noise, but the girl merely chuckled. They walked toward her, the blonde girl leading the way.

The girl stuck out her hand, white in the mottled street lights. With unflinching eye contact and a friendly, robust voice, she introduced herself as Blythe and her friend as Mitch. Mitch thrust his hand forward in greeting, and it was then that Lexie noticed his smallish hands and smooth cheeks, and realized that Mitch was not a boy, but a short, boyish-looking woman. It was a lot for her to handle right away. But Mitch didn’t comment on Lexie’s hesitation, and, after making brief and cordial eye contact as they shook hands, he left the talking to Blythe, who seemed determined to create a conversation.

“Moving in?” Blythe asked. Her pink lips parted to reveal a row of straight, white teeth. The silver frames of her glasses complimented her skin, which was nearly translucent in its paleness.

Lexie shoved her hands into her pockets and shrugged, swinging her head to indicate the remaining boxes in the truck. Her facility with speech evaded her, and she struggled with her options before nodding. Her ears grew hot as she realized that this was her first chance to make friends, and she was blowing it with her awkward non-conversation. Blythe chugged onward, happy to fill in the blanks.

“Here,” Blythe said, stepping toward the bed and lifting two boxes filled with books. She foisted them onto Mitch and grabbed another two for herself. Despite her thin arms and overall pallor, Blythe carried the heavy boxes with ease. There were plenty of thin, sweet-faced women in Lexie’s hometown, but most of them were content with letting their men do all the heavy lifting. Blythe didn’t seem to subscribe to this philosophy of deferral. With a soft grunt, she stepped towards the propped-open door. The streetlight haze drew shadows along Blythe’s face as she walked, her cheekbones slicing into the night air around her face. Her eyes were eerily pale, the color one might associate with ice water, but her lips looked naturally rosy. She could have passed for a fairytale princess, all fair and bright, if it weren’t for that short, spiky hair. Though it seemed unnaturally blond, Blythe’s hair didn’t carry even a hint of root color, as if its hue relied on a recessive albinism rather than a debt to a bottle of bleach.

Only three trips between Lexie’s room and her truck and they were done. It was a painless endeavor, save for the moments they passed each other en route when Blythe would wink, smirk, or stick out her tongue, making Lexie wonder how many faces she had in her repertoire. Each theatrical expression left Lexie feeling plain in comparison. She didn’t have the facility with her body and face that Blythe seemed to possess without thought. Mitch, on the other hand, seemed content with her role as the affable lunk attached to the beautiful heroine. She simply smiled, presenting deep dimples in response to her girlfriend’s ebullience.

Mitch reminded Lexie of her father’s old colleague in the forestry service, a massive, be-flanneled woman named Leslie, whom everyone called “Wes.” Wes was unlike any woman Lexie had met before. Wes was unlike most women in general. She was taller than Lexie’s father and roughly the same width. Her shoulders were like a linebacker’s, and her breasts were perpetually glued to her chest in round, solid mounds, looking more like vestigial organs than reproductive or sexual attributes. Lexie liked watching Wes, the way she seemed so solid, so heavy, like all the men Lexie had grown up around. She hadn’t known until meeting Wes that women were made like this, that they wore rough work pants and kept their hair buzzed and carried oil and grit under the short fingernails on their rough, calloused hands. The first time Lexie had met her, as a child on one of her father’s surveys, Lexie had referred to Wes as “him.” It was her father who corrected her, while Wes just leaned on the open passenger door of the pickup, smiling a broad, gap-toothed grin. It wasn’t that Lexie thought Wes was a man; to her six-year-old mind, it just seemed like the better word to use. Thinking of Wes as a “woman” felt odd, but so did thinking of her as a “man.” Wes was just Wes. That seemed to be the consensus of all the guys working in the Department, including her dad, so she didn’t give it too much thought. Now Mitch was the second of such women that Lexie had ever met. She wondered if Mitch was going to go into forestry, too, but then backpedaled when she realized how bigoted that sounded in her head.

Inside Lexie’s new room, amid stacks of boxes and bags, the three girls sighed with relief, but none more than Lexie, who was eager to be rid of her unsettling new friends.

“Thanks, baby,” Blythe said, resting on one of the larger boxes. Mitch smiled, her doughboy cheeks growing rosy.

Lexie offered them a ride home out of simple courtesy, though the thought of huddling in her cab with them intimidated her. Blythe mercifully refused, choosing instead to bestow some upperclassman wisdom on Lexie

“Stay away from Phi Kappa Phi,” Blythe said. “They’re a bunch of vile misogynists who hide behind the safety of their little club.” Lexie looked at Mitch, who shrugged and nodded. “Oh, and the professors in the philosophy department aren’t much better,” Blythe added, rolling her eyes.

“Like they give girls worse grades?”

“Not so much. Don’t worry about it.” Blythe grinned. “Listen,” she continued, oblivious to Lexie’s meandering focus as she scanned the boxes and bags of her room with increasing anxiety. “Every month, my sisters and I throw a little brunch at our place.”

Lexie had never heard anyone refer to women as their sisters unless it was a literal reference. Coming from Blythe, the term sounded rich with subtlety. Lexie envisioned a harem of sorts, with fountains and silks, where women brushed one another’s hair while others serenaded with harps. As quickly as the vision entered her head, Lexie shooed it out, rolling her eyes at her ridiculous naivet√©. Were women so foreign to her that she couldn’t even imagine what a group of them spent time doing together? Lexie felt as though she had stumbled upon a lost tribe and didn’t realize it until she was sharing their campfire.

“What?” Blythe asked.

“Nothing,” Lexie hurried, waving her hand in front of her face to dispel her ridiculous imaginings. “I just thought you were going to warn me about the rare wolves.”

“Oh please. You don’t have to worry about the rares anymore,” said Blythe, wiping her hands on her jeans as she stood. “You’ve got the Pack on your side now.” Blythe moved to the hallway, and Mitch followed.

“Anyway, you should come,” said Blythe. “I think we’d have a lot to offer each other.” She squeezed Lexie’s shoulder with a wink, and in a moment, she and Mitch were gone.

Lexie shut the door behind her with a hollow thud. She stooped to rifle through a box, pulling out a candle and lighter. Her laptop sat on her desk, ready to play a song to help remind her where she was and where she came from. The air, so similar to the air she breathed at home, tasted unfamiliar and rare. She knew she was not home. Whether this could be a home to her, she had yet to find out.

Chapter 2

The crescent moon lay on its back, striking a menacing gash in the otherwise unblemished sky. Its creamy grin mocked Lexie, whose red, raw eyes passed between the sky and the clock. Four-fifteen. It was the point of no return, one that Lexie knew all too well.

She wasn’t surprised that her insomnia resurfaced the night before classes started. She had hoped for a respite, but the gods decreed otherwise, yanking her strings just as the warm blanket of slumber wrapped itself around her body. Each time she drifted off, they jolted her from the downy sanctuary of rest and back into the lonesome reality of the deepest part of the night.

She imagined each brain cell fizzling like a water droplet on a hot skillet. Tomorrow would tell the same story of burst blood vessels, flaccid skin, bad breath, and sunken eyes. She’d move through the world at a fumble.

That was what she had to look forward to in three hours, a self-perpetuating cycle of foolishness and alienation. Lexie had a hard enough time fitting in without the motor skills of a drunkard to seal the deal.

Yet it was also in these thick, invisible hours where Lexie felt the most at home. She could wade through time like walking on the floor of a warm, dark sea. The night wasn’t the menacing part; it was the threat of dawn that caused her grief, when the still and fecund air receded to give way to the glaring and the loud. When the fear of day didn’t trouble her, Lexie felt perfectly comfortable crossing the night like a raft down a wide, lazy river. But tomorrow held plenty to undo her. New people to meet, to impress, to befriend. Schedules, buildings and texts to commit to memory, and the same befuddling questions that followed her every day, now upgraded to include majors, minors, relationship status, and political identity. The mere thought of it made her stomach roll over itself.

She crumpled in her chair, elbows planted atop her desk next to a stack of books. Her laptop cast a cold, impassive glow into the darkness of the room. She leaned to the window, struggling to open it with clumsy hands. As the window slid in its casing, tiny branches from the great oak tree outside screeched against the glass. A flood of cool, moist air swirled into her stale room, as clear and blue as Van Gogh’s night sky. Her laptop threw its blue light out the window, making the great tree’s bark look as craggy as a relief map. Leaves mottled green and red clung to the branches, steeling themselves for slow death. They rustled in a faint breeze. Otherwise, everything was silent.

Lexie folded her computer shut, casting the darkness over her body. She lowered her chin to rest on crossed arms, wondering what mindless task could distract her enough to feel a sense of minor accomplishment despite the hours of nothingness extending into the distance in all directions.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she turned her cheek to rest on her cool forearms. The outside air teased across her forehead, lulling her into sleep. The tension along her temples and jaw relaxed. Her consciousness was the last to go, as her body relaxed into the depths. As the mechanics of her brain whirred to sleep, her ears picked up a bold, faraway sound. The pitch slid from low to high to low, with a gentle warble at the end. The howl repeated with subtle variations, stitching together a story from the rolled pitches of a melancholic tune. It was a curious, perverse lullaby, and as the final tone echoed into silence, Lexie drifted off.

In the woods again. Moonlight dripping down tree trunks like liquid mercury, leaden and poisonous. The woods are made of words, and the words made of lines and curves that mean nothing to her, yet endlessly stretch and curl and bend around one another. The trunks are Braille; the branches, runes; the wind through the leaves: the tonal speech of distant cultures. The meanings of the words, fleeting and skittish, are lost in the endless shadows cast by the moon through the trees; they run away like small, spooked creatures. The bark scratches at her skin as she tries to divine those meanings. The branches reconfigure as she sets her eyes on them. The wind dies to stillness when she trains her ears on it; it remains unwilling to give up its secrets. She pats her hips, seeking her mother’s knife, but it is not near her. She stumbles, blind and weaponless. Her ears strain for the delicate crunch of leaves beneath a furry foot, for the wild heartbeat of prey pursued. The ciphers reassemble upon one another, never repeating, offering no code to break. She runs further, pursuing an unknown beast that seems always at her back and in her head, but never trained in her eyes. The trees speak: Divine the answer and find peace.

Another dream, another diatribe in gibberish. No matter how many times and how many spellings she offered the Web search box, the results were always the same: a page or two of nonsense, meaningless code, or most often a big fat zero. It seemed impossible to Lexie that these words would be a stream of nonsense; there was such clarity in the voices, messages conveyed in a language that meant nothing to anyone except those who spoke it. The voice was most often the memory she held of her mother’s, speaking those gentle yet insistent words. They would drone on for hours, sometimes all night, filling her head with unchartable sentences.

Her groggy morning reverie was interrupted by one sound she knew well, telling her a tale she could decipher: the mechanical beep screamed at her in no uncertain terms to wake up, get her act together, and get her ass to class. The sun streamed through the window, clearing the treetops to stab directly into her crusty, bloodshot eyes. An ache throbbed through the muscles connecting her eyes to her brain, and she wished for tiny fingers to reach back there and massage them to release.

Seven-fifteen. Time to face the firing squad.

Chapter 3

Lexie wasn’t sure what she was doing in this class. It had seemed like a good option last Tuesday, sitting in her dorm room with a yellow highlighter and the thick course catalogue. “Intro to Women’s Studies: Gender, Conflict, and Context” had a long description, four credit hours, a discussion group, and a required reading list longer than all her other classes combined. Lexie hoped it would illuminate her consideration of anthropology as a major, and perhaps, as a side bonus, illuminate women, too.

Now she sat trapped in the first meeting of the class, the post-lunch slump pulling her head down toward the desk like the ghost of a drowning victim seducing her to follow it below black waves. Lexie wondered what she had signed herself up for. Scanning the room, she counted thirty students in all, twenty-five of whom were girls and one who looked like a boy but was likely a variation in the key of Mitch. Of the remaining four students, one looked gay, one was yawning, one was trying to chat up every girl around him, and one was Duane Ward. It was as if the sonofabitch was trying to make her look bad.

At Wolf Creek High, Duane had graduated second in their class, played baritone horn in the marching band, and was the goalie on the varsity soccer team. He aspired to be a cardiologist, which he announced throughout senior year whenever an ear was bent in his direction. It was the same way she had learned that though he had been accepted to a number of the Ivys, none offered him enough money to make it worthwhile.

Duane had been one of seven black students at their high school, and four of those were his younger sisters. His family was gregarious, well-heeled, and good-looking, not one trait which Lexie could claim for herself. More infuriating than all that, though, was how well he seemed to know himself. She couldn’t even decide what intro classes to take, and here Duane was, ready to apply to medical school at eighteen. Lexie had assumed it was part of adolescence, to waffle on every aspect of one’s identity. She did it with aplomb nearly twice a day. Yet here was Duane, handsome, smart, and seemingly in harmony with his race, achievements, gender, sexuality, and even his damn life’s calling. It wasn’t fair.

At their graduation ceremony, Lexie couldn’t help but feel childish and small standing alongside him on stage as they were announced as the two winners of the Milton Residential Scholarship Program. She had never been called “white trash” to her face, mostly because she was no worse off than over half of her school, whose fathers were mostly lumberjacks, miners, or utility workers, but that’s how she felt. No mother, no money, no real ambition. She did what she was supposed to do: she studied, got a scholarship, and now she was leaving home to start college as one of only a handful of her classmates to even plan on a degree--a minor victory that paled in comparison to Duane’s achievements.

The pretty blonde sitting next to him monopolized his attention with her chatter. Without even speaking, he was winning her affection. Lexie slumped in her chair.

She tried to stay alert as the professor led the class through the course syllabus. Ms. Whitmeyer, a silver-haired woman in ill-fitting tweed pants, read the names of the texts as though she were auditioning for a summer stock production of Macbeth. Each word was so well annunciated that even if Lexie were to drift off at some point, she imagined the information would still drill itself into her brain. Whitmeyer continued through page after page of text, listing the tomes her pupils would have to slog through. Lexie pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to push back a developing headache. Maybe a music class would have been a better idea. Her unease was driven to a point when the professor dropped the syllabus on the lectern.

“How many of you are feminists?” Whitmeyer asked.

Snickers echoed through the room as half the students raised their hands. Duane’s was among them; Lexie’s was not. A tiny brunette sitting in front of Duane, wearing a lime-green polka dot dress and heels, her hand held high, shouted “What?!” when she saw the showing.

“Alright, hands down. Let’s look at a definition for a moment,” Whitmeyer continued. She clicked her mouse to progress a slide show projected at the front of the room, casting a sickly-green glow on the faces of the students. On it was an excerpt from Webster’s Dictionary. It read feminism n. (1895) 1 : the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes.

Whitmeyer tapped her index finger beneath the work “equality” as she spoke. “Everyone got that?” she asked, eliciting nods from the class.

“Notice this word. What is equality? Is it equal opportunity? Equal pay? Equal social standing? How do we know when we achieve it? How do we know we haven’t yet achieved it? What are the hindrances any individual or community encounters in pursuit of equality, how do we recognize them, and how do we defeat them? Is it even possible or advantageous to society for everyone to achieve equality?

“This semester we’ll explore equality and what it will take for our society to embrace this concept fully, proudly, and passionately.

“Now, for you skeptics in the class, please note that this is the only definition. There is no number two: Must hate men. Nor number three: The lack of a sense of humor,” she said, earning more laughs from the class.

“Now, using this definition as your only basis here, not radio shock jocks, not faux news correspondents, not your dads, your uncles, or even your mothers--How many of you are feminists?”

Each hand in the class raised, some eager, some tentative, but they all went up. Even Lexie’s.

“Yes you are,” Whitmeyer concluded. “Just by being here in this room, seeking to expand your understanding of the world and develop an open and critical mind about social status-quo, you are performing a feminist act. And in these next four months, we’re going to find out why that matters.”

The sun was hot and the sky clear as Lexie walked out of the Sociology building and headed for the student union to check her email and grab a cup of coffee. Behind her, she heard Duane’s familiar voice, now attempting to charm two new girls from class, the polka-dot dress wearer and her friend.

“Well, it still is a controversial term to many people,” he said, though he kept his voice down, as if gauging the acceptance of the women who flanked him.

“That’s because many people are idiots,” the brunette responded in a chipper cadence.

“Or ignorant,” the other girl concluded with a shrug.

The brunette continued, “I blame the media.”

“No, it’s the politicians,” her friend opined. “Men who are so threatened by equality they’ll vilify the word rather than fight us with facts.”

“I don’t think it’s just men, though,” Duane interjected. “I mean look at all the women in the class who were skeeved out by the word.”

“But it is the men,” the brunette insisted. “They’re the ones who taught women to fear the word. They’re the ones who’ve removed the word ‘equality’ from the definition and pretended it was something else. The status quo hates feminism because it fights for the rights all minority groups, not just women. None of us, including you, would even be getting an education without the work of feminists.”

Duane nodded. “Trust me, I get it. Powerful women control my life,” he chuckled. It was the kind of light joke that men usually groaned at and laughed along with. The girls he walked with, however, just looked at him blankly.

“Listen, anyone who can’t see the symbiosis between the civil rights movement and feminism is blind, stupid, or Republican,” Duane said, struggling to salvage the tenuous camaraderie. An awkward silence fell on the three momentarily. Lexie considered it her chance to break ahead and disappear into the quad.

“That’s redundant,” Hazel said, knocking him the shoulder. The three laughed and started once again on their walk, closing in. Lexie quickened her pace, nearly jogging, her books tucked tightly under her arm. It was too late, though, as she heard Duane shout from behind her, “Hey, Lexie!”

She bit her lip as the three caught up with her. The spunky, darker one threw elevator eyes from behind her huge plastic sunglasses, then draped her arm around her companion’s waist. She looked like a miniature version of an old-fashioned pinup girl. Her friend wore a beatific smile, angelic curls bobbing against her cheeks.

“You running late?” Duane asked. Lexie looked into his eyes, then glanced away. She felt like a trapped animal, desperate for a burrow, a shrub, or a stone beneath which to crawl.

“I didn’t know you were going to be in this class,” Duane continued.

“Yeah, well. Lots to learn,” Lexie said.

“No kidding,” the brunette said, rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Why are you in it?” she asked Duane, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the women standing next to him.

“Like you, lots to learn. Way better than learning about the world through a series of wars and genocides. Plus, I’ve been considering gynecology as a backup, so this’ll be a good education for me.”

“Like a mechanic that doesn’t own a car,” the one with the curls joked, enough under her breath to indicate at least partial conviction.

“No ma’am, more like a piano virtuoso cursed with deafness,” he said with mocking self-pity. The pin-up cracked her gum, ignoring Duane’s paltry attempts at charm.

“You’re Lexie?” the sweet-faced one asked, her perfect white teeth glinting in the sun.

Lexie froze like a startled squirrel.

“You know her?” Duane asked.

She continued, ignoring Duane. “Blythe told us she met you last week.”

“How do you guys know each other?” the pin-up asked Lexie.

“We went to high school together in Wolf Creek,” Duane answered.

Lexie smoothed her hand over her hair, trying create some order out of the uncombed mess. Her migraine had swelled to the edges of her eyes. She hated being compared to Duane. Her averageness was only magnified by Duane’s perfection, and she feared these two girls would make assumptions about her based on Duane’s charisma. She shifted her weight as the girls gave her the once-over.

“I’m Jenna.” The angelic girl placed an open palm on her chest, bare and freckled where it peeked out of the scooped neckline of her cotton tunic. Her skin was the color of birch, her eyes a yellow-tinged blue.

“I’m Hazel,” the pin-up said, before blowing a bubble with her gum. Lexie wondered if Hazel’s eyes were, indeed, hazel, but couldn’t tell, as the giant sunglasses swallowed up the whole of her small face except for her berry-stained lips, and clear, pale forehead.

“You’re coming to the brunch, then?” Jenna asked, a brightness in her eyes that indicated either genuine loveliness or high-grade pharmaceuticals.

After enough silence dangled from that question to make everyone uncomfortable, Hazel chimed in irreverently, “Oh my god, you’re so shy.”

Lexie spoke louder than necessary, “I’m not shy.” Out of a need to disprove the accusation, she continued the conversation. “Will you be there?”

“Yeah, of course. We all will. We’re a family,” Jenna nodded earnestly. Bounce, bounce went the curls.

Family? Lexie thought. What an odd way to refer to friends. Terrifying. Exciting.

“Come to the brunch. You’ll meet the rest,” Jenna said, nodding and bouncing.

“The rest of what?” Lexie asked.

“The Pack,” Jenna said, tilting her head. “You did meet Blythe, right?” Her forehead was scrunched up with authentic concern.

Lexie stumbled to answer, “Yeah, sure. She and her, uh, Mitch, helped me move in last week.”

“She invited you over, yeah?” Jenna said a bit too slow, as if struggling to communicate with a non-English speaker.

“Brunch. Saturday.” Lexie tried to prove she wasn’t as stupid as she suddenly felt.

Hazel chimed in, “We’re the Pack, and we call our house the Den. I think it’s bullshit tribal jingoism, but whatever.”

“Hazel,” Jenna scolded, but Hazel dismissed the reprimand with a puff of air and a flick of her hand.

Duane laughed. “A pack of hyenas?”

The girls bristled. Lexie noticed. Duane didn’t.

“Alright, enough of you,” Hazel said.

Hazel zeroed-in on Lexie’s increasing discomfort. “Don’t worry, you’ve already met half of us. There are only three left, and they’re kittens.”

Lexie was surprised at her relief. “Oh,” she said and then after a moment, “Sure.”

“Excellent,” Jenna’s smile widened. Hazel clapped twice and did a small jump. She threw her slender arms around Lexie.

“That sounds like fun,” Duane said.

“You’re not invited.” Hazel released Lexie, and her demeanor chilled, like a waitress at the end of a long shift.

“What if I’m gender non-conforming?” Duane asked.

“Nice try, frat boy,” Jenna said.

“I’m sorry for my dumb comment. Hyenas are matriarchal and--”

“Whatever,” Hazel said. “I’m over it.”

“Come on, Lexie. We’ll walk you to the cafe.” Jenna put her arm around Lexie’s shoulders as they left Duane on his way.

So this is what it’s like to be chosen, Lexie thought as she walked with the women away from Duane. This is what I asked for. This is what I hoped for, she repeated like a mantra. It felt more like a death knell signaling her doom. If she could take it back, she would run back to her father’s house, get a job at a diner, and call it a life. But she’d been swept away in a river of expectations and ideals, and she was faced with the classic evolutionary dilemma: adapt or die.

Chapter 4

Blythe’s house was on the western edge of campus, just beyond the library and dining halls. The cornflower-blue sky bid Lexie to leave her truck at the dorm and walk. After five days of unrelenting stimuli, she had finally managed to catch up on sleep, despite the bedlam in the hallway outside her room the night prior. The students had wasted no time in taking full advantage of their newfound freedom, partying with kegs and blaring music. Throughout the evening, revelry clanged throughout the campus, a celebration of the freedom that would soon become shackles, tying students to their books, schedules, and reputations for the next nine months.

Lexie’s dormmates had made sculptures with handfuls of the free condoms given out by the Safer Sex Center, filling them with water, blowing them up like balloons and tying them in strange configurations. In their packages they looked fun and lively, like latex lollipops. Released from their wrappings, they became pathetic creatures whose natural habitats were, indeed, where one was often likely to find them, like parking lots or littered gutters. In the lobby, students had spent the whole night playing a spirited game of Truth or Dare, compelling many of the dared to run naked across the lawn outside Lexie’s window. Lexie had received invitations to these parties, as well as a few tamer snack-and-chat nights, but in spite of the resolution she’d made just days before, she only smiled a “maybe later” to them all.

As she made her way through the patch of carefully cultivated trees in the town square, a familiar chill stirred her shirttails and wafted up the cuffs of her jeans. It was around this time ten years ago that her mother started staying away from the house for longer and longer periods of time. Though Summer would often not come home at night and be gone for days at a stretch, without a word to anyone, Lexie’s parents never fought about it. Lexie recalled those disconcerting nights when she’d be tucked into bed by her sweet-faced, raven-haired mother, only to hear a series of doors squeak open and closed: bedrooms, cabinets, the hall closet to retrieve a coat, and finally, the front door. The sounds heralded her mother’s disappearance for yet another night. Her father never protested; he had always been a man of few words, even back when he was happy.

After the elusive Summer Pace had finally left for good, Lexie spent months blaming her father for not making her mother stay. She knew it wasn’t his fault even then, but she couldn’t help but wish for him to unbridle himself from his classical masculine restraint and become the kind of man who fought for what was his. Though Summer never belonged to him, Lexie would have liked to believe that her mother belonged to her, and that Lexie was worth fighting for, or at least sticking around for.

Turning the corner onto Umpqua Road, Lexie spotted the massive Victorian house that belonged to the Pack. Or rather, she heard it: laughter, conversation and music stacked in layers on top of one another, like hastily shuffled cards. As she approached the house, she saw that it edged up onto the forest. Between the deck and the tree line, a couple dozen women milled about on the grass, lounged in lawn chairs, and picked over folding tables that held platters of food.

Sunshine filtered through towering storm clouds, shaped and reshaped by an autumnal breeze. A fire pit sat at the far edge of the lawn, the A-frame of fresh, dry logs waiting for dusk and their chance to shine. Beyond the pit, a worn path led into the woods. Lexie scanned the crowd for familiar faces until she spotted Mitch manning--womaning?--the barbecue. Her dimples flashed as she flipped burgers and spun spatulas like a juggler in a gustatory vaudeville act.

A warm hand enveloped Lexie’s shoulder from behind. Blythe smiled as she leaned forward, icicles of blond hair falling softly against the frames of her glasses. The lenses glinted in the storm-filtered sunlight.

“Lexie, I’m glad you came.” Blythe reached around her chest for a hug. Blythe’s beer, cold and wet, skimmed Lexie’s arm as she pulled away.

“I’ll introduce you around,” Blythe said, looking along Lexie’s gaze to the groupings of women dotted across the lawn. “But first, what do you want to drink?”

Lexie pointed at the beer bottle that had pressed cold against her skin. “That works for me.” Blythe gave her shoulder a squeeze of acknowledgement and strode off into the crowd.

With Blythe distracted, Lexie resumed her scan of the faces at the party. Hazel, wearing nothing but a smile, bounced in a steaming hot tub, dazzling the two blushing, swimsuit-clad freshmen with her. Mitch flirted with a pretty brunette who held an empty plate at the barbecue. All through the yard, girls lounged, eating food from each other’s plates and laughing. Looking at all these women, Lexie was astonished to realize that there were no men there at all. Lexie hadn’t been expecting, nor hoping, to meet men, but she had never been in a space without male presence, either real or implied. None of the conversations she overheard involved boyfriends or male crushes; no one even referenced male professors, even in dry complaint. There was a significant lack of regard for, or even attention to, malekind. Lexie wondered if this was by design, or if it was just a natural side effect of having so many women in one space. Out of sight, out of mind, she guessed.

How strange that, in all her eighteen years on the planet, she had never been among a group of people in which there wasn’t at least one man. Well, there were public restrooms, of course, but that was circumstantial and so fleeting as to be meaningless. Having a single father didn’t help. Lexie had been raised in a world in which men were everywhere, their presence nearly inescapable, while nearly devoid of the presence of women. She had never been invited to a slumber party-- though she would have invented an excuse to say no even if she had been; there weren’t even locker rooms in her high school. Where she came from, women did not lead book clubs or athletic teams, stage all-female versions of Hamlet, or organize all-women’s canoeing trips. She was never even a Girl Scout, a fact she took pride in: her father had taught her to be a better outdoorsman than those cookie-hockers ever would, merit badges be damned.

“Hey there.” Lexie turned. A tall woman held a celery stick like a cigarette. She nibbled at the ends as she spoke, her voice low and even, as though she had plenty of time to kill.

Lexie choked on a response. Her jaw seized and her eyes froze for a long moment, unable or unwilling to remove themselves from the woman before her. Never before had Lexie seen a woman who looked like her. She wore her hair in a fluffy corona, a halo of soft black suds held back from her broad forehead with an eggplant-colored wrap. Her skin was the color of walnut heartwood, with flecks of darker freckles sprayed across the bridge of her nose. She stood a head taller than Lexie, all smooth swishes and spindly appendages indicating a normal-shaped girl who had been stretched. Her rib cage dipped into a narrow waist, then flared out to full and sturdy hips that made the girl look like a sexy teaspoon. The woman’s full, tawny lips spread into a smile as Lexie gaped.

“Hey,” Lexie blurted, relaxing onto one hip in a failed attempt at insouciance.

“You alright?” The girl spoke slow and easy, a hint of bemusement in her voice.

“Oh, yeah. My mind was just . . . wandering,” Lexie said, meeting her eyes.

The girl squinted at her. “I’m Renee. Bloody Mary?” She held her drink out as a means of advertisement.

“Blythe was just getting me a beer . . .” Lexie started, but when she turned toward the house, she noticed Blythe holding court with a group of girls who had short-stopped her on the way to the kitchen. Brief snippets of their conversation--something about the politics of pornography--drifted over to them.

“Oh. Well. A Bloody Mary sounds great.”

Renee led the way inside. The front and back doors of the house were both wide open, allowing swirls of fresh air to dance their way through the main room. A pillar of red plastic cups balanced high on the kitchen counter. Renee went to work cracking ice, pouring vodka, and shucking celery. Her arms flexed, slim and strong. Lexie leaned against the counter, admiring Renee’s lithe hands working at their tasks.

“So, you got a girlfriend?” Renee asked, not looking up from the Worcester sauce--which was the same deep brown as her eyes--as she silently counted the drops that fell into the glass. Lexie studied the spout of the bottle as each tiny drop eked out, certain that as the next drop fell, the right response would pour from her lips as well. But the last drop was stubborn and Lexie’s voice, too, stuck in her throat.

Renee cocked an eyebrow. A half-smile nudged at her cheek, making her look feline and all-knowing. Lexie’s ears turned hot, her blood pressure rising with her shame.

“Boyfriend?” Renee goaded.

Lexie shrugged, resorting to communication via mute gestures.

“Okay then,” Renee said, shoving the completed cocktail into Lexie’s hand with a flourish and a smile.

Lexie peered into the cup. The smell of the drink made the hairs inside her nose twirl like sand eels. The celery stalk stuck out at a jaunty angle, its leafy end busheling over the rim of the glass. A small plastic sword held two fat olives that stared up at her through the red juice like amphibious eyes peering from beneath a pool of blood. Lexie had never drunk before, not really. She had shared a beer with her dad once in a while, but beer wasn’t a real drink, just alcoholic soda. This was a cocktail, the kind that came with fancy living rooms, high-class conversation, and women who looked like Renee. Lexie stared at the concoction, willing herself out of her dislike of tomato juice in that very moment. Renee leaned the heel of one hand on the countertop and placed the other expectantly on her hip.

Lexie took a reluctant sip. The thick, peppery taste swelled her salivary glands, a shock to her esophagus. Perspiration dewed at the nape of her neck and her sinuses flared open in protest. Halfway down her throat, it felt as though the caustic fluid switched directions and followed her spine straight up to her brain. A cough fought against her throat, jaw, and good sense for release, the air rushing out her nostrils making her sound like an impudent horse. She forced the diabolically-willed cocktail down her throat. Only once the fluid was safely ensconced in her belly did she remember where the hell she was, and she theatrically fanned her face, partially as a joke for Renee’s benefit, and partially because her head actually felt aflame.

“Wow,” Lexie choked through half-breaths.

Renee smiled and slapped Lexie on the shoulder. “Atta girl.”

“Hi, Mitch.” Lexie stood at the barbecue, empty plate in hand, a fresh beer in the other, to soothe her shocked taste buds.

“Hey, Sexy Lexie. What can I getcha?” Lexie’s ears grew hot at the nickname, but she forced herself to focus on the food. The spread was impressive: three different kinds of burgers, a variety of sausages and hot dogs, marinating mushrooms, and some fancy-looking shish kabobs.

“Wow. Um. How about a hot dog?”

“Turkey, Tofurky, or Seitan?”

Lexie stared blankly, confounded by the riddle. Finally, she conceded. “What?”

“Good answer. One hot dog, coming right up.” Mitch threw a few dogs on the grill with a flourish that she seemed to reserve solely for culinary activities. She took a swig from her beer bottle, which wore a foam cozy declaring, “Riots Not Diets.”

Lexie found Mitch more relatable than any of the other girls she had met so far. Her aesthetic was familiar, her mannerisms reminiscent of Lexie’s father on his better days. Yet an obtrusive distance seemed to linger between them.

As Mitch plopped a toasted bun and glistening hot dog onto her bamboo plate, Lexie blurted the question that niggled her brain. “Hey Mitch, can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” Mitch answered, monitoring the various calculations and countdowns of the grill.

“Something about using the word ‘she’ to describe you feels odd.”Attention still on the grill, Mitch gave a half-smile, her dimples digging creases into her cheeks. Lexie breathed easier.

“Okay,” Mitch said. “Was there a question in there?”

“Oh . . . um, yeah. So, do you prefer ‘she’?” Lexie took a big gulp of her beer. “Because ‘he’ seems more . . .”

Mitch’s smile widened to a toothy, round-cheeked grin. “You can call me anything you want,” Mitch said, sliding the steel spatula under a burger and flipping it. The fire hissed and flared. “As long as it ain’t ‘Nancy.’”

Mitch plopped another perfect, juicy dog onto her plate, smiling as though in on some joke that remained a mystery to Lexie.

“‘He’ is cool. Thanks for asking, Lex,” he said. Lexie smiled and turned to go. “Hey,” Mitch said. “Is it okay I called you ‘sexy’?”

Lexie smiled and nodded as she walked away, a full plate in hand. Talking with Mitch was easy. Now to brave a sea of conversations that she had no idea how to navigate.

She’s tougher than Pendican, but the reading list is way more interesting. Like Bornstein-interesting, not Dworkin.

I can’t believe my sister and I grew up in the same house. She actually voted Libertarian last year, can you believe that nonsense?

I think I’m just going to shave my head. If you can’t do it in college, when can you?

This town is so fucking tiny, I want to kill myself. You can’t even get a decent goddamned burrito here. I can’t wait to get back to LA for fall break.

The steel drum group meets every Friday at the Union. If you’re really good, they’ll put you up front, but I’m still learning, so I have to work my way up.

The clamor of words rattled in Lexie’s head. She weaved a path to the only quiet part of the yard, where an empty lawn chair idled in the shade. On the way, she passed by two girls cuddling on a blanket, a cloud of lavender smoke lingering above them.

“Hey,” came a slow, low voice from the blanket. “What’s your name, stranger?” The red-eyed girl lounged on the ground, a blown-glass pipe resting atop her curved belly. Her hair was knotted in blonde dreadlocks that splayed like Medusa’s snakes from her head.

“Lexie.”

“Like Alexandra?”

“Alexis,” Lexie corrected with a small grimace.

“I’m Corwin,” the girl replied, her speech muffled as she pressed the green glass pipe against her lips and flicked her lighter. The other girl draped herself across Corwin’s belly. She was dark-skinned and buxom, wearing a flimsy black sweater-vest that struggled mightily to contain her generous breasts. The girl’s brown eyes narrowed as she watched her girlfriend share a smile with Lexie.

“I had a cat named Alexis,” Corwin said, puffing tiny clouds of purple smoke from her mouth.

“That’s rude!” the other girl said, slapping Corwin’s chest.

“What’s rude?” Corwin laughed and coughed at the same time.

“Saying that a girl you just met shares her name with a cat!”

“Why is that rude?”

“It just is.”

Corwin shook her head and rolled her eyes, her dreadlocks shaking.

“I’m Sharmalee,” the other girl said, flitting her fingers in a half-hearted flirt, like a child beauty queen who understands the basic motion but not the purpose. Her long, black hair draped in loose, thick waves across her shoulders. Her skin was the color of incense and rolled like smoke over her ample figure. She smiled perfunctorily at Lexie, then turned Corwin’s chin back toward her and kissed her fully on the mouth. Lexie took that as her cue and continued with her lunch to the lone lawn chair.

The day dwindled into late afternoon. The rest of the freshmen excused themselves to go home or to the library while they still nursed healthy buzzes. Lexie claimed her lawn chair and ate, the hot dog putting only a small dent in her hunger. She watched Hazel cling to her position in the hot tub, unwilling to sacrifice her nudity to the chilly air. Though no taller than a fourth-grader, Hazel was shaped like a Vargas girl. Lexie looked away when she realized she was staring.

Mitch had been working the grill since Lexie’s arrival, and after delivering a plate of veggie dogs to Hazel, spa-side, he seemed finally satisfied that every woman was fed beyond her wont. He reclined in the hammock with the last of the microbrews to enjoy the end of the final summer barbecue.

Jenna walked barefoot among the tables in the yard, stacking the dirty plates and cups in her arms amid the weak protests of the other girls, who insisted the housework could wait and that she should relax. Jenna shooed their protests away with a wink and a smile. Clearly this was a familiar patter to the girls. Lexie wouldn’t be surprised if the same routine happened every time they entertained. Jenna’s teal skirt flowed about her like cloud cover, a cherubic smile curving her lips.

Lexie hid in her chair, happy to have survived Renee’s digestive tract-scathing Bloody Mary and an unending sequence of small talk with all-too-forgettable women about majors, relationships, and career ambitions. She hated feeling unwilling to count herself among those girls, but the truth was, she couldn’t care less. Nonetheless, in a masochistic sort of way, Lexie was happy to be among the women of the Pack.

A cool evening breeze rushed across the lawn. Lexie nudged the zipper of her hoodie up a few more inches.

“This is that time of the year when the days start getting noticeably shorter.” Blythe strode across the grass to Lexie’s lawn chair. She looked as fresh as a fairy, alighting on the end of the lawn chair and wrapping her hand amiably around Lexie’s ankle.

“Yeah, I hate this part of the year,” Lexie said with a labored sigh.

“I love the autumn. It’s my favorite season by far. The woods stay lush with these smatterings of vivid color,” Blythe gestured to the forest’s edge, where bright blotches of yellows and oranges flamed against the darker greens. “The rain, the clouds, the longer nights. Lovely. I’m from San Diego. You pray for weather there, and it never comes. It’s death by perfection,” she said with an arched brow and a chuckle.

Lexie noted the small irony: Blythe, with her impeccable face, deriding the beautiful and the pure. Lexie felt aglow by sheer reflection. Everything about Blythe cast its own opalescent aura, purity reflected with the grace of sculpted steel.

“So,” Blythe continued. “How do you like the Pack?”

Lexie struggled for the right adjective. Terrifying, she wanted to say. Invigorating. Petrifying. Inspiring. And on and on in a steady stream of unease. The simplest truth was that she liked them, so she said so.

“You were getting along well with Renee,” Blythe pressed.

“Yeah. I’ve never met anyone like her before.” Lexie gauged her pitch and pace, pleased to find herself holding it together.

“How so?”

Lexie choked on a response. Would it be racist to say she’d never met someone who looked like Renee before? To say she liked her hair? Her freckles? The simple question caused her brain to crash.

“She’s so . . . beautiful,” Lexie stammered. This was also true, though not the complete truth. Separating her beauty from everything else about her undermined the veracity of the statement, and she cringed as she said it. Yet, within those words was an admission of allure, of aesthetic intrigue that could be considered, what? Attraction?

Blythe’s blue eyes brightened. “She thinks you’re pretty, too.”

Lexie couldn’t seem to make her voice work. It wasn’t just that someone considered her pretty, but that someone like the unflappable Renee had mentioned such a thing to Blythe. It was a pleasant feeling, though it did nothing to assuage her anxiety about the kinds of feelings Renee had ignited in her.

“Stick with the anatomy class you mentioned. Renee T.A.s for a bunch of the labs. Smart as hell. If you’re headed down the Bio track, she may be able to offer you some academic guidance, if you’re in the market.”

Lexie screwed up her mouth. “I don’t know what track I’m on. It’s hard enough for me to navigate the day-to-day here. Any thoughts about the future just give me a headache. I’m not ready to label myself yet.”

Blythe eyed her. “Oh, we don’t do labels here. But if not academic, Renee could give you some extracurricular ‘guidance’ that you’d really enjoy. Unless,” Blythe raised an eyebrow, “you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“It’s an honest question. A couple of the girls want to know if you’re available. I’d like to know. That’s all.”

“But why not ask if I have a boyfriend? Why is everyone assuming I’m gay or whatever?”

Blythe’s spine straightened and she adjusted her glasses. “I don’t think anyone’s assuming anything, Lexie. Except maybe you.”

“Me?”

“Labels are just part of the patriarchal code of binary bullshit. They’re a way of categorizing things so people can know exactly who to hate, who to war with, and who to eliminate. Labels mean nothing to self-actualized womyn.”

Lexie rested her head on her knees. Before coming to Milton, Lexie had never heard most of the five-dollar words that Blythe dropped like bread crumbs for pigeons. Perhaps this was a language she could speak, too, if she only listened hard enough. But the listening made her more frustrated. What mysteries of the world did the women of the Pack grow up understanding that had eluded Lexie? She wondered if those slumber parties would have been worthwhile, after all, if only she had ever been invited. Now, she sat at the table of the erudite, wishing that she had the wherewithal to know what questions to ask. Lexie’s stomach lurched with anxiety, or perhaps it was the remnants of the Bloody Mary. Either way, she felt a sudden pressure to absorb all she heard to make up for lost time.

Lexie took a breath. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you have a binary,” Blythe said, “you have opposition. Place values on those things, good versus bad, and you have conflict. White is good, black is bad. Straight is good, gay is bad. Male is good, female is bad. And on and on. That shit serves no one but the people who deem themselves the good ones, i.e. White, Straight, Men.” Blythe’s white teeth glinted as she sneered through those words.

“You see what I’m saying?” she asked.

Lexie nodded. “Yeah, I do.” Which was true for Lexie in fact, if not in vitriol.

A soft and heavy quiet sank between them. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. No ‘friend’ of any kind, really,” Lexie said.

“Alright.” Blythe’s tongue skimmed along the crests of her incisors. “But I don’t care about your relationship status, Lexie. Though I’m happy to hear you’re unencumbered by such exhaustions as love. I should be so clever.”

Lexie let another silent, weighty moment pass between them before asking, “So, are all of you, like lesbians? Or whatever?”

It was obvious to Lexie that Mitch was, and that Blythe had to be by transitivity. But the rest . . . it was confusing.

“Again with the labels. Female sexuality is so terrifying to men that they need to designate those women they can sleep with, and those they can’t. It places women in a hierarchy: If you’re available for sex, you have meaning to men. If you’re not, well, what good are you, right? That’s the beauty myth, plain and simple. A woman’s worth in this society is only how attractive and sexually available she is to men.”

“But,” Blythe said with a wink. “To answer your question, I am.”

Lexie sighed. Whatever nerve she had when Blythe had first joined her here, she was losing. She wanted to run home and leave this day behind. Lexie opened her mouth to put this plan in action when she spied Renee wandering toward them. Lexie felt doomed by the sway of Renee’s hips as she strode barefoot through the grass. Her blue cotton shorts rode so high on her thighs that they may has well have been underwear. Yet she strode so calmly, Lexie could have been fooled into believing she was on a beach in the height of summer.

Blythe smiled, “Speak of the devil.”

“And here she is,” Renee said, raising her fresh beer.

“How about you?” Blythe said with a sly smile. “You a lesbian, Renee?”

“Not at all,” Renee replied. “That’s just a vicious rumor spread by all the women I’ve slept with.” The two chuckled as Lexie tried to bury her face between her knees.“We were just talking about you,” Blythe said as Renee lowered herself to the ground, her legs folding up like tent poles beneath her. “Lexie was saying how beautiful you are.”

Lexie prayed for the sky gods to crack open the clouds and drench them in a great, cold rain, to create lightning and thunder and mass chaos, so she could flee in peace. But no rain came, only Renee’s voice, “Likewise, ladies. Likewise.”

Renee rested her head on Blythe’s blue-jeaned thighs. Blythe peered over her, their faces in reverse, and leaned down for a kiss. Their chins grazed each others’ noses. It was a sensual kiss, moist and soft, and Renee uttered a nearly imperceptible sound of pleasure. Lexie’s eyes rested on Renee’s lips, as soft and inviting as an overstuffed sofa upholstered in satin.

The two women separated and turned to Lexie, her face scrunched up with pitiable confusion.

“Yes?” Renee drew out the word, turning the syllable into a bemused question. Lexie shook her head, hoping they’d drop the subject.

Renee picked at the label of her beer bottle as Blythe tangled her fingers in her thick, fluffy hair.

“It’s okay to be confused, Lexie,” said Blythe, “but there’s no dignity in self-censorship. The rest of the world is all too willing to silence you. Don’t make it any easier for them.”

“What about Mitch?” Lexie blurted, then lowered her voice, worried she might summon yet another one of them to her lawn chair refuge. “I just thought that you and he . . .”

“She is my partner, yes,” Blythe corrected.

“Oh,” Lexie replied, her confusion mounting. “Sorry, I just asked, um, her and she said ‘he’ works, too.”

“She’s mistaken. There is no place for the male pronoun in the Pack,” Blythe said. Lexie cringed. She regretted having brought this up, particularly without Mitch present to defend his point of view on the matter. But then, something about Blythe’s domineering bluntness made Lexie think that, even if he were here, he would keep quiet.Blythe moved on. “To address what I believe was your original point, Renee and I love each other deeply. We are sisters until the end, like all the women here. Renee is closer to me than most; inner sanctum, you could call it. We’ve been through a lot together.”

Renee smirked, “Nah, babe, I think she meant, ‘Are we sleeping together?’”

“No! I wasn’t--”

Blythe smiled and looked down at Renee. “Either way, the answer is yes. Sex is something we share . . . have shared.” Blythe stroked Renee’s freckled cheek, and Renee purred. “It’s something we all share. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Women giving pleasure to one another is the most subversive and beautiful thing we can do together. No one can please a woman like another woman. And women feeling joy, pleasure, and love without male aggression, oppression, or their ridiculous organs--it’s downright revolutionary.”

“And a hell of a lot of fun,” Renee interjected. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and shook one out, bringing it to her lips to light it.

“Sisterhood is powerful,” said Blythe. The two girls snickered at her joke.

“So, is this a sorority?” Lexie asked.

Renee snorted, the first plume of smoke swirling out of her mouth as though she were a disgruntled dragon. “Hardly.”

“A sorority is based on a hierarchy, just like any other political organization,” Blythe said. “And we reject all hierarchy out of hand as one of the more pernicious aspects of the patriarchy.”

“But aren’t you in charge?”

At that, Renee smirked, but she kept her eyes trained on the mouth of her beer bottle and massaged away the moist particles of the disintegrating label.

Blythe answered. “No leaders. No proletariat. No chairwomen or pledges. Equal footing all around.”

It sounded good, but Lexie had a hard time believing it. Sure, Renee was captivating, Hazel was fun, and Jenna was sweet. Each of the other girls had their own vibe, but Blythe was clearly the leader. Lexie recognized that her first day on campus when Blythe commandeered her moving boxes. Whether it fit their ideals or not, the women of the Pack looked to Blythe as their leader, and she did nothing to reject that role.

“Okay,” Lexie conceded. “So, you live here together in. . ?”

“We call it The Den,” Blythe said.

“The Den of Iniquity,” Renee joked.

“The Den of Ubiquity!” Blythe countered.

“The Den of Inequity!” Renee lobbed back.

“What? More like the Den of True Equity! We role-model equality.” Blythe’s feigned offense earned her another sympathetic kiss from Renee.

Lexie struggled to follow the women as they lobbed jokes back and forth. Even if her own powers of discourse flailed in comparison, the women seemed to like her, and that was enough for now.

The way Blythe touched Renee made Lexie think of her mother, who had left to pursue a man who offered her nothing but the chase and some pain. She had followed him first across the country, then further still. She might still be following him; there was no way of telling. Years ago, Lexie stopped wondering if she’d ever hear from her mother again; it had become clear that she wouldn’t. So she buried her mother in her mind, while holding on to a few select memories. Like her voice, which occasionally drifted through her dreams, sometimes in song, sometimes in dream-language gibberish.The day her mother left, taking nothing more than a backpack, Lexie’s tiny family had been sundered. Summer Pace had left nothing more than a fleeting kiss on Lexie’s forehead and a squeeze of her husband’s hand before walking out the door. With the wisdom of time and distance, Lexie now saw the weakness, the fear, and the pain that drove her mother’s life. Summer Pace was constantly pursuing a dream that never could be, a dream based on her own incompletion. Lexie had vowed never to become like her mother; she would never follow love anywhere. She thought instead of the peace and simplicity of living with Blythe and the women of the Pack. What a relief it would be to finally have a home where she felt like she belonged.

As though Blythe could read her thoughts, she interrupted Lexie’s reverie. “You from around here, Lexie?” Blythe said, her fingers still tangled in Renee’s hair. “You seem like it.”

Lexie fidgeted, hating that her cover was blown so soon. “How’d you know?”

Blythe shrugged.

“Spent my whole life in Wolf Creek,” Lexie replied.

“Your parents still there?”

“My dad is. My mom’s gone.”

Blythe nodded as though this made sense of everything.

“Mine too,” Renee said, exhaling another plume of smoke. “What happened to yours?”

Lexie looked away, afraid that her mother would seem cruel, or worse, that the truth would expose Lexie as undesirable, disposable.

“Mine died,” Renee offered. “Four years ago.”

“Mine left. Walked out. I was eight,” Lexie replied.

“Your dad a tyrant, too?”

Lexie laughed. “Hardly.”

“Mine was,” Renee said, her eyes fixed in the space before her, dragging her cigarette, casting great chasms of shadow along her cheeks as she sucked.

“They all are,” Blythe said. She delved her fingers deeper into Renee’s mass of hair and massaged her scalp. “Your mama sounds like a smart woman.” Lexie looked at her, confused.

“Not for abandoning you, of course,” Blythe hurried.

“Why did she leave, Lexie?” Renee asked.

“I don’t really know. Never got the real story, if there even is one. It was so long ago. All I remember is a kiss on the forehead in the middle of the night. When she left, my father stood stock still in the kitchen, looking at his feet. Didn’t say a word. He was so . . . restrained.”

Lexie had replayed the scene innumerable times. Each time it was the same: the kiss on the forehead, her mother’s long, black braid grazing Lexie’s cheek, then Lexie standing at the door as she watched her mother walk away. She had watched her for as long as she could, the cold air rushing into the house as tiny flakes of snow drifted down, covering the ground in a diaphanous veil of white.

Beneath the night sky, her mother had looked radiant, as though glowing with an inner moonlight. She took that radiance with her as she walked away, heading west toward the bus station, leaving tracks in the new snow. She never turned to look back, though Lexie had tried to will it so. Instead Summer Pace walked straight down the street until the night enveloped her. After a long while, Lexie’s father walked wordlessly to the door and pulled it shut, locking it before climbing the stairs to his bedroom, where he promptly shut that door behind him. Not six months later, the tree stand Ray had been working in collapsed, and that was that. Recovery, unemployment, and a new life of tending to one another in odd bursts: Lexie as she grew older, her father as he healed. Lexie didn’t tell the girls that part.

The three women watched the rest of the Pack work at the house, stacking cups, washing dishes, and picking up trash from the dying party. Through the back door, Lexie spotted Sharmlaee holding Hazel by the arm as she jumped up and down in the trash bag, mashing the soiled cups and plates like a tiny, hyperactive trash-compacter.

“Why is she doing that?” Lexie asked, squinting through the glass door at the scene.

“The trash men give us shit if we leave too many bags out,” Renee said. “Lazy sons-of-pricks.”

Blythe stood and brushed off her jeans. “I’d best go help. Wanna make sure they take care of everything.”

Renee smirked. “Yep, because we can’t even take out the trash without your approval.”

A chill entered the air as the sun disappeared behind the tree line, casting half of Blythe’s face in shadow. She narrowed her eyes at Renee but said nothing as she looked back to Lexie and reapplied her bright smile.

“Lexie, stick around, okay?” she said with a wink. Thunder rolled in the distance. “See you, ladies.”

Blythe squeezed Renee’s hand in goodbye. Lexie looked at their hands together and wondered what it would feel like to hold Renee’s hand like that. Her eyes drifted along Renee’s reed-like forearms to the gently curved muscles that glided into her torso and up her neck, a series of perfectly calibrated joints and pulleys. Blythe squeezed Renee’s hand so tight, shadowed indentations haloed each finger. They smiled at one another with their mouths, though not with their eyes. As Blythe dropped her hand and turned to leave, Renee tapped her ashes into the grass.

The day had escaped into evening as the red coals in the barbecue faded into black chunks of soot. The animated conversation of the women in the house carried out to where Lexie and Renee sat and, for once, Lexie was pleased to have something to fill the silence. She shifted on her chair.“Did you ever try to track her down?” Renee asked.

“Who? My mom?”

Renee nodded.

“I googled her a couple years ago,” Lexie said, fiddling with the frayed edge of her sleeve. “You’d think a name like ‘Summer Pace’ would turn up something, but nope.”

Lexie thought she saw a flicker of surprise cross Renee’s face, but she only tapped her dwindling cigarette before looking over at Lexie.

“But your last name is . . .” Renee said.

“Clarion,” Lexie said. “Yeah. My dad’s name. My mom never took it.”

“Good on her,” she said, looking out into the twilight.

“Summer Pace,” Renee repeated. “That’s a pretty name.”

“She was half Cree. I guess that’s where it comes from. Doesn’t really mean much to me, except I have hair that doesn’t do what I want it to, ever.”

Renee raised her hand for a high-five of solidarity. Lexie laughed and slapped it.

“Check out that sunset,” Renee said, gesturing to the west. “That’s what I call a Bajan sunset. Hot pink, neon orange and purple-gray storm clouds. Love that.”

Bajan?

Renee continued before Lexie could ask.

“Barbados. It’s where I’m from.”

Lexie looked at her apologetically.

“The Caribbean,” Renee replied, over her shoulder, in an offhanded way that didn’t make Lexie feel so stupid. “In the rainy season, the sky would look like this almost every night.”

“Do you miss it?” Lexie asked.

“Nah. I don’t remember it much, to be honest. Moved to the States with my mom when I was ten.”

“Is she the white one? Er, the American parent?” Lexie cringed, but Renee just chuckled.

“No, ma’am. My dad is the Jewish-slash-Uruguayan one. Hence, the last name ‘Krauss.’ When my folks got divorced, my mom--the black one--” she said, smiling askance, “decided it’d be a better life here.”

“Why?”

“Any life away from my father was a better life.”

“Where’d you end up?” Lexie said.

“Sahn Frahn Cees Co.” Renee had a penchant for funny voices, Lexie was learning. She found it disconcerting. She couldn’t tell if Renee was making fun of her or just playing. Either way, Lexie had yet to make eye contact with her, and she was growing nervous.

“Wow. You’ve been all over,” Lexie said.

“I wouldn’t consider an island, an American city, and a couple of trips to Uruguay and Europe to be ‘all over.’”

“Compared to my life it is,” Lexie sighed.

“You’ve never been anywhere?” Renee asked between cigarette drags.

“Well, Milton, if that counts. And Wolf Creek, where I’m from, about fifty miles down the road. That makes two. And I went to the Oregon Zoo with my mom once, when I was kid. So there’s three.” She nodded once, more self-mockery than self-satisfaction.

Renee exhaled a gray cloud of smoke. “Seriously?”

Lexie nodded.

“Is it a good zoo?” Renee asked.

“Meh,” Lexie replied, shrugging.

They stared at the sky, squinting at the sun’s curtain call. The fierce orange light set Renee’s face aglow.

“Would you mind rubbing my head?” Renee asked, scooting over and dropping her head onto Lexie’s lap.

“Uh . . .” Lexie drew her hands up to her shoulders, then relented and lowered them into the soft suds of Renee’s hair.

“Wow,” Lexie said.

“‘Wow’ what?”

“Your hair. It looks soft but it’s so . . .” Lexie flinched before she even finished the sentence.

Renee raised an eyebrow. “‘So,’ what?”

“Um . . . oily.”

Renee chuckled. “That, my dear, is because I put oil in it.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You put in your hair what I wash out.”

Renee snorted. “That’s us black girls for you. Always scrambling for what the white girls are throwing away.”

“I didn’t mean--”

Renee waved away her protests. “It’s cool.”

Lexie bit her lip, her heart leaping against her throat. If Renee’s head weren’t in her lap, she’d be inclined to run.

“That Bajan sunset is making me a little nervous. I should probably head home before the weather hits.” Lexie cringed, realizing how much she sounded like her father. She wanted to shake the voice out of her head like water stuck in her ears.

“Screw that. You’re staying here. Why be cooped up in a dorm room when you can be chilling with some of the finest ladies on campus, storms be damned?” Renee flicked her cigarette onto the grass and rose to her feet. She smiled as Lexie watched the cherry of the cigarette fade to black. “I’ll get it later,” Renee said.

“No. I should go,” Lexie mumbled.

“Girl, relax. Have a beer with me. If we’re lucky, Blythe will tell us more about the patriarchy.” Like everything, she said it with a knowing grin. To Lexie’s naive eyes, it looked like Renee was flirting with her. Lexie’s heart seized. Was she?Renee presented her arm for Lexie to grasp. “Madame,” she said, drawing out the word between her lips. Her arm was so long the negative space formed at its crux could have circled Lexie’s torso. Yes, Lexie decided, taking her arm, Renee was definitely flirting with her. And to Lexie’s surprise, she liked it.

Chapter 5

Outside the Den, rain clattered on the roof and leaves fell like early sacrifices to the impending winter. Branches like witch fingers clawed at the windows, drawing tiny squeals with each gust. The night sky was on a rampage, but inside the Den, it was cozy and calm. When the storm broke an hour before, Jenna and Mitch made a noble dash to cover the hot tub and rescue the rest of the beer. Now Jenna lay on the living room carpet in a bra and panties, her dress drying by the fireplace. Mitch had changed into a fresh pair of khakis and a plain white t-shirt, and he rubbed his hair with a dry towel while the rest of the girls sprawled out around the living room in a loose circle. Candlelight reflected off their faces in the otherwise darkened room.

As was the norm in small Oregon towns like Milton, the late summer storm had managed to knock out the power. A half-hour into the tempest, the whole west side of town was blacked out.

Blythe reclined on a pile of pillows. Mitch finished with his towel and stretched out to rest his head on her lap. She caressed his face with the back of her hand, staring into the candle flames. Her glasses reflected the flames in each lens, her irises like two uninhabited blue planets orbited by four burning moons. The candles, already devoured nearly to their limits when Sharmalee snatched them from the pantry in the darkness, had melted to the tabletop. The flames shrank in their puddles of wax, conserving their remaining fuel, holding out.

Corwin’s round face was aglow in the blue light of her laptop. “It’s a storm,” she announced, to no one in particular.

“No shit, Corwin,” Renee said from the kitchen. “Look outside.”

“Well,” said Corwin, snapping her computer closed. “Now we know for sure.”

“I’m killing the wine,” Renee called to the living room. Lexie frowned, wishing for the taste of something juicy. Renee walked back to the living room, barefoot and wearing a fresh pair of denim shorts. Lexie couldn’t imagine how Renee wasn’t cold. The night had brought with it the first chill of the season, and Lexie shivered inside her hoodie, wishing the meager fireplace would cast more heat through the room. Lexie stared longingly at a pile of throw blankets shuffled into the corner.

“Here,” Renee said, snatching a blanket and two floor pillows. “Share with me.” She eased herself cross-legged onto the carpet beside Lexie as she poured the wine. “I don’t want a whole glass, anyway.”

Lexie took the proffered blanket and curled up inside it resting her chin on her knee.

“Cheers, then,” Renee said, lifting the glass to her lips.

Renee tipped her head back to let the wine run down her throat. She offered the glass to Lexie, who took a sip for herself. The wine tasted tart and brazen, as though it had been sitting out all day. In all likelihood, it had.

A blanket of quiet descended on the room. Blythe and Mitch engaged in a grooming ritual of mutual caresses and eye-gazing. Hazel and Sharmalee had taken a break from their earlier hushed exchange about the ambiguous sexual orientation of a cute underclassmen in attendance earlier that day, mulling over each other’s points as they both rested on Corwin’s chest, their heads buoyed with the even rise and fall of her rib cage. Jenna added two logs to the cramped hearth, though Lexie still shivered in her hoodie and blanket.

Renee whispered, “I can hear your brain working.”

Lexie shrugged.

Renee laughed aloud, the sound rising above the valley of low voices in the room. “What are you thinking?”

Lexie hesitated. She hated to dispel the quiet. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much of anything to say.”

“There’s always something that needs to be said,” Renee said, taking another sip of wine. “This world conspires to take away women’s voices at every turn. May as well use your voice when you can.”

“I’ve never had a hard time speaking up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Renee challenged. “When was the last time you did?”

Lexie bit her lip, thinking hard but coming up empty.

Renee set her wineglass on the table. “May I kiss you?” she asked.

Lexie gaped. The question sounded foreign, absurd. She wanted to laugh at the improbability at hearing it, ever. She furrowed her brow even as she fought off a timid smile.

“What?” Lexie asked.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Uh . . . I mean, it’s just that--” Lexie struggled to right her brain.

“Say ‘no’.”

“What?”

“Say ‘no’!” Renee laughed with frustration.

“But I--”

“‘No’ is a complete sentence. Say it,” Renee demanded.

“No, it’s not that . . .”

“Just the word!”

“No,” Lexie said.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For using your voice,” Renee said.

“Oh.”

“See?”

“I guess.”

Lexie reached for the wineglass and took a long sip, trying to puzzle out what the hell had just happened. Saying “no” wasn’t a problem for her; it was “yes” she could use some practice with. She wished Renee would give her a chance to try that word on for size.

“Good thing you didn’t want to kiss me,” Renee said with a wink.

“Good thing,” Lexie replied.

Renee smiled. “I guess you didn’t have to fight much for your right to speak growing up, huh?”

“My house was pretty quiet,” Lexie admitted. “My dad slept a lot. I tried not to be loud.”

“Well, I can’t say that doesn’t sound kind of nice sometimes. Living with eight women can be intense,” Renee chuckled.

“Like, your periods are in sync? I read that that happens sometimes.”

“You have no idea.”

“Intensity is something I could use in my life. Living with people like this would be a welcome change.”

“Do you do your own dishes?” Renee asked.

“Yep. And my dad’s,” Lexie said.

“Then you’re way ahead of half the women here.”

Hazel chimed in from the other side of the room. “Why doesn’t your dad do his own dishes?” she asked.

Renee lobbed back, “Why don’t you, Hazel?”

Hazel flipped her black ponytail over her shoulder. “I prefer to spend my time fighting the patriarchy,” she said, evoking a round of laughter from the girls.

“Change begins at home,” Jenna said.

“Yeah. Think globally, clean locally,” Renee quipped.

Hazel stuck out her tongue and nuzzled herself back into Corwin’s chest for more affectionate rubs.

In the corner, Blythe and Mitch whispered and giggled in their own little bubble, taking advantage of the false privacy bestowed by the even pounding of the rain. They kissed and nibbled on each other’s fingers, enjoying the gentle dalliances of their romance. Lexie stared, as though by watching them, she could absorb all there was to know about feminine intimacy. Perhaps by studying them, her own desires would reveal themselves as easily as the clouds releasing rain. What would it mean to know her needs and desires as clearly as these women seemed to know each other? Her fantasies, sexual and otherwise, had only ever been nebulous, shifting shapes of aspiration and lust, as difficult to decipher as the dream-gibberish that filled her nights.

Lexie sifted through her memories, tracking clues from her childhood. Certainly she’d admired a woman or two before, like Wes. Once, while waiting for the school bus during a field trip, she gave her sixth-grade math teacher, Ms. Jones, a shoulder rub. Though the preteen Lexie had enjoyed it, she ultimately dismissed it as some sort of mother complex. Then there was the soap opera that her dad spent hours watching when he was first injured. A spectacularly proportioned actress played Doctor Delaney, and at the time, Lexie thought she wanted to be a doctor, so that could be dismissed as idol worship. Certainly not lesbianism.

A flash of other memories passed through her mind: She had insisted on dressing up as Calamity Jane for three consecutive Halloweens. In high school there was Peter; he looked like a girl, so maybe she just liked girly boys. That was possible. Peter had been Lexie’s only boyfriend and clearly gay and maybe even a little bit more. He changed his name junior year to the more gender-ambiguous Robin, just before his family moved to Chicago, but that didn’t mean much in the great scheme of her sexual life. She also never got anywhere near his penis, but that seemed like a consensus-driven decision. Since him, there’d been little in the way of partnered sexual exploration. The distinction between a straight girl who just hated the trappings of heterosexual femininity--the dresses, the fairy tales, the endless pursuit of narrow-minded beauty--and a queer girl was so subtle that Lexie couldn’t distinguish between the two.

She lost herself in the stream of her thoughts. If left to her own devices she would analyze herself unconscious. She forced herself back to reality, taking the wineglass from Renee. She sipped the wine, studying a cluster of freckles on high on Renee’s right cheek.

“You seem . . .” Lexie ventured aloud while Renee stretched her calves. “I don’t know. More laid back than the other girls. Not as . . .” She knew the word she was searching for, but something about the term “militant” made her think she should keep her mouth shut. Her ears warmed with the fear of misspeaking. The corner of Renee’s mouth curved to a smirk, and she shifted back onto her elbows, her bare legs stretched out in front of her.

“We are opinionated ladies. That’s an observation, not a critique,” Renee said. She reached out her empty hand, beckoning for the glass. “And if you meant it as a critique, girl, you are in the wrong place.” She smiled again and took a healthy sip, then passed the glass back to Lexie.

“It seems like everyone spends a lot of time talking about the way men suck,” Lexie said, losing grip on her inhibitions because of the wine, or the day, or the way Renee made her feel. Or, perhaps all three.

Renee raised her eyebrows. “A lot of us have issues with men, it’s true. A lot of women have issues with men, because a lot of men are fuckwads. Some women turn their issues into opinions and their opinions into manifestos. Some women, like myself, for instance--like the Pack--turn their manifestos into action. We all have different ways of getting to the same place. As long as we arrive to do the work that needs to be done, who cares how you got there?”

“That seems rather . . .” Lexie struggled to find the right word.

“Essentialist?” Renee offered.

The actual word Lexie was going for was “reductive,” but she let Renee continue.

“I think things are the way they are until they’re not. It’s the job of the activist to be a catalyst, to supplement the natural process of change and speed it up for the good of everyone.”

“Everyone except the original compound,” Lexie said, feeling smart for catching the biology reference.

“Compound fracture, compound interest, compound prisons, let ‘em all go to hell,” Renee retorted.

“But it seems like there’s such a chasm between these girls’ experiences and my own,” Lexie admitted. “I feel like I’m a different species, and I grew up here! I love my Dad. I have no problems with men.”

“Just because you haven’t had negative experiences with men yourself doesn’t mean that those experiences aren’t real for other women. Solidarity begs you to treat those issues as your own, because what is it but luck and a little bit of social progress that has kept you safe all these years?”

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Renee opened up a space for Lexie to respond. The question confounded her. Lexie rooted through her memories, trying to find the hidden moments in her life when it really was nothing more than luck that had kept her safe.

“I don’t like looking at the world as if I’m constantly in danger,” she said. “Whether it’s true or not.”

Renee softened her approach. “All I’m saying is, you don’t need to have been raped or beaten to want to work for a world in which things like rape and violence don’t exist. Or genital mutilation, or ‘honor killings’, or the myriad other ways our world hurts and oppresses women. We all suffer from injustice. The point is to fight even when it’s not your head on the block.”

“I just don’t think that men are the problem.”

“Not all men are the problem. There are many amazing men in this world, doing great work, fighting for justice. But I won’t rely on them to make my world the way it needs to be. That’s my job.” Renee swirled a reedy index finger toward her chest.

“Besides, what we’re about--” she said, sighing. “Well, what I’m about isn’t destroying the patriarchy. It’s the kyriarchy I’m after.”

“The what?” Lexie asked.

“Kyriarchy. Patriarchy implies a gendered power structure ordered and arranged by men. But not all injustice is perpetrated by men or the work of men. ‘Kyriarchy’ encompasses inequitable power structures across genders, races, sects, contexts and so on.”

Lexie sighed, rubbing her forehead at the onset of a headache. “You’re smart,” she said with more than a little disappointment.

Renee snorted. “Yep. Does that bother you?”

Lexie blinked back unexpected tears.

“Whoa, girl. It’s okay. You PMSing or something?” Renee said, stroking Lexie’s shoulder.

“No. Well, yeah, but no,” Lexie said. “I just . . . This is all a lot for me to digest. I just feel . . .” Ashamed, embarrassed, stupid. “. . . stupid.”

Renee grasped Lexie’s chin and pulled her face close. Lexie cast her eyes downward, but Renee shook her chin, forcing Lexie’s eyes to meet her own.

“You are not stupid.” Renee said.

Lexie tried to shake her head in protest, but Renee held fast. “You need to work on your self-esteem, mama. You understood everything I just said. You’ve held your own when confronted by a hell of a lot of scary-ass women with some radical-ass thoughts. You are getting an education and a chance to get the hell out of your Podunk town. You are working your tail off to better your situation when many women never get that chance. You’re not afraid to ask questions and have your assumptions challenged.” Her eyes blazed fierce, dark, and deep.

“Don’t you dare call yourself stupid. You are goddamned brilliant.”

Lexie caught the fire in Renee’s eyes and found that she believed her. In the company of these women, Lexie felt stronger and smarter than she ever had. They made her want to pursue her own greatness, whatever that might be.

“Lexie,” Jenna asked from across the table. “Blythe says you’re from around here.”

Renee dropped her hand, and Lexie wiped her eyes and nodded. “Wolf Creek. It’s like fifty miles east.”

“Neat,” Sharmalee said, twirling the ends of her hair. “Do you miss your trailer?”

“Sharm!” Hazel bolted to sitting and slapped Sharmalee on the arm.

“Ow! What?”

“That’s fucked up,” Mitch chuckled from Blythe’s lap.

“That’s hella rude,” Corwin said.

“No it’s not! There are a lot of trailers around here! I’ve never seen so many before!”

“You’re from India!” Hazel shouted.

“They don’t have trailers in India! And it’s not like I’m from Dharavi.”

“I grew up in a house,” Lexie said.

“See?” Hazel said, declaring herself the moral superior.

“Oh. Cool. I didn’t mean--” Sharmalee said.

Lexie smiled and waved away her apology.

“Oh!” Sharmalee straightened, as if struck with a great epiphany. “We should get Lexie to help us with the werewolves!”

“Hey, shut it!” Renee said.

“Renee . . .” Corwin scolded.

“Don’t silence me,” Renee shot back.

“You were silencing Sharm!” Hazel shouted.

“Sharm was speaking out of turn.”

“There are no turns here,” Jenna said.

“Christ, I’m trying to protect us.”

“Lexie’s one of us,” Jenna said. “Or at least she could be.”

Blythe remained silent as the girls’ exchange played out. Renee laid back in a huff, downing the final sip of wine.

After a long and disconcerting silence, Lexie asked, “Werewolves?”

Hazel leapt up. “Let’s play a game!” Blythe rolled her eyes and Mitch groaned, burying his face in Blythe’s arm. Lexie tensed.

“What do you think, Blythe?” Corwin said. “Lexie can know, right?”

Renee bit her lip.

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight,” Blythe said. “We’re having such a nice time. Let’s not bring all that darkness in right now.”

“But tomorrow--” Sharmalee said.

“Later,” Blythe interrupted. She smiled at Lexie. “But I’d also like Lexie to be around more.”

“How about Truth or Dare?!” Hazel said.

Lexie’s neck grew hot and her vision narrowed as she said a silent prayer to any deity that might have been listening. Thor or Zeus, perhaps, since the lightning was cracking on unabated.

“That’s dumb, Hazel,” Renee replied. Lexie relaxed. “The whole point of Truth or Dare is to mack on the people at the party. I’ve already slept with all of you. Where’s the excitement in that?”

“What about the newbie?” Hazel pressed.

“This newbie,” Renee replied, nodding her head toward Lexie, “doesn’t need a game to get what she wants.”

Lexie froze. Renee cast her a flirtatious smile.

“Oh yeah?” Hazel teased.

Renee rolled her eyes, then looked directly at Lexie. She spoke in a voice just loud enough for Hazel’s benefit. “Lexie?” Renee smiled at the implied dare. “May I kiss you?”

Lexie didn’t know the right answer. She had just been scolded for being unwilling to say no, but now the rules of the game had changed. Renee smiled, politely waiting for her answer. Lexie whispered, “Sure,” lowering her gaze to avoid those darkly probing eyes.

Renee captured Lexie’s chin again and pulled their faces together. Her lips brushed against Lexie’s, sending tiny, tingling bolts up and down Lexie’s back. The skin behind her ears tickled as warmth spread from her lips to her cheeks, then to her neck and the tips of her ears, until finally it washed across her chest, warming her completely.

Hazel harrumphed. “Screw you guys, then. I’m dancing.” She leapt to her feet, dancing before the music even started.

“Turn it up, Corwin!”

“I’ve only got fifteen percent battery left.”

“So?! What else are you going to use it for, checking the weather?”

Corwin rolled her eyes and raised the volume.

Hazel cheered and ran in place as the electroclash banged out of Corwin’s tinny laptop speakers. She burst into a flurry of drunken movement, waving her hands above her head like a go-go dancer. Sharmalee giggled and jumped up to join her.

Renee leaned in to Lexie. “That was nice,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lexie said, unsure of what else to say.

“Good,” Renee said, setting the glass on the table with an empty clink. “In that case, may I kiss you again?”

Lexie’s mouth was already half open; she licked her lower lip. Renee grinned and leaned in again, pressing Lexie back onto the carpet. On the ground Lexie was cozy, warm, and slightly drunk. Renee’s soft, black hair filtered the candlelight in strange ways, the flickering light peeking through her tiny curls like sunlight through tree leaves. Renee traced her mouth down Lexie’s neck, her hands feather-touching the bare skin above the collar of Lexie’s shirt.

Lexie grasped Renee’s hips. Though Lexie was shorter than Renee, she felt solid, sturdy, compared to her. Renee was built like an egret, with delicate bones and long, thin limbs. There was a word for Renee’s body, but Lexie couldn’t come up with it. As Renee stroked her body and kissed her neck, Lexie struggled for the word. It started with an “S” or maybe a “C.” Lexie’s mind derailed in an endless loop of language. She lost herself in the search for the right word, forgetting Renee’s touch and the effects of the wine and the setting. Mulling the word that clung to the tip of her tongue, begging to be identified, she placed in the folder in her head that held all of the things she was learning about Renee.

Renee pulled back, the corona of light flaring behind her hair, wrenching Lexie from her reverie.

“You okay?” Renee asked, looking at her askance.

Lexie rose to her elbows. “Yeah,” she said.

“Your head’s somewhere else.”

“Oh,” Lexie paused, waiting for a clearer cue on how to proceed. Renee didn’t seem inclined to offer her any.

“I’m sorry,” Lexie said. “I’m just feeling . . . a lot.” It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t cover the whole truth of the situation, either. The problem was, Lexie didn’t know the truth of the situation. She just knew that everything was beginning to teeter out of balance. She felt like she was diving too quickly into an irrevocable choice of alliance to an alien culture. Yet she felt as though she could belong here, that she could find among these women a place for herself.

“See?!” Renee pointed. “There you go again.”

Lexie snapped back to Renee’s face. “Oh,” Lexie said. “You’re right. I’m kind of out of it.” She fumbled for an excuse. “I’m just . . . a freshman.”

Wow, that was lame. Lexie cringed.

“Wow. That’s lame,” Renee laughed.

“Yeah.” Lexie smiled another apology. “But it feels kind of true right now, weird as it sounds.”

“Listen,” Renee whispered, her lips grazing Lexie’s ear. “You want to go upstairs? More privacy?”

Lexie shook her head again, biting her lip. She hated to disappoint this brash and beautiful girl, but she knew that no was the only answer. Renee stroked the long, fine hairs framing the left side of Lexie’s face, pushing a lock behind her ear.Lexie shook her head and gave a small smile. “No.”

Renee held her hand to Lexie’s cheek. “I’m glad you spoke up,” she said with a wink. “You should try that more often.” It was a sisterly gibe, but it unsettled Lexie, anyway.

“It’s all good,” Renee said, sighing long and deep. She leaned in and kissed Lexie gently. “Do you want to dance?” she asked.

“Not really. Should I?” Across the coffee table, Lexie caught a glance from Blythe. Blythe looked away before Lexie could read her, returning her attention to Mitch.

“Nah, Hazel’s life is Flashdance. She’ll be at this all night.” Renee stroked Lexie’s face. “It’s late. I’ll grab us some blankets for now and walk you home once the storm breaks.”

Chapter 6

The streets were strewn with the wreckage of the prior evening’s squall. Though it had sounded fierce at the time, seeing the littered streets in the new morning light made Lexie realize just how much damage had been done. A tree limb dangled overhead, entwined in sagging power lines, and a car sat stalled in a waterlogged dip in the road. Brown leaves plastered the sidewalks and the storm drains roared. It was painfully early, not even seven a.m. The sky remained overcast with a layer of grey cloud, unmoving and impenetrable.

Renee walked her to the sidewalk that unofficially divided the north side of campus from the south. They stood together on that invisible boundary, Lexie conscious of the effects that drinking all day and staying up all night must have wrought upon her face. She wanted to hide, but the cold glare of the overcast morning bathed her in grey light. Renee kissed her goodbye before turning back towards the Den. Lexie dragged feet back to her dorm.

She wore that kiss on her lips for the rest of the walk home, her mind racing with memories of the previous hours. She kissed a girl. She got a little drunk. Both were for the first time and both easier and more fun that she had anticipated. Yet, she had declined Renee’s invitation to her room which contradicted the collegiate vision she had created for herself. She wasn’t winning her game of “yes” and promised herself to recommit to her efforts.Rounding the corner to her dorm, the noise of a crowd tore her from her thoughts.

Clumps of students in bathrobes and pajamas stood bleary-eyed and confused on the dorm’s front lawn beyond a perimeter of yellow police tape. A fire crew, a handful of police officers, and five helmeted utility workers huddled around a massive oak tree that had crashed through the roof of her dormitory. Milton College’s president, a short-haired academic named Suzanne Fern, paced beyond the crowd, a cellphone pressed to her ear. She wore a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her usual pantsuit, likely due to the hour and because it was Saturday. As Lexie rounded the crowd for a better view, she recognized the tree. It was the one outside her window, and it was lodged squarely in her room.

The ancient oak rested in a violent, U-shaped gash of plaster, cement chunks, and wood, as if an errant monster had bitten a chunk out of the roof and wall of the building. Through the hole, she saw the poster she had affixed to her wall when she moved in: a glossy full moon shining on Haystack Rock. The oak lounged in the gash, branches like capillaries stretching in every direction. Orange leaves sprouted from the roof and fluttered like the theatrical flame effect of crepe paper and fan.

Lexie wandered, dumbfounded, to stand with her classmates. Brian Dalton, captain of the soccer team and president of Phi Kappa Phi, stood in his khakis, a t-shirt, and a varsity jacket, looking as though he was either just arriving or just leaving.

“That’s your room, isn’t it?” he asked as Lexie approached, her eyes fixed to the wreckage. She nodded, unsure whether to gasp or cry or just walk away. “I bet this will get you out of homework for at least a week,” he snarked.

Two of the crewmen struggled to wrap a pair of canvas straps around the bulk of the tree’s trunk. A crane waited nearby, its wheels sinking into the muddy lawn.

“Oh my God!” Anna shouted from the crowd as she spotted Lexie, energized by the sudden import of her otherwise meaningless vocation--her usual duties consisted of holding the hair of vomiting freshmen and negotiating standard roommate bitchery. She ran towards Lexie, embracing her with all the maternal warmth her healthy frame could conjure.

“Oh my God, oh my God! Thank God you weren’t home last night! You could have been crushed!”

Lexie stared at the damage, wondering if that were true. She wriggled in Anna’s grip. She really didn’t want Anna clutching her or the looks the R.A.’s panic was attracting.

“Yeah,” said Brian. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, emblazoned in burgundy with the word “Exeter.” “Good thing you’re such a slut.” His sleazy grin held steady as he raised his eyebrows. She had met him only a week prior and now he was calling her a slut. Charming. Lexie rolled her eyes, ignoring him as best she could.

“Where were you last night, heartbreaker?” he asked with a nudge.

“I got stuck at a friend’s house.”

“Riiight,” he prodded. “Which ‘friend’?”

Lexie sighed, far too exhausted for this sophomoric repartee.

“Blythe LaCoste,” Lexie replied with raised eyebrow, as if the name alone could call forth the sassy comebacks and vigorous defenses of the Pack.

“Those hairy fucking femi-nazis? Christ.” Brian scowled as though smelling something rank.

“Briiiiaann!” Anna responded with flirtatious, mock-offense.

Lexie bit her tongue, the heat rising up the back of her neck to prickle at the fine hairs behind her ears.

“You can’t be a lesbo, Lex.” Brian leered. “You’re too cute for that shit. It’d be a waste.” His eyes scanned her as though the truth of the matter was hidden beneath her shirt. “Lexie the Lezzie. Hah. That’s too easy.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Lexie crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Anna,” he said. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel, admittedly, but a man’s got his needs. Sometimes you just don’t want them to put up a fight, you know?”

Anna giggled warily and Lexie grimaced.

“Fucking tree didn’t let me get it done, either. My woody is stuck behind my waistband, and it’s starting to chafe. Unless. . .” he included both girls in his leer, raising his eyebrows as means of suggestion.

Lexie flushed red with rage. She wished the Pack was here to deliver the cutting rejoinder she was incapable of coming up with herself.

Brian laughed. “I’m just joshin’. Lighten up, Lex.” He slapped her shoulder and squeezed it.

Their standoff was interrupted by the loud beeping of the crane as it rolled into place through the thick mud.

The crane jerked into action and the chains clinked with the burden of the tree, silencing the onlooking crowd. Lexie stepped away from Brian and Anna just as a hefty copper-colored pickup truck cruised onto the lawn. A woman stepped out of the truck. Stunning and strong, she was clad in work boots, blue jeans and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. She reached into the bed of her truck and lifted out a large chainsaw and a pair of work goggles. Her hair, an earthy chestnut brown, grazed her shoulders and hung partly in front of her face. Mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes. Lexie found herself wondering what they looked like. Unable to see them, Lexie had trouble parsing the rest of the woman’s face, as though knowing her eyes would solve some important mystery of her ethnicity, relations, or role in this small town.

As the woman approached and Lexie ran through the possible permutations of eye color and shape, a claw of pain raked across the inside of her abdomen. A wave of nausea flooded through Lexie, like the first realization of food poisoning. She doubled over, hands braced on her thighs. Her blood ran hot, flooding her body with queasy tingles. Strange pings of pleasure roiled within the discomfort. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she swallowed hard as her muscles fought her bones. The spell passed swiftly. Damn cramps. She pushed herself upright, stretching past the tension, negating the pain. Breathing deeply, she wandered back to the crowd, hoping to find some solidity in the distraction of other people. Standing among them, though, Lexie kept glancing over her shoulder at the strange woman.

The crowd cheered as the tree was freed from the building like a thorn wrenched from a beast’s paw. Looking up, Lexie felt a second pulse of shame as the inside of her room was exposed to the sky. Her bed was made, the closet was open, and books shone in the white daylight on her desk.

Bits of plastic and glass rained down onto the grass, shaken loose from the dangling tree. It felt perverse, this crowd gaping at her private existence, as if she was being forced to undress before them. As the crane levered the tree out of the dorm, Lexie spied gobs of color adhered to it, tangled within the branches. Oh God. A blue t-shirt clung to the fine branches at the edge of the tree’s corona of twigs and, more damningly, a pair of underwear dangled from a burr in the tree’s bark. Lexie felt the overwhelming urge to flee, or vomit, or both. Brian laughed aloud.

“Cute chones, girl. I didn’t know you had a penchant for polka dots.” He elbowed her in the arm, and it felt as though the simple touch could send her careening to the ground.

The crane spun the tree ninety degrees, swooping over the students’ heads. Lexie’s panties dangled over the crowd like a polka-dotted pinata. Snickers and giggles sprang up as people noticed and pointed them out. The cops hustled forward, arms spread wide, herding the crowd out from under the shadow of the great beast.

Just beyond where the students and workers reassembled, the crane eased the tree to the ground as gently as lowering a lover into bed. The wood heaved and creaked as the tree’s weight settled, then stilled. The subsequent silence triggered a cascade of action and conversation. Dr. Fern, nodding into the cell phone she cradled against her ear, beckoned with her notebook for the students to gather around her. Various civil servants drove away or began filling out clipboards of paperwork. Some people snapped pictures with their cellphones.

While the rest of her dormmates waited for Dr. Fern to explain the next steps, Lexie pressed up against the thin, yellow barrier of the police tape. The strange, dark woman ducked past the perimeter of police tape, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand, while holding the chainsaw in the other. She strode to the tree, her swaying hips counterpoised to her shoulders. She moved as though an extension of the ground itself, solid and unwavering.

Discovering the bits of clothing tangled in the tree, the woman put down her chainsaw and extricated them from the branches. Clothes in hand, she scanned the crowd of students for the steward of the laundry. Lexie’s ears grew hot. The woman walked to Lexie and wordlessly handed her the offending garments. Lexie snatched them away and stuffed them into her bag. In the lenses of the woman’s sunglasses, she saw her own discomfort reflected. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the woman’s shrouded gaze, praying that her ears weren’t as red as they felt.

“I’m sorry about your room,” the woman said. Her voice was low and even, formal in its clarity.

Lexie shrugged and twisted her mouth in a moue of powerlessness. “How did you know?” she asked.

The woman’s reply was a crafty grin. Her skin was the color of arid fields and her hair that of fire-licked bricks, a brown belying red revealed only by sunlight. She picked up her chainsaw.

“What are you doing with the tree?” Lexie asked, desperate to dispel her anxiety with a bit of small talk.

“I’m here to take care of it,” the woman replied, removing her sunglasses and hanging them on the collar of her shirt, revealing particolored eyes. Even if Lexie had guessed a color, she would only have been half right.

The woman’s left eye elicited a memory of Lexie’s childhood: her mother’s birthday, when Lexie had been only six. Her father had presented her mother with a small white cardboard box, within which was a smooth, translucent golden rock. It was rare, he said, to find such a thing in this part of the world. Lexie had laughed when he said it was called “amber,” because that was the name of their neighbors’ golden retriever. Now, looking at the impossible color of this woman’s left eye, Lexie found herself wondering whatever happened to that stone.

Stranger still was her right eye, the shade of the jagged slate cliffs overlooking the ocean thirty miles to the west. The light caught the woman’s iris like the moonstone embedded in the hilt of Lexie’s new knife, as cool and fragile as ice melting in spring. The overall effect was disconcerting, like looking at two faces superimposed over one another.

“Whoa,” Lexie breathed.

“Pardon?” The woman tilted her head, that rebellious lock of hair again sliding free.

“Oh, nothing. Just. Um. Your eyes are . . .”

The woman lowered her head and scratched her eyebrow with a small chuckle.

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” Lexie stammered. “I’ve just never seen eyes like yours before.” She paused, searching for some way to salvage the doomed conversation.

“It’s called heterochromia,” the woman said. Her mauve lips curved into a cheshire grin.

Lexie glanced past her to the tree. Its massive trunk bisected the lawn while bored utility workers smoked and texted, kicking at the mud with their boots.

The woman held out her hand to in greeting. “I’m Archer.” Her palm was warm and strong, smooth from work, radiating heat like a sunburn.

“Lexie.” Her father had taught her how to give a good handshake, but now her arm struggled to hold firm as Archer jerked it. Archer eyed Lexie curiously before stepping away to the tree trunk, lips moving without sound as her eyes scanned and evaluated the protruding branches.

“You’re taking care of it? Why?” Lexie asked.

“Suzanne Fern called me.”

Archer stepped away, attention focused on the tree. Lexie rocked back and forth on her heels, pressing her belly against the police tape, then withdrawing, over and over again. What could she do to pull the woman’s attention back to her?

“Help?” Lexie squeaked, uncertain of the language she was speaking, but certain she needed to say something. The word sounded odd on its own, so she rushed to qualify, “You want . . . Help? Any?”

Though Lexie felt quite certain she sounded like an idiot, Archer didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you comfortable with a chainsaw?”

Lexie took a deep breath and nodded, pleased that this was all that would be asked of her. She threw a glance back at Dr. Fern.

Archer waved off her concern. “Don’t worry about Sue. She’s cool.” Archer replaced her sunglasses, handing the goggles to Lexie to wear. They shared a brief smile as Lexie ducked beneath the police tape and followed Archer to the felled beast.

After twenty-five minutes of ear-searing noise, the tree lay in rough, thick discs and the bed of Archer’s truck was open with two planks of wood ramped to the ground. They had worked the tree from both ends, Lexie taking care of the branches while Archer attacked the trunk, working her way to the core. Lexie and Archer rolled the larger pieces up the planks to the truck bed, which sagged beneath the weight. Archer was not much larger than Lexie, but she was shockingly strong. Not even several trips carrying the disks of tree back to her truck had broken her breath.

The utility men cleared the rest of the wreckage and wheeled in a wood chipper as police officers escorted the students to their rooms to gather their necessities. The students would have to stay the next night scattered in other rooms throughout campus until the structural integrity of the building could be verified, after which they could return to their rooms with some slight reshuffling and double-occupancy demotions.

Satisfied that the first phase of her plan was working, Dr. Fern turned her attention to Lexie. “Ms. Clarion!”

While Lexie suspected Dr. Fern would prefer not to have to deal with the complaints of thirty-five displaced students, she also couldn’t help but notice how this problem-solving invigorated the president. Dr. Fern’s eyes brightened as she tied up each loose end, nearing the finish line after which she could return to her slippers, weekend crossword or whatever else it was school administrators did on the weekend. It seemed that even though beckoned from bed because of extensive property damage and a student’s brush with death, Dr. Fern was enjoying herself, if in an odd, exasperated way.

She laid out a plan that involved overnight bags, deferred homework assignments, an optional meeting with Lexie’s father, and double occupancy in German House until an alternative could be arranged.

“But I don’t speak German,” Lexie said.

“You don’t have to, Alexis,” Dr. Fern replied, making a note in a leather-bound planner. Satisfied with her proposed resolution, Dr. Fern snapped shut her planner and turned her attention to Archer.

“Archer, it’s wonderful to see you. It’s been too long.” A broad smile opened on her face, revealing deep, cozy wrinkles around her eyes and forehead. She embraced Archer like an old friend. “I had heard you were back.”

Archer returned the hug. “Hard to keep a secret in this town.”

“I do keep an ear to the ground. When did you get back?”

“About six weeks ago. I’ve just been at the cabin, sweeping out the cobwebs.”

Dr. Fern placed her hand on Archer’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll be sticking around then.”

Archer smiled open and warm, unlike the shrouded smile she had given to Lexie. It was strange to witness such different personas displayed by the same woman. “Thanks for the tree,” she said.

“Thank you. She’d end up in the wood chipper if not for you,” Dr. Fern said. “I hope you can breathe new life into the old girl. She’s older than all of us.” She chuckled. “Well, close enough.”

Lexie asked, “What do you do?”

Archer grinned. “I’m a carpenter.”

“Like hell you are,” Dr. Fern interrupted. She turned to Lexie. “Ms. Racine is an artist.”

“You’re too kind,” Archer said.

Dr. Fern snorted. “Don’t tell the Board of Governors.” With a wave, she hurried off to salvage what was left of her Saturday morning.

Lexie walked with Archer back to her truck, as a volunteer firefighter scraped mud from his boots, waiting to escort her into her decimated room.

“So what are you going to do with the tree?” Lexie asked, not yet ready to call her father or address her new series of woes.

“I had an idea,” Archer said, shaking her head. “But I may re-imagine it. I expect something more interesting will take its place.”

Archer’s lips slid into that crafty grin, and Lexie wondered if there were any other people in Archer’s life like Dr. Fern, to whom she offered her wide smile. What would it be like to be one of those people, to see all the faces of Archer?

“Do you need any more help?” Lexie asked.

“No, I’m good here. Thanks for sticking around.” Archer slid her sunglasses in place, reflecting Lexie’s face back at her. “Putting your life in order might be a good idea. Don’t you have anyone to call?” She gestured to the hole gaping in the side of the dormitory, as gruesome as a head wound.

Lexie’s stomach twisted at the thought of sorting out her life. She shrugged, feeling like an irresponsible child for wanting to walk away from the catastrophe.

“I don’t want to stay with some new kid in German House tonight. But I don’t want to stay with my dad either. I don’t have anyplace to go,” she said before recalling the Den. “Nowhere comfortable at least.” The truth of the statement depressed Lexie as much as it surprised her to have said it aloud.

Archer stared at Lexie, unblinking, for a long moment. Finally, she spoke. “Have you heard of the Full Moon Tribe?”

Lexie had. Growing up, every once in a while she’d overhear a dreadlocked drifter mention the party. It had been going on every month for at least the past twelve years. In high school some of her friends tried to go, only to be foiled by their parents. At the time, Lexie had been relieved; the party sounded far too strange for her tastes. Stories would spring up around her classmates of bad acid trips that left drowning victims in the river, pagan orgies, and once, even a bear mauling. Lexie suspected that at least the latter of these stories was an urban legend spurred by excessive drinking and house music, but she was intimidated nonetheless. That Archer was involved seemed doubly strange and disconcerting.

“It’s happening tonight,” Archer continued. Lexie furrowed her brow. Hadn’t there already been a full moon at the beginning of the month? Archer replied as though she’d heard the unspoken question. “It’s a blue moon!” Her face animated, as though she was a girl no older than Lexie, excited and eager. “Only happens once a year. Got to experience it when you can.” She winked with a sly grin. “Perhaps it’ll buy you some time while you figure out where you want to be.”

“What about the rares?”

Archer just shrugged in response. First Blythe and now Archer; no one seemed to be as concerned about the beasts as she’d expected. Maybe Lexie’s father was right: the whole town of Milton underestimated the animals.

Lexie’s first instinct was to say no. While she had no legitimate reason beyond her own intimidation of beautiful strangers and creepy folk tales, saying yes seemed outside the realm of reality for her. Then Lexie cursed herself, remembering her commitment to the “yes” game. So far it had gotten her a kiss and a potentially life-saving sleepover, which was powerful evidence of its efficacy. She was compelled to say yes, but felt that in doing so, she would be taking the first step in a direction she had never planned to pursue. She had just started making new friends in the Pack, and following Archer felt like a departure from them, though she couldn’t say why.

Archer broke Lexie’s hesitation by lowering her chin to peer over the frames of her sunglasses. She stared into Lexie’s eyes, her right eye shimmering like river water, her left like polished bronze. “Meet me there?”

Say something, cried Lexie’s brain. She swallowed. Archer is waiting for you. Say something! Archer stared. Say! Something! her brain screamed. Like snow tires grasping traction, she sputtered forward.

“Where?” Lexie asked, her thighs seizing with terrified joy.

Archer smiled and slid in behind the steering wheel. “Follow the river south of town. Then just follow the sound,” she said, and she was off, the dismembered tree rattling in her truck like a skeleton.

Inside Lexie’s demolished dorm room, broken glass covered her faded quilt, and chunks of concrete and stray leaves littered the carpet. Her Abnormal Psychology text sat in a pool of water on the desk, soaking the night’s storm into each page of theory and conjecture. The text on the pages curved in slow undulations moving in three dimensions, like a thick paintbrush drawn across a rock face. The hamper, which in revealing its secrets brought Lexie to Archer’s hand, lay on its side like a binge drinker after a long night, its contents sprawled out in a colorful splatter from its mouth.

Lexie peered out from the hole in the wall as if from the belly of a great beast. A breeze swirled through the gap, sending a chill across Lexie’s collarbone. She dug through her pile of laundry on the floor, locating her favorite red hoodie. She shook it, finding it dry and glass-shard-free. There wasn’t much left to survey. Strewn possessions all, none compelling her to claim ownership. Her computer was in her backpack, safe in her truck. Milton would outfit her with replacements for her academic essentials. The rest was lost to an act of nature. Lexie wondered why she had been so mortified earlier to see this space gutted in front of her peers. There was nothing of her here. She had no trouble walking away.

She scanned for a belonging to tie her to this place, a proof that, even for a few weeks, she had once existed here and called it “home.” A glimmer of her mother’s spirit graced her. She realized that the accepted anchors of life were nothing more than circuitry, plastic and fiber, and that perhaps the only anchor that mattered was love, though she saw no evidence of that here. Lexie gazed on her crumpled possessions, seeing them as little more than flotsam on a beach, tangled bits of inessential life, purged to make room for something new. She grabbed a couple of t-shirts and pairs of underwear from the pile on the floor, some notebooks, and the one salvageable textbook, before slipping back out into the hall, abandoning the rest of the refuse for good.

She was searching her pockets for her car keys when she heard a voice.

“Lexie! Hey!” It was Duane. Just what she needed.

“Hey.” She held her breath and smiled, shifting the weight of her bag from one shoulder to the other.

“Oh God, I’m so glad you’re okay! Crazy, huh?” Duane was such a nice guy, she hated resenting him. Seeing him smile widely, his eyes bright and focused on her, Lexie truly felt he was a different species, one that was a native in any environment, while she didn’t even belong in the one she was born into.

“How is everything?” Duane said, oblivious to her resentment.

Lexie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking through the hole in her room’s wall to the lawn beyond, where she had just met Archer. She smiled and shrugged.

“Oh. Right. Aside from the obvious, I guess.” His grin softened into sympathy.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was out on a run, and Brian texted me,” he said.

“You went running at eight a.m. on a Saturday?”

“I started at six-thirty. Getting to know the area. It’s really pretty, isn’t it?”

“Uh, sure.”

“It’s not Wolf Creek, at least.”

“I guess.”

“Well, I like to think so. If you squint in the right way, you’d think we were in Amherst.”

Lexie grinned despite herself, just as Brian reappeared like a greasy apparition and draped his arms around them both. The boys slapped each other’s chests in greeting and Duane said, “Hey Lexie, Brian and I are grabbing breakfast. You wanna come along?”

Brian looked at Lexie. “Yeah, cutie. You can tell us all about the hot muff-dive that saved your life.” He winked in a way that Lexie only ever saw from Hollywood Lotharios. But here a real-life Lothario was, not nearly as charming as he thought he was. She wondered if he got away with the act because he was handsome or rich. It was probably both, and the cruel irony of an unjust world pinched her like a horsefly bite.

“No, thanks. I have to figure out where I’m sleeping tonight.” Lexie shifted her bag to her other shoulder, ready to move for the exit.

“Hey,” Brian said, setting his shoulders. “My door is always open. You can even be the big spoon.” Brian winked again and slapped Lexie on the shoulder, giving it a little squeeze before letting go. Unpleasant chills spread out from where he touched her.

“Since when are you guys friends?” Lexie asked Duane.

“Duane’s one of us now,” Brian interjected. “Or he will be by the time the month is out. Phi Kappa Phi, brother!” He raised his hand for a high-five, which Duane met.

“So you sure you’re not coming with, Lex?” Brian continued. “I’ll let you have my sausage.”

Duane shook his head with a chuckle and patted Brian’s chest. “Come on, let’s go.”

Duane led him away as Brian called down the hall, “And go easy on the lezzie stuff, Lex! Bi is great, just don’t go over the edge, for my sake!”

They disappeared around the corner. Lexie exhaled and escaped in the opposite direction before anyone else could waylay her.

Safe in the cab of her truck she breathed a relieved sigh and turned the ignition, the shudder of the engine stirring her awake. The heater blasted, drying the fog on the windshield. Lexie spun the dial of the analog radio, dowsing for stations between the static. She fell upon a plaintive solo guitar, resonating in the wide open space of an empty concert hall. The college station, she assumed. The guitar’s vibrations soothed her soul, beating back her yearning for a big room to curl up in, empty but for her presence.

She had two choices. Home or elsewhere. But the question wasn’t an honest one, for home felt less like home than elsewhere. She rested her chin on the steering wheel, wondering where a new home might be tonight. She cracked her knuckles and steered west.

Chapter 7

Blythe’s house was cold and dark, standing like a shadow at the edge of the woods. Even the early evening shouts from the student union, no more than a hundred yards away, could not shock this scene to life. A chilly autumnal wind chased crispy leaves down the center of the street: the Pacific Northwest tumbleweed. Somewhere in the distance, a bottle shattered.

Lexie killed her headlights as she parked along the curb. Despite the dearth of souls, she walked to the front door and knocked three times. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, shifting her weight from leg to leg. She heard nothing from inside the house: no bedsprings creaking, no whispered conversations on the patio. Perhaps she should have stayed at the library and dug into her required reading. No one was home.

Lexie dropped her bag on the porch, developing a new plan. The full moon crested on the horizon, swollen and red. It illuminated the street, which still glistened from the rain the night before. Beyond the distant voices of the student union, where her peers smoked and drank in casual pre-party conversation, Lexie heard the Rogue River rushing through the forest behind the house. The river’s source was not far north of Milton, maybe a hundred miles, where a mountain rose near the coast. The river fed Milton and many other towns along its course, including Wolf Creek. Her hometown, like Milton and the others, depended on this river to power the mills at which most residents made their living. Tonight the river was ravenous, having been fed by the prior evening’s tempest. Lexie closed her eyes and tracked the sound of its rushing waters, so loud they overwhelmed the sounds from the union, from the leaves on the street, even the sound of her breathing.

As if encouraged by the river itself, a warm wetness spread out of her. It felt sexy, for the briefest moment, before she jolted with panic. Lexie hastily inserted her fingers under her waistband and into her panties, pulling them back out when she encountered that wetness. The blood was black in the moonlight.

“Shit, shit, fuck,” she cursed under her breath as her abdomen roiled. She hurried to her truck, thankful for the catastrophe that caused her to roam like a transient, her duffel bag stuffed with random clothes and toiletries. She dug in the bag for the small box of tampons, grazing the leather sheath of her mother’s knife. It was warmer than she would have expected, considering the chill of the night. Her finger slid over the moonstone inlaid in the handle and Lexie thought of Archer’s right eye, which shone an identical blue.

Perched on the driver’s seat, Lexie maneuvered a tampon into place, cursing her body’s timing and her brain’s short memory. Crunched up in the seat, her breath glossed over the back window, appearing and dissipating, a visible reminder of her own vital rhythms.

She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, and noticed the subtle, rhythmic vibration of the glass. A drum beat. At first it was just a few isolated beats, but as she tuned her ears to their deep pitch, she heard more.

The echo of drums vibrated the glass, shaking loose her foggy breath. It was unsettling, this rhythm, but Lexie knew what it was, and she knew she wanted to see it. Changing into a fresh, long-sleeved thermal t-shirt and jeans, she shook out her hair and glanced into the rearview mirror, then Lexie started up the truck and headed downriver towards the Full Moon Tribe.

Nervous nausea washed through Lexie as she killed her engine at the forest’s edge. The rhythm that lured her here invigorated the gathering. People milled around the grass, mud clinging to their fashionable leather boots. The drum circle was ten strong--all fit, shirtless men, and one dreadlocked girl who stood with a djembe suspended from her neck. A small fire burned in the center of the circle, around which two women and a man danced in a near-trance. The man ran his hands over his naked, hairless torso with the care and passion of a new lover. The women swayed and swirled with their eyes closed, skirts spinning around their legs. One reached skyward, tracing the fire’s smoke with her fingers. She hummed tiny noises of pleasure and appreciation. The drummers whomped the skins, focused yet relaxed. Their hands moved so fast that Lexie couldn’t track them no matter how intently she stared. Some smiled great gleaming grins, some caught their lips between their teeth in concentration, some watched the dancers with soft eyes, as if it were the dancers that dictated the rhythm and not the drummers.

Outside the circle another woman hula-hooped. A man sat in the dirt, just beyond the perihelion of her hoop, studying her movements like an acolyte. Beyond them all, at the edge of the woods, a girl Lexie recognized from the dining hall twirled two glowing balls at the end of chains. She bent and leapt, keeping the balls chasing after one another in great, glowing arcs. Her bra, trimmed with metal disks, chimed as she danced.

On the other side of the clearing, a pair of young men in feathered fedoras hooked up two stacks of speakers to a mixing board. Though the combined populations of Wolf Creek and Milton totaled no more than five-thousand people, Lexie only recognized a handful of the attendees as fellow students or townies.

She scanned the scene for Archer, both excited and terrified of finding her face among the rest. Deeper in the glen, close to the edge of the forest, burned another campfire. A small group of people sat around it on thick logs and canvas camp chairs. It looked warm and calm, removed from the center of the party, a good place to gather her nerve.

Lexie ventured in that direction. As she approached, she noticed a young man who cradled a guitar in his lap. His black hair gleamed in the moonlight, an obsidian blade down his back. He balanced the guitar on his thighs and held his red guitar pick in his lips as he gathered his hair in a fist at the back of his neck, pulling the length over his shoulder to braid it as deftly as a mermaid might. When he finished the braid, he wound it into a bun and eased a rubber band on to secure it. He looked like an Elizabethan princess, the braid curled as it was on his head. Plucking the pick from between his lips, he began to play. It was a simple, gentle melody, lilting over the urgent drums; it made no attempt to compete with them, nor did it need to.

From her vantage in the shadows, Lexie scanned the other firelit faces. Two people had their backs to her; the rest she did not recognize. She walked ahead, trying to stoke her confidence, reminding herself that she had been invited. The melody rose as the thud of drums waned. She smiled. The guitarist nodded at her with a crooked smile, inviting her to join and listen.

A boy in the camp chair next to her passed her a frosty can of beer, which seemed like an unseasonable choice, considering the nip in the air. She took it and clipped the top open. As she took her first sip, a figure emerged from the woods, lean and strong, a splendid woman’s silhouette. Broad shoulders slid down a powerful rib cage, easing in to a narrow waist and then out to full, sturdy hips. Archer.

Lexie’s breath caught in her chest, and she looked back to the fire, wondering if Archer had noticed her staring. Unable to stand not knowing, Lexie looked back up. Archer raised her open palm in greeting. Lexie’s face flooded with warmth; she hoped the fire would hide her blush. She scooted to the edge of her log, making space, and Archer sat. A fine sheen of sweat covered her bare arms and sternum. Her forehead glowed golden in the firelight, as if she had just been running. Their eyes met, the only noises Archer’s heavy breath, the distant din of drums, the crackling fire, the rushing river, and the guitar’s lilting melody. Archer’s eyes danced like gilded jewels, hot and cold, fire and stone. Spectacular.

Just as Lexie thought her heart could seize no further with the dazzling terror of their meeting, Archer placed her hand on Lexie’s and leaned into her ear.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

The heat of Archer’s breath washed down her neck. Lexie was silent, afraid this was a backhanded criticism, until Archer continued, “but I’m really glad you did.”

She pulled back to look into Lexie’s face again. Their eyes locked. Lexie wanted to look away, but she couldn’t and Archer wouldn’t. They remained gaze-locked for such a long time that Lexie was sure people had noticed. She tore her eyes from Archer’s, glanced around the fire circle, and saw that each of the fire-gazers were deep into their own stories, no one noticing her moment with Archer. Lexie removed her hand from Archer’s to grab the beer from between her knees. She took a swig, her feigned confidence shredded.

Archer broke the tension, “I like that you’re okay with silence.”

Lexie laughed as she took another sip of beer, “Yeah, people think I’m shy.” She shrugged, “I just think most people talk too much without having anything to say.”

Archer nodded. “In my experience, the things that are most worth saying are those that need the fewest words.”

Lexie noticed after a few moments that she was holding her breath, and she let it go.

“Hey Larkin,” a girl from the fire ring called to the guitarist. “Do you know any songs with words?” Archer and Lexie exchanged a sly glance, noting the small humor of the question.

“Sure do,” he replied. “But I hate singing alone.” He plucked at his strings, a fractured melody of steely slides and hand muting. “Anyone know this one?” A playful dare. He teased the fire circle with anticipation of the music they craved. Around and around he riffed the intro, rising high then sliding down, a languid pace of callouses and grace. Firelight flickered over the faces around the circle as they looked to one another, hoping someone would jump in and start singing. All they got was shrugs and raised eyebrows. The girl whispered, “What song is this?”

Lexie kept her eyes on the fire, her hands clutching the beer. Archer leaned over and whispered, “You know this song, don’t you?” Lexie’s mouth twisted as she fought admitting that she did.

“So sing,” Archer said. “You’re among friends here. This would be a wonderful way to thank them for their hospitality.” Another of those sly grins. “Lark’ll just keep riffing til you do.”

Lexie snorted, not quite a laugh that still acknowledged the truth of Archer’s words. She took a long, thick swig from her beer, pressing down her anxiety. She looked at Archer, who nodded encouragement. Lexie rested her hand face up on her knee. Archer looked down, surprised at the invitation. She placed her warm hand in Lexie’s as the melody came around to pick up her voice, timid and small, but nevertheless on key.

I’ve followed her through crooked trees and crawled upon my hands and knees, as if I’d find her somewhere in this world . . .

As Lexie sang her first line, Archer tightened her grip and edged closer. With her free hand, she cupped Lexie’s knee. A feathery tingle ghosted up Lexie’s leg as she sang the next line into the fire, terrified of looking into Archer’s eyes or risk forgetting the words.

If only I could see her face, her path I know that I could trace. So much pain to try and find one girl . . .

Lexie’s voice was barely audible over Larkin’s pickwork, but no one complained. Someone eased another log onto the waning fire. It burst immediately, throwing light and heat on everyone’s face. Lexie wanted to look at the rest of the group, but she fixed her eyes to the flames.

When the chorus came around, Larkin added a quiet harmony, It’s all to get her now . . . Larkin nodded his head with the rhythm, his grin revealing a goofy snaggletooth that interrupted the otherwise delicate perfection of his face.

Archer didn’t remove her eyes from Lexie. As they sang, other voices came and went, lending themselves to the chorus as they felt moved. The music created a simple intimacy among the strangers. Lexie had felt foolish at first, but now the grins told her she was doing a good job, that something simple and lovely was happening. Larkin played through the ending, the repeated chorus of “All to get her now” echoing into the distance.

The song faded and Archer squeezed Lexie’s hand, now hot and comfortable pressed together as they were. A silence as cozy as a well-worn quilt fell over the circle as the last guitar pluck rang out, running into the woods and the sky, followed by a collective sigh. The drums beyond stopped, and everything fell quiet.

Lexie looked to her hand, enclosed in Archer’s. Her heart felt as though it was in her throat and that it would rather choke her than return to its normal place in her chest. She tried to think of Renee, but her face did not exist here in the darkened meadow and the circle’s light. There was only Archer in Lexie’s sight and purview. Breathe, Lexie reminded herself. And she did.

A loud buzz rang through the air, followed by a click and a moment of quiet. Then a thick, synth bass line burst through the speakers. The silence scattered like insects beneath a lifted log. Cheers greeted the music as people rushed to the muddy open space of the dance ground. As if they were toys invigorated by fresh batteries, the bodies flung themselves into the driving beat. The girl who had been spinning the glowing balls bent over an open bag, unwinding a pair of longer poi. With a squirt of kerosene and a lighter, she set the balls aflame. A space cleared around her as she burst into fevered movement, spinning the flaming balls in fiery arcs and figure eights to ignite the darkness around her body.

The intimate moment at the campfire was over, as everyone but Archer and Lexie left to dance.

“That was beautiful,” Archer said, squeezing Lexie’s knee. “Thank you.”

Lexie could only manage to smile in response. Her ears were on fire. She looked away, embarrassed, then back to catch Archer’s eyes.

“You have a lovely voice.”

Lexie shrugged. “My mom used to sing to me every night, mostly in other languages, but I guess I picked up some stuff.”

“Other languages?”

“Cree, I guess. She used to call me her ‘tenas tumtum’.”

“Wake nehiyawewin.”

“What?”

“Mamook Chinook wawa?”

“Uh . . .”

“Oh,” Archer said, shaking her head with a smile. “Never mind.”

“Archer!” came a squeal from the dance floor. “Oh my Goddess! I can’t believe it! You’re back!”

Archer grinned widely without removing her hands from Lexie’s as a satyr-like boy bounded up to them. His bare chest shimmered with gold glitter. His legs were wrapped in thick, furry pants of a color that matched his own ample chest hair. He didn’t appear to be cold, though Lexie shivered under her shirt.

“Hey Mama! Where have you been?!” he squeaked as he threw his arms around her, squeezing tight enough to make Archer grunt.

“There and back again,” Archer said, gladly returning his hug.

“I should call you Bilbo, you world-traveling fox! Oh, I missed you!”

“You too, Otter,” she replied.

He giggled as they parted, and Archer introduced Lexie.

“You go to Milton?” he asked.

Lexie nodded, “First year.”

“Oh yay, welcome. What are you studying? How do you like it? Who do you know? And all that.” He leaned forward, eager and waiting as she sought the answers to his questions.

“Dunno,” she said, after a moment. “Maybe Anthropology?”

“Oh really?” he said, drawing out the syllables of the word in playful mockery. “Then let’s get you started on learning a little about our own culture here.” Otter opened his hand, presenting a small pile of shriveled, brown . . . somethings. Archer raised an eyebrow. Otter grinned. “Once in a blue moon, then?” he asked with a wink.

Lexie took a guess at what was going on. “I’ve never . . .”

“It’s only Mother Nature,” Otter said as he held his open palm in front of her. “Dionysus wasn’t only the god of wine but the god of mushrooms, you know. Festivals like this one are all about celebrating the mind and the body together. The rhythms of nature are the rhythms of the self. To feel it all happen, you have to . . .” he made whoosh sound with his breath while using his hands to imitate a door opening from the center of his belly, “open up, you know?”

Lexie wasn’t quite sure opening up was what she wanted; it carried with it a near certainty that all that had been shaken up inside her over that past few days would spill out.

“It’s completely up to you. I’ll be right here, no matter what,” Archer said. The squeeze she gave Lexie’s hand bolstered her ego, inspired her curiosity, and offered a risk to be taken. The warmth of Archer’s body and the ebullience of Otter’s smile, Lexie couldn’t help but grin with a small wisdom. It was as though she were looking back upon her young self from a distance of a lifetime. This was a moment of choice that would inform all those that followed it in small yet cumulative ways. She considered her promise to herself, and with the furrowed brow of a concentrating toddler, Lexie grasped two of the fungi and tossed them into her mouth. As she chewed the meat of the mushrooms, she tasted earth, cool and moist. The taste was deep green, healthy and fecund, like river mud.

“What will this do?” Lexie asked.

Archer stroked the loose auburn spirals that curled behind Lexie’s ear. “It will change the way your senses talk to you, that’s all. Just be open-minded and let them play. Don’t worry. Mama Moon is in control now, and I’ve got your back.” Her fingernail scratched along Lexie’s scalp, sending bright tingles skittering up her spine. Archer reached forward and snapped two caps off the mushrooms and tossed them in her mouth, closing her eyes as if saying a silent prayer as she chewed.

“Blessed be, you beautiful critters,” Otter said with a wide, kind smile before he skipped away to the drum circle.

“Lexie,” Archer said, pulling Lexie to her feet, “I think I’d like to dance.” Before Lexie could protest or agree, Archer led her to the dance floor.

The girl with the flaming poi had taken off her shirt, and the luminous balls gilded her bare breasts in bright bursts of orange light. The dancer bent backwards, chasing the flames across her chest. A lithe young man joined her, spinning a staff lit on both ends. He moved with the precision of a martial artist, wielding the staff like both a weapon and a dance partner. The two fire dancers were rapt with their own energy, yet somehow moved in synchronicity.

On the muddy dance floor, some of the dancers were spastic, flailing like they were trying to dislodge their limbs from their torsos. Others indulged in sensuality, running their hands over their bodies as they swayed. Lexie thought she recognized the song playing, but in a few beats it shifted to something new and her disorientation grew. The moment Archer found them a spot on the dance floor, the beat dropped to a slower groove that Lexie wasn’t sure how to dance to. She wiggled her hips and shuffled from foot to foot, glancing around at the others, hoping to take a cue. To her right, a pair of hairy, beefy men kissed fervently, their beards rubbing together like Velcro repeatedly affixed and dislodged. The hula-hoop girl gave herself over to the music, tracing slow undulating circles with her hips such that the act of hooping became more a dance of seduction than a playground game.

Archer pulled Lexie close, pressing their hips together and guiding Lexie’s hands around her shoulders. They rocked back and forth. Lexie gave control over to Archer. She closed her eyes, and lightning bolts of purple traced across the blackness behind her eyelids.

She opened her eyes to see the same purple trace against the black sky. The stars glowed like Christmas lights in fog. As she blinked they reached out to one another, resembling nerve cells, drawing a glowing, intricate network across the sky.

Archer pressed her hand against Lexie’s back, pulling their bodies so close that they had no choice but to move to the music as one. Archer’s hot breath caressed against Lexie’s neck. Jagged bolts of longing ran up and down her center, and every point at which her body met Archer’s burned like hot coals. She pulled away, too warm, and desperate to catch her breath and calm her mind. Archer’s amber and blue eyes bored into Lexie’s mind. Lexie swallowed, wanting to stagger back to where she had been sitting, where she had last felt safe and certain about so many things. The distance they covered, while only a few yards, now felt like a universe of experience, and Lexie no longer knew what she wanted or expected. Archer licked her lips and Lexie knew. She knew what she wanted, she just didn’t have the language for it yet. She yanked her outer shirt above her head. Beneath she wore only a white tank-top.

Archer tracked her movements and pulled her close again, pressing her nose into the crook of Lexie’s neck. Archer inhaled, pulling the cool air in rivulets across Lexie’s skin. The foggy damp of the night wrapped itself around them like a third dance partner. Lexie’s skin dewed with sweat.

Archer whispered into her ear, her breath puffing against the tiny hairs at her temple. “You look delicious.” She traced Lexie’s jaw with her fingertips and pulled her into a kiss. Lexie moaned as anticipation dashed into satisfaction. Her body grew hot, and her skin tingled with the promise of touch. Joy rippled up Lexie’s spine, bursting into colors in front of her closed eyes. Archer’s breath tasted like lilacs. Yellow and lavender circled their heads. A cocoon of electric warmth enveloped them, and lust sizzled from Lexie’s fingertips as they dug into Archer’s powerful shoulders. Lexie relaxed, lips parted, desperate for Archer’s lips.

It was then that Lexie’s stomach recoiled. She fell back, catching her weight on her ankle. She slammed her hand over her mouth to prevent losing the contents of her stomach, looking up to see Archer peering down at her. In place of the striking, golden face Lexie was just beginning to memorize, thick shadows of grey slid down the long contours of Archer’s skin. Panicked, Lexie’s gaze swung out to the crowd. It didn’t help. The dancers faces and bodies twisted through forms of bestial transition. Like a living nightmare, Lexie couldn’t recognize a single face nor suss out the layers of reality from her hallucination. Creatures stood in place of people, faces of fur not flesh.

Archer’s muzzle moved out of sync with the words she spoke, “Lexie? Are you okay?”

Her fangs glinted in the bright blue moonlight. Lexie staggered back another step, her heart pounding and her balance off. As she fell back in slow motion, Archer’s hand caught her wrist and pulled her upright. Lexie looked to her arm and saw a furry paw wrapped around it. Another jolt of pain rocked through her body. Lexie jerked her arm free, turned on her heels, and ran. Her balance remained true, but the horizon lied. The trees were closer than the people, the music’s beat was her heartbeat, or maybe the other way around. The lights molded the air, directing the breeze like heavy traffic. She needed distance and solitude. Her feet traced arcs in her peripheral vision. The damp ground gave beneath each footfall. Her breath thrummed in her ears, overpowering the still, steady beat of the music. The tree line was near; the forest would hide her until her wits returned.

Her throat seized the cold air and struggled to warm it. She coughed, harshness clawing up her throat.

The trees. The trees would care for her. She ran. Behind the first trunk, the earth softened. Muddy grass gave way to a plush carpet of pine needles. She staggered to a stop and fell to her hands and knees. A thorn lodged itself into her palm. She yanking it out, a tiny ruby of blood welled up to fill the void. The bass no longer overwhelmed, rather it was the subtle heartbeat of the forest, a strong steady rhythm that overpowered the speakers with its stoicism.

Lexie breathed deeply for what seemed like the first time since Archer’s lips pressed against hers. She coughed again. Her throat burned, desperate for salve. She clutched her abdomen as the coughing worsened, each resonating on the former, exacerbating the pain in her throat. Her stomach threatened to expunge its contents. Water. Her brain screamed and her throat burned. Water. Like struggling to the surface while drowning, she begged for breath with all of her life. She would find breath if she found water. Lexie lifted her head and saw moonlight reflecting off a puddle a few inches from her head. The reflection of the full moon shot bolts of blue splendor into Lexie’s heart. She loved this water, the soil it fed from, the pine needles cushioning her palms.

She crawled to the puddle and put her mouth to the surface. Water caressed her lips, clean and cool. She drank. Streams of silver danced into the air around her forehead, feeding her soul. The water tasted like pine and sage, autumnal and fresh. Her throat calmed, and her cough subsided. She felt nourished and at peace. The overbright colors ebbed to muted beauty, and Lexie’s senses regained equilibrium. She rolled onto her back and greeted the stars peeking at her through the tall pines. Thin lengths of shiny spider silk spanned between them, brightening and dimming, mirroring her own neurons. She puffed a breath into the night and marveled at the swirl of colors as she exhaled: pink and blue smoke drifting into the night sky.

The river rumbled. Here, at the southern end of town, it was strong. Her mind wandered, tracing the lineage of this forest. She considered the Yacquina tribespeople, about whom her mother had once told her, settling near this spot on the shores of the river connecting Lexie’s new home to her old one. Their language and lineage now extinct, her own people would someday join them. Lexie pushed her fingers into the soil, feeling the earthworms in their blind passages sending tiny vibrations of greeting to her fingertips. The full, fecund moon peered through the branches, casting aubergine patterns of leaves on the pine needle carpet and shining a bold, silver light on her face. A sense of profound gratitude swelled tears in her eyes. She thanked the moon for allowing her to look directly at it and soak in its luminescence, safe from the callous brightness of the sun. She thanked it for draping the ominous forest with sterling richness and shedding light in unfamiliar places. She thanked it for connecting her body to it in the passage of time, for the tides that brought the mussels she harvested with her father as a child on the shores nearby. Her heart poured forth like the river rushing by her, sending thanks to the moon for her very existence. She wanted to give it her self, her voice, her breath. She wanted to warm it in her arms and tell it how beautiful it was in every language on Earth. She wanted to orbit it herself, to prove her devotion. The moon rays penetrated her skin, trickling over her like balm, finding tiny recesses of pain she had long forgotten about. She felt renewed. Reborn, even.

Lexie opened her arms and her heart as far as they could go. The center of her forehead throbbed with warm intensity. She inhaled deeply, taking the moonbeams deep into her lungs, her diaphragm, her abdomen, her uterus, her root. Their glimmer stayed inside as she exhaled, all the trauma, the pain, the rage of her life until this moment. She scanned her body with her mind’s eye, filling the nooks with rivulets of silver magic where there once had been was rough, hidden harshness. She’d been remade, new and bright. Embedded in her body was the moon.

“Lexie!” A shout from the edge of the trees. It was Archer. She dropped to her knees and cradled Lexie’s head in her lap. “Are you okay?”

Lexie couldn’t speak. She had been speaking to the moon without words for what seemed like hours, now words seemed too far from reality to utter. Archer’s knee sank into the puddle next to Lexie’s head, and she stilled. She sniffed twice. She shook her hair back, as if she was listening to the breeze. Her chin rose, tracking something beyond Lexie’s body. Her fingers skimmed the puddle, discerning its shape. Large and heavy, the imprint of toes and claws. A wolf.

Lexie reached up with the gratitude she had been giving to the moon. She gave it now to Archer, stroking the woman’s cheek, peering into her heart. Archer let Lexie’s adoration wrap itself around her like fleece. She slid her strong arms between Lexie’s back and the earth, and lifted her as gently as one might a child.

“Let me take you home,” Archer whispered. Lexie felt weightless as she was raised so easily into Archer’s chest. Lexie smiled, feeling like a rescued fairytale heroine. She looked at Archer, her head obscuring the moon. It haloed her chestnut hair with its light.

A great white ring surrounded the moon, signifying more rain to come. The colors of Archer’s face dissolved into the trees, the sky, the earth. They danced slowly and elegantly, like oil paints wrapping around and around one another. Her weight resting in Archer’s arms, Lexie let her head fall back. The forest floor became her sky, and the inky night became the sea below them, and she drifted away.

Chapter 8

Lexie awoke to a sunbeam prying at her eyelids. The light was weak and wintery, and a swift breeze sent branches shivering against a window. Her right hand was buried in a thick clump of white fur. She was in an unfamiliar room, lying on a pile of fleece beneath a pile of blankets. Dizziness assailed her as she flipped over to stare at the bare-beamed ceiling high above her. Beyond the dusty-paned windows, she heard a handsaw grating through branches, a few strokes before a snap, over and over.

She was in a small cabin. A banked fire burned in a hand-hewn fireplace, layers of slate stacked from the plank floors to the apex of the roof. Small clods of peat sizzled among the ash, filling the room with the smell of the deep forest. The heat from the fire was mild, but Lexie was sweating beneath the layers of blankets. A simple kitchen stood opposite to the fireplace: nothing more than an exposed copper tap over a deep steel basin, an ancient, propane-fueled refrigerator, and a wide, handmade farmhouse table that stretched the full length of the eating area. A whittled ship ladder led to a sleeping loft, but Lexie could see nothing of that from where she lay.

A cough sizzled in her chest, forcing out her breath in short, sharp bursts. Nausea swelled up her esophagus. She swallowed once, then again. Throwing off the blankets, Lexie jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen to retch the watery contents of her stomach into the sink. She braced her arms on either side of the rim, heaving.

From outside came the clang of the saw dropping. Archer burst through the door and hurried to Lexie’s side, stroking her back as her body purged. Lexie’s last heave was empty and painful, nothing left to expel but bile. She let her knees buckle beneath her, sinking to the dusty floor. Archer followed her to the ground, holding her hand to Lexie’s chest. Lexie chased and caught her breath, clutching Archer’s hand within her own, pressed against the clammy sweat on her bare chest. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, taking comfort in Archer’s soft hand against her skin.

A quiet moment passed between them, then Archer said, “Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”

She lifted Lexie to her feet and eased her back to the downy lambskin and covered her with the blankets. Archer turned the knob of the propane tank beneath the stove. Clicking the lighter to the burner, the gas caught with a whoosh. She set a kettle on the flame, then returned to Lexie’s side, brushing away the small tears that rolled down the side of her face. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” Lexie whispered, squeezing the tears out of her still-closed eyes.

“Don’t be. Nothing is wrong. Your body just needed to purge. It’s natural. It’s healthy.”

“No. That’s not . . .” Lexie’s voice trailed off, unable to speak her shame. Another silent moment passed. Archer ran her fingers through Lexie’s hair, calming her.

“It’s . . .” Lexie started again, “I bled all over your lambskin”

“What do you mean? Are you hurt?”

“No, I started my period yesterday. I always puke on my second day. It’s horrible . . .” Her voice battled tears, “I’m sure I leaked . . . “

Archer stroked the auburn curls that framed Lexie’s face. “Lexie, there’s no blood here. I saw it as you lay down.”

“No, there is. I feel all . . .” Lexie squeezed out more tears. “I’m wet.”

Archer grinned, shaking her head. “Lexie, there’s not. Here, look.” Archer guided Lexie to her side, pulling back the covers and exposing the entirety of the lambskin to the light. It shone as creamy white as buttermilk.

“See? You’re fine.” She ran her hand through the fur, feeling the warmth that Lexie had infused in it.

“That’s impossible.” Lexie sat up to look beneath her. No red, just white softness surrounding her. She noticed then that she was wearing the panties from last night, and nothing more.

“Where are my clothes?”

“Drying in the oven. You fell in mud last night and got filthy. I washed everything this morning. It should be dry soon. Let me loan you something in the meantime.”

Archer stood and climbed the ladder into the sleeping loft. Her footfalls creaked on the planks overhead. Before Archer could return, Lexie reached between her legs and returned with fingers glistening with clear moisture, as benign and sweet as sweat or spit. She pulled the string of her tampon. Holding it up, Lexie saw it was clean, as though her body had reabsorbed all the blood she had released the evening before. She leapt to toss the tampon in the trash as the teapot whistled. She hurried back to the lambskin, hiding herself beneath the blankets. Archer descended the ladder and tossed a cloth bundle at Lexie. Lexie snatched them up and changed under the covers as Archer turned to the stove and poured the water into two mugs. A scent of comfort filled the room.

“Do you recall last night?” Archer asked, odd eyes shining. Lexie didn’t think so at first but blushed as the memory returned. She resurfaced, wearing a brown t-shirt and a goofy smile. She wrapped cold fingers around the ceramic mug, warming them. They both inhaled the rising steam and sighed. Archer smiled, meeting Lexie’s gaze, and they sipped.

“Do you think it was the mushrooms?” Lexie asked.

“That stopped your period? Or made you vomit?”

Lexie shrugged, “Either, I guess.”

Archer shook her head. “No. It wasn’t the mushrooms.” She set down her mug and leaned onto her elbow, stroking Lexie’s forearm with her free hand. “Mushrooms--the right ones anyway--they heal. And if they wanted you to purge, you would have, right away.”

Lexie lay down, unsatisfied, letting Archer’s hand draw feathery tingles up and down her body. “Your friends really know how to party,” Lexie said with a weak chuckle.

Archer smiled and rolled onto her back. “Oh, that was nothing. You should see us at Beltane.”

A gust of autumnal wind blew against the windows and the light grew dim with passing clouds.

“I’m sorry,” Lexie said finally, with a sigh.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Archer said, with a dreaminess reserved for lazy Sunday mornings such as this one.

“I know. I guess . . . I’m just . . .It’s confusing.”

“What is?”

“Since school started . . . everything. I don’t know what’s going on in my body.”

Unlike the rebuke she would have expected from Blythe for a possible derogatory statement about women and their bodies, Archer made a sound of acknowledgement, and said, simply, “Tell me more.”

“I’d never kissed a girl before.”

“Until last night?”

“Well, no.” Lexie replied, almost embarrassed at that admission more than the first. “The night before.”

Archer chuckled and draped her arm around Lexie’s waist, pulling their bodies closer together.

“I know,” Archer said.

“You know? How?”

“I could smell her on you.”

“Oh.” Lexie chewed on her lip, contemplating that. “It was really nice. I mean, you were nicer, by far, but I don’t know. I’d never really thought about it at all, boys or girls, kissing at all. It just--” Lexie could feel her mouth spinning out of control, and she struggled to steer herself back on course. She exhaled, making a sound like children make in the bathtub, imitating motorboats. “The past couple of days have been really intense, Archer.”

Archer let Lexie’s comment sink into the quiet of the room, before speaking again.

“It’s nothing you can’t handle.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I see the strength in you. And the curiosity.” Archer smiled. “It will be intense, and then it won’t, and then it will again. And on and on. That’s life. The key is maintaining your stride.”

Lexie looked at Archer, their heads parallel to the earth and the sky.

They cuddled in silence on the fur, until the sunlight that had woken Lexie moved on to warm another corner and the fire clung to life on one charred log. Archer’s body against hers was warm and soft. She felt protected, as though this cabin were her home, and Archer’s body was all she needed for shelter.

She turned to face Archer, whose eyes were closed, resting. “Your cabin is beautiful.”

Archer opened her eyes and in the first moment, they were like a shark’s, the pupils spilling black to the edges of her irises. Her right eye looked like a solar eclipse, the left, like a lunar one. In the next moment, her pupils contracted to tiny dots on their landscapes of color.

“Thank you. It took me quite a while to get it just right.” She leaned up onto one elbow, gesturing to the fireplace, “I knocked that down three times before I liked it enough.” She chuckled at herself. “I guess I’m kind of a sloppy perfectionist.”

Lexie’s eyes widened with awe, “You built this place?”

“I did. I am quite butch,” she joked.

“I guess so.” Lexie sat up on her elbows and scanned the room, the walls of logs stacked one on top of the other, the floors tongued and grooved so snugly that she barely felt the cracks between each board as she danced her fingers across them. The roof reached its apex high above their heads, a single log that spanned the length of the whole cabin. It was made from a massive sequoia that, rather than rotting in the woods, was exalted in its grave as the crux of the homestead.

Lexie’s glance returned to Archer’s face, with those mismatched eyes that glittered in the dying flame’s light.

Archer looked back into Lexie, the moment filling with quiet desire. She reached her hand to Lexie’s face, running her fingers down her cheek, then cupping the side of her neck.

Nervous, Lexie struggled to find words to fill the space.

“Have you lived here long?”

Without removing her hand, Archer answered, “Yes.”

“Alone?”

Archer grimaced, the first such expression Lexie had witnessed from her. “I built this place for myself. I had a family once, elsewhere.”

“What happened?” Lexie tread carefully, concerned about divorces or car accidents or the other mundane disasters than wrench modern families apart.

“It’s a long story,” Archer pulled away from Lexie, who immediately regretted pursuing this conversation. “A love triangle, I guess you could say, though it was more like a love hexagon. And then some bad pressure from external forces.” Her breath was heavy, and Lexie watched her rib cage expand and contract like a great, snoring beast’s. “The casualties were numerous.”

Lexie hoped Archer was speaking metaphorically.

“In the end, it was clear it would be best if I left, so I did.”

“Where did you go?”

“I traveled for quite a long time. Wandered all over, but I couldn’t not come back here.”

Lexie was surprised that this tiny part of the world would beckon anyone to return. “Why?” she asked.

“This is my home,” Archer said, a shocking sadness in her dissonant eyes.

It was Lexie’s turn to offer solace. She slipped out from beneath the blankets and crawled to Archer’s supine body. The bare skin of her legs drew goosebumps in the exposed air. Leaning over Archer, she stroked her forehead, stroked her cheeks, her ears, her neck, her shoulders. With her sweeping fingertips, she felt as though she could learn all of Archer’s secrets, dancing throughout the space like dust. They flitted in and out of Lexie’s field of vision, some begging to be addressed, but most just there, hanging in the air like Chinese lanterns, sweetly stoic in their vigilance. Lexie’s hair fell like soft vines against Archer’s cheeks, casting shadows on both their faces, the waning firelight struggling to peek through her lazy spirals.

Lexie licked her lips and tasted the yarrow of the tea and the sweat of her skin. Memories of the night before flitted through her mind as her senses keened and swaggered, trying out new combinations, stretching against their prior bounds. She pushed them beyond the old edges of her reality, picking apart the deluge of input to find the subtle, significant parts. Like Archer’s scent. Like the weight of Lexie’s body pressing against the heels of her hands. Like the tugging of her hair at the roots, or the moisture inside her mouth, as Archer awakened her hunger.

She was getting drunk on Archer’s face, on her musk, on the feeling of their skin skidding against one another. And like the drunkard that she was, her body begged for more. Clutching the dip of Archer’s waist, Lexie leaned down to pick up where they had left off the night before. Their lips met, wet and warm. Her whole body swooned and relaxed. The blood drained from her brain and spread through her body, shutting down her rationality. Her mind, most often located somewhere roughly behind her eyes and above her ears, had migrated and now lived in her lips, where they touched Archer’s, and on the side of her face, where Archer’s hand held her. It glanced into being in her eyelashes, where they flickered against Archer’s, and in her breasts, pressed against Archer’s chest.

Wherever Lexie pressed her body against Archer, her mind rose to the surface of her skin, like sparks of static electricity jumping between two charged points. Lips pressed moist and firm together, Archer inhaled deeply through her nose and pulled Lexie tighter against her. Lexie buried her hot face into Archer’s hair, spread across the fleece spread, mingling with it. Lexie couldn’t tell the difference and didn’t care. It all smelled like Archer; it all felt like heaven.

Lexie’s body clenched the rush of pleasure. A wave of moisture surged between her legs, soaking her underwear. Lexie arched her neck as Archer nipped her.

A wave of panic waited on the other side of the bliss that carried her. It swept her back into her head, away from the magical points of contact with Archer. The anxiety claimed her whole body, snatching the pleasure and replacing it with the need to move, go, run. She wanted Archer to take her, to keep her from running, to lay her flat against the ground and pour her body into to her, enveloping each piece of flesh, inside and out. But the questions started, like a sniff of cocaine to the brain. Lexie’s mind started talking and wouldn’t shut up. First came the images, flashes of moments that led her here: Blythe and her smile; Renee and her legs; Mitch and his dimples; Archer and her eyes. These clues amassed in a pile of rough edges and meandering through-lines, like tangled skeins of mismatched yarn. The tangle meant nothing as a group, but the hint of meaning was enough to cloud Lexie’s mind, forcing down the trap door of sensation. This wasn’t like the night with the Pack, when “No” was the simplest and most appropriate response. Here, joined with Archer, each cell of her body yearned to scream the word Yes.

She tried to again steer her mind back into her flesh, focusing on Archer’s tongue in her ear. Archer responded to her unspoken need, rolling Lexie over onto her back, and pressing her thigh between Lexie’s legs, holding her wrists above her head, restraining, liberating. Everything was wet, her neck, her ear, her mouth, her thighs. The moisture acted as facilitator, easing the friction of Archer’s thigh, stimulating sensation, leaving Lexie begging for more, always more. Her body wouldn’t be satisfied until she was bathing in their combined fluids, all slick and salty sweet.

But her mind had a mind of its own. In the twilit space of touch, lust, and limited resources of blood, it intruded again with the voice from her dreams. Strange women sang and spoke, begging to be heard, though Lexie couldn’t heed them even if she wanted to. They spoke in sigils, mojo, and music, tearing her attention away from Archer and the cabin, pulling her like sirens to the jagged rocks of her tangled subconscious, inciting her to flee. She wanted them to shut the fuck up and leave her alone with Archer. They thrummed as loudly as the drums from the night before, a bassy, urgent call telling her that she was doing something wrong. These voices rarely bled into her waking life, but here they were, forcing Lexie’s eyes open, inciting her to movement. She resisted.

The light waned as the orb of the sun dipped behind heavy clouds. Archer’s face changed shape before Lexie’s eyes. It melted and twisted, flashing illusions over the real. She looked like the space between channels on a radio, all static and white noise that only the strongest characteristics could break past. Her nose lengthened, her skin darkened, and her hair swirled like seaweed at low tide. Lexie caught her breath, wanting to look away but enraptured by the glamour that was ensnaring them both. When Archer spoke, it echoed from the depths of a deep well, distant and lost.

“Lexie?” she asked. “Are you alright?”

“I . . .” Lexie struggled to communicate, but she could only think of her Nana and the absurd things she claimed as her brain decayed.

Nana Lou developed schizophrenia when Lexie’s mother was a teenager, and she spent the remaining years of her life ensconced in a nursing home. As a child, visiting Nana was a frightening experience that entailed detailed descriptions of the sky as it shattered in shards, or translations of the cackling of the crows outside the window. Lexie suspected this genetic legacy was the true impetus behind her mother’s disappearance, to save her husband and child from the burden of insanity.

Lexie herself was accustomed to hearing odd things, but such hallucinations were far easier to dismiss as a byproduct of imagination blended with insomnia. As the sunset shifted and Archer’s face distorted and pulled at the bounds of reality, Lexie didn’t know what to think.

“I . . . I have to go,” Lexie stammered. Archer chuckled as though she were joking; Lexie could hardly believe it herself, but she still scooted her body out from under Archer’s. Archer furrowed her brow, though the curious smile didn’t leave her lips. Lexie ran into the kitchen and yanked open the door of the stove, withdrawing her clothes. She threw them on, the metal fly of her jeans biting her with heat. She hurried outside, grabbing her socks and shoes from the slate landing outside the door. Before Archer could protest, Lexie was jogging away.

“I’ll return your shirt soon,” she called over her shoulder, insensate to the crunch of gravel under her bare feet. “Thanks. Sorry! I just-- studying-- and . . . dad! And-- I-- I’ll see you soon. Thanks for the tea!”

Chapter 9

The headlights of Lexie’s truck illuminated the darkening facade of her father’s house as she pulled into the driveway. She killed the engine and sat in the cab of her truck as the engine ticked down. She wasn’t sure which part of the day should humiliate her most. The bloody false alarm? Her clumsy kiss with Archer? The disturbing hallucination that lead to her awkward flight from the scene? Lexie played the day over in her mind. Who was Archer, so beautiful, so composed, so in control? Her looks were similar to many women in the area, a mix of indigenous and immigrant, dark and light, yet she seemed barely of this world.

Lexie mused over the details. Her body had been exposed yet safe, wrapped in the fur, illuminated by the fire, warmed by Archer’s body curled against hers. She recalled the feeling of Archer’s hand against her cheek, the power of their bodies pressed together. The strength in Archer’s arms, the fire in her chest, the clarity in her eyes. Archer could defend her against an army, wielding her ax against every beast in hell, and come out on top. With Archer, Lexie was untouchable, and Archer, she was invincible.

Lexie left the quiet of her truck for the quiet of her house. She kicked off her shoes in the doorway. It was Sunday, which meant her father was at Hank Speer’s place, watching football, and talking and not talking about things. She opened the fridge, ravenous from the lack of food all day. She pulled out a carton of leftover beef noodles from Chan’s in downtown Wolf Creek, her father’s favorite place to eat out, and threw it in the microwave. The smell and crackle of cooking meat launched her salivary glands into overdrive. She had to swallow twice to empty her mouth of the pooling saliva. Another inhale revealed Archer’s presence lingering in the t-shirt Lexie wore. She pulled up the hem to her nose and inhaled. Her groin swelled and soaked her underwear for the second time that day.

As her dinner spun in the microwave, Lexie went to her room to find some shorts. Archer’s scent dwelled in her brain and wetness dripped down her inner thigh. This was interesting. Not that it was an unfamiliar sensation. She’d been turned on before, but to have her menstrual blood completely replaced by thick, clean arousal was new. She wasn’t complaining.

Standing bottomless in her bedroom, the final moments of the sun illuminating the wall in horizontal swaths of reddish-orange, Lexie pulled the hem of her shirt up again and lay on her bare bed. She opened her legs and moved her right hand between them, stroking the wetness in her hair. Her vulva clenched, begging for touch. Lexie used the fingers of her left hand to spread herself wide. Moisture dripped from her onto the mattress. She pressed down on her clitoris, pliant and erect. There was no limit to the pleasure her body could conduct. Waves reverberated through her, from her groin to her skull and back, growing with each cycle until the resonance hummed on a constant loop throughout her whole body, like a wet finger singing over the rim of a crystal glass.

Lexie inhaled Archer’s scent, her brain floating on the memories of the previous night and the day’s afternoon, drunk with lust for this strange woman. Whatever spell Archer cast outshone Renee and the rest by leagues, by fathoms. Her lust for Archer surpassed any bodily desires she had ever known, greater even than the worst hunger or the most desperate thirst. She could taste nettles and wood-fire, cloves and pine in Archer. She swallowed, taking the scent into her belly, where it mingled with the jolts of delicious sensation radiating from her groin.

Lexie imagined Archer’s body, her muscular shoulders as she lifted her arms, dancing. She thought of Archer’s breasts, soft and smooth beneath the white tank top she wore last night, the fabric glancing off her nipples as she moved with the music. Lexie moved her left hand to her breast and squeezed, sending more jolts through her body. She was lying on the white fur, Archer’s weight pressing on her. Archer’s kiss spicy and wild.

Lexie lingered over what could have happened had she not fled like a frightened rabbit from Archer’s grasp. Archer stripping off her clothes and pressing their naked skin together. Lexie drawing her leg up to press between Archer’s, feeling her wetness on her thigh. Archer slipping her fingers into Lexie and rubbing, hard and firm. Archer tracing a path of kisses and licks down Lexie’s abdomen from her neck to her groin. Archer’s eyes staring at Lexie as she buried her mouth between . . .

Crashes of pleasure shot up Lexie’s spine, exploding in her head and erasing thought and intention for an ecstatic moment. She moaned loud and long, releasing the humiliation of her inexperience and the thrilling tension of the past twenty-four hours. Her moan rang in her ears, flushing out heat and anxiety and recycling the pleasure again in her body. Tingles danced on her skin; her muscles rejoiced with relaxation and exaltation. She licked her lips and breathed heavy in the shattered silence of the bedroom. A moment of embarrassment flashed in her mind, this lust for a woman, like she’d never felt before. But the embarrassment was easily dismissed and replaced with the lassitude of desire satisfied. Her breath steadied as the last waves of pleasure reverberated and faded.

Lexie leapt from bed and raced as the scent of cooked meat re-awoke her hunger. She wolfed down the noodles, blinking at how bright and vivid her shadowed house now appeared. Never before had the world looked so crisp. The lenses of her eyes felt as though they had been rinsed clean. Blood moved through her body, reaching into tiny capillaries that seemed newly created since the night before. Oxygen bathed the furthest recesses of her insides. Muscles stretched and released as if relieved of a great and long-term burden. Lexie ate, feeling blessed to be alone with her longing for Archer.

Chapter 10

The game was already underway as Lexie walked to the soccer field. The Pack had staked out prime real estate just beyond the bleachers, and all the women lay on two blankets save Renee and Hazel, who stood on the field among their teammates, shading their eyes against the sun, waiting for the ref to drop the ball.

The girls cheered when they saw Lexie approach.

“Finally!” Blythe said. “It’s been forever since we’ve seen you!”

Lexie wouldn’t say that she had been avoiding the Pack, but she needed a few weeks to settle in to all the newness. Since brunch and the kiss with Renee. Since the Full Moon Tribe and the . . . whatever, with Archer.

Mimosas were the drink of the day. Jenna sat up on her knees, the hem of her batik sundress gathered in a puddle beneath her, and uncorked a fresh bottle of champagne. It was an unseasonably warm day, and the girls were dressed accordingly. Jenna’s cherubim curls were pulled back from her face with simple kerchief. Mitch was wearing khaki shorts, a plaid short-sleeved shirt, and “man-dals.” Corwin stretched in the sun, cuffs and sleeves rolled up over her thick limbs, watching the sky from behind big black sunglasses. Her glass pipe sat next to her, spent and empty. Sharmalee was noticeably absent, and when Lexie asked, Blythe gestured over her shoulder. Behind the blankets, about forty yards from the field, Sharmalee sat cross-legged facing away from everyone, her head in her hands.

Catching Lexie’s perplexed gaze, Corwin said, “She’ll be fine,” as she rolled to her side, reaching into the pocket of her denim shorts and withdrawing rolling papers and a small bag of loose tobacco.

Blythe nodded, “She gets that way whenever Corwin doesn’t spend the night with her.”

“Confidentiality is a virtue, Blythe,” Corwin said, as she stuffed the tobacco into the crease of the rolling paper.

“Oh please,” Blythe waved her hand in dismissal, “Lexie’s one of us now.”

“Then air your own dirty laundry, not mine,” Corwin replied before turning to face Lexie. “Sharm and I have an open thing. It works pretty well.”

“For one of you,” Mitch chimed in, his voice quiet, though he got his point across just fine.

Corwin ignored the comment as she brought the cigarette to her mouth to daub her tongue along the adhesive edge. She rose to her elbow to make her point, gesturing with her unlit cigarette. “Sharmalee is upset because the girl she was crushing on turned out to be a cocksucker. She’s being melodramatic. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe you just need some clearer agreements,” Jenna offered.

“Noted,” Corwin said.

Lexie found a patch of blanket and sat. Jenna passed her a champagne flute, dropping a raspberry into the flute with a wink. The orange juice splashed out of the glass and onto Lexie’s hand. She leaned to lick it off just as Blythe jumped to her knees to shout, “Go, Go, GO!” Mitch and the others sat up to cheer as Hazel barreled through the opposing team’s defense, girls easily twice her size struggling to keep up with the agile little fox. The opposing goalie steeled herself for the fierce drive to come. Hazel drew back her leg and bent the ball into the top corner of the net. The stands exploded into cheers. Blythe sat her half-empty glass on the grass and jumped up to shout louder than anyone. “That’s my girl! Yeah, Hazel, yeah!”

All the girls followed Blythe to their feet and shouted for Hazel. Though she smiled, Hazel was all business running back to her side of the field.

“She’s amazing,” Lexie said.

“Hell yeah, she is,” Corwin said.

“She’s great at lacrosse, too,” Jenna said.

Blythe smiled. “So are you.”

“I suppose so, but Hazel’s got a knack.”

“Do you all play sports?” Lexie asked.

“Renee and Hazel are really the jocks,” said Mitch.

“Yep, Renee does track, too,” Blythe nodded.

“Almost beat your record in the hurdles, Blythe.” Corwin said.

“Not yet, she hasn’t.”

“I play Frisbee in the spring, and Sharm is a forward on the volleyball team,” Corwin added. “That’s how we met. But I dropped volleyball to coach the boxing club.”

“What about you, Mitch?” Lexie asked.

“Kind of.”

“Kind of what?”

He squirmed. Blythe spoke, “Mitch played women’s hockey until the phallocrats cut the team.”

“Budget stuff.” Mitch shrugged. “Would never happen back in Ottawa.”

As the cheers died down, Sharmalee wandered back to the blanket and held out her hand for Jenna to fill with a drink. Taking it, she knelt next to Corwin, her free hand resting on her thighs. Corwin lifted up her sunglasses, squinting at the intrusion of the light. She and Sharmalee looked at each other in silent communion. Sharmalee moved her hand to Corwin’s breastbone, resting it there, and Corwin covered it with her own hand. The other girls watched. After a couple moments, without the exchange of any words, the two girls kissed, and Sharmalee lay her head on Corwin’s chest, comfortable and happy once again.

Lexie scanned the field and found Renee at the far end, playing defense. She wore shorts and knee socks, her legs as spindly as a prepubescent boy’s. Her hair was pulled back into two afro-puffs at the crown of her head, making it look as though she was wearing teddy-bear ears. Freckles sprayed across the crest of her nose. For such a sophisticated woman, she looked downright adorable.

The champagne was going to Lexie’s head already, and her stomach growled. Without hesitation, Jenna swung open the hinged cooler, holding individually wrapped sandwiches and petits fromages in red wax.

“Holy cow,” Lexie said, her stomach rejoicing with an impassioned gurgle.

“Jenna is our key to surviving the apocalypse,” Mitch said, and Jenna blushed. “She can pour candles, bake bread, even brew beer. She’s amazing.”

“I like being of service,” Jenna said, her curls like weighted springs, stretching and recoiling with each perky wag of her head.

“Well,” Lexie said, made daring by the breeze on her neck, the taste of champagne, bread, and cheese on her lips, and the flitting memory of Archer’s breasts, “You can service me whenever you want.”

The girls laughed together. The ham in the sandwich, far more than the champagne, was ambrosia: Lexie’s hunger was immense. The color and sheen of the meat sent her mind reeling in curious, fleshy directions. She sighed as a swell of gratitude roiled over her, for this day, this company, this sustenance.

A breeze blew across the field, kicking up loose napkins and strands of hair. It parted the drifting clouds overhead, casting thick, hot beams of sunlight onto the blanket. Lexie, already overdressed for this Indian Summer day, broke into a sweat. She unzipped her hoodie, wrangling it off her shoulders.

Blythe breathed in deep, before choking and coughing. “Ugh! I swallowed a gnat!”

“Gross!” Sharmalee said, laughing, before turning her dark eyes to Lexie saying, “Lexie you look hot today.” Corwin bristled.

“What? Me?”

“She’s right,” Jenna said. “There’s a je ne sais quoi about you today.”

Blythe grinned as she poured herself another glass of juice. “Yeah. It’s as if you got yourself a girlfriend or something.”

Lexie tried not to panic. She shook her head, a false smile painted on her lips. She had checked twice before leaving, and she was sure she didn’t look any different than the last time they had all hung out after the barbecue. A bit more rested, perhaps, but not glowing or any such idiocy. Lexie had successfully slept every night since the Full Moon Tribe, her nights as expressionless as her new dorm room.

“Well whatever it is,” Jenna said with a smile, “it’s working for you.”

The bleachers were crowded with students, including the boys of Phi Kappa Phi, most of whom were on the men’s soccer team, and all of whom were like Brian: rich, handsome, and drunk. A cooler rested on the top bench, and red plastic cups abounded. Lexie thought it seemed a bit early for beer, but realized her hypocrisy in the form of the champagne flute she clutched.

The boys cheered for every girl on the team by name. At the edge of their group, closest to Lexie, stood Duane. He twirled a gold rally rag and screamed along with the rest. He looked like he belonged in a college brochure, his letter-jacket clean and new, the purple wool and gold leather making his skin look as bright as his future. He caught Lexie’s eyes as she scanned the crowd and waved. Lexie waved back, attracting Brian’s attention as he squeezed a lime wedge into the mouth of his beer bottle. He winked in the direction of the Pack.

Beyond the stands, the shrill bleat of a whistle called for a break, and the women on the field jogged back to their respective benches. Blythe and the rest cheered, “Good quarter!” “Right on, Hazel!” “Kick ass!” Hazel and Renee grinned and waved as they took the bench. Noticing Lexie, Renee’s smile widened, and she beckoned her over.

Anxiety gripping her spine, Lexie hopped up and ran-skipped-walked to Renee and was enveloped by her arms. The moisture on their skins commingled as their bodies pressed together. The sweet smell of Renee’s sweat drove Lexie’s body into overdrive, but in her mind’s eye, she saw only Archer.

“I’m glad you came!” Renee said, her smile broad and open. Her skin was so soft that it didn’t crinkle, even around her eyes, when she smiled.

“Me too,” Lexie responded, riding her buzz as long and steady as she could, getting even drunker on her lack of inhibition. “Did I miss anything good?”

“Nah. I don’t go for the glory in these games. This field belongs to Hazel. You having fun?”

Lexie nodded.

“Well, you’re looking good,” Renee said with a grin, slapping Lexie’s shoulder with her open palm. “I’d still like to pick up where we left off that stormy night, you know.”

Lexie focused on the sunlight heating the part in her hair and the taste of orange juice on her lips, trying not to transpose the thought of Renee’s eager grasp on the memory of how Archer’s touch made her feel.

The whistle blew, warning of the impending second half.

“You wanna meet up after your bio lab next week?” Renee asked, hurrying through small talk to the point of the matter. “I’m TA-ing.”

Lexie wasn’t sure what Renee intended, nor what she herself wanted, yet an answer teased towards her lips as she weighed the possibilities.

“Loosen up that tongue, girlie!” Renee egged. “I gotta get back to the game.”

Yes, Lexie’s brain said, but the word didn’t come. Yes, she thought again, though the word was missing the desire.

“Have I taught you nothing?” Renee sighed. “Alright, I’m gonna take that as a ‘no.’ You let me know if you change your mind.”

Lexie stood, disappointed in her silence. “And, tell the ladies who munch to save me some fromage, a’ight?” Renee winked, slapping Lexie amiably on the shoulder. Lexie half-smiled, charmed despite her inability to assert herself, and hugged Renee again, a bit longer, a bit tighter this time, then crossed back toward the girls.

Brian shouted her name from the bleachers as she passed. He held a half-empty beer bottle, his Kappa brothers watching with interest. Duane reclined in the sun next to Brian, his khakied legs stretched over the lower tier of benches. He waved, less eagerly than before. Lexie reluctantly climbed the aluminum steps to the group.

Brian spoke louder than necessary, his words slurred. “Those your friends?” he asked, nodding his head toward the Pack.

Lexie nodded, uncomfortable with the audience he commanded. Duane watched the game like he wasn’t paying attention, but Lexie could feel him training an ear on the conversation.

“So, I guess you are a dyke, then,” Brian said, stirring chuckles from his assembled frat brothers. Lexie was stunned silent. “You gonna stop shaving your pits now or something? Get all hairy and gross?” Brian goaded. “I mean, you’re just so pretty. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Lexie turned to leave, but Brian grabbed her arm, his fingers tight on her bicep. “No, no. Don’t be mad. I’m just joshin’.” He gave her a grin that Lexie suspected he trotted out whenever he needed to charm himself out of being an asshole. In this circumstance, though, it just looked studied. His teeth were too white and straight, his eyes showed no kindness. His whole face was a plasticine figure of false conviction.

Lexie tried to shake him free, but his grip was implacable, as though his hand was a student in the arts of grasping and holding, of squeezing and remaining steadfastly attached. She knew that such a hold should hurt, but instead of the dull pain she would expect to feel, her arm throbbed with hot blood, her own pulse fighting back against his grip.

“Don’t go,” he said clumsily, less a threat than a plea. “It’s cool. I just . . .” he sighed. “I mean, you’re cool.” He clumsily pulled her closer, yanking her arm in its socket. His breath was sweet and stale, like moldy bread.

She jumped up a step to keep from tripping over the bench that separated them, slamming her shin into the metal in the process. With Brian’s hand digging into her skin, Lexie stood off-balance in the center of the group of Brian’s brothers. All of the boys were at least a head taller than she was, casting her into a well of shadow.

Brian lowered his voice to breathy slur, “Those girls are fucked up. Seriously. I’ve heard some shit.” His eyes struggled to focus on Lexie’s face, which he pulled mere inches from his own. “They want us all dead or castrated.”

Oh is that right? Lexie thought, though her mouth stayed frustratingly shut.

“You’re just so nice,” Brian continued. “And they’re--they’re not. I’m just looking after you. Don’t, like, go over the edge. Don’t turn into . . . I dunno.” His veneer of perfection was cracking beneath his own drunkenness.

“Let me go,” Lexie finally managed, jerking her arm in his grasp. Duane dropped his pretense and glanced over at them.

“No, no, you don’t get it,” Brian whimpered. Duane buried his face in his hands. Lexie steeled her jaw.

“Lexie,” Brian continued, under the close watch of his peers. “Don’t be a dyke, okay? I just, I wanna . . .” He yanked her closer to him; she could smell the coconut-scented gel in his hair, the rubbing alcohol in the deodorant he wore, and the eggs that he had for breakfast. His man-handling skewed her balance, with her weight resting on her right foot and her left pinned awkwardly underneath the bench below her. Lexie teetered, her elbow digging into his rib cage. The trees of men surrounded her.

Her blood pumped hotter with each pulse. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood erect, and her muscles twitched with the anticipation of movement. It was a simple feeling stirring a simple act. Her was arm bent at forty-five degrees in Brian’s clumsy grip. She rotated her arm down past her chest, dislodging Brian’s hand by torqueing his wrist, and threw her weight into his sternum.

“Get OFF me!” she shouted as she pushed him away. Brian fell back, barely catching himself on his feet as he seized his chest and coughed, sucking in a great mouthful of air. He sputtered, but couldn’t catch his breath. Lexie untwisted her foot and bounded down the bleachers, not looking back to see if Duane reacted.

The third quarter had begun uneventfully, and the girls were silent when Lexie returned to the blanket. She sat and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice, craving sugar and familiarity to calm her surging adrenaline.

She breathed hard, as if she had just finished a run. She looked up to see the Pack’s grinning faces.

She gulped her orange juice. “You saw that?”

“You bet we did,” Blythe said.

“That was awesome!” Sharmalee cheered.

“I’m really proud of you,” Blythe said.

Lexie looked at them all askance. “For what?”

“This is precisely how you have to handle these masculine threats,” Blythe said. “Men don’t understand words or rules. You have to be willing to take action.”

Lexie shook her head. “He’s a jerk showing off for his frat brothers. That’s all,” she said, rubbing the red welt on her shin and noting how quickly it faded.

“That’s not all,” Blythe said, dragging out the last word with a debutante’s lilt. “His behavior is a symptom of a much larger disease, Lexie. All men’s actions are contextualized by a history of violence. Brian and his brothers are constantly reinforcing an idea of ownership over women’s bodies when they grope you or overpower you.”

Lexie sighed. “Whatever. I’m not exactly proud of what I just did.”

Jenna smiled, handing her a fresh glass of champagne. “That’s fine. Just let us be proud for you, okay?”

Lexie nodded, eager to move away from this conversation. Pride seemed like an inappropriate response to her own violence, though the Pack’s approval warmed her.

“I think she’s ready,” Jenna said.

Mitch nodded. “Yup, I agree.”

“Ditto,” Corwin said.

“Totally,” said Sharmalee.

They all directed their eyes to Blythe, whose pink lips curved in a sly smile. “I hesitate to speak for Renee or Hazel, but I believe they’d be in agreement.”

“Lexie,” she continued. “We’d like to share more of ourselves with you.”

Lexie looked at the circle of eager faces, hoping to glean an explanation.

“We perform an important service to the community,” Jenna whispered.

“Renee could explain it best,” Sharmalee offered.

“Excuse me?” Blythe said.

“Whatever, Blythe. Just tell her,” Corwin said.

“Lexie, we’ve enjoyed your company quite a lot the past couple of weeks. You’re bright, you’re clever, and you seem eager to learn more about us and our family,” Blythe said. “We’d like to share more of ourselves with you, if you’ll let us. Does that sound like something you’d appreciate?”

Lexie smiled and shrugged, as flattered as she was confused.

“We would like to take you on a hunt.” The sentence hung in the air as the stands erupted in cheers for yet another of Hazel’s killer shots.

Lexie waited for more, but none came. “A hunt?” she asked. “For what?”

“Wolves,” Blythe answered.

Lexie looked at the faces of the other girls. Their shared eagerness confirmed Blythe’s story.

“You mean like gray wolves? Or like the rare wolf wolves?”

“Oh, we don’t hunt normal wolves,” Sharmalee said, shaking her head. “That would be terrible.”

“Well yeah, I figured. But rares? You guys?” Lexie asked.

“Um, yeah,” said Mitch. “What’s so weird about that?”

“The rares take down at least two men a year. And those guys are usually heavily armed wilderness types. How would you do that? Why would you even try?”

“Don’t you know the truth about them?” Sharmalee whispered.

Lexie responded with confused silence.

“They’re werewolves,” Mitch whispered.

“What?”

“The wolves that attack your classmates and neighbors are werewolves. Our Pack keeps them from overrunning everything,” Blythe said.

“Barely,” Corwin muttered. Blythe shot her a stern look.

“What, you mean like humans that change with the moon? Like ‘werewolf’ werewolves?” Lexie asked.

The girls nodded in unison.

“And how do you do this?” Lexie asked, more amused than shocked, convinced that a punchline was coming soon.

“Come to the house after sunset,” Blythe said. “Dress warm. Bring a weapon.”

“I’ve lived in this area my whole life,” Lexie said, shaking her head.

“Small towns keep the best secrets,” Blythe said, shrugging. “You don’t believe me, and I understand. It’s an unbelievable claim. But trust me, all the attacks you read about in the paper, all the girls that transfer or the boys that disappear, it’s all because of the wolves.”

“Werewolves,” Lexie said, and Blythe nodded. “Who are they, then?”

“Men from town, sired by an ancient pack of full-bloods.”

Jenna shifted on her knees, “But they aren’t all townies.”

“You’re saying the rare wolves are men, and the men are werewolves?” Lexie asked.

Corwin nodded.

“So then these ‘werewolves’ you’re hunting. You kill them?”

The girls nodded.

“Then you’re killing men, yeah?”

“No way,” Corwin insisted. “These guys are monsters.”

“But real monsters or just ‘bad guy’ monsters?” Lexie asked, glancing back to Brian and his frat buddies.

“Is there a difference?” Mitch asked.

“No difference,” Blythe said. “A monster is a monster, even if he’s wearing human skin. Or a varsity jacket,” she tipped her chin over to the bleachers, where the boys still whooped.

“I don’t know. They may be nasty animals, but aside from eating a hunter every once in a while, they don’t seem to cause too much trouble,” Lexie shrugged.

“Don’t be naive,” Blythe said. “The wolves may only kill a person or two every once in a while, but that doesn’t account for the runaways.”

“This town sucks. That explains the runaways. I thought about it once or twice myself,” Lexie replied.

“And those people whose names get buried in the back pages of the paper?” Jenna said.

“Everyone knows meth’s a big problem around here,” Lexie shrugged.

“Regardless of the maulings that get all the press, you have no idea what the werewolves are up to in human form,” Blythe asserted.

“Like what?”

The girls shifted quietly on the blanket and Blythe spoke. “Milton has the highest rates of rape, assault, and relationship violence out of all schools of comparable size. We have the highest transfer rate among women, as well as the second highest rate of expulsion of male students.”

“You’re blaming werewolves for rape?”

“You bet I am. Human males have a hard enough time controlling their primitive ids. Add a dose of the beast and they go feral. They need to be handled, and that’s where the Pack comes in.”

“By killing them.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know if I can support this.”

“Well I suppose you don’t have to. But I thought more of you. I expected you to be capable of great things, of making great change. Renee said she saw it in you. I think we all did.”

The girls nodded, and it was Lexie’s turn to shift uncomfortably.

“It’s just hard to believe,” Lexie spoke, barely audible.

Blythe nodded along with the rest of the Pack. “None of it seems real until it happens to you. Come hunting with us tonight. You’ll see how real it can be.”

Lexie looked into the expectant faces of her friends. She wanted to believe them and didn’t want to in equal measure. She considered the local mythology of her hometown and whether her neighbors could have been so wrong for so long, or worse, hiding the menacing secrets themselves. None of it made sense, but Lexie was too intrigued to back down, and too concerned with how the Pack viewed her to say no. Biting her tongue so hard that the taste of salt filled her mouth, she looked into Blythe’s blue eyes and nodded.

Chapter 11

Lexie’s breath clouded in the light of the waxing moon as she walked to the Den. The girls gathered in the backyard, circled around a small fire burning in the pit. Fog accumulated beneath the young trees at the edge of the property and beaded every surface with wetness.

Hazel wore black and carried a length of rope around her shoulder. Renee, too, looked like a cat-burglar as she lubricated the spring mechanism on a crossbow. Lexie liked the look of that weapon; she had always wanted to learn use one, but her father suggested it was less humane than the clean efficacy of bullets. Jenna adjusted her gloves, a bowie knife strapped to her belt. Corwin slipped brass knuckles onto her thick fingers, squeezing them, testing their weight. Mitch dug through a dark canvas bag, sorting its inventory. All the girls wore dark hand-knit hats, gifts from the crafty Jenna no doubt. Sharmalee was the only one in street clothes. Nobody carried guns.

Noting Lexie’s confusion, Corwin whispered, “She’s the lookout,”

“Lookout for what?”

Blythe emerged from the house in an army-green turtleneck, black leggings and sneakers. She wore a ski-mask rolled up on her forehead, looking like the queen on a chess set.

The whole scene looked like posse theater, and Lexie had a fleeting moment of sympathy with Brian when he suggested they were all crazy.

At the behest of some silent signal, the women began to move, darting through backyards and cutting across less-trafficked areas of campus.

Lexie’s fingers grazed the hilt of her knife, secured on her right hip. She traced the engravings on the handle. Even in the cool night air, it felt warm in her hand. She wondered, briefly, if she should’ve brought her gun instead.

“Um, the forest is that way,” Lexie suggested.

“Someone grew some sass,” Renee replied, the first thing she said since Lexie’s arrival. Lexie bit her tongue.

Blythe strode alongside them both. “Lexie, I’m going to need you to keep quiet and just watch for now, okay?”

At the eastern edge of campus, the Pack hung a left and scurried up Moosejaw Avenue. The quiet street ended at a sad, neon “Open” sign clinging tenuously to the eaves of the Mill Tavern. Never patronized by students, it was a townie haunt. Tonight, though, it looked merely haunted. The gravel parking lot held two trucks, one of which didn’t look particularly eager to go anywhere, its tires buried in muddy divots.

“Shit,” Blythe said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “We’re late.”

“I’m on it,” Sharmalee said, removing her sweatshirt and handing it to Corwin. Blythe frowned.

Corwin placed her open hand on Blythe’s shoulder, “We need a win, Blythe.”

Renee hefted her crossbow, and Blythe sighed.

Sharmalee kissed Corwin’s cheek and waved at the group. “Be right back.”

‘Right back’ ticked by, minute after tense minute. The women hid around the back of the tavern, while Lexie crouched with Renee in the shadows of the woods beyond. The tavern’s screen door swung open with a rusty squeal, and Sharmalee fell out of the bar with a huge man draped around her.

“Always did prefer dots to feathers, if you know what I mean,” he said with the timbre of a grizzly bear. They laughed together: hers false, his oblivious. His heavy footsteps sounded across the planked porch and around the back of the tavern. The Pack waited.

Lexie whispered to Renee, “What’s going on?”

Renee brought his fingers to her lips, her eyes trained on the man and Sharmalee as they approached the corner around which the women hid. Before they got there, though, he threw his weight against Sharmalee, pushing her against the wall. The air escaped Sharmalee’s lungs with a muffled ‘ugh’ as he rammed his body onto hers. Sharmalee forced out a breathless “no.”

On the echo of that denial, Renee barreled out of the woods. She leapt, her airborne body traversing a distance of at least twenty feet, landing heavily his shoulders. The man’s bulk collapsed beneath Renee’s like an empty aluminum can. The rest of the Pack ran from behind the tavern and set upon the downed man. Blythe drew back her leg and kicked him across the jaw, unleashing a stream blood from his mouth and nose. He growled and gurgled, drunk on booze and pain. Sharmalee leapt from the wall and dug her foot into the small of his back, holding him to the ground. The women worked fast. Jenna threw a black hood over his head while Hazel knotted the rope around his wrists. He tried to wrestle against his attackers, but the combination of pummeling and the hood reduced his struggles to flailing.

Lexie ran to the Pack, but as she watched the girls beat the man bloody, she started to retreat. She stood in the yard, frozen in uncertainty. Her brain screamed, but her throat refused to follow suit. She was able only to watch the scene unfold as if in a dark dream.

Blythe pulled the man to his feet. Hazel tied a rope lead around his neck, and Blythe yanked him into the forest like a reluctant dog. The Pack walked through the woods, pulling the man behind them and kicking him in the stomach every time he stumbled to his knees. He coughed and cried but did not speak.

Lexie caught up with them, trailing Mitch.

“Mitch,” she pleaded in a whisper. “What are we doing?”

“Shh,” Mitch whispered back. “He can hear everything.”

“But--”

Mitch just shook his head. “Trust us.”

The Pack stopped in the desolate north woods, not far from the Den’s backyard. The gibbous moon shone grey light on forest floor, casting long shadows against a cave, upon which stood a rusty iron door. Corwin opened the door, which protested with an ear-searing creak. Blythe pushed the bound man inside. The cave stank of urine, sweat, and blood. Lexie gagged as the odor hit her. The women filed in and Hazel lit a lantern. Blythe kicked the man in the stomach and he fell to his knees. The hood over his face puckered as his sucked in breath. He coughed and sputtered, gasping at the word “Please.”

Lexie stood with her back pressed against the steel door, her knife’s sheathe digging into her hipbone. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, watching the women’s faces.

Jenna caught her eye and walked to her, placing one open palm on her sternum and whispering into her ear, “You’re safe. Just watch.”

The other women formed a tight circle around the man. Blythe used the rope to pull his torso straight, wrenching his arms back. With a nod from Blythe, Hazel ripped the hood from his head.

“The fuck?!” he sputtered. Blood streamed from his nose, caking in his bristly mustache.

Corwin, her fingers clenched around the brass knuckles, threw a solid fist into his already bruised jaw. He crumpled, whimpering, to the floor. His lower lip was sticky and red, split with blood and swelling.

Blythe kicked him in the stomach, forcing more blood and spit from his mouth with a cough.

“You like attacking girls, Frank?”

“What?” he whimpered.

“You heard me!” she shouted as she kicked again.

He groaned, “She came on to me!”

“That’s not what we mean, Frank.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he pleaded, his ham-hands curling into purple fists behind his back.

“You’re a liar,” Blythe growled, “and a beast.”

He shook his head, a wild panic in his bloodshot eyes.

“You don’t remember Emma? That sweet blond you took a chunk out of last month?”

“You’re crazy.” He wept, the tears carving clean paths down his bloodied cheeks.

“Her parents remember. Her sisters remember. We remember. Why the hell don’t you?”

He shook his head, drops of blood and sweat flying like water from a dog’s coat.

“Alright then,” Blythe said, delivering a solid kick to his chest.

His body heaved as he struggled to remain conscious.

“Please,” he whimpered so quietly that it was little more than a movement of bloodied lips. “I have kids. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You dug your own grave, Frank.”

The women set in on him, taking turns beating the breath out of him.

Lexie covered her eyes. “Jenna, make them stop.”

“Trust me, Lexie,” Jenna whispered, the sweetness of her tone betrayed by the blood wetting her dark clothes. “This is all part of the process. You can get rares to change before the moon by spiking their adrenaline. We need to be sure, so we have to be rough.”

“It’s too much.” Lexie winced with each strike.

From between her fingers, she watched the man cry, beg, and struggle to rise between blows.

Blythe back-handed him repeatedly across the face, and he took each hit with a grunt and a whimper.

“What the hell?” Renee muttered.

“Why isn’t he changing?” Hazel asked.

Blythe glared at them both and beat the man with increased fervor.

“Blythe,” Renee reached out, her hand hovering over Blythe’s arm, as though afraid to interrupt the violence. “I don’t think he’s going to change.”

Blythe slammed her boot into Frank’s jaw, sending him careening onto his side. His head cracked on the stone floor, and he fell limp, unconscious.

“Blythe!” Corwin said.

“WHAT?!”

The girls all froze.

“Maybe . . .” Sharmalee whispered, “we got it wrong.”

“The fuck we did!”

Blythe grabbed the man’s hair in her fist and pulled him up. His jaw hung slack, blood covering his face and shirt. “CHANGE FUCKER!” she screamed as she kicked him in the gut.

“Blythe, STOP!” Renee shouted.

Blythe ignored her, continuing to beat the limp man. No one stepped forward to stop her.

“I can’t--” Lexie pushed Jenna aside and flung the door open to the blessedly cool, clean air.

“Wait!” Jenna called.

But Lexie was already running. As the door slammed shut behind her, she thought she heard a whimper become a snarl. She didn’t stop to find out, running until her lungs and legs burned and the sky turned indigo with the impending sunrise.

Her feet carried her miles to the south, where the Rogue River widened and roared around huge boulders. The foliage was lush and evergreen here. The air smelled like fresh rain, washing from her brain the odor of that malevolent place. At the riverbank, the sky began to glow in that blessed blue of pre-dawn, and she finally stopped to rest. The earth was mossy and clean. Wrapping her sweatshirt tight around her body, Lexie lay on a soft patch of earth, letting her eyes flutter shut, feeling that, for the first time, she was safe in the sunshine.

Chapter 12

A rustle in the underbrush tickled Lexie’s ears, waking her to the full daylight and sweat-slicked skin. She swallowed hard to moisten her cottony mouth. Her stomach shuddered and her muscles clenched against her movement. The river burbled, cool and lovely, not ten feet away. She crawled across the rocks to lean over it. She dunked her whole head beneath the flow. The cold water swirled through her hair, tossing it like sea grass. Above the water, the sun baked her skin, but beneath the surface, all was fresh and invisible and quiet. Her toes curled with the sensation and the relief.

Breath expended, Lexie pulled her head out of the water, whipping an arc of droplets from her long, soaked hair. Cool water dripped down her shoulders, soaking her shirt and waking her up. For once, though, she didn’t want to be awake. She didn’t want to think about last night, the man, and what the Pack may have done to him.

Behind her, in the brush, Lexie heard a rustling, a footstep. Reaching to her hip for her knife, she whipped around to find a familiar face. Archer stood at the wood’s edge, her hair down, her sleeves rolled up and her left hand holding a dead rabbit by the ears.

Lexie’s breath caught in her throat. She tugged the hem of her sweatshirt over the knife, as though she had something to hide.

She forgot the apology she had rehearsed as she lay in bed each night. She struggled to quiet her mind, focusing instead on Archer’s hair as it framed her face, the way her hips moved as she left the protection of the forest, and her strong fingers clutching at the rabbit. Her grip on its ears raised its eyebrows in a comical expression, even as the rest of it hung morbidly like a half-stuffed toy animal.

“What are you doing here?” Lexie asked.

A smile curled at Archer’s lips. “You’re in my backyard.” She gestured down the river to where it bent and escaped the tree line, beyond which sat her cabin. Lexie relaxed and smiled at her dumb luck.

“Hungry?” Archer said finally, presenting the rabbit.

“God, yes,” Lexie sighed.

“Excellent.”

The cabin was beautiful, like a hand-made extension of the forest itself. Lexie hadn’t gotten a good look at it when she fled after her last visit. Now as they walked along the riverbank as it cut through the meadow separating the cabin from the forest she could appreciate the whole place: It was a simple cottage, made of stacked Douglas fir logs that reached sharp, perfect corners. On the second floor, where the roof reached an apex above Archer’s sleeping loft, redwood shingles covered the outer walls. The windows were paned and shuttered, the glass uneven and cloudy, as though centuries old. A simple eaved porch extended from the side door, the planks of which were splattered with dozens of muddy bare footprints. A pair of dirty work boots sat next to a sea-grass welcome mat. Just beyond the porch, a chopping block of a stump held an ax, its blade buried in a cleft on the surface. A simple woodshed held stacked logs and an array of hanging tools, hand braided fishing nets, and half-finished furniture projects.

The inside was more familiar, but no less lovely: the rough logs forming walls, the propane tank speckled with rust aside the stove, the deep tin sink, the foraged herbs drying against the window. On the counter sat two plates, two mugs, and some jars that Lexie assumed doubled as glasses. Lexie saw little food anywhere except for a pair of apples and a bunch of carrots that sat alone on the counter. The window above the sink was cracked, and thick dust caked the sill. It looked as though this cabin had been abandoned for years, and was just now receiving a second chance at life.

Lexie wandered through the room, breathing in the memories of the previous month. Her eyes grazed the fireplace, and a shiver of delicious remembrance swirled through her body. She placed her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. As soon as the pleasant memories flooded her nerve cells, the blood and screams replaced them. Lexie wanted to share the events of the prior night, if only to dispel their horror, like the voicing of a nightmare. But she did not yet have the words to ask for absolution. Instead she sought to dispel her overwhelm with idle chatter.

“Is it weird not living in a modern place?” Lexie asked.

“Modern, how? Like having . . . ?”

“Heat?”

“I have heat. I have a fireplace and a stove.”

“Hot water?”

“I prefer cold water.”

“Even for showers?”

“I bathe in the river.”

“What?!”

“What?” Archer said with a chuckle.

“How do you not die? It must freeze over in the winter.”

“In the winter I take showers,” Archer grinned.

“Good lord.”

An awkward silence fell. Lexie worried she had insulted Archer when she was just flirting. She would stop flirting.

Archer broke the silence. “I would love a washing machine.”

“What?”

“I would. I swear I’d twirl around like one of those housewives from commercials in the fifties. High heels, polka dot dress and everything. I would be thrilled to have a washing machine.”

“Fascinating.”

“That I hate doing laundry?”

“No. The image of you twirling in a kitchen, wearing high heels.”

“Fair enough,” Archer laughed, throwing the rabbit carcass on the countertop and filling a pot with water.

“I’m a little embarrassed,” Archer admitted. “I usually try not to greet pretty girls with a dead animal in my hand.” She moved gracefully through the kitchen and pulled out a knife and cutting board.

“I was the one crashed out in the middle of the woods,” Lexie shrugged. With her admission, she prayed that Archer wouldn’t ask why.

“You can be embarrassed for both of us then,” Archer teased.

Lexie studied the birch ladder ascending near the front door to a loft above their heads. “Is that where you sleep?” Lexie asked, gesturing above.

“Sometimes,” Archer answered, deftly carving crimson bracelets onto the forelegs of the rabbit with the tip of a knife. She wiped her mouth with her forearm.

Lexie poked around the room, sidestepping the guilt and giddiness. She removed her sweatshirt and knife, placing them both near the hearth. Lexie ran her fingers over her indented flesh where the hilt had dug in during the night.

“What happened to your sheepskin?” Lexie asked, noting its absence.

Archer ignored the question.

“Wow,” Lexie said after another silence, as Archer slid the rabbit flesh off the muscle. “That smells delicious.”

Archer chuckled. “I haven’t even started cooking it yet.”

Lexie stared out the window to the backyard, watching the trees bend with the afternoon breeze. “Do you own these woods back here?”

“In a way,” Archer answered.

“Can we go on a hike after we eat?”

“I was going to suggest the very same thing,” Archer replied, lighting the stove with a match.

The space between them was alive and invigorating, like the air after a violent storm. They entered the woods beyond Archer’s back yard, just where the river narrowed and bent south toward Wolf Creek. The sky was yellow and her belly was full. The rabbit meat wrestled happily in her guts and made her want to bound and leap and do rabbit-like things. She bounced from rock to rock like a child as they ducked through the underbrush of the young part of the forest and headed into the old wood, remembering her youth and how much time she’d spent using the woods as her playground.

The sun’s oblong rays streaked the forest in swaths of color. The two women walked in silence, save for the damp pine needles squishing like bedsprings beneath their steps.

Lexie had never been in these woods before, but she knew ones like it just down the river. She had grown up in them; her neighbors earned their livings from these trees. There was something strange, then, in the unfamiliarity of this forest. It had a richer smell--damp, like soil, dead leaves, and rainwater. The river rushed loudly, emboldened by the month’s many rains. She smelled the musk of the creatures that made their homes in the trees and dens within the forest’s perimeter: deer, lynx, foxes, rabbits, squirrels, and innumerable birds. Growing up, she would wander in the woods for hours, but she could never taste the air then like she did now, nor could she guess where the timid animals hid. Now, the smallest rustle of a creature made her ears tickle.

“Is it the equinox?” Lexie asked over her shoulder as she leapt from a felled tree trunk. Deciding to try flirting again halfway into her landing, she chose not to turn back to look at Archer, attempting a coy maneuver.

“Yes,” Archer said, grinning at Lexie’s playfulness. “How did you know?”

“The moon isn’t up yet, and the sun’s already setting,” Lexie said. “Are we going to be okay, getting back in the dark?”

Archer took a leap off a low granite wall, landing next to Lexie and taking her hand. “I know these woods really well.”

Sizzles of joy ran up the fibers of muscle in Lexie’s arm, as though all her feelings for Archer were now wrapped up along these muscles, tingling and tensing.

“I know,” Lexie said. “Just making sure. The wolves . . .” Another flash of broken flesh on stone, and Lexie shook her head to fight the memory back.

Archer stopped her, squeezing her hand tightly, fingers interlaced.

“Understand me,” she said, looking into Lexie’s eyes. “I would never take a risk like that with you.”

Lexie shrank even as warmth flooded her chest. “Okay,” she replied.

“These are my woods. We’re safe.” There was pride in Archer’s voice, and power. Lexie knew it was true.

They slowed. The web of Lexie’s fingers delighted in the attention they received from Archer’s, their hands interwoven. Occasional leaves fell from the trees like a sparse snowfall. Yellow and curled, they drifted in feathery arcs to the ground. A soft rustle accompanied each landing, and the trees seemed to sigh with the release of their shriveled burdens, each loss strengthening them. Archer’s and Lexie’s feet crunched over these leavings. Lexie’s ears tickled with each step.

Archer swung her head to indicate the direction they were headed. “C’mon. We’re close.”

“Close to what?”

“We’d better hurry.”

Their pace quickened as Archer led Lexie onto a rough deer path, over scrub brush, dead branches, and exposed roots. Archer’s increased pace set Lexie off her footing at first, but she recovered, learning what balance felt like coming through the bottoms of her feet. Through the rubber soles of her sneakers, she could feel the subtle adjustments the bones of her feet made as she stepped, for balance and momentum. Each small contour of the ground pressed into her foot. She had never felt so balanced on two legs before. Lexie thought back to the Full Moon Tribe, how awkward she felt dancing with Archer while surrounded by graceful and coordinated dancers. Lexie had felt gangly in comparison, all flailing limbs and jerky hips.

Lexie, her eyes on her feet, stopped walking. She wondered if this grace was a new development or just a new realization, like noticing she was speaking loudly in a freshly silent room.

Archer turned. “You cold?”

“No. I’m fine,” Lexie said, puzzled by that as well. She wasn’t cold, though she left her sweatshirt, along with the knife, back in the cabin and now hiked in her plain white tee. She exhaled and watched her breath swell about her face in a cloud. She should be cold--she was always cold--but now she wasn’t.

Archer stepped towards her. “We’re almost there. I have a surprise for you.”

“More surprising than a dead rabbit?” Lexie joked.

“And a delicious stew. Yes, I believe so,” Archer replied, laughing.

She placed a hand on Lexie’s shoulder and led her through a small hole in the brush. They emerged into a natural cathedral. Soaring spruces with trunks like steeples shredded the waning sunlight into narrow shafts, running at severe angles between the earth and sky. A cliff thirty feet tall walled in the clearing, and more sun-licked firs stood atop it. A blanket of leaves, soft orange and crusty brown, layered the ground. Beneath them, a padding of pine needles inches deep silenced the deadfall of Archer and Lexie’s footsteps. Archer led Lexie to the river, quieter here, meandering like a crone brook, lazy and wide. Archer put her hand into the water, pulling a cup-full to her mouth.

Lexie leaned over the water with a wary look in her eyes, forgetting her own eagerness for the river water this afternoon. She grimaced as she tried to sort the constant battle of lust and logic grappling in her head.

“I’ll be okay. Hearty constitution,” Archer said, slapping her chest with a thud, like a gorilla.

“Archer,” Lexie said, finally feeling the need and the words for the apology. “I feel strange, like I might be going a little crazy.” She lowered herself to her knees, pressing her palms into the mud of the bank.

“Go on,” Archer nudged, like coaxing a fawn to take her first steps. Lexie hadn’t thought this part out and had no prepared words to explain herself. Archer’s silence prodded her. Here was a friend, eager to be of service as a sympathetic ear, or trusted advisor, or anything else Lexie might need of her. Lexie wasn’t sure what she needed and was even less prepared to ask for it. She wanted to speak, but what would she say? That she witnessed the horrific beating of a man by women who, just hours earlier, Lexie had considered her friends? Or even earlier and somehow more damning, that she had masturbated five times a day since their night together? What about the twilight visions that followed her each night into her dreams? Or that she was falling in love with a woman for the first time in her life, while being drawn to another woman at the same time?

Lexie’s eyes mirrored the shadowed water as she shared a separate, deeper truth.

“I’ve never felt this strong before. It came from nowhere. I’m feeling more. Not like emotions. Sensations. I know what each one of my toes feels like right now. My throat, my muscles, each part of me feels alive in its own right. And the map in my head; I was always so bad at directions. But now, I know exactly where my dorm is from here, and my father’s house, and the ocean. I know we’ll be able to see the moon in forty-five minutes. I know that Cassiopeia will appear over those trees soon, too. And it will set there.” She traced a path with her finger from horizon to horizon.

Archer said nothing, squatting next to Lexie as she continued.

“I know it’s cold but I don’t feel it.” Lexie exhaled a cloud of misty breath. “It feels like there is more oxygen in my lungs, more blood in my veins, more electricity in my brain. I feel like me, version two-point-oh.” She paused, looking out over the rushing water and sighed. “It’s amazing.” Lexie turned to look at Archer.

“Did you know that?” Lexie asked. “Could you tell?”

“Yes,” Archer replied.

“Oh,” Lexie said. She let another silence fall across them, before asking “What do you think this all is?”

Archer rocked back to sit cross-legged at Lexie’s side. “Growing up, maybe? College. Girls. Possibility. Such things can be dizzying.”

“I bet you were way more stable when you were my age,” Lexie grumbled.

“Ha! No.” Archer shook her head, as if enjoying the memories as they skittered through her brain. “Not one bit.”

“I feel so confused, yet so much stronger. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sounds about right.”

“There’s another thing.” Lexie bit her lip, afraid of giving voice to the awful memories that had been troubling her all day, as if that would make them real again. “Last night there was something . . . Something happened.”

Archer waited as Lexie stammered through her confession.

“It was these girls . . . My friends, I guess. They kidnapped this guy. They beat him up. They insisted . . .” Lexie bit her tongue. “God, this sounds so crazy.”

“Go ahead,” Archer said.

“They said he was a werewolf.” Lexie laughed without humor at the recollection. “It’s insane. They’re insane. They tortured this guy, beat the shit out of him. I thought . . .” Lexie stretched her neck against the tension that grasped at it. “I thought they were nice, normal people. I thought they could be my friends.” She sat back and curled her arms around herself. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“I recommend starting with yourself,” Archer replied.

Lexie laughed aloud, startling them both. “See, that doesn’t work either.” She stood and paced along the edge of the riverbank, where solid ground dissolved into thick mud. “I’m sorry I bolted last month. It was--I saw something.” She squeezed her eyes against the tears that clutched at her eyes. “My Nana, they said she was schizophrenic. She was always talking about the random-ass stuff she saw: ghosts and demons and animals that talked. Sometimes she would just be really mean. I know it’s genetic, and I think it’s really why my mom bailed on us.”

Lexie inhaled deeply, as if the fresh air would flush out the fear. She didn’t want to continue, didn’t want to divulge the details of her warped vision in the cabin.

Archer stood, wiping dirt from her jeans, then slid an arm around Lexie’s waist. She didn’t press. They stood together in the shared silence that was becoming a comfortable solace in their friendship.

After a long while, Archer broke the silence. “You know that saying, ‘Not all who wander are lost’?”

Lexie nodded.

“Well,” Archer said, “not all who see things are crazy.”

Lexie took a breath, wondering if that made her feel better, and the answer was yes, a little bit better, yes.

“Can I offer you some advice?” Archer asked.

Lexie nodded.

“When you are confronted with something that doesn’t make sense or a question you don’t know the answer to, trying looking here.” She pressed her open palm against Lexie’s sternum. The heat penetrated Lexie’s skin and freed a tiny bit of the darkness that lurked there. “Thought follows feeling, not the other way around. You’ll always know the answer when you find peace within yourself.”

Archer and Lexie stood together in the clearing, sharing their warmth.

“What now?” Lexie asked.

“Up,” Archer gestured to the cliff wall towering behind them. Thick sprigs of ivy clung to its rough face, and gnarled brush pierced the rock in smatterings of brownish-green.

“What?” Lexie asked, with an incredulous brow.

“It’s not really climbing,” Archer said. “It’s more hopping. Jumping. It’s easy, if you don’t overthink it.”

Lexie’s brows raised high. She glanced from the wall to Archer and back. “Seriously?” she asked.

“You said you were feeling strong,” Archer said. “Prove it.”

Lexie shook her head.

“Come on! Just try just to get to that ledge there.” She pointed to a mossy platform jutting out of the rock nine feet from the ground. “It’s essential for the surprise.”

“This better be some surprise,” Lexie muttered.

“Yep. Do it. You’ll love the view.” She nodded to the ledge like there was nothing to it.

Lexie turned to the rock face. She could see more trees hanging over the edge, still high enough to catch the setting sun’s light, when all around the river was already in the gloaming. She edged back in preparation for a running start.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Lexie asked, already grinning like a lunatic as the adrenaline coursed through her veins.

“Let’s find out.” Archer smiled wide as Lexie took her first bold steps into irrationality.

Lexie trained her eyes on the ledge and dug her feet into the soil, bending over like a sprinter placing her feet before a race. She rubbed her hands together to draw blood into them. She burst into a sprint and, defying all natural sense of self-preservation, hurled herself onto the rock face, grasping the first ledge with both hands. She pulled herself up to her feet in one fluid motion, turned to her right and leapt again, catching with her eyes, and then with her hands another grip higher on the wall.

Using her momentum, she propelled herself up now to the left, to reach the next jutting edge near the top. On this ledge, she paused, looking at the top now only four feet above her head. She set her feet, squatted deep and sprung vertically to catch the ledge. Her torso had already cleared the top when she realized her mistake of overshooting the handhold. At the apex of her leap, she forced her feet forward to land on the plateau. She landed heavily, and her weight shifted backwards into the void. Each muscle struggled to restructure her center of gravity; her lungs burned with the breath she had held since leaving the ground. With a great jerk of her torso, Lexie flung her arms forward, driving her body fully onto the plateau and crashing onto her hands and knees. A sharp pain shot up from her kneecaps while her hands drove deep into the rocky soil. The pain traveled up the same routes that the pleasure from Archer’s touch had just a few weeks and a few minutes before. Lexie used this pain to stand, rubbing her injured knee. Perched atop the highest ledge, she turned to look down at Archer, still on the ground below.

“Don’t look at me. Check out the view!” Archer shouted.

Lexie obeyed. The wilderness spread out below her in a verdant blanket. The last, molten curve of the sun sank into the glittering ocean miles beyond, casting swathes of magenta across the western sky. Backlit clouds stretched in long wisps from the horizon. Inky purple battled deep orange for dominion over the sky, with purple the inevitable conqueror. At the deepening blue of zenith, the first planets and brightest stars winked through the ragged remnants of the clouds. Lexie had to struggle to catch her breath in the face of such grandeur, and Archer’s words came to her with a newfound clarity: Not all who see things are crazy.

A soft thump behind Lexie diverted her attention from the splendid view. Archer brushed her bangs from her eyes as she stood from a crouch.

“How to you feel?” Archer asked, stepping closer. Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, Lexie reached her arms around Archer and pulled their mouths together. It was a wet, vigorous kiss. Each nerve ending in her lips exalted in the sensation. When they separated, Lexie blinked and asked, “Is that weird?”

Archer tilted her head. “Is what weird?”

“Kissing me.”

Archer licked her lips. “It’s . . . lovely. It’s delicious.”

“Okay,” Lexie said, unsure of the motivation behind her question, other than self-sabotage. Had she killed the moment entirely? She looked away.

“I like women, Lexie,” Archer said, taking Lexie’s hand and squeezing. “Kissing you isn’t ‘weird’.”

Lexie nodded.

“Is it weird kissing me?” Archer asked, turning the tables on Lexie’s question and discomfort.

Lexie shook her head, her hair flopping over her shoulders like a hound dog’s ears. She shrugged, helpless in her ambivalence.

“Okay,” Archer said. “So, we’re going to do it again. And maybe it’ll help you figure it out.”

Archer pulled Lexie’s mouth to hers. At first the kiss was soft and cozy, then a rod of heat spiraled up Lexie’s spine. Her muscles tensed, and she gripped at Archer’s hips, grasping bundles of flesh beneath flannel and denim. Lexie opened her mouth to Archer’s kiss, their lips and tongues holding onto one another, pulling slightly away, then crashing once again.

Sparks sizzled down Lexie’s nerve endings, tracing an intricate grid of sensation over her body. Her blood surged in grand swells, and her lungs drew in all the oxygen the forest had to offer. She grew drunk on Archer’s scent--all mushrooms and musk, like soil after a heavy rain. Lexie wanted to bury herself in the scent, to pull each particle into her body to hold onto it for life.

Archer clutched Lexie’s body with all her sturdy strength. Fingers pulling at hair, hands grasping necks and hips and shoulders and faces, tongues grappling, and each breath taking on a meaning of its own.

Then it was Archer’s turn to push her away. “I want to show you what I made,” she said with flushed face and swollen lips. “That’s why I brought you here tonight, not to seduce you, though I’m pleased that it’s working out that way.”

“This isn’t the surprise?” Lexie asked, gesturing to the splendid view.

“This way.”

Archer leapt atop a rise of boulders that stood at the cliff’s edge, carrying her twenty feet higher in two bounds. At the apex of the pile, she aimed for the trunk of a great cedar and leapt onto its lowest branch, disappearing into the foliage. Her hair whipped behind her as if helping her balance, and it was the only thing Lexie could see of her before she disappeared behind the massive tree trunk out of view. Unsure of her footing but riding the adrenaline that had carried her up the cliff face and to Archer’s lips, Lexie followed Archer’s charge. The fading sunlight spattered over the thick branches as through a shattered window. At the third branch Lexie paused, waiting for Archer to emerge and guide her for the remainder of the journey. When she didn’t appear, Lexie closed her eyes and inhaled. Archer’s path became as clear as a neon arrow, leading inwards. Lexie ducked her head beneath a bough. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw Archer standing on a great wooden platform. A hand-hewn treehouse.

“Whoa,” Lexie whispered.

Archer’s mood softened. “Do you like it?” she asked.

“You built this?” Lexie responded, incredulous.

Archer nodded.

Lexie’s eyes followed the familiar curve of the wood. “Out of the tree that crashed into my room?”

Archer nodded again. “I decided against a roof. I thought it’d be nice to lay beneath the stars.”

Lexie looked up, the clear purple sky visible between the boughs. She examined the treehouse, running her palms along the wooden planks. Her eyes shone with glee. The center of the treehouse was one full disc from the crashed tree, six feet broad, the rings tracing its centuries of life before the fall. Wedges cut from the fallen oak branched out from the center like spokes, with cut planks spanning the space between each wedge, adding straight, bold lines to the pale, curved rings of the discs. The whole platform, fifteen feet in diameter, rested between three massive branches and the cedar’s trunk, perched like a lily pad. Laying atop the center of the disc was the lambskin. Lexie rushed to inspect it, shoving her hands into its fur, relearning all its secrets, including those it had of her.

“It’s the one from your cabin,” Lexie said.

“I knew how much you liked it,” Archer replied with a wide grin. Lexie knelt and breathed deep, soaking in the exceptional beauty of Archer’s craft.

“How did you do all this?” Lexie asked, awe-struck.

Archer replied, wryly, “You spend your days studying. I spend mine making stuff out of wood.”

“I think you win,” Lexie replied.

“You like it?” Archer asked with a sheepish grin.

“Of course I do! How could I not?”

Archer shrugged. “I so rarely understand the tastes of women.”

The sun dipped beneath the sea, a gray line barely limning the distant tree line. The disappearing light dragged with it the color from the world. Lexie rose and pulled her close by the hips, pressing her body to Archer’s. Lexie’s breasts rubbed against Archer’s, with only the thin barriers of Lexie’s t-shirt and Archer’s vest between them. Her hands dug into the fabric of Archer’s jeans, firm flesh giving beneath each pressed fingertip. Lexie’s breath quickened, and moisture rushed to her mouth, armpits, and groin.

The treehouse swirled with their shared scents. Each breath Lexie took drove her heart to beat faster. Archer eased Lexie down to the lambskin, pinning her wrists above her head. Lexie’s chest rose and sank like a felled buck struggling through its last breaths. Each inhale flushed her body with more sensation, more warmth, more pleasure, until she was so overwhelmed she could no longer label what she was feeling.

Archer rose above Lexie, pulling off Lexie’s t-shirt. The cool air rushed to envelop Lexie’s bare skin. With one deft move, Archer unsnapped Lexie’s bra and pushed it up, her mouth gliding over Lexie’s breast. Lexie pressed up into Archer’s mouth, surrendering to the sensations. She luxuriated under the weight of Archer’s body, the strength of her grip on her wrist, the power behind her hips. The tiny hairs on her skin rose to meet Archer’s touch, creating vapor trails of desire in the space between them.

The pure pleasure was so intense she lost her capacity for speech, but still her brain fought for dominion. “Wait . . . I--”

Archer stopped. “What?”

“I . . .” Lexie thought she wanted to say that she shouldn’t. She thought she wanted to run, like she did the morning at Archer’s cabin. It seemed like the smart thing to do, even the right thing to do. But her back was arched and her toes were curled, and all she really wanted was Archer’s mouth on her neck, her hair draped across her breasts, her hands . . . everywhere. What Lexie thought she wanted betrayed what she actually wanted, which was to be exactly where she was at that moment.

Lexie shut herself up with a kiss, shaking herself free from the constraints of fear and judgment that had stolen her focus. Archer responded by pushing back into her, her hands gliding up and down her body, stroking her hair, shoulders, breasts, abdomen, and hips. Archer danced her fingertips across Lexie’s bare breasts. Tingles of delight scattered along the surface of her skin, like minnows in a shallow pond.

Archer followed her fingertips with her mouth. Lexie moaned, stretching to encourage sensation to travel freely up and down her spine. The sound of her moan shocked her; she’d never emitted such a sound before. Masturbating at home had always been silent by necessity. Now, as each rotation of Archer’s tongue around Lexie’s areola drove Lexie deeper into submissive ecstasy, her voice fought to break free. Her own sounds of pleasure excited her even more. Lexie’s jeans dampened, simultaneously hot and cool.

The scent of Lexie’s desire filled the air, eliciting an animalistic moan from Archer’s own throat as she pressed harder against Lexie’s prone body. She bit on this tender flesh; Lexie jerked at the mix of pleasure and pain. It reminded her of her mother braiding her hair as a child, always just a little too tight, a burning tugging at her scalp. Lexie responded by grabbing a handful of Archer’s hair in her hand and pulling. Archer’s neck arched, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

Venus shimmered over Archer’s right shoulder as the sky gave up the rest of its blue for purple. Her eyes were soft and deep, catching the fading light like polished precious metals. Lexie pleaded with her mind to memorize the moment, when lust and the fruition of lust flowed effortlessly, one after the other.

Without intending to, she thought again of her mother, that Summer had once been eighteen too, beneath a lover’s body, falling in love with a certain person at a certain time. Then she considered her grandmother and what she may have felt beneath the weight of the most perfectly beautiful person in the world, at the moment when stricken with a thousand ways of saying Yes.

Did love-making beneath stars feel similar from one generation to the next? Did cultural perceptions of gender and political bodies stretch their knotted hands back that far? Were they strong enough to infiltrate a moment as clear as two eager bodies falling in love?

Lexie struggled to remove the context and constructs restraining her in her memorization of the moment, lying supine beneath her lover. She returned to the clarity of the scene, the breeze tracing across the saliva on her breasts, the warmth entering her hand through the crown of Archer’s skull, so much happening and so much left to do.

Lexie whispered, “I want you,” and it was true. Archer searched Lexie’s face with half-gentle, half-hungry eyes and the faintest hint of a smile. This was fun.

In one swift move, Archer dove onto Lexie, pinning her left wrist above her head and sinking her teeth into her neck. Lexie gasped a quick, startled breath. Archer’s mouth remained fixed on Lexie’s bare throat, teeth gripping the skin. Oh God, oh God. Lexie held her breath as Archer’s teeth dug into her flesh, saliva dripping down her neck and cooling in the evening air. Archer’s tongue slid against Lexie’s throat, catching her pulse through her skin. Archer sighed through her nose. As her breath released, Lexie’s body relaxed. She was not in danger or under attack. She was being loved.

Archer squeezed Lexie’s wrist tighter and with her free hand unzipped Lexie’s jeans. Lexie closed her eyes as Archer’s fingers reached into her underwear and stroked her hair. She tensed and released again, a flood of warmth overtaking her, starting at the crown of her head and moving downwards, bathing every cell of her body in watery moonlight. Archer’s fingers danced, stroking, teasing. Lexie wanted Archer to be rough, to grip her with strength, to pin her and pull her hair. Instead, Archer played, teasing her, and Lexie knew it.

But not teasing for long. Archer grabbed the front of Lexie’s panties in a fist, pulling up, rubbing the fabric roughly against her and forcing her hips to rise. She slipped Lexie’s jeans over her hips and to her ankles, where Lexie kicked them off, along with her shoes and socks. A chill sank into her skin, fighting with the heat of her body. Lexie felt grateful for the deepening darkness; being exposed to someone like this was new and thrilling, but intimidating all the same.

Archer slid her fingers around Lexie, learning from touch, a delightful trial-and-error of pleasure response. She slipped one, then two fingers inside and stroked, making Lexie’s spine coil and release in spasms and stretches of joy, each muscle and nerve ending pinging with delicious tension.

Lexie opened her mouth wide and inhaled from her lower belly. She tightened around Archer’s fingers as they slid along the ridges of her inner landscape, pushing forward through her flesh and triggering pulses of electricity to jolt to the surface of her skin.

Lexie’s eyes shot open, the purple in the sky had given way to inky black. The stars peered down to them, and Lexie’s eyes fixed on Cassiopeia, the jagged shock of the five brilliant stars like the scar from a bite wound. Over the tree line was a hint of the hazy corona of the full moon.

Lexie rocked back and forth with Archer’s hand. Her vision sharpened, the edges of everything crisp, the lights brighter, the shadows deeper. Lexie took in everything in her field of vision at once, with no judgments or discernment, every aspect of the world carrying equal weight as it bathed her brain in beauty.

Desperate to feel Archer’s flesh against her own, Lexie pulled at the hem of Archer’s shirt. Archer took her cue and threw her shirt over her head, allowing it to hang at the wrist of the hand she pressed into Lexie. Archer unbuttoned her jeans and kicked them off. Lexie dared not shut her eyes and erase this image of her lover undressed beneath the night sky, despite the sensations in her body demanding her undivided attention. Archer pressed against her again, kissing her, her tongue rolling over Lexie’s like thick, warm syrup.

Lexie squeezed her eyes shut, creating a catalogue of sublimity. Lips on breast. Fingers tangled in hair. The gentle scraping of teeth on flesh. The weight of body upon body. The sound, a quiet vocalized breath, of Archer’s own pleasure as she moved her hand in Lexie. Like trying to catch a torrent in a teacup, Lexie felt ashamed for missing all the subtleties flowing over her now.

Lexie’s fears and anxieties untangled and dissipated, leaving only one emotion to take their place: gratitude. Her eyes welled with it, her heart swelled with it, her spine stretched with it. The cells of her blood rose to the surface to exalt the beauty she witnessed. Like flakes of steel to a magnet, her nerve cells reached skyward in a unified sensation of grace. She imagined that this was what salvation felt like to religious types, a concerted gratitude to have life with which to experience such beauty.

Archer’s jaw tensed, and the pressure of her fingers inside Lexie increased. Leaning back on her haunches, her back curled with engaged muscularity, Archer’s hand worked Lexie hard and fast. Lexie had never felt such a sensation before; it was like needing to pee, but pleasant and sweet, like a desperate thirst quenched. Through the layers of muscle and skin between Archer’s hand and the open air, fervent energy moved, pacing within the confines of Lexie’s body like a predator caged. Her flesh expanded, each cell breathing with its own needs. Lexie’s moan came from that deep, predatorial place: a guttural, animal sigh. Archer thrust hard and smooth against her insides, bicep flexing powerfully with each stroke.

Archer traced a path with her tongue from Lexie’s throat to her pubic bone, sampling the multitude of flavors her body offered. As Archer’s tongue eased over her flesh, tension gripped Lexie’s body like an aura of surging spring water, swirling through her abdomen. Tasting her, Archer sighed a low growl of lust, the vibrations of her voice driving into Lexie’s pelvis, buzzing throughout her skeleton.

Behind Archer’s curled back, the edge of the full moon peeked over the shadowy tree line. A breath caught in Lexie’s throat as the silvery light draped their naked bodies. The warmth grew unbearable. Too much, too much, her brain sighed. But her body refused to listen, praying in its own language. Yes. Yes, it sang. Archer’s hand heeded the latter’s call until Lexie’s brain ceded its call for queller.

Moonlight limned Archer’s body in silver, her dewy flesh reflecting the moon, prostrate as if in prayer between Lexie’s legs. Tongue, lips, spit shared, fingers curling, arms strong, cheek, voice, back, all driving forward toward an edge.

Instead, she sank. Into warm depths beneath the surface of the world where it was dark and silent, far below the crashing waves that swirled overhead. For once, the voices did not follow her into this dreamtime. She was utterly alone in this hidden place, at peace away from the chattering nonsense. Lexie could hear and feel her breath, but nothing more.

From the distant and invisible horizon, a voice. Her voice, dragging her to the surface of the world. It surged forth from the deepest part of her belly, a shattering, plaintive howl that echoed against the rock faces, flying to the ocean to dive into the breaking waves. Tree branches shuddered around her, shedding their orange leaves in the wake of startled birds. Her cry seemed to outlast her breath, a howl that Lexie was unable to control, she could only release. For the moment that she cried out, Lexie forgot that she was in the woods, surging beneath Archer’s body. She forgot and was happy to do so. She ceased corporeality and for that sweet moment became a flood of simple grace. It pitched her like a seaweed forest in the high tide, curling and tangling, mingling and dragging apart. Her howl echoed and faded.

Then, silence. Neither woman breathed, neither moved. The first thing Lexie noticed when she came back to herself was the warmth. Like incense in a church, it spread from a central point just below her navel to every part of her being. Then came the scent, potent and undeniably hers. It was her body, her sex, her signature. It was herself, and it was everywhere. As clear as a written word, she understood the smell swirling around her head to be her own person. She inhaled deeply, learning the subtleties of her nature as clearly as the letters in her name.

As Lexie blinked open her eyes, Archer eased her mouth away and raised her face to meet Lexie’s gaze. Lexie could barely see in the lost light, but the moon now full-bodied above the trees cast depth on Archer’s features. Her amber and blue eyes gleamed deep in their sockets. Short black fur feathered against the edges of her eyes like charcoal. A ridge of mottled grey ran from the tip of her moist, black nose up her forehead, where two pointed, furry ears twitched. Her mouth curled at the edges into a lupine grin, highlighted by cream-colored fur that curved in the shape of a butterfly wing on each cheek.

Tiny sirens sounded somewhere deep within her brain. Lexie grasped the thick coat of scruff on Archer’s neck and pulled her back into the moonlight. Lexie inhaled, not losing sight of those eyes, inexplicably knowing that Archer was still inside of this creature.

Archer’s throat trembled, like the stifling of a cough. Tiny, high pitched chatters came from Archer’s lupine mouth, though her black lips barely moved. Lexie’s ears perked up, trying to catch the subtlety of her sounds.

Lexie, Archer said, so quietly, so strangely, Lexie wasn’t sure if she was really hearing her name at all. Lexie, Archer said again. This is a gift. It belongs to you.

Lexie smiled, unsure of Archer’s meaning, still reeling from the hormones that cascaded through her body. Lexie floated against her love, freeing the scruff in her grasp to stroke her lover’s furry face. She smiled at Archer’s softness.

The gentle moment shattered when she noticed her own hand, curled in the shape of a paw. Five long claws curled from it like polished scythes. The sight hit her like a punch in the kidney. She pulled her hand away from Archer’s face and placed it inches in front her eyes to be sure she wasn’t the victim to any passion-induced tricks.

Horror grasped at her with its icy fingers as she scanned the rest of her body, still open below Archer’s. Her flesh was covered in light brown fur. A tail rose from between her legs, entwined snakelike with Archer’s.

Lexie whipped to her feet in one movement, throwing Archer onto her back.

Lexie, it’s okay, Archer chattered urgently. You’re okay.

But Lexie’s shocked mind saw nothing beyond the black haze of her own horror. She launched herself off the platform, hitting the ground on four feet with a soft spring before tearing off into the dark forest, running from Archer and the beast she had made her become.

Chapter 13

Lexie ran until it occurred to her that running was ridiculous. Archer was not pursuing her; no one was. Each pace only reminded her of the beast she now was. A creeping disgust seized her for taking such profound pleasure in something so wrong. She wanted to slough off this skin like a sunburn. She didn’t want this new body to fit, though she knew it did. She was disgusted with herself, a feeling she had known years before but tried to forget, a perverse pleasure in the midst of something very wrong.

Her thick paws bit deep into the dirt as she ran, and her muscles flexed and stretched against her bones. The breeze blew the tiny hairs on her neck. She felt beautiful. It unnerved Lexie that her body needed such a transformation to feel right.

In the distance, Lexie could hear the rushing of the Rogue. She had run northwest, up into the mountains where the air smelled like clouds and salt. She arrived at the cusp of the forest and the mountain, where a wildfire years before had obliterated all the foliage, leaving a black-scarred tract of rock and char. Tree trunks, as naked as match sticks, stood tall and ashamed, mourning the bounty they once possessed. A thousand questions poured through her mind, but she could not bear to face any of them. Alone in the vast landscape, she felt bound and gagged by circumstance.

The night deepened and expanded, while Lexie remained still and silent in the void. She tried to silence her mind like the charred tract, empty, stoic and dead. Though the woods behind her bore the hiding places and infinite dark instincts of fierce creatures, here in the dead zone at the cusp between the trees and the alpine lichens, she felt more vulnerable that she had ever felt as a girl exploring the forests near her home. She considered turning back and heading home to Wolf Creek but shunned the thought immediately. How would she get there? Run the seventy-plus miles? And once she was there, she would surely be shot on sight. No. She’d have to stay here, hidden until this witchcraft was sure to burn off with the sun.

The silence grew oppressive as she mourned the loss of her human frailty, of her belief in only the things she could see and understand. Staring sadly at her furry feet, Lexie realized that the universe was filled with things she could never understand, menacing her in the darkness, chiding her foolishness. She was clumsy and plain, painfully tiny in the face of the malevolent grandeur of the world. Her anguish struggled to form tears, but none came, a cruel byproduct of her new biology. Her throat clenched, like forcing a cough to save oneself from choking. The clench became a gag, and the gag a lupine whine as her sadness begged for release from her body in any way possible.

A tiny growl formed from the struggle and revved into an engine of sound. The sound reverberated through the echo chamber of her throat and clattered out of her mouth in a long plaintive wail. The sound knocked her head back on her neck, stretching her skull to her spine and exposing her throat to the full white light of the night. Like a hundred unclenching fists, her muscles eased and released. The howl felt like the first breath after surfacing from a great and deadly depth. Her lungs expended, she ballooned them again for a second, palliative bellow that echoed off the barren mountainside, shattering into rays of her despair. The high note of her wail descended a slow, arcing scale, where it trilled on a few notes before fading into emptiness.

The last echo ricocheted off the mountain and rolled back toward town. Lexie wondered, ruefully, if Renee could hear her howl and was priming her crossbow now. With that thought came a dozen others like it. She recalled nights when she would listen through an open window to the packs roaming just outside town. Her father had killed a couple rare wolves when he was on the job. Despite the namesake of their town, Ray, like all the working folks in Wolf Creek, held a particular distain for this odd breed of wolf. Not a lumberjack or hunter was sympathetic to the creatures, which killed or injured several humans each year. Lexie always imagined the mauled men were inexperienced fools, seeking pelts for glory and overcompensating for their lack of efficacy with oversized guns. She had kept such thoughts to herself, however, knowing her father and all the other people of her town would consider her disturbed for siding with the menacing creatures rather than her fellow, innocent citizens.

Now, her own fur coat ruffling in the quiet breeze, the irony of her past was obvious. More damning was the horrifying truth that these creatures were no more animal that she was, and that the villainy attributed to them was really being cast on her neighbors. And Archer. And now herself.

As her howl faded into the distance, Lexie groaned at the realization that Blythe and the rest were right. They didn’t hunt men, but werewolves. The Pack that she had hoped would become her family now looked more like her enemy.

That her consciousness was untouched by the transformation chilled her. She was no more a violent creature now than she was the day prior, though her body was now endowed with its own weapons. The wolves the Pack killed must have died with the minds of men intact. Why would the wolves attack humans if their minds remained? Was Archer ever one of the culprits?

Lexie shooed the questions again from her mind, having neither the energy nor the peace to confront them. She sank on her belly and wished for sunlight and for the clattering conversation of the Pack to distract her thoughts.

From the forest, Lexie heard the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath a paw. The step was tentative, downwind, like the slow approach of a hunter. Perhaps Archer had followed her after all and sat watching from a distance as Lexie’s world tore apart. Lexie was ashamed but relieved that Archer had followed to witness to her complete breakdown. She stood to face her lover, emerging from the forest’s edge.

Another soft footstep accompanied a slow growl, an unmistakable warning of the teeth and claws to come. From the shadowed guard of the trees emerged a wolf, lips curled back baring white teeth. It stepped towards her, ears back flat against its skull, head low in line with its shoulders, tail swaying like a charmed cobra. Its deep growl shook her ribcage and its yellow glare froze her in place. Behind its eyes was the urgent lust of a predator cornering prey. A chill tickled Lexie’s skin as the hair along her back rose in spikes. She stepped back, clattering across burned wood and sharp charred rocks.

She had never seen one of the rares alive. Until now, they were merely pub tales or crude drawings accompanying newspaper stories. The rare looked like a normal gray wolf, but larger, heavier, nastier. Each paw was articulated, each claw able to move independently of the others. Its legs were long and lean, holding the bulk of its body five feet above the ground. Everything else was pure wolf.

Lexie tried to shout, but the sound that came out was a quick, sharp bark. She barked again, and once more, each yip backed her farther up the slope of ash, each step matched by her hunter.

Its growl crescendoed into a thunderclap, stunning her heart into a moment of bloodless shock. The wolf recoiled on its haunches and launched itself, bridging the fifteen feet between them in one great bound. It knocked Lexie onto her back with its thick skull and pinned her. Her paws battled against its snapping jaw. She drew back her lips to bare her own teeth, each claw tearing at her attacker. She pushed with all her strength, but its weight pinned her as if beneath a tractor, all rusted steel and menacing moving parts.

Then it relented, falling back for one merciful moment. Lexie whipped back to standing. Her fur bristled up her neck and down her spine, the chilly air dripping in between the tufts, pulling at her skin. Her tail made her feel longer and larger, and she swung it over her back in a mocking facsimile of a pageant queen’s wave. She let a growl echo through her throat, proud of the way the sound filled the space between them.

The wolf did not waste a moment rebounding towards her, but this time Lexie allowed her instincts, both lupine and human, to guide her. She recalled stalking the woods with her father, matching orange vests over flannels, matching rifles at their sides. With a silent finger in the air, her father would delineate the tender places on a quadruped to aim, shoot, or slice for a clean kill. When the beast leapt again, she met it in the air with open jaws, sinking her teeth into its throat and jerking it to the ground. A gurgled cry surged from its mouth as it wriggled free, rolling onto its back and then to its feet to regroup. It growled again, pacing in a circle. She spat fur from her mouth.

Lexie’s heart thudded through her ribcage. Its odor was more earthy than Archer’s, more wild. It smelled masculine, like musk and meat.

Saliva dripped from his exposed fangs as he sized up his opponent. His snarl widened into the parody of a smile, then he bounded for Lexie once again. Knowing nothing else to do, she let him overtake her, rolling onto her back, hindpaws raking his exposed belly. Her head tucked back into her neck, guarding her tender flesh, while her mouth opened wide to grasp whatever limb or chunk of flesh might stray too close to her jaws.

The male’s leap was imprecise. His lower legs landed on her torso, knocking her breath out, but leaving her flesh intact. Lexie snapped at his bony foreleg, crunching her jaws around it like a vice. The bone chipped like rock candy. He yelped as the warm, salty ooze of blood seeped into her mouth. It tasted sustaining, alive, and delicious. Greedily, she clamped down harder, jerking her head left and right, still supine but at a great advantage. Bone flaked in her mouth and flesh tore in her clenched jaw.

The male leapt and thrust his hind legs out like a rodeo bull trying to buck its rider. He squealed, but Lexie’s jaws were locked, her head following each desperate kick, tearing and cracking his debilitated leg. She was getting dizzy from the adrenaline and whiplash. The wolf’s flails set her teeth in deeper. He feinted a snap of his jaws at her eye, and she shied back, releasing him just as he flailed a last, desperate kick. Lexie flew, landing on a mass of jagged rocks. Her eyes swayed in her head.

The wolf took two paces from her and turned, a hateful look in his yellow eyes. He clearly knew this fight, the life or death struggle intrinsic to his kind. Blood seeped from his leg wound, like juice from a split pomegranate. Lexie’s brain was overridden by the wolf blood coursing through her veins. She should flee, be sick and horrified by this living nightmare. But none of those urges were real, merely remnants of a quiet life no longer lived. She felt only one true thing now, the need to survive.

The massive wolf gathered his haunches for a last, deadly attack. He wouldn’t make another mistake. Lowering his head in line with his shoulders, he prepared to drive his weight at her like a battering ram. His brown, bristled tail swayed, and his growl elevated into a barking, snap-jawed war cry.

Lexie’s heart seized in her chest. She shivered as the blood rushed from her limbs to her protect her vital organs. She tried to steel herself for the freight-train impact, which would tear her body asunder, limbs, viscera, and bone scattered in the wake of a barreling six-hundred-pound mass of muscle.

In the moment before he charged, Lexie noticed with a perverse sort of pleasure a cool breeze that came out of the forest from the south. It smelled rich and cleansing, like the air near a waterfall. The beast caught a whiff, too. It stole his attention, giving Lexie a sweet moment of reprieve with which to collect her punch-drunk wits. The male’s back bristled, and his ears twitched forward to the trees.

Seeing her chance to flee, Lexie flexed. The wolf barked a command. She froze. He swung his massive head back to the tree line and sniffed again. Now Lexie heard what he did, a crunch of running feet through underbrush. The oncoming creature was at least two hundred yards away, but it was closing in swiftly. Lexie and the strange wolf both sniffed, but the breeze had shifted back, once again carrying their scents southward. Her attacker growled a low warning to whoever might interrupt his onslaught and steal his prey. Lexie was trapped and terrified both of the beast before her and the fiercer one yet to reveal itself.

The footfalls barreled through the brush. Both predator and prey held their breaths and widened their stances, prepared for blood.

The great beast burst through the trees with a ferocious roar that was half tiger, half wolf, and all deadly. Its potent odor was unmistakably Archer. She was nearly the size of the male and Lexie’s eyes widened with relief and awe. The male snapped the air in a half-hearted attempt to fend her off. Archer landed between the male and Lexie. She growled, the sound echoing off the mountainside to create a chamber of low, chilling vibration.

She leapt so quickly that Lexie could barely keep her eyes fixed on that mottled gray body. In a flash, Archer was on top of the male, claws and jaws decimating flesh, scraps of torn fur drifting in the air. His voice moved from snarls to yelps to gurgles. Lexie inched forward to see beyond the muscles of Archer’s back to the doomed male beneath her.

It became clear to Lexie that this was no fair fight, even less so than the wolf’s attack against her. Archer roughed him up, when she could just as easily take his throat in her jaws and pull.

Lexie struggled to speak, to tell Archer that it was enough. She remembered the Pack’s attack the night before, and the pleasure the women all took in the torture of the bound man. It was as if they, by beating the male into submission, could unravel the karmic bindings that ensnarled so many women, each blow seeking to even the score. Now, watching Archer toy with the great beast like a cat teasing a rodent before the final attack, weariness gripped Lexie’s heart. She took a tentative step and placed her forepaw on Archer’s back. Archer stopped.

The male seized the opportunity. With a yelp, he burst from beneath Archer’s heavy paws and fled. Before Archer righted herself, he was gone.

Riding on adrenaline, her pupils dilated such that her eyes looked uniformly inky, Archer shouted, “Why did you do that?”

Lexie lowered her chest to the ground, tail between her legs, ears flat against her skull. Archer panted at her, waiting for an answer. Lexie’s mind retreated with her body, back-stepping up the mountainside, wishing for an edge to disappear behind.

“I’m sorry! I just couldn’t watch you . . .” Lexie stammered. “You were torturing him.”

Archer rolled her eyes as though she were dealing with a stupid child. “Blood loss,” she whispered.

Lexie shook her head, not understanding.

“Blood loss,” Archer repeated. “It’s important. Other werewolves can smell it, and it sends a message that there are bigger and badder wolves out here. The blood loss works in our favor. I wasn’t torturing him. I was bleeding him to protect us.”

Lexie gnawed at her lip, wanting to howl again, to release the swirling anxiety.

“Hey,” Archer said, calmer now. “Come here.”

Lexie came, head low, shivering with fear, her tail still stuck firmly between her back legs. Archer licked at Lexie’s muzzle, cheeks, and ears, ridding her of the sticky blood that clung to her fur. The full moon bathed them both in the succor of its silvery light. Once Lexie was clean, Archer stepped a pace away and sat.

Fuck! Lexie tried to scream. Her throat clenched on the word and it came out like a croak before a retch. Fuck! She tried again. Her larynx seized against the word. She tried to scream her pain without articulation and it came out in a stream of whines and groans. She strained against the sounds, a simultaneous clench and release as if preventing herself from vomiting. Her shoulders heaved and she dug her black nose into the ash. Her tongue lolled to the ground. She released a snort and sigh. She croaked again, desperate to cry or shout or scream but her physiology resisted.

Her paws clenched at the dirt, and she tried to regain her breath, her mind, her forepaws locked and holding to the earth.

Archer held still as a stone lion. “Howl, Lexie,” she whispered.

Lexie winced, her eyes pleading with Archer to immolate this new form, to take this body away.

“Howl.”

Lexie strained, her throat burning, her muscles not knowing how to behave. She heaved a sound, a squeal over a groan. She inhaled to the breadth of her lungs, her larynx shocking her with its capacity. Her exhale fought against her insides and knocked her head back on her neck. Her forepaws clutched the earth and she released a bellow that shook her ribcage, shook her skull, shook the bare branches of the denuded trees. She pushed the howl out, though she didn’t have to--this anguish would leave her body with or without her consent.

Her howl moved out of her in undulations, in waves. It shattered her consciousness and let it fall to the ground like a million shards of glass. She tried to follow the ribbon of sound but it defied her, cascading beyond even her new, keen senses.

Her head threw the last of her breath in one heave. The sound ricocheted off the mountainside and Lexie swooned.

She fell into the warm, dark recesses of her mind where she was just a girl, who only a week ago was falling in love with a stranger, struggling over a midterm paper thesis, wondering if her new friends liked her enough. She wanted to return to that girl and stay there in suspended animation, before the kidnapping, the beating, and the uprooting of all rationality and reason.

But something better lurked beyond. It seduced her away from the safety of her own head with promises of new scents and tastes and the feeling of pine needles beneath her paws, of exaltation of the gorgeous gloaming like some people admired the sunrise, and of companionship with the exquisite creature sitting on the rocks before her, patiently awaiting her return. Out there it was night, and Lexie wondered if it would be night forever. If she were to return, there would be tears in her flesh and fur on her body, and questions would pour from her like blood from a gash. Yet there was also the promise of a new power within her and a new magic in this land. Even if she could go back to the girl from last week, doing so would mean returning to life of complacent stagnation in which nothing was new or unbelievable--a life of hourly wages and nothing stalking in the darkness.

She had traveled a mere sixty miles from home to create something extraordinary for herself. That sixty miles may well have been to the moon, so much mystery crept in the periphery. Lexie whimpered deep with in her mind, the howl of anguish had long since echoed away from the mountainside. Now she cried for wishes granted and preconceptions shattered. She cried for her future and the life yet to come.The moon sat above the tree line in the west when Lexie blinked back to reality. The first thing that came into focus was Archer, lying with head resting on crossed forepaws, her gaze focused on something far in the distance, deep in her own thoughts. Her tail curled next to her body, fluffy and clean. Her nose was wet, like a river rock against the silty beige of her muzzle. Lexie sighed, the beauty of this beast in the moonlight overtaking her. She tried to speak, and her voice box vibrated a trill of sound.

“Archer?” Lexie croaked through a hoarse throat.

Archer’s ears perked, and she jumped to all fours. The sides of her mouth curled into a smile, and her pink tongue unfurled from her jaw to loll to one side. Lexie walked to her, and they entwined their necks, nuzzling. Archer pulled her face away and licked at Lexie’s muzzle, cleaning the last traces of blood from her fur, grooming her.

“There’s skin stuck between my teeth,” Lexie whined.

Archer wrapped her forelegs around Lexie, squeezing away the snarling, the saliva, the jagged teeth and claws. Archer was a bulwark of warmth and safety; her body was a sanctuary for them both, regardless of the monsters beyond, soothing like a sister and holding like a lover. Archer’s strong neck draped over Lexie’s shoulder, warming her core, hiding her face from the chill of the forest. Her exhalations cycled in the enclosed space between their bodies, warming them both.

Archer smiled with tender eyes. “Let’s get you some water and some rest.”

She whispered into Archer’s chest, “I’m sorry.”

Archer lapped at her shoulder, shushing the confession away. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I couldn’t let you kill a man.”

“Shh . . .” Archer nuzzled her. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“You’re a werewolf,” Lexie whispered.

“Yes,” replied Archer.

“And me too.”

Archer nodded. Stating it so plainly should have shocked Lexie, but her nervous system had adapted by refusing to engage any further. An eerie peace crept across her skin, gripping her with ghostly fingers, forcing her heart rate to slow and her breath to deepen. It was a disconcerting calm, her thoughts sharp and empty.

“Did you do this to me?” Lexie asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. I can only guess.”

“Guess, then.”

“Last month, at the Full Moon Tribe. When you ran, you fell and drank from a puddle, yes?”

Lexie nodded.

“There is lore, that the footprint of a pureblood, beneath the light of the full moon can create the change, though I’ve never seen it happen.”

“Until now?”

“I suppose.”

“What’s a pureblood?”

“Me.”

“And?”

“Only me,” Archer sighed. “Or so I thought. But that footprint wasn’t mine.”

“Pureblood. What does that even mean?”

Each question was a hydra; for every one Archer answered, ten more sprang forth in its place.

“It means a lot of things,” Archer said, drawing back and placing her paw over Lexie’s. “Listen, I know you have many questions, but you’re also hurt and tired. Let’s take care of that first, okay?” She nuzzled the soft, spiky fur at the base of Lexie’s triangle ears. “Things will look different in the morning.”

Lexie nodded, still seeking answers in Archer’s particolored eyes, so unusual in a woman, but well-suited to a wolf. Everything about Archer seemed better suited as a wolf, from her dispatch of the rogue wolf to the way she had licked Lexie’s muzzle clean of blood, to the way she comforted by rubbing her forehead against Lexie’s trembling neck.

Archer turned, looking over her shoulder in invitation--or command--for Lexie to follow. Lexie loped after her.

The silent journey gave her opportunity to observe Archer, a great wolf who mere hours ago had loved her as a woman, who had cradled her body in her long, lean arms and tasted her flesh with human lips. Her eyes were the same as a both human and wolf: the left like candle-lit brass, warm and organic; and the right, clear blue as an icy lake, preternatural and uncanny. Archer’s mouth curled at the edges when she grinned her lupine grin, similar to the shrouded smile she carried on her human face. A ridge of mottled grey fur ran from the tip of her nose up her forehead, along her back, and all the way to her fluffy black tail. Her cheeks were beige, and small rings of short black fur circled her eyes, as though traced by kohl. Archer’s articulated paws were broad, almost twice the size of Lexie’s. They moved agilely, more like her human hands than not.

Growing up, Lexie shared the local assumption that the rare wolves were a product of the environment. A chill of nauseous guilt gripped her throat as she wondered who those wolves, those people, may have been before the locals dispatched them with guns and blades. She wondered how Archer had survived and if long ago she had been a normal girl like Lexie. She was gripped with the same uneasy wonder that had accompanied the sensation of Archer’s body on top of hers, that everything was terrifying and everything was perfect.

Lexie loped to a stop beside her lover. She studied Archer’s face, marveling at the subtle colorings and shades along her muzzle, wondering what they were for, if anything.

Archer waited through Lexie’s perusal, letting her soak in the magic of what was occurring now. The fur on her throat rippled when she spoke.

“Are you okay?” she chattered to Lexie in a language that sounded so natural Lexie wondered why she had never heard it before.

Though she didn’t know the answer to Archer’s question, she suspected that she had no real choice but to decide. Lexie lowered her head to her forepaws, stretching the lean bands of muscle on her legs and across her back. “Yes,” she asserted, the decision making it true. “I think I am.”

Archer bounded into the tree, and Lexie followed. They climbed together to the treehouse, so warm and welcoming, high above the cruelty of the forest below. Weariness overtook Lexie as the calm of the space enveloped them. She curled down upon the sheepskin, tucking her nose beneath her foreleg, hiding from the lingering moon rays. To Lexie’s lupine figure, the fleece was a sensual delight. A sound came from her mouth that she had not yet heard, a mixture of a guttural sigh and a satisfied snort through the nose. Seeing that Archer was watching her, Lexie rolled onto her back, exposing her pale belly. Archer padded over and nuzzled Lexie’s belly, snuffling along the soft fur and flesh.

They pressed tightly against one another, wrapping legs, rubbing their faces together. Their panting deepened. Archer licked Lexie’s face and ears. Lexie lost herself in the sensation of Archer’s touch. She had to ask Archer one question, and placing her paw against Archer’s chest to stop her, she whispered, “Archer, what do I look like?” The sides of Archer’s mouth curled into a broader grin, and she rested on her forepaw, using her other to stroke the side of Lexie’s face.

“Your fur is light brown, like honey. Your eyes are the same, rich hazel. Your mouth curls into a smile at the edges, here.” She traced the curls of Lexie’s mouth with the tip of her paw. “Your cheeks are pale, like mine. Your snout is the color of peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” Lexie laughed.

“Yes. You are beautiful. And delicious.” Archer buried her face in Lexie’s neck, making snorting sounds that tickled Lexie’s whiskers and made her giggle aloud.

They rolled together on the blanket, wrestling, licking, playing and giggling.

“Am I going to be okay?” Lexie asked.

“You are going to be magnificent.”

Lexie couldn’t make sense of any of it, nor could she think of the future; it was all too deep and unknowable, but she resisted escaping into her head. She’d lived there long enough.

Instead, she stared into her lover’s eyes. She would trust Archer. She would love her. She seemed to have little choice. They locked gazes, learning to trust one another by looking as hard as they could. Then Archer leaned in and pressed her mouth against Lexie’s. Their moist noses touched, sharing breath.

As the sky moved from violet to deep blue, Lexie drifted off into a deep and cozy sleep. She dreamt of running, mouth open wide, with Archer at her side. It felt like freedom. It felt like love.Lexie ran until it occurred to her that running was ridiculous. Archer was not pursuing her; no one was. Each pace only reminded her of the beast she now was. A creeping disgust seized her for taking such profound pleasure in something so wrong. She wanted to slough off this skin like a sunburn. She didn’t want this new body to fit, though she knew it did. She was disgusted with herself, a feeling she had known years before but tried to forget, a perverse pleasure in the midst of something very wrong.

Her thick paws bit deep into the dirt as she ran, and her muscles flexed and stretched against her bones. The breeze blew the tiny hairs on her neck. She felt beautiful. It unnerved Lexie that her body needed such a transformation to feel right.

In the distance, Lexie could hear the rushing of the Rogue. She had run northwest, up into the mountains where the air smelled like clouds and salt. She arrived at the cusp of the forest and the mountain, where a wildfire years before had obliterated all the foliage, leaving a black-scarred tract of rock and char. Tree trunks, as naked as match sticks, stood tall and ashamed, mourning the bounty they once possessed. A thousand questions poured through her mind, but she could not bear to face any of them. Alone in the vast landscape, she felt bound and gagged by circumstance.

The night deepened and expanded, while Lexie remained still and silent in the void. She tried to silence her mind like the charred tract, empty, stoic and dead. Though the woods behind her bore the hiding places and infinite dark instincts of fierce creatures, here in the dead zone at the cusp between the trees and the alpine lichens, she felt more vulnerable that she had ever felt as a girl exploring the forests near her home. She considered turning back and heading home to Wolf Creek but shunned the thought immediately. How would she get there? Run the seventy-plus miles? And once she was there, she would surely be shot on sight. No. She’d have to stay here, hidden until this witchcraft was sure to burn off with the sun.

The silence grew oppressive as she mourned the loss of her human frailty, of her belief in only the things she could see and understand. Staring sadly at her furry feet, Lexie realized that the universe was filled with things she could never understand, menacing her in the darkness, chiding her foolishness. She was clumsy and plain, painfully tiny in the face of the malevolent grandeur of the world. Her anguish struggled to form tears, but none came, a cruel byproduct of her new biology. Her throat clenched, like forcing a cough to save oneself from choking. The clench became a gag, and the gag a lupine whine as her sadness begged for release from her body in any way possible.

A tiny growl formed from the struggle and revved into an engine of sound. The sound reverberated through the echo chamber of her throat and clattered out of her mouth in a long plaintive wail. The sound knocked her head back on her neck, stretching her skull to her spine and exposing her throat to the full white light of the night. Like a hundred unclenching fists, her muscles eased and released. The howl felt like the first breath after surfacing from a great and deadly depth. Her lungs expended, she ballooned them again for a second, palliative bellow that echoed off the barren mountainside, shattering into rays of her despair. The high note of her wail descended a slow, arcing scale, where it trilled on a few notes before fading into emptiness.

The last echo ricocheted off the mountain and rolled back toward town. Lexie wondered, ruefully, if Renee could hear her howl and was priming her crossbow now. With that thought came a dozen others like it. She recalled nights when she would listen through an open window to the packs roaming just outside town. Her father had killed a couple rare wolves when he was on the job. Despite the namesake of their town, Ray, like all the working folks in Wolf Creek, held a particular distain for this odd breed of wolf. Not a lumberjack or hunter was sympathetic to the creatures, which killed or injured several humans each year. Lexie always imagined the mauled men were inexperienced fools, seeking pelts for glory and overcompensating for their lack of efficacy with oversized guns. She had kept such thoughts to herself, however, knowing her father and all the other people of her town would consider her disturbed for siding with the menacing creatures rather than her fellow, innocent citizens.

Now, her own fur coat ruffling in the quiet breeze, the irony of her past was obvious. More damning was the horrifying truth that these creatures were no more animal that she was, and that the villainy attributed to them was really being cast on her neighbors. And Archer. And now herself.

As her howl faded into the distance, Lexie groaned at the realization that Blythe and the rest were right. They didn’t hunt men, but werewolves. The Pack that she had hoped would become her family now looked more like her enemy.

That her consciousness was untouched by the transformation chilled her. She was no more a violent creature now than she was the day prior, though her body was now endowed with its own weapons. The wolves the Pack killed must have died with the minds of men intact. Why would the wolves attack humans if their minds remained? Was Archer ever one of the culprits?

Lexie shooed the questions again from her mind, having neither the energy nor the peace to confront them. She sank on her belly and wished for sunlight and for the clattering conversation of the Pack to distract her thoughts.

From the forest, Lexie heard the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath a paw. The step was tentative, downwind, like the slow approach of a hunter. Perhaps Archer had followed her after all and sat watching from a distance as Lexie’s world tore apart. Lexie was ashamed but relieved that Archer had followed to witness to her complete breakdown. She stood to face her lover, emerging from the forest’s edge.

Another soft footstep accompanied a slow growl, an unmistakable warning of the teeth and claws to come. From the shadowed guard of the trees emerged a wolf, lips curled back baring white teeth. It stepped towards her, ears back flat against its skull, head low in line with its shoulders, tail swaying like a charmed cobra. Its deep growl shook her ribcage and its yellow glare froze her in place. Behind its eyes was the urgent lust of a predator cornering prey. A chill tickled Lexie’s skin as the hair along her back rose in spikes. She stepped back, clattering across burned wood and sharp charred rocks.

She had never seen one of the rares alive. Until now, they were merely pub tales or crude drawings accompanying newspaper stories. The rare looked like a normal gray wolf, but larger, heavier, nastier. Each paw was articulated, each claw able to move independently of the others. Its legs were long and lean, holding the bulk of its body five feet above the ground. Everything else was pure wolf.

Lexie tried to shout, but the sound that came out was a quick, sharp bark. She barked again, and once more, each yip backed her farther up the slope of ash, each step matched by her hunter.

Its growl crescendoed into a thunderclap, stunning her heart into a moment of bloodless shock. The wolf recoiled on its haunches and launched itself, bridging the fifteen feet between them in one great bound. It knocked Lexie onto her back with its thick skull and pinned her. Her paws battled against its snapping jaw. She drew back her lips to bare her own teeth, each claw tearing at her attacker. She pushed with all her strength, but its weight pinned her as if beneath a tractor, all rusted steel and menacing moving parts.

Then it relented, falling back for one merciful moment. Lexie whipped back to standing. Her fur bristled up her neck and down her spine, the chilly air dripping in between the tufts, pulling at her skin. Her tail made her feel longer and larger, and she swung it over her back in a mocking facsimile of a pageant queen’s wave. She let a growl echo through her throat, proud of the way the sound filled the space between them.

The wolf did not waste a moment rebounding towards her, but this time Lexie allowed her instincts, both lupine and human, to guide her. She recalled stalking the woods with her father, matching orange vests over flannels, matching rifles at their sides. With a silent finger in the air, her father would delineate the tender places on a quadruped to aim, shoot, or slice for a clean kill. When the beast leapt again, she met it in the air with open jaws, sinking her teeth into its throat and jerking it to the ground. A gurgled cry surged from its mouth as it wriggled free, rolling onto its back and then to its feet to regroup. It growled again, pacing in a circle. She spat fur from her mouth.

Lexie’s heart thudded through her ribcage. Its odor was more earthy than Archer’s, more wild. It smelled masculine, like musk and meat.

Saliva dripped from his exposed fangs as he sized up his opponent. His snarl widened into the parody of a smile, then he bounded for Lexie once again. Knowing nothing else to do, she let him overtake her, rolling onto her back, hindpaws raking his exposed belly. Her head tucked back into her neck, guarding her tender flesh, while her mouth opened wide to grasp whatever limb or chunk of flesh might stray too close to her jaws.

The male’s leap was imprecise. His lower legs landed on her torso, knocking her breath out, but leaving her flesh intact. Lexie snapped at his bony foreleg, crunching her jaws around it like a vice. The bone chipped like rock candy. He yelped as the warm, salty ooze of blood seeped into her mouth. It tasted sustaining, alive, and delicious. Greedily, she clamped down harder, jerking her head left and right, still supine but at a great advantage. Bone flaked in her mouth and flesh tore in her clenched jaw.

The male leapt and thrust his hind legs out like a rodeo bull trying to buck its rider. He squealed, but Lexie’s jaws were locked, her head following each desperate kick, tearing and cracking his debilitated leg. She was getting dizzy from the adrenaline and whiplash. The wolf’s flails set her teeth in deeper. He feinted a snap of his jaws at her eye, and she shied back, releasing him just as he flailed a last, desperate kick. Lexie flew, landing on a mass of jagged rocks. Her eyes swayed in her head.

The wolf took two paces from her and turned, a hateful look in his yellow eyes. He clearly knew this fight, the life or death struggle intrinsic to his kind. Blood seeped from his leg wound, like juice from a split pomegranate. Lexie’s brain was overridden by the wolf blood coursing through her veins. She should flee, be sick and horrified by this living nightmare. But none of those urges were real, merely remnants of a quiet life no longer lived. She felt only one true thing now, the need to survive.

The massive wolf gathered his haunches for a last, deadly attack. He wouldn’t make another mistake. Lowering his head in line with his shoulders, he prepared to drive his weight at her like a battering ram. His brown, bristled tail swayed, and his growl elevated into a barking, snap-jawed war cry.

Lexie’s heart seized in her chest. She shivered as the blood rushed from her limbs to her protect her vital organs. She tried to steel herself for the freight-train impact, which would tear her body asunder, limbs, viscera, and bone scattered in the wake of a barreling six-hundred-pound mass of muscle.

In the moment before he charged, Lexie noticed with a perverse sort of pleasure a cool breeze that came out of the forest from the south. It smelled rich and cleansing, like the air near a waterfall. The beast caught a whiff, too. It stole his attention, giving Lexie a sweet moment of reprieve with which to collect her punch-drunk wits. The male’s back bristled, and his ears twitched forward to the trees.

Seeing her chance to flee, Lexie flexed. The wolf barked a command. She froze. He swung his massive head back to the tree line and sniffed again. Now Lexie heard what he did, a crunch of running feet through underbrush. The oncoming creature was at least two hundred yards away, but it was closing in swiftly. Lexie and the strange wolf both sniffed, but the breeze had shifted back, once again carrying their scents southward. Her attacker growled a low warning to whoever might interrupt his onslaught and steal his prey. Lexie was trapped and terrified both of the beast before her and the fiercer one yet to reveal itself.

The footfalls barreled through the brush. Both predator and prey held their breaths and widened their stances, prepared for blood.

The great beast burst through the trees with a ferocious roar that was half tiger, half wolf, and all deadly. Its potent odor was unmistakably Archer. She was nearly the size of the male and Lexie’s eyes widened with relief and awe. The male snapped the air in a half-hearted attempt to fend her off. Archer landed between the male and Lexie. She growled, the sound echoing off the mountainside to create a chamber of low, chilling vibration.

She leapt so quickly that Lexie could barely keep her eyes fixed on that mottled gray body. In a flash, Archer was on top of the male, claws and jaws decimating flesh, scraps of torn fur drifting in the air. His voice moved from snarls to yelps to gurgles. Lexie inched forward to see beyond the muscles of Archer’s back to the doomed male beneath her.

It became clear to Lexie that this was no fair fight, even less so than the wolf’s attack against her. Archer roughed him up, when she could just as easily take his throat in her jaws and pull.

Lexie struggled to speak, to tell Archer that it was enough. She remembered the Pack’s attack the night before, and the pleasure the women all took in the torture of the bound man. It was as if they, by beating the male into submission, could unravel the karmic bindings that ensnarled so many women, each blow seeking to even the score. Now, watching Archer toy with the great beast like a cat teasing a rodent before the final attack, weariness gripped Lexie’s heart. She took a tentative step and placed her forepaw on Archer’s back. Archer stopped.

The male seized the opportunity. With a yelp, he burst from beneath Archer’s heavy paws and fled. Before Archer righted herself, he was gone.

Riding on adrenaline, her pupils dilated such that her eyes looked uniformly inky, Archer shouted, “Why did you do that?”

Lexie lowered her chest to the ground, tail between her legs, ears flat against her skull. Archer panted at her, waiting for an answer. Lexie’s mind retreated with her body, back-stepping up the mountainside, wishing for an edge to disappear behind.

“I’m sorry! I just couldn’t watch you . . .” Lexie stammered. “You were torturing him.”

Archer rolled her eyes as though she were dealing with a stupid child. “Blood loss,” she whispered.

Lexie shook her head, not understanding.

“Blood loss,” Archer repeated. “It’s important. Other werewolves can smell it, and it sends a message that there are bigger and badder wolves out here. The blood loss works in our favor. I wasn’t torturing him. I was bleeding him to protect us.”

Lexie gnawed at her lip, wanting to howl again, to release the swirling anxiety.

“Hey,” Archer said, calmer now. “Come here.”

Lexie came, head low, shivering with fear, her tail still stuck firmly between her back legs. Archer licked at Lexie’s muzzle, cheeks, and ears, ridding her of the sticky blood that clung to her fur. The full moon bathed them both in the succor of its silvery light. Once Lexie was clean, Archer stepped a pace away and sat.

Fuck! Lexie tried to scream. Her throat clenched on the word and it came out like a croak before a retch. Fuck! She tried again. Her larynx seized against the word. She tried to scream her pain without articulation and it came out in a stream of whines and groans. She strained against the sounds, a simultaneous clench and release as if preventing herself from vomiting. Her shoulders heaved and she dug her black nose into the ash. Her tongue lolled to the ground. She released a snort and sigh. She croaked again, desperate to cry or shout or scream but her physiology resisted.

Her paws clenched at the dirt, and she tried to regain her breath, her mind, her forepaws locked and holding to the earth.

Archer held still as a stone lion. “Howl, Lexie,” she whispered.

Lexie winced, her eyes pleading with Archer to immolate this new form, to take this body away.

“Howl.”

Lexie strained, her throat burning, her muscles not knowing how to behave. She heaved a sound, a squeal over a groan. She inhaled to the breadth of her lungs, her larynx shocking her with its capacity. Her exhale fought against her insides and knocked her head back on her neck. Her forepaws clutched the earth and she released a bellow that shook her ribcage, shook her skull, shook the bare branches of the denuded trees. She pushed the howl out, though she didn’t have to--this anguish would leave her body with or without her consent.

Her howl moved out of her in undulations, in waves. It shattered her consciousness and let it fall to the ground like a million shards of glass. She tried to follow the ribbon of sound but it defied her, cascading beyond even her new, keen senses.

Her head threw the last of her breath in one heave. The sound ricocheted off the mountainside and Lexie swooned.

She fell into the warm, dark recesses of her mind where she was just a girl, who only a week ago was falling in love with a stranger, struggling over a midterm paper thesis, wondering if her new friends liked her enough. She wanted to return to that girl and stay there in suspended animation, before the kidnapping, the beating, and the uprooting of all rationality and reason.

But something better lurked beyond. It seduced her away from the safety of her own head with promises of new scents and tastes and the feeling of pine needles beneath her paws, of exaltation of the gorgeous gloaming like some people admired the sunrise, and of companionship with the exquisite creature sitting on the rocks before her, patiently awaiting her return. Out there it was night, and Lexie wondered if it would be night forever. If she were to return, there would be tears in her flesh and fur on her body, and questions would pour from her like blood from a gash. Yet there was also the promise of a new power within her and a new magic in this land. Even if she could go back to the girl from last week, doing so would mean returning to life of complacent stagnation in which nothing was new or unbelievable--a life of hourly wages and nothing stalking in the darkness.

She had traveled a mere sixty miles from home to create something extraordinary for herself. That sixty miles may well have been to the moon, so much mystery crept in the periphery. Lexie whimpered deep with in her mind, the howl of anguish had long since echoed away from the mountainside. Now she cried for wishes granted and preconceptions shattered. She cried for her future and the life yet to come.

The moon sat above the tree line in the west when Lexie blinked back to reality. The first thing that came into focus was Archer, lying with head resting on crossed forepaws, her gaze focused on something far in the distance, deep in her own thoughts. Her tail curled next to her body, fluffy and clean. Her nose was wet, like a river rock against the silty beige of her muzzle. Lexie sighed, the beauty of this beast in the moonlight overtaking her. She tried to speak, and her voice box vibrated a trill of sound.

“Archer?” Lexie croaked through a hoarse throat.

Archer’s ears perked, and she jumped to all fours. The sides of her mouth curled into a smile, and her pink tongue unfurled from her jaw to loll to one side. Lexie walked to her, and they entwined their necks, nuzzling. Archer pulled her face away and licked at Lexie’s muzzle, cleaning the last traces of blood from her fur, grooming her.

“There’s skin stuck between my teeth,” Lexie whined.

Archer wrapped her forelegs around Lexie, squeezing away the snarling, the saliva, the jagged teeth and claws. Archer was a bulwark of warmth and safety; her body was a sanctuary for them both, regardless of the monsters beyond, soothing like a sister and holding like a lover. Archer’s strong neck draped over Lexie’s shoulder, warming her core, hiding her face from the chill of the forest. Her exhalations cycled in the enclosed space between their bodies, warming them both.

Archer smiled with tender eyes. “Let’s get you some water and some rest.”

She whispered into Archer’s chest, “I’m sorry.”

Archer lapped at her shoulder, shushing the confession away. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I couldn’t let you kill a man.”

“Shh . . .” Archer nuzzled her. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“You’re a werewolf,” Lexie whispered.

“Yes,” replied Archer.

“And me too.”

Archer nodded. Stating it so plainly should have shocked Lexie, but her nervous system had adapted by refusing to engage any further. An eerie peace crept across her skin, gripping her with ghostly fingers, forcing her heart rate to slow and her breath to deepen. It was a disconcerting calm, her thoughts sharp and empty.

“Did you do this to me?” Lexie asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. I can only guess.”

“Guess, then.”

“Last month, at the Full Moon Tribe. When you ran, you fell and drank from a puddle, yes?”

Lexie nodded.

“There is lore, that the footprint of a pureblood, beneath the light of the full moon can create the change, though I’ve never seen it happen.”

“Until now?”

“I suppose.”

“What’s a pureblood?”

“Me.”

“And?”

“Only me,” Archer sighed. “Or so I thought. But that footprint wasn’t mine.”

“Pureblood. What does that even mean?”

Each question was a hydra; for every one Archer answered, ten more sprang forth in its place.

“It means a lot of things,” Archer said, drawing back and placing her paw over Lexie’s. “Listen, I know you have many questions, but you’re also hurt and tired. Let’s take care of that first, okay?” She nuzzled the soft, spiky fur at the base of Lexie’s triangle ears. “Things will look different in the morning.”

Lexie nodded, still seeking answers in Archer’s particolored eyes, so unusual in a woman, but well-suited to a wolf. Everything about Archer seemed better suited as a wolf, from her dispatch of the rogue wolf to the way she had licked Lexie’s muzzle clean of blood, to the way she comforted by rubbing her forehead against Lexie’s trembling neck.

Archer turned, looking over her shoulder in invitation--or command--for Lexie to follow. Lexie loped after her.

The silent journey gave her opportunity to observe Archer, a great wolf who mere hours ago had loved her as a woman, who had cradled her body in her long, lean arms and tasted her flesh with human lips. Her eyes were the same as a both human and wolf: the left like candle-lit brass, warm and organic; and the right, clear blue as an icy lake, preternatural and uncanny. Archer’s mouth curled at the edges when she grinned her lupine grin, similar to the shrouded smile she carried on her human face.

A ridge of mottled grey fur ran from the tip of her nose up her forehead, along her back, and all the way to her fluffy black tail. Her cheeks were beige, and small rings of short black fur circled her eyes, as though traced by kohl. Archer’s articulated paws were broad, almost twice the size of Lexie’s. They moved agilely, more like her human hands than not.

Growing up, Lexie shared the local assumption that the rare wolves were a product of the environment. A chill of nauseous guilt gripped her throat as she wondered who those wolves, those people, may have been before the locals dispatched them with guns and blades. She wondered how Archer had survived and if long ago she had been a normal girl like Lexie. She was gripped with the same uneasy wonder that had accompanied the sensation of Archer’s body on top of hers, that everything was terrifying and everything was perfect.

Lexie loped to a stop beside her lover. She studied Archer’s face, marveling at the subtle colorings and shades along her muzzle, wondering what they were for, if anything.

Archer waited through Lexie’s perusal, letting her soak in the magic of what was occurring now. The fur on her throat rippled when she spoke.

“Are you okay?” she chattered to Lexie in a language that sounded so natural Lexie wondered why she had never heard it before.

Though she didn’t know the answer to Archer’s question, she suspected that she had no real choice but to decide. Lexie lowered her head to her forepaws, stretching the lean bands of muscle on her legs and across her back. “Yes,” she asserted, the decision making it true. “I think I am.”

Archer bounded into the tree, and Lexie followed. They climbed together to the treehouse, so warm and welcoming, high above the cruelty of the forest below. Weariness overtook Lexie as the calm of the space enveloped them. She curled down upon the sheepskin, tucking her nose beneath her foreleg, hiding from the lingering moon rays. To Lexie’s lupine figure, the fleece was a sensual delight. A sound came from her mouth that she had not yet heard, a mixture of a guttural sigh and a satisfied snort through the nose. Seeing that Archer was watching her, Lexie rolled onto her back, exposing her pale belly. Archer padded over and nuzzled Lexie’s belly, snuffling along the soft fur and flesh.

They pressed tightly against one another, wrapping legs, rubbing their faces together. Their panting deepened. Archer licked Lexie’s face and ears. Lexie lost herself in the sensation of Archer’s touch. She had to ask Archer one question, and placing her paw against Archer’s chest to stop her, she whispered, “Archer, what do I look like?” The sides of Archer’s mouth curled into a broader grin, and she rested on her forepaw, using her other to stroke the side of Lexie’s face.

“Your fur is light brown, like honey. Your eyes are the same, rich hazel. Your mouth curls into a smile at the edges, here.” She traced the curls of Lexie’s mouth with the tip of her paw. “Your cheeks are pale, like mine. Your snout is the color of peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” Lexie laughed.

“Yes. You are beautiful. And delicious.” Archer buried her face in Lexie’s neck, making snorting sounds that tickled Lexie’s whiskers and made her giggle aloud.

They rolled together on the blanket, wrestling, licking, playing and giggling.

“Am I going to be okay?” Lexie asked.

“You are going to be magnificent.”

Lexie couldn’t make sense of any of it, nor could she think of the future; it was all too deep and unknowable, but she resisted escaping into her head. She’d lived there long enough.

Instead, she stared into her lover’s eyes. She would trust Archer. She would love her. She seemed to have little choice. They locked gazes, learning to trust one another by looking as hard as they could. Then Archer leaned in and pressed her mouth against Lexie’s. Their moist noses touched, sharing breath.

As the sky moved from violet to deep blue, Lexie drifted off into a deep and cozy sleep. She dreamt of running, mouth open wide, with Archer at her side. It felt like freedom. It felt like love.

Chapter 14

Lexie awoke naked, a beam of sunlight beating down on the side of her face. Her back was slick with sweat, as though she’d been wearing fur coat. She rolled onto her stomach and shook with surprise, startling Archer and sending her yipping to her paws. Lexie likewise jumped to her feet and teetered naked at the edge of the wooden platform, a hundred feet above the forest floor. Archer had leapt in the opposite direction, her tail fluffed out like a dust brush, the tree’s branches throwing her into shadow. They looked at one another a moment as Lexie regained her balance.

Though Lexie had returned to her normal shape, there was no denying the previous night’s events; Archer’s still-fuzzy face confirmed as much. The daylight brought out the subtleties in Archer’s fur. She looked all wolf, save for the unsettling humanity in her black-rimmed eyes. It created a cognitive dissonance in Lexie. Like the memory of a dream that persists after waking, Archer stood before her as a disconcerting intrusion of the extraordinary into the mundane. She knew that Archer was this creature, but comparing their two bodies, now so at odds with one another, it seemed impossible. Yet, the Archer Lexie knew lived in those eyes. Lexie found her in the nuances of her irises, her pupils, the shape and color.

Recognizing her lover in the beast made Lexie aware of her own nakedness. She wrapped her arms around her body in modesty, even as she felt silly for doing so. Lexie’s skin was unmarred from the previous night’s attack, as though in shedding her wolf hide, she likewise shed her injuries.

Archer cocked her head like a dog trying to understand a command. She swung her head to the right, stretching from the tip of her tail to her ears. Leaning back on her haunches, she inhaled and retracted her muzzle into her face. Her claws followed suit, along with her tail, ears, and curved spine. In a fleeting moment, Archer returned to her human form, the transition itself occupying the dream-time territory of visions, tip-of-the-tongue moments, and not-quite-remembered dreams. Though Lexie was certain she saw the whole thing, it eluded recollection. If asked to testify as to what she saw, she would be unable to do so. It was as though the wolf was a glamour and the spell had worn off, the time between the two forms lost.

Archer squatted naked on the lambskin, fingertips pressed to the platform before her as though she was preparing to leap. She wore her bare skin as comfortably as she had her wolf hide. Anticipation filled the air, Lexie’s naked body waking with a flush of tingles, pining all over again for Archer’s touch.

Archer could have been reading Lexie’s mind; a knowing smirk crept across her lips. Lexie tensed, staring at Archer’s stunning body: her olive-brown skin, her smooth stomach with just a hint of definition, each muscle in her torso taut. Her limbs were long and lean, as if the only softness on her body was that which defined her sex. Lexie’s eyes traced the path from Archer’s clavicle, sunk deep in shadow, down the line between her breasts, to her navel and below. Short brown hairs delineated the path down the most vulnerable part of her belly. Lexie’s gaze followed these downy whiskers to where the hair amassed in a soft thicket. It wasn’t curly and tangled like Lexie’s, but straight and silky, laying cross-hatched like the fine fibers on the closed mouth of a Venus flytrap.

Lexie’s desire for Archer dripped down her inner thigh, mingling with the sweat of a night pressed against a great furry beast. Her scent flooded the treehouse, signaling a singular need that would usurp all the yet unasked questions that still squirmed at the back of Lexie’s brain. Right now, though, she had other things on her mind.

Lexie spread her arms, offering herself to Archer. The scattered sunlight cast brilliant blotches of light on her pale skin. Archer did not move a muscle, eyes traveling Lexie’s form as Lexie’s had over hers.

They couldn’t have slept longer than four hours; the birds were still singing their early, hungry calls. Yet, Lexie felt renewed. She wanted nothing more than to tackle Archer, to pin her and wrap her legs around her waist.

In a great leap like the one she executed up the cliffside the day before, Lexie traversed the distance to the center of the platform, landing smoothly on the fleece and wrapping herself around Archer. She pressed her soaking groin against Archer’s abdomen; the tensing of Archer’s muscles sent waves of desire through her body. Lexie crammed her mouth against Archer’s. Their tongues wrestled and tumbled. Archer sat up, and Lexie locked her ankles behind Archer’s back. She ground herself against Archer, releasing a satisfying moan. Archer kissed and sucked greedily all over her skin. Lexie caught her breath, and with it her scent: balsam and honey. Archer’s own scent filled the air like a cedar bonfire, all musk and smoke. Their pheromones tangoed through the treehouse, the chemistry of their bodies creating a new scent and taste of their combined sex.

Archer’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she whimpered like a puppy. She leapt to her feet and carried Lexie, still wrapped around her, to the cedar trunk. The rough bark felt delicious against Lexie’s back. Lexie grabbed the branch above her head, leaning back into the trunk with her legs still locked around Archer. Archer worked her right hand into Lexie, open and eager, enveloping her four fingers and easing her hand in farther, past her knuckles, up to her thumb. Her hand retreated then reentered.

“Ah!” Lexie screamed aloud, the shock and joy forcing the cry out in a ribbon of blissful sound. Archer pressed further, the moisture of Lexie’s body bathing her hand and wrist, easing her entrance. Her thumb slipped in up to her final knuckle. Lexie’s eyes squeezed shut, her mouth wide open, her toes curled against Archer’s back. Lexie’s muscles stretched and clenched, tugging at Archer’s hand, eager for whatever she could offer.

Archer whispered, “Yes?” Lexie replied with a fervent nod, her chest heaving as she panted with each press of Archer’s hand. With a shared, low moan, Archer’s hand slipped completely into Lexie. Her fingertips grazed her cervix, which dropped in concert with the contractions of Lexie’s muscles. Lexie felt Archer tease her fingers, exploring her inner-landscape.

Archer curled her fingers into a fist; Lexie moaned at the hard knot pressing against every nerve inside her. She dug her nails into Archer’s back, grasping at her flesh, her toes and fingers curling as she urged Archer on. Archer pulled and pushed, thrusting a cry out of Lexie’s throat with each pulse. Lexie’s grip shook the branch above her head as she rode Archer’s fist. She controlled the depth and rhythm, eagerly rocking her body onto Archer’s wrist. Archer rested her head on Lexie’s shoulder with a groan of her own. Archer’s body within Lexie’s felt like home or heaven or both. If Archer could push the rest of her body inside of her, Lexie would invite her to curl up and stay forever.

Archer’s tears dampened the skin of Lexie’s shoulder. “Yes, Lexie, yes,” she whispered. Lexie’s animalistic wails and grunts echoed through the forest. Her muscles clenched in bands, squeezing Archer’s hand like a coiled snake. Breath drove out of Archer’s nostrils in bellows, cooling Lexie’s flushed and sweat-slicked skin. The bowstrings of her tendons strained within her neck and a vein emerged like the river below them.

Lexie opened her mouth in a cry, soundless this time, as her muscles released around Archer’s hand. A space, a vacuum, surrounded Archer’s fist as Lexie’s muscles expanded. Lexie squealed a tiny high-pitched sigh that turned into a clattering, orgasmic scream as her muscles tensed again and flushed a great torrent of fluid about Archer’s hand, dripping down her wrist to her elbow. Lexie’s cervix, a slick button of flesh that seized with each stroke, pushed down against Archer’s hand as if trying to eject it completely. Her muscles contracted in a cascading rhythm like a sound wave, squeezing and releasing.

Archer’s own body trembled and shook, and she moaned as Lexie’s orgasm sparked her own. Lexie surrendered to the bliss of tension and release, the boundaries of her body dissolving, the space between herself and the world drawing thin. Lexie couldn’t tell the difference between her body and Archer’s. All was the same temperature, the same depth, the same size. Their feet were made of the same wood as the planks beneath them, the tree trunk supporting Lexie’s back was made of her own spine. Her hair was the cedar needles that grazed her head; her breath was the breeze that shuddered through it all. Her tongue was Archer’s lower lip, her sex was Archer’s hand.

Time passed. The boundaries between objects and moments reformed in Lexie’s universe. Energy washed across Lexie’s skin, awakening her pores, beating with her heart, sighing with her lungs. The air flooded into her pores like water into tide pools, swirling, carrying all sorts of organisms and energies, creating microcosms within her body. She felt fragile and defenseless, open and exhilarated. Her eyes swelled with tears, a fear creeping along her skin of what might crawl into her body and create a dwelling amongst her veins.

A tear rolled down her cheek, to Archer’s forehead, still nestled in the space between her shoulder and neck. Archer pulled her head away to see the tears staining Lexie’s face.

More tears flowed following the trail blazed by the first. With her free hand, Archer wiped them from Lexie’s cheeks. “Take a deep breath and exhale.”

Lexie obliged, inhaling to the bottoms of her lungs. On the exhale, Archer withdrew her hand. Lexie’s knees buckled and she slipped, caught in Archer’s arms. Archer pressed kisses to her temple.

Now, it was Archer’s turn to cry. Her eyes burned as she said, “I’m sorry.” The apology came in a low growl of guilt.

Lexie’s eyes fluttered open and she offered a tearstained, flushed-lipped smile.

“Why?”

“I hurt you.” Archer’s forehead creased with regret.

Lexie sniffed in her tears and wiped away Archer’s. “No, you didn’t. That was . . .” Unable to find the right word, she pressed her mouth to Archer’s, the kiss hot and salty with both their tears.

Archer carried Lexie back to the fleece that was becoming their sensation of home. They lay down together, alert but needing a respite. Lexie fought against her hunger, the dull reminder of yet another primal need. She wondered why their bodies signaled mortality in all the dullest of ways, these ineffable rolling discomforts, rather than prickly fierce pains that one might assume would signal the actual urgency of hunger, thirst, or lack of rest. She was uncomfortable admitting her increased attraction to ideas of meat and smoke, salt and fire. She focused on the warmth of Archer’s body at her back, redirecting her hunger for food into a hunger for answers.

“What was that, last night?” Lexie asked.

“Which part?” Archer replied with a gentle chuckle.

Lexie couldn’t help but smile in return, the mixture of anguish and ecstasy still roiling in her veins.

“Who were you before?”

“This,” replied Archer, stroking Lexie’s cheek with the backs of her fingers. “I’ve always been this way.”

“So, we’re different.”

Archer nodded.

Lexie’s eyes focused on the horizon, the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Her mind struggling to right itself as it tumbled over every fleeting question. She struggled to form at least one into coherence.

“Archer?”

“Yes?”

“I’m starving.”

Chapter 15

The rat was freaking the hell out. Its terrified squeals shattered Lexie’s eardrums as she struggled to get the needle of anesthetic into its haunch so it would stop squirming and fall asleep. Her lab partner, Kal, a skinny, feral-looking raw vegan, refused to play a part in any of this first vivisection of biology lab. Instead, he expounded his food philosophies to Lexie as she sucked the blood out of the scrape wounds inflicted by the rat’s tiny claws.

“Veganism is food activism,” he explained, “not just a dietary choice. Not like vegetarianism.”

“I tried to be a vegetarian in high school,” Lexie chuckled. “I almost lasted a whole week before my dad made bacon for breakfast and I threw in the towel for good.”

Kal grimaced. “Pigs are smarter than Labradors, you know.”

Tastier too, Lexie thought.

Renee strode between the stations in her crisp lab coat. Next year, she would graduate with honors and go straight into a biomedical PhD program. Lexie and half the boys in the class, including Duane, who hovered over his rat with empathetic authority, agreed that Renee could rock that lab coat like no other. Minutes earlier, Renee had demonstrated the proper technique in picking up the rat and injecting the anesthetic, causing Kal to growl under his breath. Renee didn’t pay him any mind as her unnamed demo rat drifted into a deep sleep, the needle buried in its haunch.

Lexie, though, couldn’t focus on the task before her. Renee’s hands distracted her, as she recalled them balled into fists, striking the jaw of the bound man. Lexie bit her lip, struggling to maintain her composure while flanked by an alarmist activist and a woman she had been attracted to and now legitimately feared. At least she had been sleeping well at night.

“Our origin myth is fuzzy, as most origin myths are. Our kind was a species unto itself. For ages, we lived in the forests and plains, looking to all the world much like wolves, but stronger, larger, faster, and with some physical curiosities, most notably our articulated paws and substantial size. For generations we lived alongside our cousins, the humans, in what harmony could be expected from two advanced and territorial species. Though neither werewolves nor humans believed it was possible to own the earth, this did not stop either of us from taking umbrage against those who would trespass into a tribe or pack’s sphere. Territory was sacred to both of us, and we defended it fiercely. Our fallen were evidenced in the Lupine hides that the humans used to clothe their bodies, theirs in the human meat that we used to feed our young. Yet there was respect between the races.

Some of our human relations even deified the werewolves, treating us as forest elders from which all life came, due to our ability shift corporeal forms from wolf into any other creature in the forest. We werewolves understood otherwise, that there was a far greater force of the forest, and that we were no more gods than the humans were. It’s so silly now that anyone would mistake us for gods; why should shapeshifting be any more incredible than the other gifts of nature, those of flight, the breathing of water, of eyeless navigation, or the human’s ability to manipulate nature to meet its own needs?

“Yet, that shared reverence maintained the peace between two such disparate communities for generations, until new humans descended on our territory, colonizing and murdering the native inhabitants of both human and werewolf kind.

“These pale intruders burned swathes of forest to make way for buildings, they tore through the soil for minerals, and they slaughtered anything that frightened them. And everything frightened them. The fur trade was vigorous and brought my kind to near extinction. They would even clothe their horses in our hides. It was wanton waste, a show of bravado to demonstrate their sovereignty over the Earth.

“The werewolves saw their arrogance as the petulance of adolescence, a childish need to be stronger than the natural world that gave them life. But it was also frightening, as the Mother was not fighting back, choosing instead, in her most feminine way, to attack by surrender.”

Armed with a needle, a rat, and a number of crude surgical instruments, each pair of students set to work on the day’s task of outfitting their specimen with an electrode buried in its brain’s pleasure center, to be stimulated as needed to teach basic learning behaviors.

Kal cooed at the rat, which he insisted on naming Falafel against Lexie’s requests to leave the poor thing with its dignity before drilling a hole in its skull. He whispered to it, gripping it tightly against his chest as it squirmed and squealed away from Lexie’s touch.

She pinched a piece of its skin over its haunch in yet another attempt to drive in the needle. The rat scratched at Kal’s arm, squirming out of his grasp and attempting to escape through the gap between his arm and torso.

“Ouch! Lexie, you’re hurting him!” Kal shouted.

“It. I’m hurting it. I have a huge needle I’m preparing to drive into its muscle. No shit, I’m hurting it. Comes with the territory.”

“Christ, why do you have to be so inhumane? This is a dignified creature, not some pincushion.”

“It’s a rat, Kal, but thanks for the life lesson. Can you please hold that thing still?”

Kal gripped the rat around its shoulders. By this point, all the other groups had a fully anesthetized rat and were working on phase two of the experiment.

As Lexie touched the needle to the rat’s skin, preparing again the plunge, its hind legs twisted wildly, kicking the needle out of her hands to the floor. “Kal, hold that fucking thing still!”

“It’s not a thing, Lexie. It’s an animal, and it deserves as much freedom as any other creature, but instead we keep it in a shit-filled cage all its life so we can learn, what? That pleasure will make an animal do something? Well, no shit!” Kal dropped the rat back into the open top of its cage where it fled to the corner and burrowed into the wood chips at the bottom. “Fuck animal testing, fuck you, and fuck this class!”

Lexie’s face burned with rage. “They test everything on animals, Kal. Everything! Soap, pills, everything! If you’re so goddamned indignant about injustice to animals, never take any medicine, never mop the floor, and go become a Comp Lit major, alright?”

She picked up the fallen syringe and tossed it on the table. By the time Renee arrived to break up the scene, Kal was already on his way out the door and Lexie was beyond pacification.

The rest of the class, limp rats and hand drills forgotten, watched the drama unfurl. Lexie stood alone at her station, holding her head in shame.

“Lexie, you were doing a fine job.” Renee approached like an apparition, placing the flat of her palm on the small of Lexie’s back. “Try again. Be assertive. Pinch the skin really hard, and ease in the needle. He’s going to squeal, but he’ll fall asleep quickly.”

Lexie’s hands trembled as she picked up the needle. She could feel each of Renee’s breaths across the back of her neck as though she were searching for something in her scent. She struggled to grab Falafel in a secure hold. His heartbeat battered the soft flesh of her hand. She exhaled and sank the needle home. The rat’s flesh gave only a small tack of resistance before Lexie depressed the plunger and Falafel released a tiny, sighing squeak and his hot skin turned cool.

“Good,” Renee said. “Now give his tail a good pinch to make sure he’s under, then secure him to the table.”

“One morning, my mother, who was the Alpha of our pack, was tending to my brother and me while the rest of our pack, including my father, was out hunting. It turns out they were being hunted as well. Many of our pack were shot down. Those that weren’t, fled. Only my father returned for us.

“My parents ran, carrying us in their mouths. It’s my earliest memory: my paws dangling as I swayed from my mother’s mouth, the skin on my neck pulled so taut, holding me tight, protecting me. We finally arrived at a lair so deep in the northern woods, no trappers or hunters would dare venture there.

“For a time, we were safe. My brother and I grew together, under the watch of our parents, a meager pack hoping to reclaim our numbers and our future somehow. We lived quietly and simply, hunting small game and refusing to communicate with howls, even at our happiest or most desperate. But the humans continued to expand their territory, and my parents realized that they would never stop pushing us farther and farther away. My parents had denied my brother and me our birthrights out of fear--to howl, to hunt great game, to raise our own packs without fear of lead or traps.”

Two hours later, each of Lexie’s classmates had a perky, wakeful rat, outfitted with a cap of adhesive out of which stuck an electrode linked to a lever. They looked like tiny space men, their crude helmets transmitting signals to the mothership. Renee made the rounds, a harsh critic of the students’ surgical technique. Lexie was still scattered, far behind the rest of her class. Unlike Falafel’s, her own heartbeat hadn’t yet steadied.

Duane had finished early and walked over to keep her company, perching on the lab desk as Lexie wired up her rat to the device. Renee moved between the two.

“Lexie,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re going to have to stay after.”

“It’s cool, Renee. I can help her out,” Duane offered.

Renee scanned him and moved on to the next station.

“One blustery evening when I was still a pup and my parents were out hunting, I wandered out of the cave and fell into an abandoned badger den. When they discovered I was missing, they panicked, chattering and barking, searching everywhere for me. Finally, deep into the night, my father found me, no more than twenty yards from our camp. I had sat silently for hours waiting for them to find me. I didn’t howl or make any noise. I was terrified, absolutely terrified, but I refused to howl; we’d been admonished for making noise our whole lives.

“That I never learned to howl, even to protect myself, crushed my parents with guilt; they were raising their pups as mutes to keep us safe, yet in doing so denied us one of our greatest gifts: our song, the identity of our species.

“Our parents stayed up all night and through the morning, speaking to each other in hushed tones as my brother Sage and I pretended to sleep. I knew they were debating something fierce, as they kept losing track of their voices and would sometimes nearly shout before hushing the conversation back to whispers.

“The next night they lead us to a human encampment. We crept to the edge of the woods and I saw my first campfire. Around it were men and women, banging drums, dancing wildly, smoking long, carved pipes and eating fire-roasted game. I watched my mother’s heart break as she recalled the joy of her own pack. It was clear how she longed for that feeling again. Men sat on a log beside one another, buck-skin drums of different sizes in their hands or wedged between their knees. The rhythm shook me, wild and intense. Each strike of their mallets and fingers was like a blow to my chest. Beyond them, a woman danced in the orange firelight. She had long mahogany hair and her lean body was covered by a scant suede dress. She looked like one of the kinds of humans I had known around the time of my birth, but there was something different about her. Her eyes were bright blue and her skin was fairer than the people of my homeland. She was a m√© tis woman, not uncommon in that time and area, the product of a love between one of our indigenous folk and a pale immigrant. She was exquisite, smiling and spinning, whipping her hair about her like the tail of a horse. She gave herself over to the rhythm of the drums. Her dress strained and twisted on her strong earthy body as she spun. She threw her arms towards the stars, her bare feet kicking up dust, the audience’s faces glowing in the sienna clouds as they swirled about.

“She enraptured the crowd with her dance. The drummers played as hard as they could to please her, to keep her moving, to keep her praising their skill, spirit, and vitality. The other tribespeople passed the pipe among themselves, never removing their eyes from this passionate vision of beauty and vibrance.

“The rhythm in her hips ensnared me as well, as did the smile on her face as the drumbeats moved her soul. Her eyes would close as she spun, but her smile never faded. I could have watched her all night, and she looked as though she could have danced as long; her feet never stumbled, her shoulders never slumped. She was pure energy made of that music, of community, of movement. I had never known that kind of freedom. It was . . . a revelation”

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to take this class,” Lexie said, glaring at Duane as he rocked a lab stool with his feet.

“Oh please. You were always good at biology. This is really interesting stuff.”

“Yeah, I love getting lambasted by self-righteous vegans.”

“Don’t blame me for that protein-deficient crazy man. I just thought you’d get a kick out of the anatomy stuff,” Duane said. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize for the other day. Brian’s a cool guy, but kind of an ass when he’s drunk.” He pulled a bright green apple out of his bag, rubbed it on his sleeve and took a bite.

The crack of his teeth breaking the chartreuse skin rattled Lexie’s eardrums like an ax through a tree. From across the room, Renee said, “Duane! Put that away. You’re in a lab, not a cafeteria.” Duane rolled his eyes and tossed the apple into the trashcan near the door with a perfect swish.

Lexie squeezed a line of glue around the braided wire sticking out of Falafel’s head, making it easy to avoid eye contact with Duane. “It’s not your fault your friend is a dick.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want people to see me as a guy who hangs out with dicks,” he said.

“You’re pledging a frat, Duane,” Lexie said, letting that fact speak for itself. She tested the glue to make sure it was dry, then began piling on layers of adhesive to create the little helmet that all the other rats sported.

Duane snorted in agreement. “Fair enough, but I’m no longer a pledge. I’m in.” He waited for congratulations. Lexie managed a weak smile.

“Brian is taking some of the new guys camping this weekend as a celebration,” he continued. Lexie blanched, her mind immediately jumping back to the night on the mountainside, the terror of the attack still fresh in her mind.

“Duane, are you sure that’s smart? The wolf attacks have increased.”

“Lexie!” Renee barked from across the room. “Everyone else is done. You’ve got five minutes left. Step it up!” Lexie flinched.

Duane scooted off the desk and spoke quieter so as not to invoke more of Renee’s ire. “Nah. All the attacks have been on lone lumberjacks or hunters. There will be at least four of us, making a shit-ton of noise and acting like crazy people. No wild animal will come within a hundred miles of us. Besides, we’re heading south, east of town, back towards the Creek. There’s never been an attack there. It’s probably out of their territory.”

“I don’t think they have a territory, Duane.”

Duane groaned. “You’re worse than my mom. We’ll be fine.”

With that, Renee stormed towards them both, a royal rage bursting red beneath her skin.

“Christ,” Duane said. “What’s up with her?”

“Duane. Outside,” Renee scolded. “Lexie, finish up. I’m waiting on you.”

“Renee, chill. I’m just keeping her company,” Duane insisted.

“You’re keeping her distracted.”

“Lexie’s taking care of her business, why do you have to get up in mine?”

“Duane, stop sassing me and get out,” Renee said, pointing to the door.

“Renee, seriously--”

But he couldn’t finish. Renee wrapped her reedy fingers around his bicep and jerked him towards the door. He let out an incredulous laugh as she forced him into the hall. The steel door fell closed with a clang behind them.

Lexie burst into a flurry of activity, smoothing out the adhesive attaching the metal bits to the skull of her sleeping rodent, and placing him in the cage, a furry ball of drugged, space-rat slumber. Next class her technical prowess would be tested when she would wire up Falafel in an attempt to give him a tiny, electrical rat-gasm.

If Lexie could wire the kinds of things Archer made her feel, she might be inclined to go under the knife herself, she thought as she packed up her things. Just as she finished washing her hands, Duane slipped back into the room, his face ashen and eyes downcast.

“Hey,” Lexie said. He ignored her as the alkaline scent of his anxiety filled her nose.

Renee followed him in, removing her lab coat and hanging it in the office. She jangled her keys as Duane packed his bag and rushed out of the room.

“Bye,” Lexie called after him, but he didn’t respond.

Renee flipped off the lights, bank by bank, stoic silence replacing the hum of florescence. She stood outside the lab, still jingling her keys. Her ill mood hung over both their heads as Renee locked the door behind them and followed her out.

“My partner bailed on me. I don’t know if you noticed,” Lexie said.

“You shouldn’t have to rely on someone else to do your work. We don’t pair people up because it’s a two-woman job, we do it because rats are expensive and time-consuming to raise.” Renee’s frank lack of sympathy took Lexie by surprise.

“How can you measure me against the other students when I’m working alone?” Lexie demanded.

“I’m not measuring you against the other students, I’m measuring you against your potential. That sanctimonious little herbivore wasn’t helping you anyway.” Renee’s step quickened, her long legs making it difficult for Lexie to keep up. “You need to learn to focus on the task at hand and stop flirting with boys when you need to work.”

Lexie stopped short. “Excuse me? Duane’s a friend. He was helping.”

“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about your crushes. We need to talk.”

Lexie bit her lip. The opinions that Renee and the rest had trained Lexie to express now percolated in her head, but all her criticisms were aimed back at the Pack and their hypocrisy. She couldn’t wait to return to Archer’s side, where she could be quiet and she could be understood.

“About that night--” Renee whispered.

Lexie shook her head, not wanting to remember any of that weekend’s events, except for Archer’s body weight, her taste, and her voice. The rest was detritus she was happy to let unravel like waking from a nightmare.

“Why did you run?” Renee kept her voice low, but Lexie could still hear the hurt behind it.

Outside, the sun was warm and the sky was clear. Lexie wished she was lying naked in the treehouse with Archer instead of fighting with Renee. “You were beating the shit out of a stranger while he pleaded for his life. What kind of sociopath would stick around for that?”

“He was a werewolf,” Renee said at full volume, forgetting herself for a moment. She lowered her voice to a hiss. “He was. He changed right after you ran away.”

“I believe you.”

Renee narrowed her eyes, waiting as a cloud of students scurried by.

“You do?” Renee shook her head. “Of course you do. Then why did you run?”

“I couldn’t watch you do that.”

“It’s not so bad. They don’t die until they turn. Then it’s easy to kill them.”

Lexie looked down at the sidewalk, biting her tongue. She wanted to trust Renee. She needed another anchor on this wicked journey, unsure that she could trust her own judgment when it was so clearly clouded by her growing love of Archer.

“What is going on with you all?” Lexie asked. “I was so excited to meet the Pack. And now . . .”

“Just the Pack?” Renee asked.

Lexie shook her head, unsure of Renee’s meaning.

“Never mind. I just thought you and I had something going.” She tried to dismiss her concern with a flick of her hand, but disappointment dragged forehead to furrow. “Whatever. Fuck it. I know you’ve got a new thing going on.”

“You do?”

Renee rolled her eyes.

“Oh,” Lexie’s ears grew warm. Her mind strayed to Archer laying naked in a sunbeam on the slatted floor of what was becoming their home. Guilt slithered against her heart. She liked Renee, even against her better judgment, and perhaps in different circumstances she would like to lay alongside her and wonder at the possibilities and permutations of their bodies. But Lexie was so enraptured with Archer that even homework came in a distant second to the mindless bliss of idling hours away in her arms.

Renee shook her head and swatted away Lexie’s unspoken rebuff. “Forget I said anything.” She sighed, changing the subject with another confession. “We’re losing, Lexie.”

“What?”

“We’ve been fighting the werewolves for years and their numbers have only grown. We’re losing. And Blythe thinks you might help.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know why Blythe wants you. Maybe because you know this area. Whatever the reason, she was pretty upset when you ran.”

“I didn’t believe you then.”

“What changed?”

Lexie sighed, wishing she could confide in Renee, but listening to her better judgment when it told her to keep some of her cards close to her chest. “I asked around.”

“Lexie, I have never been anything but honest with you, so please trust me now. Blythe thinks you’re special, and I’m inclined to believe her. I’m sorry we scared you; I’ve been at this for so long, I forget how ugly it can seem. I don’t blame you for running. But the fact is, we need your help. Blythe and I disagree on a lot of things. If I were in control, a whole hell of a lot would be different. But right now, Blythe’s in charge, and she’s got her own ideas of how to handle this situation. And one of those ideas is getting you involved.”

Lexie shook her head. “This is all about werewolves, huh?”

“We like you, Lexie. We just get lost in our own shit sometimes. But we’re working on it. I’m working on it.”

“Okay,” Lexie said.

“So are you in?” Renee asked. “We have another mission next week. Blythe insists you come along.”

“After bathing in the majestic scene at the campfire, my family returned to our den and spoke of what was to come. Our parents explained to us the choice we faced, but it was clear that it had been agreed upon already. Under the light of the full moon, our tiny Pack decided to become human.

“My brother, Sage, abhorred the idea, to live in hiding alongside those who would delight in and profit from the murder of our family. So, he chose instead to venture out on his own, staying in wolf-form, to find a partner and create his own pack. My parents were devastated to lose him at such a young age, but they didn’t stop him. They knew no better if their plan was the right one. That night he walked north, towards the tundra, where he believed no murderous human would follow.

“After watching Sage disappear into the night, the three of us remained, huddled in our cave, contemplating our future. We spoke of where we would go, who we would be. My father was the first to decide. He chose to be a male, knowing the privileges available to him in that role, and it hewed to his honed skills of fighting and hunting. As a human-shaped father and husband, he could perform roles not so different between pack life and human life. He modeled himself after a French naturalist who was one of the first to encounter the natives in our territory--a fair man, with blue eyes, silver hair, a strong nose, and a gentle mouth. He stood with dignity and intelligence. His handsomeness was subtle yet undeniable. That choice fit my father well; he was the fairest of all the werewolves of our pack, with light grey fur and cool, blue eyes. It was a safe choice, a right choice. He would be able to provide and care for our family moving through many communities with the privilege of a white man.

My mother thought longer about it, knowing too well the meager status of women in human societies. She would have to sacrifice her role as the leader of a tribe and subsume her natural alpha status to conform to the rules ascribed to the human gender. It was a difficult choice, but she longed to be openly partnered with my father, which would be infinitely easier, particularly with a child, if she were in female form. She recalled a klootchman from the tribe near our territory. She was an elder, a warrior in her youth who had used her acumen in war to become a healer and a mother once she reached the proper age. Her hair was as black as coal, her eyes were dark and deep. My mother, too, was black, with classic lupine yellow eyes. As with my father, it was a perfect fit.

“My parents’ minds made up, they looked to me, their tiny, clumsy cub. I didn’t know what they were asking of me at first. They were becoming human; I knew I’d do the same. But, they gave me a choice. They asked me what I wanted to look like, what kind of human I wanted to be. I had only known few humans in my short life; I had little to go on. To give me, so young, the choice among infinite paths . . .”

Lexie was stunned with envy. To choose the body, the face, the identity of who you wanted to be? A pit formed in her stomach, pulsing with all the self-loathing she had felt for a lifetime. To choose to be someone else, to be given the option as soon as she developed the faculty to speak in full sentences, to decide the path her life would take based on a childhood choice?

“What did you do?”

“What would you do?” Archer raised an eyebrow.

“I’d pick the most beautiful person I knew.”

Archer placed her finger on the tip of her nose. Bingo.

“I knew that night I wanted to be that woman I saw by the fireside. I wanted to dance and spin and smile like that, every day for the rest of my life. I thought that’s what womanhood was. Freedom.”

“What do you think now?”

Archer laughed heartily as her answer.

“The three of us stood in the moonlight that night and transformed ourselves, our minds holding onto the images of our human forms, of our new family, of our new life together, unafraid of being gunned down in the night.”

The story seemed to be over. Archer fell silent, letting the words of her story echo and die. Lexie wondered how often she’d told it and felt privileged and oppressed to be included in that number.

The treehouse glowed like a golden cathedral, glorious in the afternoon sun. Nothing, save the living roof of cedar needles, separated their bodies from the rays peering down upon them. For a few precious minutes every afternoon, the sunlight glanced off the creek below, casting shimmering reflections against the canopy above their heads. Both Lexie and Archer lay naked on the fleece, watching them undulate overhead, a plate of fruit, dried meats and cheeses between them.

They had spent every afternoon this way, since their first morning in the treehouse together. In that time, Archer had shared many stories with Lexie, about her time on the road, bits about her life in Milton years ago, and her travels abroad. Lexie marveled that she had grown up so near to Archer and wondered if they had ever crossed paths when she was younger. This was the first time, though, that Archer had told her this story.

“So, you’ve looked exactly the same for . . .”

“A hundred seventy-five years? Yep,” Archer replied, her right cheek dimpled with a wry grin. “Well, almost. Age is catching up with me now.”

“You got to choose your gender? Are you not actually female?”

“Hermaphrodite,” Archer answered, popping a grape into her mouth. “Gender differentiation for my people happens later in life, during puberty, but even then, it’s not nearly as defined as with humans.”

“Whoa,” Lexie said. “Does this mean I’m not a lesbian?” She was only half-kidding.

“What do you think?” Archer asked.

“I don’t know what I am.”

Archer fell silent, giving Lexie the space to complete her thought. After a solid silent moment, when it was clear that Lexie had nothing to add, Archer spoke. “In my opinion, not knowing what to call yourself is a good thing. Humans are inclined towards making grand edicts, declaring what is true and what isn’t. It’s limiting and a lousy way to go through life.”

“I think it’d be great to know who I was or what I wanted.”

“Well, you’re not going to find the answers in labels. Stay open to the transmutability of the world and of your identity. I was born onto this planet as a furry little pup. Now, look at me. Life doesn’t give you one set of rules to live by. If you declare yourself a lesbian, or an anthropologist, or martyr, or criminal, or whatever, life doesn’t lock you into that. Humans are the only animals that imprison others, and they do it to themselves, every day, with the arbitrary rules of behavior that they invent. Other people will spend their lives trying to lock you up. Don’t make it easy for them by conceding your own identity.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Begin by giving yourself permission to follow love.”

“Following love is what sent my mother out the door.”

Archer cocked her head in her signature canid manner.

Lexie answered her silent query with half of the story. “She followed some guy. I don’t know the details. She left my father and me, in the middle of the night, off to pursue some bullshit romance.”

“Did it work?”

“How could it? What a stupid, horrible thing to do!” Lexie sat up, her anger surprising her as much as it felt perfect in its escape.

“Absolutely, leaving one’s family is a horrible thing to do. I’m not condoning her actions. She was a fool to leave you behind.” Archer stroked Lexie’s leg. “All I’m saying is, sometimes walking away is the lesser crime.”

Lexie bit her lip to fight the tears, and though they welled in her eyes, none dared escape down her cheeks.

“Hey,” Archer said, pressing her forehead against Lexie’s. “You deserve a family. You have so much joy to share. I can’t wait to see you light up when surrounded by people you love and who love you. And I know it will happen soon. What I’m saying is that now you get the chance to choose. You didn’t get to choose with your mother. She left without your consent, and that’s unfair.”

“I just don’t understand. Giving up one family for the hope of another?”

“Would it be better or worse if she had left for a different reason?” Archer asked.

Lexie shrugged. “Probably worse. Maybe. No, I don’t know. Better, I think. Leaving town for an education or for adventure, or even for a job, they’re all better than leaving for love.” Lexie spat the last word, though her own first taste of love made her momentarily sympathetic to her mother’s choices.

“The blessing is that now, in creating your own family, it’s up to you what it will look like.”

Lexie ran her fingers along Archer’s brow. “Archer, I want it look like you.”

Archer smiled, her own eyes growing moist. “Me too.”

She held Lexie’s face in her palms, and they shared a sweet kiss. Lexie’s eyes drifted shut as heavy gray clouds rolled in over the horizon, the wind kicking them along fast enough that she hoped they would drift on without dropping their payloads.

“So . . .” Lexie asked, after a good long pause, cracking one eye open, “What makes it happen to people?”

Archer reached for her water glass and took a long swallow. “Oh lord, I don’t know. Hormones, I suppose. What’s it matter?”

Lexie let a little chuckle escape her mouth.

Archer looked at her dubiously, not understanding the humor. She tilted her head to the side. Now that she knew Archer’s secrets, Lexie enjoyed noticing the tiny not-quite-human parts of Archer’s mannerisms.

“What?” Archer said, confused.

Lexie let the laugh out. “It sounds like classic chauvinism.”

Archer replied with a blank stare.

“Seriously? You don’t know about the stereotype that all women are crazy because of hormones?”

“Sure I do,” Archer replied. “I lived through the women’s lib movement . . . All the women’s lib movements.”

Lexie laughed again, this time at the sheer ridiculousness that was her life.

“Nevertheless,” Archer continued, “hormones are very powerful things.”

“You’re actually serious? You’re telling me that I ‘go crazy’ in sync with the moon because of hormones? That’s hysterical!”

Archer rolled her eyes. “Craziness is hormone-driven. All emotions are. It’s not gendered.”

Lexie looked askance at this.

Archer continued, as even-tempered as ever. “It’s the implication that your emotions aren’t valid because they’re hormone driven that’s the misogynistic part.”

Lexie pondered it all for a moment, then reached for a slice of apple, balancing a piece of cheese atop it. The combined textures and sweet versus salty sent a shudder of delight through her mouth. “Well that’s disappointing,” she said, chewing.

“What were you hoping for, a magic spell?”

“I don’t know. A mutation, a virus?”

“We are not a virus,” Archer replied, deadly serious.

“Ok,” she said, holding up her hands. “Hormones, then.”

“Yes. That’s my best guess. It explains why human half-bloods change when they get worked up, either sexually or violently. It explains why the shift replaces menstruation in women. And it explains why I find you so damn sexy right now.”

Lexie blushed. “Har har.”

“You think I’m kidding?”

“But you said ‘you’ as if I’m something different from you,” Lexie continued.

“You are. You’re a half-blood.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’m a pureblood.”

Lexie looked at her, grin growing wider. This time Archer was in on the joke and laughed as she replied, “What? It’s true!”

“That’s a little hierarchical, isn’t it?” Lexie said with faux disapproval. She was mastering the condescending tone that was an essential part of the Pack’s repertoire.

“I suppose so. But so is the world.”

Lexie thought for a moment. “But wouldn’t some say that the hierarchy is unfair by design?” Lexie wasn’t sure she knew what alternative she was positing but suspected this would be the basic arc of Blythe’s rebuttal. She decided to take it for a ride.

Archer smiled as Lexie batted around new ideas like prey between two paws. “Some would insist that the hierarchy is based on antiquated notions of society and class that dictate who gets to be in power based on arbitrary but historically significant qualifiers of intelligence and clout,” Archer spoke in a blas√© tone not unlike Renee’s. “And those people would be wrong.” She drank the water glass empty.

“But,” Lexie was feeling bold, “don’t you think there is a power difference?”

“Between whom?” Archer’s voice dropped register. It was almost--but not quite--a growl. It intimidated Lexie more than the Pack but aroused her more, too. Like their love-making, despite how much it unnerved her, she never doubted she could handle it. Just as their bodies tumbled together, she was eager to volley ideas with Archer, feeling genuinely smart and empowered for the first time in her life.

“Well,” she admitted, boldly, “us, I guess.”

Archer gave up her half-grin for a full one. “Yes. There is. I’m bigger and stronger and older. And, I’ve been at this for a while.”

Archer’s bluntness stunned Lexie silent.

“But,” Archer continued, “you have power over me as well.”

“What do you mean?” Lexie asked, the question catching in her throat.

Archer smiled, her head resting solidly on her hand, her eyes first downcast, then staring into Lexie’s own, creating a breathtaking moment’s pause before answering, “I’m in love with you.”

A great pressure built up behind Lexie’s eyes. She felt as though her head were aflame.

“Does that surprise you?” Archer asked, tilting her head one way, then another as she tried to listen with both ears.

“I don’t know,” Lexie replied. “Maybe.” She laid back and let the fleece tickle her neck. A sliver of sunshine crept across her skin, teasing freckles from beneath her bare flesh. “No, I guess not.”

Lexie smiled at the clouds passing overhead. “You’re the third person who’s ever said they loved me.”

Archer stroked her fingertips along the pale path of Lexie’s forearm.

“Your family was small.”

Lexie nodded, “Tiny.”

“How strong it must be.”

Lexie turned to Archer, searching for meaning in those heterochromatic eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Wolves travel in groups for safety and for power. The fewer members, the harder it is to survive. A pack of two, that’s strong.”

Lexie smiled sadly, feeling like her father in that moment. A fragile grin, eyes downcast, a jaw too tight to speak.

“I love you, too.” Lexie’s eyes flicked up in time to see the tears fall from her lover--her love’s--eyes. Archer placed her palm on Lexie’s bare sternum.

Lexie blinked up at the sky to keep from crying herself, watching the clouds drift past. Archer watched her still. She felt the most beautiful when Archer looked at her this way; her love edified each cell of her body.

“I always wanted a big family,” Lexie said. “Other families I knew always kept their front door open and had people coming in and out all the time. Things like dinner parties or ski weekends, or camping, or whatever. It was always stuff that other kids did. My house was so quiet. Always just . . .” Lexie sighed and watched Archer’s body create its own horizon as the sun tilted toward the sea.

“Large families have their own challenges,” Archer said.

“I want to be challenged. I want to know what it’s like to want something.” Her hair rasped against the wood grain as she spoke more adamantly. “Like, I listen to the Pack talk, and I want to know where that passion comes from. It’s so potent, so real. It’s moving.”

“You’re right,” Archer answered Lexie’s frustration with calm. “That’s exactly what it is. It moves things. Most of their power comes from anger.”

“But anger seems to do something.”

“Anger absolutely does things. It is a powerful tool for inciting change. But it has to be wielded like a tool. You can’t let it can’t wield you. That’s what separates us from that beast that attacked you.”

“You totally kicked his ass.”

“Yes, because he was overwhelmed. This core rage that you have,” she patted Lexie’s chest, “it’s a weapon. Even without teeth or claws, sometimes all you need is the rage to win, because rage is a refusal of logic or even self-preservation. It’s a hatred that has the potential for great destruction. But rage is strong enough that it can own you, too. That’s what tends to happen to the half-blood males. They lose their minds, sometimes their memories.”

“But when I turned, my mind remained.”

“True. But you’re female. You’ve been conditioned to the fluctuations of hormones. Everyone’s response is different.”

Lexie didn’t buy it; it sounded too pat, but she wasn’t sure enough to say so. She didn’t need to.

“Human women are conditioned from birth to control themselves, to pretend nothing of the animal exists within them at all,” Archer said. “They are told to remove their hair, to hide natural odors, to always be kind, receptive and passive, hiding all their animal instincts. They are taught to stay in control even when losing it. Human men don’t have such training. When they get bitten, it’s a powerful force that overtakes them.”

“Blythe calls it ‘testosterone poisoning’.”

“Hah. Kind of, I suppose. I suspect testosterone is a key player in the change. At any rate, it’s a wicked brew that women seem to handle better than men.”

Lexie looked unsatisfied and Archer shrugged. “Feminists like the Pack get a bad rap for hating men. But it’s a defense mechanism in response to the hatred men have for women. For every nice guy like your dad, there’s another man who turns his desire for women into contempt, or exaltation, which is just as dehumanizing. Add super-strength and a healthy dose of animal rage and, well, you grew up here. You know how it is. Half-bloods can’t control their change, but they do have that rage you mentioned. Blind and brutal.”

“The wolf that attacked me didn’t seem blind and brutal. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“That’s because he was a full-blood. His kind are the intermediary between purebloods and half-bloods. He’s one of the werewolves responsible for turning the half-bloods. He was born a wolf, and he’ll always be a wolf. His kin are responsible for many, many deaths, including those of my pack.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“That charred area where I found you, where he found you first, that was where we warred years ago. And, as you may suspect, it’s where we lost.”

“Did any survive?”

“Some. But the pack itself didn’t. I was exiled and my partner’s body burned. Our peacespeaker died along with them, and most of the Morloc males ran free.”

“Your what?”

“Peacespeaker. A shaman of sorts, a human diplomat who can mediate conflict between warring packs and communicate between werewolves and humans.”

“Cool.”

“She was very cool indeed.”

“Was she hot?”

“Quite.”

“Did you. . ?” Lexie asked with flirty eyebrow.

“No, ma’am. That’s a big taboo among my kind. No rolling around between werewolves and peacespeakers, unless it’s the violent kind of rolling.”

Lexie popped another grape in her mouth.

“So, if male half-bloods go all aggro because they haven’t been socialized to be docile like women, and full-bloods are wild beasts to begin with, where did my rage come from? I never had this burning attack instinct until I turned.”

Archer laughed, deep and rich. “You absolutely had this inside you before you changed. What your wolf side gave you was the ability to feel it and turn it into action. In our society, women are not allowed their rage. But predators always are.”

Lexie turned to her side to face Archer. “Are you afraid of them?”

“Who? The full-bloods? No, I’ll always have the upper-hand with them.”

“No, I mean the Pack.”

Archer chuckled, shaking her head.

“Now your dad, that’s a different story,” Archer joked.

Lexie laughed aloud, realizing in that moment the dissonance that had become her daily life. Would her father be more upset she was potentially a lesbian or potentially a blood-thirsty beast? She didn’t know, though she was leaning towards ‘werewolf’.

“They want me to join them, you know.”

“The Pack?”

Lexie nodded.

Archer considered this, silently.

“You know what they do, right?” Lexie asked.

“Yes,” Archer said. “And I do my best to stay out of their way.”

“I don’t think they care about females. They’re really invested in these werewolves they say are sired by the, what was it? Murdoch? Mordor?”

“Morloc. Yes, Blythe has been at this for a while,” Archer said.

“So what they’re doing, you agree with it?”

Archer shrugged. “While I’d prefer to attack the source by eliminating the Morloc, you have to realize that this is a war that has been waging for decades. I have no problem going to battle to support my interests.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a pure-blood. The Pack is just a bunch of chicks with weapons.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Archer said, pressing her lips together in a way that indicated she had no more satisfying answers.

“How do you know each other?” Lexie asked.

For the first time since Lexie had known her, Archer seemed uncomfortable. She shifted her body on the fleece, and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, avoiding Lexie’s eyes.

“Blythe is one of the reasons I left Milton,” she admitted.

“Were you. . ?”

Archer dropped her head, letting it hang. “Yes and no. Mostly no. I didn’t come back to rehash the past. I came to set it right.”

“How?”

“By helping take care of the rogue males.”

“Then why aren’t you out there with them?”

“It’s complicated.” A heavy silence pervaded the space. “I work better on my own.”

“Lone wolf.”

Archer nodded. “That’s me.”

Archer traced the tip of her index finger from Lexie’s scalp down her forehead and nose, grazing lightly at her lips and ending on her chin. Lexie sighed as her nerves sizzled beneath her touch.

“Do they know your secret?” Archer asked.

Lexie shook her head. “But Renee knows I’m seeing someone, and after class last week, she said that Blythe thinks I’m ‘special.’ I don’t know what that means. Either way, they want me to help them.”

“What do you think about that?”

Lexie thought for a moment, unsure of the answer. “I suppose it feels great, to feel wanted. A month ago, I would have killed to be invited into a family like that. But now, with you, I feel wanted in a new, better way.”

“I do want you. I want you to be my family.”

Lexie grinned. Archer saw her in a way the Pack didn’t. Couldn’t. She tugged at Archer’s earlobe. “I want to go running with you, as you.”

Archer was silent, then, “Why?”

“It will be real.”

“It will be strange.”

“No. It will be us.” Lexie said, wrapping her arms around Archer’s neck.

They lay next to each other, legs and arms draped over each other’s bodies, the autumn’s chill not strong enough yet to cause any discomfort. Lexie felt the picture of languid elegance as she lay entangled with Archer. The bowstrings of her muscles eased and her gangliness softened. She felt womanly.

The thought of her womanliness delivered an unwelcome thought into her head. “Shoot,” she said, unfettering herself from Archer’s grasp. “I have to go.”

“Why?” Archer asked, catching her hand.

“I have a study session with my women’s studies class. I haven’t been in weeks. I need to show.” Lexie leaned forward and kissed her, before hitting her playfully on the shoulder. “This evening, okay? Dinnertime.”

“Oh,” Archer said, sulking.

Lexie giggled, reaching for her clothes. “It’ll be less than four hours, okay?” Dressed, she kissed Archer again, reticent to go.

She pushed Archer onto her back, pinning her. Archer giggled and flipped Lexie over, half growling, half laughing. They pushed back and forth, playing with power and submission, nibbling at any of the various angles and curves of their bodies that came within mouth’s reach, testing each other for strength. Archer pinned her by the shoulder and thigh, resting her head on Lexie’s chest as they breathed together and waited for their pulses and breathing to settle. Archer leaned back, drawing Lexie’s body over hers until they were face to face. Lexie’s legs wrapped around Archer’s waist, and she rested her elbows on Archer’s shoulders and stroked her face. They kissed, serene and open.

Lexie didn’t want to leave. In her head, calculations of time swirled around each other, determining how many seconds, kisses, moments, and cat naps could be squeezed in until the next obligation swept her away from her love. And yet she was wary of this comfort. Like a soporific spell, Lexie felt as though she could drift through time lying alongside Archer, letting life pass by. It was lovely and terrifying.

Her first months at college with the Pack ignited tiny sparks of ambition inside of Lexie. For the first time in her life, she found herself entertaining possibilities of travel and a career outside the limited bounds of her hometown. She thought of riding planes, horses, rickshaws, camels, of learning languages and cuisines and romance. Archer was often with her in these dreams, though sometimes not. These fantasies were bigger than anything Lexie had dared imagine before, but for some unknown reason, they felt real and achievable. Like climbing the tree to this platform nearly a month before, Lexie just needed to run fast enough for a huge leap that would sustain a flight far enough from her past.

So, she needed to get to her study session.

“Tonight, okay?” Lexie said as she stepped to the edge of the platform.

“Do me a favor?” Archer asked. “Don’t let Blythe know you and I are . . . whatever we are.”

“In love?”

“Yes, that.” Archer smiled.

Lexie took the memory of that smile as she leapt through the branches and headed back to town.

Chapter 16

Drizzle splattered Lexie’s skin as she walked onto campus. The rain inspired a memory of moving in two months ago--or two million years ago, Lexie couldn’t tell which. She chose the path that led past Rice Hall and her decimated dorm room. In the time that passed since the tree toppled into the roof, it appeared that the better treatment had gone to the culprit rather than the victim. Little progress had been made to repair the hole, save some blue tarps shoddily draped to keep out the rain.

The side door of the dorm was propped open, and two men passed with boxes and bags, depositing them in a rented cargo van. Lexie watched them make the trip in and out of the building twice before she wondered who would be moving out this close to midterms. She entered the building and followed the hall to Anna’s room. Anna sat on her bare mattress, gingerly folding her clothes and placing them in a suitcase. Lexie knocked on the open door.

Anna looked up, her expression vacant until she recognized Lexie and smiled faintly.

“Hey, Anna,” Lexie said. “What’s going on?”

“I’m leaving. Just for a while.”

“Why?”

Anna furrowed her brow, incredulous. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

Anna’s chin trembled. “Close the door.”

Lexie stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. As soon as the latch clicked, tears streamed from Anna’s eyes.

Lexie rushed to her side as Anna hid her face in her hands.

“They just won’t do shit,” she spat out through her sobs.

“Who won’t?”

“Fern! The administration! I’ve put so much time and energy into this stupid school, and they’re treating me like a leper. No, they’re treating me like a whore.”

Lexie rubbed her back, not wanting to ask another question but desperate to know what Anna was talking about.

“Two weeks ago I went to a party at Phi Kappa Phi. I was there for a while and drank, but no more than usual. I got kind of dizzy when I was dancing, so I went upstairs to find a place to lie down. I was on a sofa watching the ceiling spin when Brian walked in with one of his frat brothers. I tried to get up, but I was too fucked up to stand.”

Lexie rubbed Anna’s back, smelling the moisture in her armpits and the remembered fear underneath it. She dreaded to hear what she knew was coming.

“Brian and his friend started mocking me, calling me a ‘fat slut’ and stuff like that. I told them to leave me alone. I tried to leave again, but Brian pushed me down. He held me by the throat and nearly choked me out. Then they took turns raping me. Some time during it I guess I passed out. I woke up the next morning in the same spot with vomit on my clothes. Unfortunately--or fortunately, I guess--it all belonged to me.”

“Jesus,” Lexie whispered. “What did you do?”

“Exactly what they say to. I called Dr. Fern. I reported to security. I went to the doctor. Everything.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Just nothing. The judicial board doesn’t care. There are no witnesses, no proof, just my word against theirs. The board chair even said that because I had sex with Brian before that he may have just ‘misinterpreted’ something, that it couldn’t have been rape.”

“That’s insane.”

“Well,” Anna shrugged, hopeless. Her face burned red. “I swear to god it’s because that little prick is so rich. This wouldn’t have happened if it was some townie. His hick-ass would be in jail, but Brian, that smug jerk, is walking around like it’s no big deal.”

The knock at the door startled them both. “Anna?” a man’s voice called. “Your brother and I have the van packed, hon. Time to go.”

“Okay, Dad,” she called through the door.

“Where are you going?” Lexie asked.

“Home. I’m probably going to transfer to State next semester. Everyone on campus is choosing sides like it’s some sort of reality show. It’s humiliating. If I get called a fat slut one more time . . .” Her jaw tensed, shoulders squaring. She sniffed back her tears. “Whatever. It wasn’t even that bad, the rape. It was . . . stupid. Pointless. It’s the way I’ve been treated since that drives me insane.”

Lexie squeezed her shoulder, utterly clueless of the appropriate way to handle such a situation.

“I’m so sorry, Anna.”

“Yeah, well. It’s this world. Nothing’s gonna change that. May as well get used to it and just take a karate class or something.” She stood, picking up her suitcase. “You’d think we would have evolved past it as a species, but here we are, the same animals we always were.” She managed an ironic smile. “It was nice to see you again before I left. Take care of yourself. Don’t take any crap from anyone, okay?”

* * *

Campus was eerily quiet, and few students walked through the quad. Lexie wandered over the grass, wondering where Duane had been during all of this. She worried that Duane was the unnamed frat brother Anna mentioned. Lexie regretted not pressing for more details, though she was glad she had resisted being so callous. She kicked a tuft of grass and dismissed the idea. Duane couldn’t have been involved; it was absurd. She scolded herself for entertaining such a thought.

Jenna stood outside the Sociology building, scraping caked mud from her boots.

“Oh, hi!” she said, waving at Lexie’s approach. “You okay, sweetie?”

Lexie shrugged. Jenna opened her arms to offer a hug, and Lexie walked into it, eager for the comfort of touch. She held on longer than would perhaps be customary, but Jenna didn’t protest. Lexie relaxed into her embrace, understanding for the first time what it meant to call someone a “good hugger.” Lexie sighed.

Arriving at their classroom, they found it dark and the door locked. A handwritten sign was taped to the frosted glass of the door: Class cancelled. Campus-wide meeting at 4pm in Hunter Hall.

“The heck?” Lexie asked.

“That’s odd,” Jenna said.

“Is this about Anna?” Lexie whispered.

“No way. The administration is trying to pretend that never happened. This has to be something else.”

Lexie crossed her arms in front of her chest, unsure what she should do.

“Do you want to come with me to the Den?” Jenna asked.

Lexie shook her head. “No. I think I need to be . . . somewhere else.”

Jenna lowered her eyes. Lexie recognized the look from her own face. Jenna had something she needed to say.

“Do you need anything from me?” Lexie prodded.

Jenna’s face softened into the sweetest smile Lexie could imagine. “Can you walk me to the library?”

Lexie nodded and waited in the way that Archer waited with her.

The afternoon sun cast the campus in copper. The stucco fa√ßades of the modern buildings and the stone walls of the older ones all reflected warmth, despite the chill in the air. Jenna wore a hand-knit shawl over a light camisole, the yarn’s colors changing from blue to purple to green as the stitches lined up.

Lexie said, “You look cold. May I?” She wrapped her arm around Jenna’s shoulders as they walked.

“Thank you,” Jenna said, the warmth returning to her skin and her eyes. “You’re so sweet.” The gesture surprised Lexie as much as it pleased her to even suggest it.

Lexie felt strong and big as she warmed Jenna’s soft curves. In that moment, Lexie felt as though she understood Archer just a little bit more.

“Everyone’s been worried about you lately, Lexie,” Jenna said, as though the safety of Lexie’s arm gave her the courage to speak.

“Me? Why?”

“Ever since that night. Renee said you guys fought, and no one’s heard from you since. You’ve been missing a lot of class. We were afraid we scared you off.”

“You did,” Lexie admitted. “I wasn’t expecting . . . all that.” The gruesome night felt like years ago, overshadowed by so much wonder since.

“So, what then?” Jenna prodded. “You got a new girlfriend?” she smiled as slyly as her angelic face would allow.

Lexie’s heart pushed into overdrive, causing her ears to burn red, answering Jenna’s question for her.

“Ha! I knew it!” she bounced, her curls celebrating her winning guess. “Sharmalee didn’t think so, but I did.”

“Really?” Lexie asked, feeling more naked than when in the treehouse.

“You just seem, I don’t know, sexier,” Jenna giggled. “Like you have a new swagger.”

Lexie nodded with a non-committal “Hm.” As much as her strength and sex drive were clearly byproducts of her lycanthropy, she credited plenty, particularly her newfound confidence, to her relationship with Archer. The woods were so deep and thick, they made her feel safe to release shouts and moans she would never have dared voice in a dorm or her father’s home. Moreover, in one week, Lexie had given Archer twelve orgasms in four different ways. It certainly bolstered her ego, especially since she had started October as a virgin.

Jenna’s exultation ebbed and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Things have been really tense at the Den lately. Blythe and Renee have both been completely off the rails. We used to do everything together, and now it’s just the two of them, making secret plans, doing their own thing. We’re all feeling left out and it just feels . . . off.”

“Oh?” Lexie asked.

“I won’t pretend that things weren’t tense before, but everything was really nice when you were around. You seem to have a calming effect on us.”

“Fresh blood,” Lexie joked.

“I guess so.”

They arrived at the cement ramp leading to the library’s glass doors. Jenna smiled, though it lacked her usual luminosity. “This girl treating you well?” she asked.

Lexie smiled and nodded, blushing with the flood of recollections.

“Good, ‘cause you’re a catch,” Jenna said. “Thanks for listening. I really hope you stay around. You’ll be good for us.” Jenna caught Lexie by her shoulders and looked up into her eyes. “I know that Blythe and Renee are on their own tracks, but I want to let you know that no matter what happens with any of this, I’m glad you’re my friend.”

Lexie wished this kind sentiment could enter her heart, but Anna’s sordid tale sat fresh in her mind, tarnishing her view of the world. For the first time, someone else seemed naive to her.

But Jenna was too nice for such admissions. “Thanks.” Lexie smiled. “You too.”

Lexie turned to leave as the sound of crying attracted both their attention. At the far end of the deserted sidewalk, two boys sat on a bench, one crying, the other consoling.

Though Lexie had had enough of tears for one day, she and Jenna couldn’t ignore the boys. They approached, and Jenna knelt as Lexie hung back. Jenna spoke softly to the boy who was consoling the other.

“Luke?” she said, as if to a small, injured animal. “What’s going on?”

His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, as if he himself had just stopped crying, or was just about to start.

“It’s Brian.” He swallowed hard, and Lexie shifted. “He was camping with the new pledges. They were attacked.”

“A wolf?” Lexie asked.

He nodded as his companion buried his face in his fists.

Lexie teetered. Her head felt miles above earth, as if when she stumbled, the fall would take eons. “Duane?” she managed to squeak out.

Luke shook his head. “They only found . . . pieces. They don’t know for sure, but they’re assuming the worst.”

Jenna squeezed Luke’s shoulder and stroked his friend’s shoulder once in a silent benediction, but over his head, her eyes caught and held Lexie’s, and there was no naivete there now.

Chapter 17

Lexie ran through the woods from the campus to Archer’s cabin, heedless of the nettles tearing at her skin and the low branches snagging her hair. Though she knew she wasn’t being pursued by anything but her own terror, she ran anyway.

Archer was hammering a shelf to the wall next to the fireplace, humming to herself as she worked. As Lexie burst through the door, Archer dropped the hammer, nearly shifting to meet an attack before seeing Lexie’s panicked face. She rushed to meet Lexie, holding her shoulders, trying to calm her with her touch.

“Duane. An attack. Brian. They’re dead,” Lexie said through heavy breaths. Her lungs burned, and she dug her nails into Archer’s biceps, squeezing as Archer begged her to calm down.

“Who is?”

“My friend, Duane. His friends. They were camping. I have to--we have to--”

“Breathe, Lexie.”

Lexie saw her knife and sweatshirt, sitting at the edge of the fireplace where she had left them weeks ago. She rushed to them, throwing the sweatshirt on and sighing with the comfort it gave her. The sheathed knife felt warm and powerful in her hand.

Archer looked at her. “Okay. Let’s go.”

It was impossible to tell the hour from the sunlight, diffused behind a thick blanket of clouds. The trees darkened the scene further, casting the hike in twilight. The trees here were nearly bare, interspersed with flame-topped birches.

They jogged along, following only the vague description of the campsite that Duane had shared with Lexie and their powerful senses of smell. The woods were quiet here, and lacked the moist, fecund smell that Lexie appreciated most about the western woods.

“Archer,” Lexie asked. “Would you change for me?”

“Are you sure?”

Lexie nodded. “It would make me feel . . . safer.”

Archer raised her hand to stroke Lexie’s face. She curled her chin to her chest and inhaled deeply, releasing both the breath and her human body. Her hands curled and lengthened, her snout slowly extended from her face. Her creamy gray fur emerged as fine and soft as spider silk, covering her body with a coat both slick and soft. She stood solid on her two hind legs, towering over Lexie as her spine curved and lengthened. At the peak of her transition, she overbalanced, her forepaws hitting the earth with a soft thud. The wolf Archer blinked up at Lexie, her fire-and-ice eyes in an expression of vulnerability despite her physical strength.

Even in her panic, Lexie felt blessed to share such an intimate moment with her lover.

Archer’s footpads barely touched the ground, improbably supporting her massive frame. Each toe was tipped with a great claw, like a shark tooth. Her eyebrows shifted as she peered through the dim light, more expressive than her human ones. Her ears never stopped moving, either. They swiveled, shifting like satellites, scanning the air for notable sounds and pinpointing their locations.

Between those brows, ears, and bristlefur tail, Lexie found it easy to read Archer’s meanings without verbal communication. With her great pink tongue lolling out of a lupine grin, Archer looked off in the presumed direction of Duane’s campground, ears alert.

Right. They should get moving again. Lexie followed as Archer loped off.

They hurried along in silence for a while longer, Lexie admiring the play of muscles under fur, until Archer came to a dead stop on a rise. Her nose to the air and then to the ground, she turned to Lexie, brows twitching with concern. Lexie sniffed and discovered it, too: the odor of blood, urine, and guts. Fresh death. Lexie dropped to her knees and sucked in the nauseating m√©lange of fetid odors. The ground reeked of iron and ammonia, sickening sweetness of putrefying bits of flesh, like rancid meat. Salt from tears and blood, sugar from the viscera of gutted bodies, daubs of it clinging to dirt and leaves. Lexie raised her head, fear driving her adrenaline, “What happened here?”

Archer paced the ground, nose and brows twitching as she reconstructed the attack. She followed the trails of odors faster than Lexie would have been able to, even as a wolf, working backwards from the grisly result to redraw the details of the crime. Her tail swung in a wild arc, stirring up new scents, new clues. She snuffled quick and shallow before expelling it all in a great whuffing snort through her nostrils.

Four boys, she chattered in her wolf tongue.

Lexie leaned forward again, divvying out the scents that layered over one another like scattered cards. Underneath the blood and viscera, one scent emerged as the most potent: the dyed leather and wool of new Milton varsity jackets. Layered under that scent was another, that of beer. Others, peppermint gum and musky cologne, swirled among them. Brian. The smell of him moved in all directions. Alongside his smells flowed others: vodka, hair gel, marijuana, printer toner, hot dogs and golf gloves. Michael and Kevin, the other new Phi Kappa Phi brothers. She remembered them from the soccer game with Brian and Duane. Duane. Oh God, where was Duane?

A dozen pairs of footprints danced over the dirt. Law enforcement, wildlife experts, hunters, and press had all been there to observe the grisly scene. In seconds, Lexie parsed out what had probably taken the police a round of forensics, fish and wildlife personnel speculation, and homicide expertise to figure out: four boys out camping, stalked and killed by a lone rare wolf. Two mauled, one partially devoured. The fourth, gone.

Here. Archer padded over to the tracks of the werewolf, broader than her own, but not the same scent as the male they had encountered at the mountainside. A third werewolf. Archer was putting the pieces together while Lexie was falling to them.

Did you know them? Archer chattered.

Lexie dropped to her hands and knees, grinding her nose into the soil, pulling more hints of the crime into her body, drawing truths from the particles still clinging to the earth, searching for her friend.

“Yes,” Lexie said, stumbling over to Archer’s side to slump down on the dirt. Her fingers dipped into the werewolf’s track. “Duane was my friend. I knew the others. They went to Milton. Duane . . .”

Tears felt inadequate in the face of this horror, but they were all Lexie had to release the panic that rose in her chest. Her tears spilled over and dripped to the leaf-scattered ground. Archer nudged her, and Lexie buried her fingers into thick fur.

Lexie whispered, “I’ve known Duane forever. He grew up in my town.”

“And you smell him here?”

She nodded.

“Which one is he?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Have you seen him since you changed?”

She nodded.

“Then you know.”

Lexie paused, searching the surrounding trees for answers. “He’s always eating fruit,” she said.

“What kind?”

“Apples mostly, green ones. He smells sweet, like the sugar from fruit, and clean--soap and this strange, intense shaving stuff.”

“Do you smell any of that here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Take a deep breath.”

Lexie sniffled, struggling to inhale more through her tears. “Kevin died there.” She pointed to a clod of dirt, where a claw had ripped clean through his body, leaving a gash in the earth and brown, crispy blood caking the soil.

“One of the others, Michael, was there.” She pointed again, near the base of a tree. More disturbed earth, deep prints, gashes, and claw marks. “And over there, and there . . .” she pointed to two different places, “Brian was torn in half, and the wolf carried him there to . . . eat.” Lexie swallowed back a bout of disgust, the taste of bile crawling up her throat. “Duane’s scent is everywhere, but nowhere. Just circles.”

Lexie sank her face into Archer’s fur.

Archer nuzzled her, “Trust your senses. Try again. Close your eyes and see.”

Lexie screwed up her mouth in disbelief. Though her nose was stuffed with snot, she tried again, opening her mouth to breath, letting the scents swirl over her palate and up to her sinuses. She pressed her nose to the ground, discovering the sweet scent of green apples, drifting gently on top of the rest. The odor was frail compared to the stench of decomposition.

Though her face was burning, Lexie shivered, wanting so badly to disappear into herself like that night at the mountainside. She fell onto her back, watching the clouds cruise above the canopy overhead. Archer rested her body on top of Lexie’s, covering her with warmth, forcing away the cool curl of shock that was clutching at Lexie’s mind.

With Archer a comforting weight atop her, Lexie released her held breath and let the odors tell her the rest of the story. Who was this killer? Why did it kill two to eat a third? Why attack four strong young men? Where the hell was Duane?

Lexie lay beneath Archer, sifting through smells she didn’t yet know how to parse together into a story. Her muscles stretched under the press of Archer’s weight. Her vertebrae lengthened, her breath squeezed in and out, mingling with the hot moisture of Archer’s breath. Beneath Archer’s body, Lexie felt safe to expand her senses as far as they would go. She breathed in any lingering clues and extended her hearing to its furthest edges.

It was through this seeking that Lexie heard the mechanical ‘click’ from the trees. The sound was measured and deliberate, made by someone who wished to remain unheard. Lexie knew the sound well. She’d heard it a hundred times when hunting with her father: the sound of a bullet being chambered in a rifle.

Archer tensed atop Lexie, ears perking as she recognized it too. They both froze and looked in the direction of the sound, just in time to hear a BANG!

The bullet seared through the damp air, penetrating Archer’s haunch and knocking her off of Lexie.

Archer yelped and Lexie shot to her feet, scanning the woods downwind of the clearing. Crouched behind a pile of brush, shadowed by the impending evening, she saw three men training rifles on Archer. Lexie stepped between the men and their target.

“Girl, get away from that!” one of the men shouted, lowering the rifle a notch.

Lexie recognized the voice as her father’s hunting buddy, Hank. She had known him for years; he had often joined in on their father-daughter fishing trips. He was a good man, but a lonely one, with a dead wife and a junkie son. That was all she knew, and all she’d ever wanted to know. Even as a child, she had sensed that Hank treasured those rare trips with them. They saved him from the loneliness of a one-bedroom apartment and an arthritic cat.

Now that gravely voice was high with tension as he yelled at Lexie, the only obstacle between three nervous men and a wounded beast.

Lexie, get out of the way! Archer growled at her.

“No!” Lexie shouted.

“Listen, girl! Come here! Don’t be stupid! That thing’ll kill you!” another of the hunters shouted.

Lexie, go to them, Archer chattered. They’ll do something stupid.

To human eyes and ears, Archer’s snapping language looked like threats. Another bullet slipped into a chamber with a loud ‘shink.’ This time, one of the other hunters pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the forest, the bullet whizzing by Lexie’s torso to clip Archer’s foreleg. She yelped, falling onto her back.

“Stop it!” Lexie screamed, spreading her arms to create a bigger shield. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Get over here, you idiot!” the younger hunter shouted back.

“Hank, tell them to stop!”

“Lexie Clarion? Christ, Lexie, get away from that thing! It’ll kill you!”

“No, she won’t! Stop!”

Another bullet whizzed by Lexie and skipped off Archer’s back.

“Shit, Randy, stop shooting. You’ll hit her!” Hank shouted.

Another ‘shink’ of a reload said Randy wasn’t listening, too intent on bagging the beast that killed those boys. He shot.

Fire slid along Lexie’s flesh, as the bullet sliced through her deltoid. Lexie soared backwards and hit the ground, blood splattering from her wound. With a bestial growl, Archer bounded over Lexie’s prone body and launched herself at the hunters.

Lexie rolled onto her good shoulder, struggling to rise as she watched Archer’s forepaws drive Hank into the ground. Her swinging tail, like a medieval mace, smashed Randy across the face. Teeth, blood, and spit flew. Archer twisted her body to the side, using her haunches to knock the third hunter onto his back. Before Lexie could fight through the pain to scream at Archer to stop, the older man was unconscious, Randy rolled on the ground clutching a broken jaw, and Hank was on his back, silent.

Archer ran back to tend to Lexie, whining and licking her wound, a simple slice beneath all the blood. Lexie pushed Archer’s furry snout aside, gaping at the results of Archer’s outburst.

Are you okay? Archer chattered.

“What did you do?” Lexie said.

He shot you.

“Is Hank breathing?”

I don’t know.

“Is he breathing!”

No.

“Oh my god.” Lexie struggled to her feet, clutching her wounded shoulder, and ran to the men.

“Oh my god,” she repeated, dropping to her knees in front of Hank’s body. Next to him, Randy wheezed and moaned, shut-eyed as he managed the pain.

“You killed him,” Lexie said, touching his neck with her fingertips and leaning her cheek to his face.

We have to get out of here.

“These guys need to go to the hospital! Fuck, Archer, you killed him.”

I just knocked him over.

“He’s dead, Archer!”

Archer stepped over to investigate. She nudged Hank’s head to one side. It rolled like a ball on a string. Beneath it, a pine-strewn plane of rock was wet with blood. The back of Hank’s balding head was dented like a hardboiled egg.

Shit, Archer muttered under her breath.

“Shit? Shit?! Yeah, bad luck, huh? You killing a man like that. What a bummer,” Lexie shouted through tears.

Archer tilted her head, wolf ears swiveling as to try to make sense of the sarcasm.

I didn’t mean to-- Archer chattered, shamed.

“I don’t care what you meant to do! You’re just an animal, and you made me forget. You’re not human. You don’t care about human life.”

I do. Of course I do, Archer whined.

“Bullshit!” Lexie shouted, an unfamiliar rage burning her skin more than the bullet wound.

I value your life over anyone’s. Over mine.

“They wouldn’t have hurt me. They couldn’t have.”

Yes, they could have! I wasn’t going to let them take you from me. Not them. Not now. Not like this. Archer’s gemstone eyes sparkled with moisture, though she was incapable of producing tears.

“You’re just a beast. A monster!” Lexie screamed, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth.

You wanted this from me, Archer whispered, as timid as a scolded child.

“I was wrong. I don’t want this anymore. Go away, before anyone else dies.” She should have never asked Archer to turn for her, never asked her come to this place, never should have expected Archer to defend her. It was all a mistake, the greedy affectations of a silly girl in love, and now a man was dead.

Archer whined deep in her throat, waiting like a puppy for Lexie to pat her head and tell her she did a good job.

The reassurance didn’t come. Lexie rested her hand on Hank’s prickly, cooling cheek. Her shoulders sagged.

“Seriously, Archer. Leave. Now.”

Archer’s tail fell and head slumped. She hesitated for one more moment before skulking away.

Lexie turned her attention back to Hank, pulling her cellphone from her pocket and dialing 911. Randy stirred, and she touched his forehead, whispering, “It’s okay. Help is coming.”

Chapter 18

Lexie and her father sat in silence in the outpatient room of the hospital. Hank was dead, Randy was resting, and the other man and his wife were receiving directions from the doctor on how to tend to his concussion. Upon his arrival, Mr. Clarion had quietly conversed with the newly-conscious men while a nervous young nurse spooled stitches through Lexie’s arm. The third hunter, unknown to Lexie, was George Koda, and he owned the gas station down on River Road. His wife held his hand like she was clutching a bird.

Lexie held onto her nausea in a similar manner, shutting her esophagus and tightening the strings of her belly, refusing to let her stomach win the skirmish. There was too much yet to figure out. She feared the hunter’s interpretation of the scene. Lexie’s nose tickled with the need to track Duane, to find him before the cops did, or worse, before the werewolf returned to finish the job. But she couldn’t just leave. Not while her father was here.

He hadn’t said anything when he joined her, and now he sat at her side, mourning in his singular fashion: silent contemplation. Lexie didn’t mind. She approved of silence as an expression of grief. Her father had perfected this posture, retreating into himself like a sea anemone at the first sign of emotional damage. She had never heard him raise his voice, even as her mother walked out the door. Since then, both their lives were an exercise in emotional restraint.

As a child, Lexie had done what any child would: she tried to act a surrogate for her mother, homemaking, providing company, taking care of him, trying to revive the more convivial version of the father she had grown up knowing. The one thing she couldn’t provide to him, however, was the one thing that he needed, the love and appreciation of a partner, to know that he was doing a good job as a man. But he wasn’t. He had failed at being a husband, which made succeeding as a father irrelevant.

Lexie had given up on the hope that by being a good enough daughter--accompanying him on hunting trips, fishing trips, camping trips, cooking, cleaning, getting good grades--she could pull him out of the depths. Ten years of that routine did little as far as she could see. That she couldn’t warm him back to his former self, Lexie considered her own failure. So together they sat in the hospital room, bearing witness to one another’s sadness in the only way they knew how: uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Ray’s anger sprang forth. “What the hell were you doing out there?” His tone was one Lexie knew well, low and steely, with an undercurrent of rage. Her dad was a large man who learned early on to control his anger, lest he terrify the smaller and weaker. This chilly anger was scarier to Lexie than any screaming rage.

Lexie shrugged, the classic rebuttal of guilty children everywhere.

“Four boys were just torn apart on that spot, and you’re wandering around playing Nancy Drew.”

“I wasn’t--”

“You could have been killed.”

“I was fine until those guys came along,” Lexie mumbled.

“The fact you’re alive now is a miracle.” Her dad’s voice wavered now, as the fear seeped through the anger.

“The only thing that hurt me was Randy’s lousy fucking shot.”

He raised his eyebrows, his voice growing colder. “He saved your life.”

“That’s bullshit, Dad. He shot me!”

“Watch your language, young lady.”

“What other damage is there on me? Claw marks? Bite marks?” She tugged at her clothing, showing him her unmarked flesh. “Nothing except his goddamn bullet.” Again a silence rolled through the room.

“I don’t like what this school is doing to you.”

Lexie rolled her eyes.

“You never used to sass me like this. I think this education is making you . . .” He trailed off in frustration.

“What, Dad? Uppity? Mouthy? Bitchy?”

Ray raised his palms in defense. “Alright, Lexie. Calm down. This isn’t like you.”

“How would you know what I’m like?”

“We spent eighteen years under the same roof. I know you better than you think I do.”

Lexie wanted to defy him now by revealing all her secrets. She’d be proven right, and he’d be shamed with his ignorance. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek, resisting.

“Listen, if there’s something going on, I’d like to know, Lex.”

“Nothing you can help me with,” she said, throat tight with bitterness.

Ray groaned and scrubbed his face hard enough to redden the skin. “You really are your mother’s daughter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, unwilling to engage in the fight she craved.

“You could’ve made her stay.”

Ray snorted in something like a laugh.

“This is funny to you?” Lexie snipped.

“If you had really known your mother, you would’ve known that no one could make her do anything. Most of all, stay still.”

“Well, I’ll never have that chance now, will I?”

“Why are you taking this out on me? I didn’t want her to go either, Lex.”

“It must’ve been your fault,” she muttered. “If you were a real man . . .”

“I would have, what? Locked her in the house? Beat her into submission? What do you know about being a real man?”

“She would’ve--”

“Listen kiddo,” he interrupted. “You have no idea what kind of husband I was. She left because she had a bug up her ass to run since I met her. It’s what made me fall in love with her, and it’s what made her always keep one foot out the door. Your ma and I settled down way too young. I don’t regret it, but she always did. She wanted adventure, and I wanted a home and a family. I wanted you. You seem to think that I’m a lousy father, but I swear I’ve done the best I could. And I think you and me have done an alright job of making it work.”

“You made me stay in town for school.”

“Is that what this is about? You know I couldn’t afford anything else.”

“I could’ve gotten a scholarship somewhere else.”

“Maybe. But then I’d never see you again. I’m not like those Milton parents. I can’t fly across the country for every play or game.”

“So?”

“Lexie, we’re all each other has. That might not mean much to you now, but it’ll mean something to you someday. People’ll come and go all your life, but you’ve got me until the end.”

Ray’s face burned pink, with shame or anger, Lexie could no longer tell. “Listen, your ma fucked up big time because she said she would stay when she wanted to run. You’ve got yourself opportunities that neither of us ever had. You can get yourself an education, and you can do whatever you want in this world. You’re smart, and you’re pretty, and you’re kind. I’m proud of you every day.” His eye-contact disturbed Lexie in its strength, which Lexie never knew her father to possess.

“Don’t ruin everything by dropping your guard with some wolf.”

Lexie soaked in the last of her father’s words, her throat tight for another reason now. Ray returned his gaze to the linoleum.

“How did they come upon it, anyway?” she asked.

“Got a call on the tip line. They picked up the trail in the south, not too far outside of Wolf Creek.”

Lexie bit her tongue. It was impossible the hunters could have tracked them this way. Archer and she had come from the north, not even close to Wolf Creek. They must have been tracking a different animal.

“Are they sure it was the same wolf?”

Ray sighed hard and long. “No, they aren’t. I talked to George once he came to. They found fur on the trail, different color than the one that attacked you. And yours may have been a female. You didn’t happen to see its balls, did you?”

Lexie pulled a face. “Seriously, Dad?”

He ignored her adolescent disdain. “A female hasn’t been spotted in a long time. If that’s what you were attacked by--”

“I wasn’t attacked, Dad,” she muttered.

“--It could mean a lot of things,” he continued. “That they’re mating, and there are more of ‘em that we thought.” He rubbed his jaw, lips pursed. “Randy’s not sure what he saw. Neither is George. Frankly, I hope they’re wrong, ‘cause otherwise, the problem is bigger than we thought. Either way, stay away from the woods for now, would you, kiddo?”

“Fine, Dad,” Lexie said, eager to let the subject rest. She extended her arm in a circle, stretching the bandage and her muscles. “Any word on Duane?”

He shook his head and his jaw tightened. “His family’s out of town. No sign on campus or in Wolf Creek. It doesn’t look . . .”

Another silence fell. It doesn’t look good. Her father was losing himself in thought, a deep furrow forming between his eyebrows.

Lexie knew her father wanted her to spend the night at home, but he would never say so. Lexie was okay with this.

“I’m sorry about Hank, Dad,” Lexie said as he stood to go, placing a half-hearted hand on his arm. He flinched at her touch, but nodded before turning toward the door. He gripped his plain wooden cane and eased himself out.

Chalk it up as one more failure for Dad, Lexie thought, watching him shuffle away. He couldn’t protect his daughter, couldn’t save his friend, and couldn’t put an end to the killings.

He paused at the door, bracing himself on the frame. “I love you, Lex.” The admission was sheepish and stilted, as though he was afraid of what the words would conjure.

“Love you, too, Dad.” She mumbled in a similarly forced way. She wished she had the words to tell him that he was a good man, in some way he could hear and understand her--words of absolution and calm--but Lexie didn’t know what they sounded like. Instead, she watched her broken father walk away to the cold comfort of yet another night on his back.

Chapter 19

It was the quality of moonlight that made Archer crazy. Eager like hunger, not desperate like thirst. The first time she resisted a change during the waxing moon was difficult. It didn’t bother her now, or no more than an itch, like a rash. Or like a simple runny nose that irritates more than a tickle but less than a persistent lust.

On full moon nights, Archer’s teeth would ache as they shifted in her skull, and her fingertips would throb against the splinters of claw that dug into her nail beds. Growing pains like countless pubescent mornings, kneading her muscles back into shape, stretching and popping joints, relearning how to use her body as she walked the woods on two legs.

Her posture would worsen during those days and nights. Her strong shoulders hunched, her neck curled under like a swan. A stranger could mistake it for a contemplative pose. For Archer, it was a simple act of will, mind over matter.

It took strength and resolve to witness the full moon and keep her human shroud tight and clasped. Each cell within her resisted, tugging at its membrane, shifting and shuddering in its monthly attempt at renewal and purge. Her cells stretched against their bonds, reminding themselves of span, pliancy, resistance and ease. Archer forced them to accept their new container by force of will.

Archer would feel antsy. Then irritable. On bad nights, imprisoned. She would pace, a tiger in a flesh cage, not looking for a way out, but conjuring an interruption, struggling to create something new and startling from of a series of circular days.

Instead she chose blood. It always startled her, the drops of blood between her legs. Each time, she reacted to it as if it were coming from a wound. After a moment she would realize, and then she would feel ashamed for the doubt. So many women cherished this event, ritualized it. To Archer, it was a punishment for refusing her true nature.

The moon was heavy tonight. Archer had cleared her plate from the table, leaving it in the sink to deal with another day. She felt restless, wanting Lexie naked on her floor in front of the fireplace. She wanted to bury her face between Lexie’s legs, to hold her up by the hips and feel her body enveloped again. Sex would be the perfect way to ground some of the frenetic energy that kept her from focusing on anything but the girl who refused to vacate her brain.

Since meeting Lexie, Archer felt stirred with feelings she hadn’t thought of for years. Not since Natalee. Not since her Pack.

Years ago, when she was first exiled, Archer became an insomniac. Sleeping without the rhythmic breathing of her sisters around her was impossible. She would shiver without a body snuggled against hers, whether or not it was actually chilly. When she did drift to sleep, she often woke with a start, convinced a terror lurked nearby, waiting for her to drop her guard. Without the keen senses of her sisters to accompany her, she didn’t trust her own.

Immediately after her exile, Archer fled, spending most of her time as a wolf. She skulked through the woods alone, searching for an identity she’d lived her whole life avoiding. Occasionally, another lone wolf would cross through the territory, and she would rush to meet it for an evening of fevered anonymity. While it calmed her mind, it would only ever last as long as one night, and then she would return to the silence of an unaccompanied bed.

It had been a slow, agonizing process, learning to exist on her own again. Without her family to care for, she felt redundant, useless. She had no love to share, no one to feed, no one to protect but herself. Eventually, she learned to avoid felling large game or else leave a half-eaten carcass to rot in a field. She began to hunt birds or small mammals, missing the thrill of felling a creature of speed and heft, abandoning the joy of celebrating a kill with her family, of sharing the meal with eager, chattering laughter.

After her humiliation waned, she took to spending more time in human form; for some reason it made her less lonely. The human body better fit a solitary life. Arms could bathe the whole body; fingers could navigate all the challenges of existence. With human hands, she could enjoy holding books and building fires, chopping wood and making art. She could have conversations with other humans; even strangers engaged in conversation with one another as a matter of course. It was not family, it wasn’t even intimate, but it salved the ever-weeping wound of her solitude.

After thousands of lonely days, Archer grew to enjoy the solitude, no longer crying when she heard her sistren howling together in the distance. She acclimated to a life with no home and no family, losing her drive to rut and sire pups. She learned to live as a migrant, loving the life so many humans pined for, one with no responsibilities nor ties to place or schedules.

Tonight, the air was cool enough for her to see her breath. The night was clear with no recollection of the storm clouds that had threatened the day. Stepping into the night, Archer was assaulted by a vision of her lost mate, Natalee, standing naked in the dark. Of a blessed night years ago, when they had found a hot spring in the cliffs near the ocean. They bathed and made love, their movements sending the water bubbling over smooth stones, cascading down the cliffside as it had done for ages, feeding the vast, black ocean. Natalee had gotten out of the natural tub and stood in the moonlight, ineffable wings of steam rising from her body like her soul ascending. Her skin was as white as the moon, a cold angel.

It was the first time Archer remembered a sensation so strong as love filling her. Her heart nearly burst with the effort necessary to catch all of Natalee’s beauty. After Natalee died, after Archer fled, she never expected to feel that swell again.

She’d been wrong. The second time she felt it was when she watched Lexie battle her terror and win after the attack at the mountain. In the moonlight, Lexie had looked so young. Her mouth and ears were too big for her body, an indication of more growth to come. Yet something about her seemed wearier than when Archer had first seen her, outside her decimated room. A heaviness dragged her shoulders as Lexie stood unknowingly on the cusp of irreversible changes, her meager softness soon to erode into the feral form of a wild animal.

A chill of recognition danced up her spine, the memory of feeling love for a small, fragile thing caught up in a complicated world. Archer bit her lip, recalling the following morning in the treehouse, when Lexie looked at Archer with clear eyes and was unafraid, when she opened her body for Archer to crawl inside. Smiling amid the loss, Archer felt a pang of guilt, that she let Lexie crawl inside her heart, replacing Natalee there, if only for a moment.

But Archer needed too much and fought too hard. She always fought too hard. And now Lexie had pushed her away.

Archer grabbed the ax leaning against the door and set to work on the woodpile, hoping that a stoked hearth would entice Lexie back into her life tonight and every night for the rest of their lives. She cleaved the pile of raw logs, stacking them into piles for burning. The rhythm of the ax soothed her. With each inhalation, she choked her grip, pulled the tool down by her shins, swung it back behind her body, and to the apex of her reach. It hung there on her full breath. With a whooshing exhalation, she brought the blade down to the wood with a satisfying crack, splitting it cleanly and efficiently. Placing another log on its end on the stump, she repeated the process, over and over, until her mind untangled from the memories of women, betrayals, shame, and the anxieties that bound them all.

She split the entire pile twice before taking a moment to rest. She dropped the ax by her feet and caught her breath, happy for the brief distraction. As she inhaled, a hint of the strange tickled her nose. She stilled, tuning her ears to the woods. Something at the edge of the forest was trying to be quiet. A footpad eased to the ground, crumpling the leaves and needles beneath it. The breeze drifted toward Archer, carrying the clues she sought. She snuffed at the air, dissecting it for the odor that piqued her senses, finding the answer in the form of a female werewolf stalking in the dark. Archer’s neck prickled in an echo of her wolf pelt.

“Blythe?” she called. The stalker froze. Archer waited, then allowed the first bits of fur to fluff and teeth to point, the first glimmer of a change. The shadowed wolf turned with a rustle of needles. Heedless of sound and scent, she dashed into the woods.

The sweat on Archer’s body chilled her as the breeze danced on her flesh. She stacked the wood, put the ax over her shoulder and walked into the cabin. She was unsure of the days to come, the events that would unfurl, and her place in it all. She wanted to run to Lexie, to run to her pack, and straighten out whatever warped situation was brewing. Only, it was out of her hands. She only had one job now. She had to make amends for her prior failures by protecting what was still hers, regardless of what old alliances were severed in the process.

Chapter 20

Lexie’s arm was nearly healed by the time she turned off the truck’s engine at the edge of the forest. Her new body seemed to take joy in surprising her. She shook her head at the wonder of it all.

Early morning light dripped through denuded trees, preparing to burn through everything. Frost dusted the edges of the leaves on the ground, cracking loudly as Lexie stepped across them. It had been more than thirty hours since the attack, and Duane was still missing. In the stillness of the woods, Duane’s lingering scent filled her head like a ribbon of light, showing her the way. It told her that he ran, at first in circles, trying to stay out of the range of the raging beast as it swiped and ripped at his friends.

She found him at the base of a tree outside the ring of the campground. Perhaps he’d fallen on his back as he fended off the animal. Next, a scuff of paw prints, a distraction, and his chance. He leapt up and grabbed a lower branch of the tree. His athleticism saved him here; paired with his adrenaline, his vertical jump allowed him to reach the lowest branch, but just barely. Blood and skin and a snapped fingernail adorned the scraped bark where he’d clung for his life on this branch. He’d pulled himself up and continued climbing. The werewolf hadn’t pursued: no claw gashes in the trunk, no broken branches. Duane climbed to a higher branch, then held fast.

Lexie climbed to this safe house, nestled in the crook between a tall branch and the trunk. The tree smelled strongly of his sweet and musky sweat. She peered through the branches to the clearing below. Duane had earned a front-row seat to the carnage. Below, the ground was crusted with blood where Michael was torn in two. Just beyond, where the tent had stood, the wolf killed Brian. No more than a few yards further, it rent Kevin apart. Duane hovered above, like a squirrel in a tree, awaiting his destruction. Saline here, tears. Duane had stayed for a while, clinging to this tree. His scent lingered as he sobbed over the corpses of his friends. Lexie dropped back to the ground and sniffed, sussing out the wolf’s next move. There was none. The wolf left. It didn’t kill Duane. It only made him watch.

Duane had climbed down, dropping as lightly as he could manage onto the soft soil--footprints so faint it was no wonder everyone had missed them. Then, he ran north. Lexie ran, too, following his scent. He was heading back to campus. Then, he changed course, turning east, towards Wolf Creek, towards home. Once away from the clearing, the footprints deepened, the stink of sweat grew stronger. Duane had run as if being pursued, if only by a nightmare. She came upon the river, frigid, deep, and slow. His scent trail ended here.

Lexie took a deep breath, trying to settle her mind to prepare for a leap. She couldn’t say she was quite used to her new body yet, and she backed up from the shore to get a running start. She leapt, landing in the shallows on the other edge of the bank. Her feet sank deep in the cold mud, soaking her boots, while she prayed his scent would continue here. She crawled out, feeling the panic that Duane must have felt, the fear he must still be feeling now. She breathed deep and desperate. Apples.

She ran for another twenty minutes, which must have been close to forty for Duane, when she stumbled into a manufactured clearing. Decapitated stumps stood in a broad arc at the edge of the forest. Acres around was mud, thick, brown and dead; the bones of trees long destroyed; and the sleeping machinery of destruction, red and rusty, like caked blood. It was brighter here, the morning sun refracting off a million edges of cloud, the light white and painful. Steel blades sat hibernating, disguising their fiendish nature behind a chilly, still silence. This place was a human outpost in the war against the wild.

Knowing Duane was near, Lexie tread carefully now, unwilling to blunder in and send him deeper into his nightmare.His scent trail led her to the mill house, through a broken window, jagged pane still sticky with blood. The mill was out of use, at least by the woodsmen. Graffiti scarred the brick walls.

Lexie peered into the gloomy building, as dark as the bare field was bright. The roof was high above, corrugated steel, through which needle-like shafts of sunlight drained in, casting wafting motes of dust as glowing embers. More sleeping steel sat in this space, all teeth and rust, jagged edges and spiderwebs. Sawdust covered the cement floor, inches thick in places. Broken beer bottles piled in the corner. Burnt paper and plastic sat in filthy heaps. The space smelled of charred wood, oil, and iron. Far across the room, from behind a pile of stacked pallets, Lexie heard a tiny whimper.

She approached the corner, dust tickling her sinuses, her eyes adjusting to the low light. Duane clenched in the shadow of the tower of pallets, curled on his side. He clutched his knees to his chest, his fingers digging into his flesh as if clinging the edge of a cliff. Lexie crept closer, and though she stopped right in front of him, he didn’t seem to notice her. He squinted as though he was staring into the sun.

His face twisted into a sobbing grimace, though he had long run out of tears. Blood and dirt smeared his face, streaked where tears had cut their paths. Lexie squatted in front of him and whispered his name softly. He didn’t respond.

“Duane,” she whispered again, gingerly reaching her hand to his shoulder. He did not flinch as she had expected; rather, he whimpered like an abused dog. Through his shirt, his skin felt chilly, belying the life scared stiff beneath its surface. He reminded Lexie of a child, so fragile, nearly broken, pieces of his psyche scattered like his friends’ limbs. His body was cold, but he did not shiver; his muscles were clenched as if he were already dead. Lexie watched his ribcage heave wildly and irregularly, his heart struggling to break free from his chest. His breath was shallow and sharp, as if he were still being pursued.

Lexie needed to warm him up, to find him water. She wished for a moment that Archer was here, her massive furry body to use for warmth, but she realized that the last thing Duane needed to see was a wolf.

She wouldn’t be able to move him until his shattered mind regained a sense of equilibrium, and that wouldn’t happen until he calmed down. A deep sadness expanded in her, an empathy for his broken mind. She moved slowly to Duane’s back, keeping her hand on him as she would a spooked animal, whispering the only platitudes she knew. Shhhhh. I’m here. You’re safe now. Everything will be okay.

Draping her arms around his broad back, Lexie lay down, curling her legs and body around his, following his form with hers. She wished she were bigger, so she could envelop him entirely. The scent of apples and tears swirled in her nostrils, as she whispered inches from his ear. Her warmth penetrated him, the banded muscles of his back unclenching. She caressed his skin like a lover, a mother, a healer. Shhhhhh. Duane. I’m here. You’re safe now. Everything will be okay.

Chapter 21

It was late afternoon before Lexie’s thoughts flickered back to Archer. Duane was safe, his family on a plane somewhere over Alberta, and his shattered mind quieted with heavy sedatives. Lexie reclined in the cab of her truck drifting in and out of consciousness with a head full of Archer and an apology on her lips. It seemed as though her whole life were becoming a series of flights and reunions. Lexie didn’t want to run anymore.

She had parked in Archer’s driveway and found her cabin empty. The cold light filtered through her dirty windshield as she wondered whether or not to track Archer, presumably to their treehouse. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror and sighed, looking worse than after even her most brutal bout of insomnia. Her eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles outlined the hollows of their sockets. Fine lines spread like cobwebs from the corners of her eyes. Her skin felt tight and her jaw ached from clenching, driving bolts of pain into her skull. She had aged decades in one night.

With a groan, Lexie opened the door of her truck and inhaled the crisp, cold air of the impending winter. The full moon wasn’t far off, a couple of hours maybe. Lexie cursed the longer nights. Archer’s day-old scent traced a faint path into the woods. Its familiarity eased the trauma of the previous evening, and all she wanted was to hold her lover again and disappear from the past and the future, to stay in the simplicity of unfettered love. But that was an illusion, no more real than the hallucinations that crept in her peripheral vision.There was no such thing as unfettered love; each simple, elegant moment that Lexie tried to sear into her memory would soon fade into the morass of irrelevance. What would she find on the other side of this frenzied love affair other than the mundanity of daily life and a commitment to a woman so much older than herself? Archer no longer had an interest in college life, in world travel, in adventures and eager exploration of the world. She had done it all and seen more. Now, all Archer wanted was a family. What to Archer was solace, success, a reward earned by fighting so hard for so long, felt to Lexie like a collar. Though Lexie had once thought she wanted the same, her father’s confession made her realize it wasn’t a dream but an excuse, an easy way of filling the hole her mother left in her life when she walked out. Adding more people into the mix merely occluded the pain, making her feel less easily abandoned. What would it feel like to be alone and simultaneously complete? That was what Lexie wanted to know.

Lexie felt a fleeting sympathy for her mother, then. Did she suffer the same realization, only too late, when she had a husband and child tethering her in place? The ambivalence Lexie felt toward her mother translated to her unwillingness to follow Archer. She could turn the ignition and drive to her father’s house right now, leaving this all behind. She could turn south on I-5 and drive until she hit San Francisco. She could disappear. Run away, a voice like her mother’s whispered in her head. You can always run away. The choice was there, but the freedom wasn’t. She wondered how much more death she would have to know before this nightmare would be over and her real life could begin. Then she shuddered and wondered if this, in fact, was her real life.

Three boys were dead, and it was a mystery Lexie needed to solve. Realizing that Archer knew even less than she did herself, Lexie locked the doors of her truck and walked into the woods, heading north to the Den.

Chapter 22

“Finally!” Hazel shouted as she saw Lexie approach along the sidewalk. She jumped from her seat on the front porch. “Come on!”

“What’s going on?”

“We found him! We found the werewolf that killed those boys!” She grasped Lexie by the wrist and yanked with the full weight of her body, wrenching Lexie through the house, out the back door, down the steps and into the woods.

Lexie didn’t need to ask; she knew where they were headed.

At the sloping cave with the iron door, Lexie stopped. Hazel was impatient. “Come on!” She yanked at her wrist.

“Hey. Cool it.” Lexie glared at Hazel and wrenched her hand away.

“Ow!” Hazel said. She rubbed her hands together and pouted. “We did this for you, you know.” Hazel ran to the door and eased herself in.

Lexie breathed deep, detecting a melange of scents from the nighttime forest. She smelled herself and noticed her scent had changed. A rhythm, a cycle, perhaps. Or maybe she was indeed changing even further, into something beyond girl or werewolf. She could no longer say that she would be surprised. About that, about anything.

Lexie turned in a circle, glancing to the west, to the edge of the continent, and then to the south, where she would find the treehouse, and perhaps Archer, pacing silently, waiting for her lover to return. Then she looked to the east, where her father was likely lying slack-jawed and medicated in front of the nightly news. She returned to the north to stare at the iron door and listen to the muffled voices behind it.

The girls expected her to kill whatever was chained behind that door. That she knew. She let her fingers graze the hilt of her mother’s knife. She wondered if, when the time came, she could do it. She had no answer to that question, so she let it swirl unaltered in her mind as the rusty door stared back at her. With a deep breath, she slipped inside.

Inside, the smell was as musky and filthy as she remembered. A young man sat bound to a chair, naked but for his shorts. Lexie recognized him as a student, but that was where her familiarity with him ended. His lean shoulders slumped forward, and his head hung heavy on his neck. A simple blindfold barred his eyes, as though this would protect anyone. If he were truly a werewolf, the blindfold neither hid the girls’ identities nor compromised his ability to attack. Yet, he sat still and calm. The girls stood in a ring around the perimeter of the cave. A dirty lantern hung from a rusty chain. Each movement from the girls set it swinging, shifting shadows on the rock walls.

Renee hung back, pressing herself into the rock and looking as though she wanted to disappear. Blythe was absent. Without either of those women leading the rest, a frenetic energy ruled the space.

“What’s going on?” asked Lexie.

“We found him!” Hazel said again.

“Him, who?”

“He’s the one who killed the frat boys,” Mitch said.

Lexie looked at the boy. He was thin and pale. Iron chains connected his wrists and ankles to the ground. He didn’t move.

“Shouldn’t you be congratulating him?” Lexie asked.

“He’s a werewolf!” Corwin insisted.

“And you hated Brian. You all did.”

“That doesn’t fix the fact that he’s a werewolf,” Sharmalee said, as though the repetition would allay Lexie’s concerns.

“Who’s idea was this?” Lexie snapped, growing frustrated. “Renee?”

Renee met Lexie’s eyes before glancing away. Tiny beads of sweat formed at her hairline. She chewed at her cheek.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To kill this fucker, Lex,” Corwin said, squeezing and unsqueezing her fists in a silent rhythm. “He needs to die, and we need to know that we can trust you.”

Mitch nodded. “That’s right.”

Lexie rolled her eyes. She knew that Brian probably deserved what he got, but she couldn’t say the same for Duane or the other boys, nor could she say that taking out their killer was the right choice either.

“How do you know he’s the one?”

“The way we always do,” Hazel said.

“You tracked him?” Lexie asked, looking to Jenna.

“Blythe did,” Jenna replied.

“Then why isn’t she here?”

“Christ, Lex. Just take him out already,” Mitch said.

Lexie stepped to the boy and leaned her face into the crook of his neck. She inhaled, hoping her senses would serve her. She pulled in the scent of compost and roots. The boy’s skin broke in a wash of goosebumps beneath her breath.

“Why me?” she whispered, watching the fine hairs on his neck rise in the tiny breeze she created.

“It has to be you, Lexie,” said Hazel.

“It’s true, Lexie. It has to be you. Please, just do this, and we can be a family,” Jenna pleaded. “You can avenge Duane. It’s all going to work out. Just do this for us. For you.”

This doesn’t make any sense. Lexie didn’t know if she whispered or merely thought it. His odor was wolfish. She didn’t doubt that he was a beast as the girls claimed him to be. But her certainty of so many things was unraveling. Walking to class with Jenna felt like eons ago. Now she stood in a different world, among a different group of women, and she didn’t know who she wanted to be anymore. She let the tips of her fingers graze the hilt of the knife.

Corwin grew impatient and shifted her weight back and forth between her feet.

“Christ, Lexie, it’s not that hard!” Corwin burst out.

Jenna held up her hands, “Okay, Corwin. Give her time.”

“Time to what? Make him feel comfortable? We’re killing a goddamn werewolf, Lex! It’s what we’ve always done. The question is what are you doing? What have you ever done? You run away from everything!”

Jenna stepped forward and held out a sharp blade on the palms of her opened hands. “You’ve hunted. It’s not that hard. If you hurt him, he’ll turn and then it’s so easy. He won’t be human anymore.”

Lexie looked at the clean, new blade that Jenna held out for her and shook her head. Her heart was beating in her throat.

“Is that true?” she asked, staring at the boy’s face. “That they aren’t human?”

The girls exchanged nervous glances. Mitch licked his lips and hid them between his teeth. Lexie’s pulse fluttered against her flushed skin, frantic as a bird’s wing. She took a breath and tried to calm herself, knowing the boy could smell her rising anxiety. She unsnapped the sheath on her hip and pulled out her own blade. She took a step to the boy and felt the room relax.

Lexie closed her eyes and steadied her breath, holding the knife against her sternum like a talisman, imagining how it would feel if somebody slid it into her flesh. Perhaps that feeling would connect them, Lexie choosing life by drawing it from her supposed foe. Staring into the darkness of her closed eyes, Lexie tried to find the animal within her that defended itself so violently on the mountainside. She could feel it deep inside, but the loudest voice was that of the blade in her hands.

She opened her eyes and let the women around the edge of the cave fade into darkness. The boy’s pale flesh gleamed in the swaying lantern light. She leaned before him, holding the flat of the blade against his delicate neck. She noticed three tiny beauty marks dotted on his skin. She saw them reflected in the polished surface of the blade and stopped. The light swayed. The blade reflected fur over flesh. Her eyes scanned his body and she saw the shift, the same that she had seen twice before, at the Full Moon Tribe and the next day as she lay with Archer. Whispers glinted at the edges of her hearing as though the cave was beset by ghosts. Lexie struggled to keep her composure, commanding herself not to run, that there was something she should listen to here.

She squatted in front of the boy and ripped the blindfold from his eyes. He flinched against the dim light and blinked at Lexie. She gripped and released the knife handle, molding it to her grip. The boy’s face shifted as though trying to find a clear signal between two warring radio frequencies. There was golden fur and a long muzzle in one moment, a lithe boy’s face in another. With the knife in her hand, Lexie felt as though she could see clearer than ever.

In a whisper so low she couldn’t be sure she was speaking at all, Lexie said, Tell me what you can remember.

The boy licked his lower lip and answered by barely moving his mouth. Sometimes I catch glimpses. The rest is blank. I don’t want to be this way. He stifled a whimper, trying not to cry.

Why aren’t you fighting back? Lexie asked.

Because the full moon will rise soon, and if I’m free, I’m afraid I will kill.

Like you killed those boys?

No.

Have you killed before?

I . . . don’t know.

Lexie inhaled and exhaled rapidly, raising her heart rate and getting a little high on his scent and the fetid milieu of the space. She took as much of him into her lungs as she could, letting the chemistry of his body answer the riddle of the murders. His wolf-face steadied, and she looked into his eyes, seeing his fear though he tried to hide it all. Lexie stood and sheathed the knife. His face became a boy’s once again.

“The hell?” Corwin said. “He killed those boys.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He’s a werewolf!” Sharmalee shouted.

“Yes. But he didn’t kill them.”

“How do you know?” Mitch said.

“I just know.”

Renee threw open the door and ran outside, her face ashen.

Lexie looked to the Pack. They were unsatisfied. The boy didn’t move a muscle.

Lexie followed Renee out. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Lexie asked. The air was chilly enough that a puff of cool breath, like smoke, formed as Lexie spoke.

“We know far better than you,” Renee said, fumbling for a cigarette and finding her pack empty. She crumpled it in her fist and threw it to the ground.

“Why do you want me to kill that boy?”

“He’s a werewolf.”

“So? Why not take him out yourself? Why drag me into this?”

“You wanted to be a part of us! This is what we do!” Renee turned on Lexie. “We know about Archer.”

“What?”

“It’s not like you could keep it a secret. You stink of her.” Renee paced, as each of the girls crept out of the cave to watch. “Blythe’s not just gonna let you walk away from us. She’d kill you first. Or, rather, she’d kill Archer.”

“I can make my own choices.”

“Can you? Because the choice you seem ready to make is a life as an animal, with some pathetic exile at your side. You let that bitch sire you--”

“That bitch? Some language, Ms. Feminist Revolutionary.”

“Fuck that noise. Archer has been a thorn in our side for years. Blythe’s just waiting for the opportunity to take her out.”

“Take her out? Why?”

“Because she’s an exile. She can’t sire. But we all know about your little love-fest, and we know Archer’s trying to start a new pack.”

“So? She wants to help.”

“Oh, does she now? Because last I saw she bailed on us when shit started getting real. Because of her, the Morloc have been running the show for ten years. Now she wants to swoop in here working her alpha ju-ju to try and recapture her former glory. Do you want to be her lap-dog, her little beta? Or do you want to fight with us?”

“There’s another option.”

“No,” Renee said. “There is only ours. Archer just can’t stand that someone has a different vision.”

“Who, Blythe?” Lexie asked incredulously.

“And me. We both have ideas.”

“Oh really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Renee steadied her hands by squeezing them into fists.

“What are you really trying to do here, Renee? Save the world from werewolves? Or establish a new hierarchy that you happen to like? Do you think you’re creating a feminist utopia? A lesbian island? That shit isn’t real. You’re busy trying to come to consensus on dish duty when there are real wolves, real full bloods out there, stalking this town. They aren’t like Frank or that kid in there. They’re all wolf, and you haven’t caught one yet because they’re too smart for you.”

“We are doing the right thing,” Renee said.

“No, you’re not! You’re taking orders from a leader who’s more concerned about her micro-fascist regime than about getting the job done. Are you trying to save the world from ‘the phallostocracy’ or a bunch of evil fucking werewolves?”

“It’s the same goddamn fight.”

“You keep saying that, but it’s not true! You can’t say that a jerk like Brian is the same thing as a bloodthirsty beast. It reduces the entire fight to man versus decency and it’s more complicated than that. As far as I can tell there are two kinds of wolves out there, Renee. The Pack is saying it’s ‘us’ versus ‘them’ or worse, ‘male’ versus ‘female,’ but that’s not the reality. Archer’s back because she’s a warrior who knows this fight, and that’s what you need. Without real leadership, you guys are just a bunch of vigilantes with crossbows.”

“Brian was a werewolf!”

“What?” Lexie exclaimed. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Yes he was! They all deserved what they got!” Renee’s shout ricocheted against the hillside. In the glint of twilight, her lips snarled back to reveal the glint of long, curved fangs. A face wavered on top of her face, furry and fierce; Renee’s wolf image snapped into view and then dissolved.

“Holy shit,” Lexie whispered.

“What?”

“Your face.”

“What about my fucking face?”

“You’re a werewolf.” Lexie shook her head, her blind stupidity side-swiping her. She wanted to ram her fists against her skull, to punish herself for being so naive.

Renee rolled her eyes. “Lexie, you are out of your fucking head.”

“I know it. You’re a werewolf. You all are.”

“So? So’s you’re fucking girlfriend.”

“But you said . . . Oh god.” Lexie grabbed Renee by the shoulders, pulling their bodies together. She drew in Renee’s scent as deep as her lungs would let her. She recognized it from the countless minutes they spent together, but more so, she recognized it from the woods, from Duane.

“I know your scent.”

“Shit. She already sired you.”

“You were there.”

“You’re a fucking werewolf!”

“It was you. You killed those boys.”

“Girl, you need to back the fuck down.”

“I know it. I can see your scent. You tore Kevin and Mike in half. You--you ate Brian.”

“They had it coming! They were werewolves!” Renee glanced bitterly at her crumpled cigarette pack.

“Says who?”

“Blythe! They were all wolves except Duane, which is why we let him live.”

“They weren’t, Renee.”

“How the fuck would you know the difference?”

“I know. As clearly as I can see your face now. It’s what the voices have been telling me all this time.”

“All right, schizo girl. You can smell me or you can see me. Which the fuck is it?”

Lexie drew the knife from her sheathe.

“Get that out of my face.”

Lexie ignored her, watching her through the blade. Renee’s wolf visage pulled into keen focus. “You’ve got glossy dark-brown fur, but the tips of your ears are black. Your muzzle has small freckles of lighter brown.”

“Jesus fucking fuck.”

“You did. You killed those boys.”

“You’re a peacespeaker.”

“What’s a peacespeaker?” Sharmalee whispered to Mitch.

“Shh!” Hazel scolded.

Renee paced as if at the edge of a cage. “This is why Blythe wanted you so bad. I’m such a fucking idiot.” Her wolf image shuddered and disappeared with each of her frenetic heartbeats. She dug her hands into her hair and made fists, yanking at the roots, trying to hold herself on two feet. Lexie sheathed her knife.

“We have to tell Blythe, Renee,” Mitch said.

With no warning, Renee lunged at Lexie, grabbing her by the wrists. The bones in Lexie’s hands folded on top of each other, resisting against Renee’s vice grip. Lexie yanked her arms, and Renee squeezed tighter. Adrenaline pounded in Lexie’s veins, awakening her muscles, waiting for the right moment to surge forward.

“We have to tell Blythe!” Mitch said again. Corwin and Sharmalee shared an agitated glance, waiting for Renee to tell them what to do. Lexie saw their long snouts, sprays of fur, and sharp teeth flash into being.

“Everybody chill. Blythe can stay out of this for now!” Renee snarled at the Pack. She searched Lexie’s face, as if she could see her wolf. “This can’t be. You can’t be both. It’s impossible.” Renee’s face burned russet, while Lexie’s paled. “You come here thinking you know something about us. As if because you’re a peacespeaker, you can see something beyond the tip of your pointy little nose. You know nothing about who we are or what we do.”

“What’s a peacespeaker?” Sharmalee whispered again.

“Shush!” Hazel said.

“Renee, we have to tell Blythe!” Mitch was shouting now.

“Fine!” Renee barked in response. “Corwin, you go.” Like the well-trained dog solider she was, Corwin turned and ran.

As nauseous as she felt, Lexie knew she had to get to Archer, though the path to the south was blocked by Mitch and Sharmalee’s solid frames.

Renee gritted her teeth and dug her nails into Lexie’s wrists. She pulled Lexie back toward the cave.

“No!” Lexie shouted, pulling her wrists to her chest. As she pulled, she kicked Renee, breaking her grip and sending her soaring beyond where the girls stood. Renee landed on the ground by the cave’s mouth. Sharmalee gasped loudly and Mitch moved to attack, but Lexie was already running headlong into the woods. Behind her she heard Mitch say, “Holy shit, she’s a werewolf and a peacespeaker?”

“She’s a werewolf?” Sharmalee asked.

“It’s impossible,” Hazel said.

“It’s not impossible,” Jenna said. “But it’s bad news.” And then Lexie heard nothing more, having run so far so fast.

Chapter 23

At the edge of the world, Archer stepped along the rocks, taking a moment to clear her head. She had run to the coast, to the springs, where the tides crashed at jagged rocks below, and she and Natalee had bathed together so many years ago. She was careful not to step on broken glass as she navigated the cliffside. Apparently, these secret baths were secret no longer, the litter of countless drunken nights scattered at her feet. She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the creeping tension gripping at the muscles of her forehead. She wanted so badly to change. The dawn’s glutted moon had bathed her in its cruel light, teasing her, mocking her impotence. Now, the afternoon’s cold sun seared her eyes, and she cursed its ostentation.

Although Natalee’s death occurred miles away, in the barren lands destroyed by the wildfire, her ghost clung here. Her white skin had been made of the moonlight itself, her hair as deep and black as the nighttime sea, and her eyes the cool gray of the stones surrounding these pools. Archer squatted to the ground, digging her fingers into the algae that carpeted the submerged rocks, remembering Natalee’s slick black fur. The spongy, green flora bruised like overripe fruit beneath the pressure of her fingertips, releasing streams of tiny bubbles before springing back into shape.

Archer thought about Natalee’s perfect skin and its bloodless refusal to spring back to shape as she lay on the chips of slate that formed her deathbed. The red gashes across her body were beautiful in color if crude in execution. The greatest traversed the length of her abdomen, drawing out her organs, their sheen glinting in the moonlight. Archer had known that somewhere beneath the mess of blood and viscera were her pups, barely formed beyond the length of one of her claws. She couldn’t look, wouldn’t look. She never did look. Natalee’s body was wrapped and burned without anyone counting the heirs that burned with her.

Best not to dwell on such things, especially this evening, on the cusp of what, Archer didn’t know. Yet what better time to examine her mistakes and expunge some of the guilt she carried with her?

After this is over, Archer thought, she’d like to take Lexie on a road trip. Lexie would like that. Archer could prove that she still had adventure in her blood, that she could be young and vibrant, too. Maybe take Highway 1 down the coast, racing through the redwoods, digging through tide pools, blazing a trail all the way to Mexico.

Lexie would be her family now, her last chance to love and be loved for the rest of her life. She stood and spoke to the wind, “Goodbye, love.” A simple prayer to her lost lover so she could give herself over to new hope.

Winter was on the horizon. She shivered and turned, eager to head home and plot her next step.

Chapter 24

At the border of Archer’s territory, Lexie picked up her lover’s faded scent as it traced a faint path into the woods and along the river. Its familiarity eased the trauma of the unraveling truths that tangled in her mind. She pushed away the doubts that dogged her. Now was not the time to worry about such things. Archer’s gentle, cedar scent ended in a swirl at the base of their tree. Lexie would have come here anyway, regardless of picking up a scent, knowing where her lover would pace, tending her troubled heart.

At the highest bough, Lexie caught sight of her lover silhouetted by the dying sun. Lexie nearly leapt forth in relief. She was sorry and was ready to say so, wishing only for solace and a friend.

With her first step onto the platform, Lexie realized her mistake. Blythe sat with her legs dangling off the edge, admiring the sunset. She turned when Lexie’s feet hit the wood. Her smile was practiced in its perfection.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Blythe said, as if this treehouse were her home, and she was hosting a party.

Lexie’s heart sank.

“I’d like to have a frank discussion with you. Will you join me?” Blythe gestured to the spot next to her, providing a view through the forest to the ocean. Even from the distance to the edge of the platform, Lexie saw Blythe’s icy shape shift. November’s full moon would rise soon.

Lexie sat.

“This is a lovely spot. It took me forever to figure out where you were. Archer did a great job of ensconcing you up here like Rapunzel,” Blythe said. “She never took me here, must be new.” She was barefoot, her sneakers placed neatly next to her, each holding a sock rolled into a little ball. She inhaled deeply, “Smells like sex.”

Lexie held her breath, avoiding Blythe’s game while trying to track it.

“Lexie, let me just dive in here. I think you might be caught up in something you don’t understand.” She placed her palms in her lap, attempting a gesture of equanimity. “I want to honor the fact that you haven’t been in possession of all the facts, and I think it’s unfair to you. For my part in all of this, I apologize. It was never my intention to put you in the middle of something you didn’t consent to. I hadn’t realized what you’ve been going through. If I had, my sisters and I would have been there to support you from the get-go. Do you understand me?”

Lexie nodded. She thought she was beginning to understand Blythe better than Blythe understood herself.

“Good,” Blythe smiled. “I think it’s only fair that you learn the whole story. In the end, if you would prefer to not stay with the sisters of the Pack, I’ll be disappointed, but I will understand. Likewise, if what I share with you makes you want to stay a part of our family and leave this thing with Archer behind, we will all be elated. Agreed?”

Lexie sat in silence, wondering where the truth was in all this. Blythe was articulate but her intentions confused her. She wished for the clear simplicity of communication with Archer, where the truth was self-evident in her lover’s eyes.

“I want to talk to you about Archer,” Blythe continued, straightening her shoes as if they weren’t already perfectly aligned. “I think it’s important that you know the truth about her. I know you have been spending a lot of time with her. At first, I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone. You never shared it with any of us. I can only assume because you were scared of something, and while I’m disappointed you felt the need to keep your relationship a secret, I think your instincts were correct. I wish you had come clean earlier with the sisters, so we could have avoided heartache. I wish it didn’t have to be the case, but I want you to know I’m here for you.” She paused and offered another studied smile.

“I assume you know Archer’s true identity. You know that she’s not a real woman. Not a real person. Archer poses as one of us at her convenience, to partake of the privileges women like us have won for her.

“You’ve been dealing with your own changes, maybe thinking you might be like her. I know this is confusing, but the truth is so much better than that for you. You’re more than just a wolf like Archer. You’re a wolf, and a real woman. But most importantly, you are a peacespeaker--a seer and an interpreter. You are blessed to be from a noble line of wise women.”

Blythe’s eloquence was surpassed only by her diplomacy, at least in her own mind. Despite the mendacious delivery, Lexie felt like the puzzle of her own mental health was complete and she could see the cracks clearly, as integral parts of the picture itself. The realization jarred Lexie with a tangible tremor.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m sorry to be throwing so much information at you so quickly, but Archer has me backed up to a wall here,” Blythe said. “The Morloc-sired males continue to multiply, and their aggression is going completely unchecked. The Pack is the only army fighting the male menace. Without a peacespeaker, we are at a huge disadvantage,” Blythe said. “Simply speaking, we need your help. With a peacespeaker, the Pack can eliminate the Morloc males completely. With your assistance, we could neutralize the situation within a year.”

Lexie expected Blythe to whip out a prospectus next, her points so well-honed and clinical.

Lexie shook her head before she even noticed herself doing it. “I can’t do that.”

“You’ve seen what these men can do,” Blythe said.

“Yes, but--”

“Half the members of the Pack are with me because they had their insides gouged by a monster. They had their dignity and their humanity stripped from them while the rest of the campus worried about finals. You want to know a fight, Lexie? Imagine going up against one of those werewolves when you were just a normal girl. No weapons, no means of fighting back but to scream or cry and finally concede.”

“Christ, Blythe,” Lexie shooed her voice away, not wanting to imagine such horrors.

“What happened to Duane was nothing, nothing compared to what three of your sisters experienced less than two years ago.” She spoke each syllable deliberately to ensure her point was sinking in. “In refusing to help our cause, you are implicitly siding with the rapists, the killers, and the bigots of this town. You’re helping them with your inaction.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair, Lexie, is sitting on your hands when you have access to a precious gift that none of the women you care about have. You’ll never know what that’s like, to be pinned and terrorized like my girls, because you have your fabulous new powers and a pureblood girlfriend. But your girlfriend let six of my sisters die on the battlefield. What makes you think she’ll save you?”

“I can save myself.”

Blythe smirked. “Care to test that theory?”

“What makes the males so different than us? Who’s to say they’re all monsters?”

“Maybe a small percentage of the males are cognizant during the moon like we are. But they are a small price to pay to eliminate the threat entirely.”

“Easy to say when it’s not you who’s paying the price.”

Blythe fixed Lexie with her steely gaze, but rage burned behind the steel, and the scent of Blythe’s perspiration scalded Lexie’s nostrils. “Women have been paying the price since the beginning of time. Let the men pay for once.”

“Doesn’t sound very egalitarian of you, Blythe.” Lexie tried to capitalize on Blythe’s tiny fractures, to see what would creep in between the cracks.

Blythe sighed. “Lexie, I’ve been desperate for an intellectual equal for years, and it would be lovely if you were one. But you aren’t. Trying to use my intellect against me is a weak, though clever, strategy.”

“You can’t make me do this.”

Blythe smirked at Lexie’s resistance. “Perhaps. Though I do find Archer’s influence on you disconcerting. I’d happily kill her to free up some of your time. Would likely improve your grades, too.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your working-class roots are truly charming. I admire your aspirational nature, but not your adherence to worn, sexist clich√©s that rely on sexually violent speech to make your points.”

“We’re done,” Lexie rose and walked across the platform, ready to dive headlong through the branches.

“No. We’re not.” Blythe’s voice boomed. “Your ‘girlfriend’ is responsible for too many deaths, and I won’t let her be responsible for your reticence at watching a couple of rapist-murderer-thugs get what’s coming to them.”

“You’re the murderer.”

“Who are we talking about here?” Blythe grinned. “Because I have an alibi.”

“Does Renee?” Lexie asked.

Blythe sighed and rolled her eyes. “They weren’t boys, they were werewolves. Duane is alive because he is human.”

“They weren’t werewolves. You killed Brian because you hated him and for no other reason.”

“No other reason? I can name plenty!”

“You’re a murderer.”

“I am not. But Archer is. Isn’t that right, Archer?” Blythe said.

Lexie turned as Archer landed behind her. Archer kept her eyes on Blythe, sizing her up. Lexie brushed Archer’s arm, wanting to apologize for everything but fearing what truths she was concealing.

“Why don’t you tell Lexie how many people you’ve killed?” Blythe said, giddy with control.

Archer grasped Lexie’s shoulders, looking into her eyes with a seriousness that scared Lexie as much as it fortified her. They spoke without speaking and Lexie knew she still trusted her, though fearing the veracity of Blythe’s words.

Archer paced toward Blythe, who rose to meet her. Blythe was taller than Archer, but only by a couple of inches. Lexie’s sight burned them in different colors as they confronted one another, Blythe with an aura of purple like the twilit sky, Archer’s the gold of the autumn around them.

“You look good, Blythe,” Archer said.

“Survival suits me,” she replied.

“You’re holding a grudge,” Archer said, more apology than challenge.

“Why are you back? What do you think you have to offer?”

“I know it was right to leave when I did, but the situation was left unfinished. I’m back to finish what I started. I’d like to help.”

“We don’t need your help.”

“You’ve lost two girls, and the male population has grown.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You’re right. No thanks to me. Now will you let me help?”

“Hardly,” Blythe said.

“I’m still the Alpha of this pack.”

“You were a lousy Alpha. If your leadership was worth our sisters’ lives, you would have seen the Morloc situation a mile off. Instead, you sat chambered in your ego, ruling from the distance of a king. You were oblivious to all of us, especially Natalee. She needed someone to confide in, and you weren’t there for her, or any of us towards the end.”

“I never lost track of you.” Archer’s voice betrayed her emotion. “I was scared. It’s a big job keeping that many alive.”

“I’ve been doing it for ten years, no thanks to you,” Blythe said. “You left your job half-done.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Why do you think my new pack has grown so quickly? It’s those fucking males! They’re still out there, and they’ve mastered their changes. They’re as violent and anarchistic as ever. Completely bestial. You left me with that!”

“I’ve come back. This pack is my kin.”

“They are NOT your kin!”

Watching the two argue like wounded women, Lexie wondered what they had been like as allies rather than enemies. She would have liked to have known them then.

“You left me with a mess, Archer. This is my pack because they had no one else to follow. I didn’t choose these women. They chose me. It’s my pack, Archer. And you can go to hell before I let them follow you.”

“They would follow me if you gave them a choice--”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“And I won’t let you have Lexie.”

“She’s not a possession to be bought and sold.”

“Nor is she another one of your pawns to be trotted out when you’re in a tight spot. What good is she to you anyway?”

“You really don’t know?” Blythe laughed. “I can’t tell if you’re a worse alpha or lover.”

Archer snarled as the women talked about Lexie as if she wasn’t there.

“Well, Archer, it appears our sassy little Summer Pace had a daughter, and she never bothered to tell anyone.”

Archer’s face dropped. She looked agog to Lexie, who herself stood dumbfounded, feeling more naked now than any of the evenings she had slept in Archer’s arms.

“No,” Archer shook her head.

Blythe nodded, lips twitching with glee at Archer’s denial.

“No, no,” Archer shook her head, and Lexie recognized that look. Not betrayal. Horror. “Lexie.”

“You sired a peacespeaker, Archer.”

“I didn’t. I--I’m sorry. Lexie, I didn’t know. I would have told you, but I didn’t know.”

Lexie’s heart felt as though it had ceased beating, and it sat like a rock in her throat. She wanted to sob or console Archer, but she was frozen, watching her lover’s world shatter and not understanding why.

“I want you gone,” Blythe said.

“I’m here to stay,” Archer spat.

“You think the other packs will abide that? You think they’ll let you stay and resume your alpha status having committed the gravest taboo of our kind? Your naivet√© would be endearing if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

“This is my home.”

“I intend to change that,” Blythe said. The secret behind her smile was revealed as the breeze shifted. Smoke. It came from the east and grew thicker by the moment.

Archer drew machine-gun inhalations as Lexie rushed to the east edge of the platform. Above the trees rose a thin plume of smoke.

“Goddammit, Blythe!” Archer shouted.

“Lexie, this is the choice you have,” Blythe said. “Follow a failed leader or become a part of a family that will give you purpose and community.”

Not waiting to hear Lexie’s decision, Archer leapt out of the tree and bolted for her cabin.

Blythe’s turned to Lexie with a smug smile. “Well, I guess we know where her priorities are.”

“You know what, Blythe? Fuck off.” Lexie turned and leapt out of the tree.

As her feet hit the earth, the howling began.

Chapter 25

The flames had risen above the tree line when Archer and Lexie dove across the river. The sky glowed purple along its edges; the full moon would rise soon. Their footfalls carried them to the final trees before the clearing and Archer’s cabin. The women of the Pack stood back from the house, watching the fire crawl over the walls. The timber, with the addition of kerosene, had ignited like kindling. Smoke poured from the cracks between the logs. The women were silhouetted by the flames, watching as their handiwork took hold. A haze of smoke swirled in the space between the burning house and the forest’s edge.

Renee was closest to the cabin, holding Archer’s ax in one hand, watching rapt as the fire licked at the stone chimney. Corwin and Sharmalee stood off to the side, Sharm’s arms crossed against her chest, her face to the ground. It appeared as though she were crying, though it may have been the smoke. Perhaps she was just holding her breath, waiting for the moon. Mitch held the can of kerosene by the handle, looking shell shocked in the firelight. Hazel and Jenna stood farthest away, nearly in full shadow. In Lexie’s eyes, all of the women’s faces shifted between wolf and human.

Hazel gasped and shouted, “They’re here!”

The women shifted their stances. Renee’s eyes caught Lexie’s before moving away. In the fire’s light, Renee’s bloodshot eyes held a mixture of doubt and rage.

Archer and Lexie took a tentative step into the meadow, and no one seemed to know what to do.

Blythe bounded from the woods and leapt onto the cab of Lexie’s truck as if she owned it. Towering over the women, Lexie watched her pale skin glint with firelit white fur.

“You’ve been siring,” Blythe said to Archer, theatrically, as though they hadn’t already spoken in the treehouse. This confrontation was for the benefit of the Pack.

“You were exiled. Now you’ve sired a peacespeaker. You’ve broken the rules.”

“What rules?” Archer asked impertinently.

“The rules of our kind.”

“I TAUGHT you those rules!”

“Just like a pureblood, to fight against the very rules you espouse when it suits you.”

Archer snarled, her diplomacy tapped out in the face of her burning house.

“Nobody ‘sired’ me,” Lexie interrupted, feeling silly even as she opened her mouth to defend Archer. “I drank from a footprint.”

“I’m not here to quibble over details,” Blythe snapped at Lexie before turning again on Archer. “Your crimes are plenty. Even if you didn’t sire this peacespeaker, you did kill one.”

“What?” Lexie said, the word catching in her throat. She swayed, the growing heat from her mind or the flames, she didn’t know. She thought about swallowing and how she might accomplish that, to settle the roil that shook at her stomach. Despite countless, careless moments in the treehouse, she felt that here on the ground was the first time falling was a real possibility.

She inhaled, forcing air into her diaphragm to silence her nausea. She couldn’t . . . it was too much . . .

A tear cut a path down Archer’s cheek and evaporated. “Lexie, listen to me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know any of it.”

“She’s dead?”

Lexie’s heart felt as though it had ceased beating, and it sat like a rock in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Because of you?”

Lexie looked to Archer, whose stunning and pained face glowed like it did the night around the fire when Lexie sang and fell in love.

Lexie was suddenly ashamed to be exposed like this, unsure of the truth that unfolded around her. Her neck began to sweat and her earlobes burned.

Archer lowered her head. Her shoulders slumped.

“Archer?” Lexie tried to catch Archer’s eyes. The girls shifted on their feet.

Blythe spoke to Lexie, “I’m sorry you had to learn the truth this way. It certainly wasn’t my intention to hurt or humiliate you. I want you to know that we’re here for you.”

Sharmalee nodded emphatically, her hands held as in prayer over her sternum. Jenna and Hazel nodded too. Renee stood motionless, save for her jaw, which clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

“You’re lying,” Archer spat, squeezing her fists tight to stave off the wolf. “You only want her because she’s valuable to you.”

“Are you implying that she’s valueless to you?” Blythe smiled.

“She’s not a commodity, Blythe.” The steeliness of Archer’s voice sent chills creeping down Lexie’s spine.

“Then why did you turn her life into one?”

“I DIDN’T SIRE HER!” Archer boomed, her throat forcing out sounds made of both human and wolf at once.

“You beasts are all the same. You fight over human lives as if they were carcasses, willing to draw blood from each other for gristle,” Blythe said.

“That isn’t what this is about. You’re terrified of me because you know you’re a lousy leader and that given the chance, I’d run this Pack better than you ever could,” Archer said. “You’re only an alpha because there was no one left alive to do the job.”

“No one until now, apparently,” Blythe said. “Allow me to finish that.”

Archer walked forward and Blythe leapt from the truck. They met in the smoky meadow that had once been Archer’s backyard.

“My girls will eviscerate you,” Blythe snarled.

“They may know how to kill werewolves, but could they kill a woman?” Archer asked.

Blythe scowled. “Let’s find out.”

With a hurtling fist, Archer struck Blythe’s face, sending her flying onto her back. Blood streamed from Blythe’s nose, a bright red shock against her milk-white skin. Blythe staggered to her feet and leapt back at Archer. The moon was not yet above the tree line, but Blythe had no problem shifting in midair, from woman to wolf. A great, white creature, she landed on Archer’s human body, slamming her to the ground and knocking her breathless. Archer groaned with pain before kicking back and flipping Blythe off of her.

Blythe whipped to her four feet and ran at Archer, who met her snapping jaws with her hands, gripping Blythe’s snout and leaping onto her back.

Renee watched the fight, and Lexie watched Renee. She knew that Renee didn’t understand the truth, was merely acting under Blythe’s orders. Renee grappled with the half-truths Blythe fed her, like the women now grappled on the grass, none of it adding up.

Archer straddled Blythe’s back, her arm barred across Blythe’s throat, cutting through the soft tissue below her jaw, making Blythe stagger and buck. Though Blythe waved her large, heavy head, Archer held fast. The girls shouted for Blythe to destroy Archer. Unable to dislodge her, Blythe threw herself onto her side and rolled her heavy frame onto Archer, knocking her loose.

“No!” Lexie screamed. The Pack cheered as blood seeped from Archer’s scalp. Blythe ran at her and seized her shoulder in her jaws, lifting Archer from the ground and shaking her like a rag doll before tossing her in the direction of the burning cabin. Archer fell to the ground mere feet from the flames, her shirt soaking red with blood. Archer gasped and coughed.

“I don’t want to kill you, Blythe.”

Blythe grinned with a mouthful of bloodied teeth, saying, We never did agree on anything.

Archer staggered to standing, the heat of her burning home drying her blood. The girls beyond flinched at the crackle of weakening logs.

Blythe lowered her head and swayed her heavy, white tail. She ran at Archer, ready to ram her into the flames. As she closed in, Archer stepped forward and, like slipping off a robe, she sloughed off her human disguise. Blythe’s pure white beast met Archer’s gray one with a great crash and snarl. Archer caught Blythe’s shoulders with her paws and used her momentum to hurl the white wolf through the wall of flame. Logs caved and snapped, crashing with Blythe into the fire. Without a moment’s hesitation, Archer leapt in after her.

Desperate, Lexie moved toward the cabin. Renee grabbed Lexie’s hand and jerked her back, intertwining her fingers with Lexie’s. It felt comforting, before Renee began to squeeze. Lexie’s muscles tensed with the urgency to act, and Renee responded by bearing down. Lexie nearly tore her own arm off as she tried to wrench herself free from Renee’s grasp, but unlike before, Renee wouldn’t underestimate her strength. She dug her nails into Lexie’s hands, squeezing off the circulation. Lexie twisted and fought like a rabid dog on a leash.

“Let me go!” Lexie shouted.

“Like hell,” Renee said. Spotting Lexie’s knife she tore the holster from her belt. Lexie swatted and scratched at Renee, but the tall girl evaded her attacks. Renee grabbed the knife by the handle, dropping it with a shout. Lexie stared wide-eyed as Renee shook her hand as though she had been bitten.

Lexie reached down and picked up the knife, unsheathing it and brandishing it in front of Renee’s face. She staggered back, releasing Lexie’s wrist. Lexie smiled with her newfound power, leaning into Renee’s face.

“Blythe made you a murderer. If I’m this ‘peacespeaker’, you just killed three innocent boys so she wouldn’t have to.”

“They weren’t innocents,” Renee snarled.

“Brian was an asshole. He was a pig, and he was a rapist. But he wasn’t a werewolf. So tell me one more time, who are you really fighting?”

Renee’s face burned red with the reflected flames. Her lips curled from her teeth. Her eyes flicked over Lexie’s shoulder to the two wolves grappling in the cabin and she doubled over, releasing a scream from the lowest parts of her. Not yet a wolf, her howl was purely human, driven by grief and horror. When her lungs were spent she did it again. Lexie watched, her own insides hurting for the pain she had to inflict, but also from jealousy for Renee’s grief. Lexie should be able to make those same sounds in honor of her mother, but there was no anguish to be found there.

Renee sank to the ground, her face buried in her knees. Lexie abandoned her, shoving her knife through her belt as she ran to the cabin. The heat made Lexie dizzy as soon as she burst in. She coughed as though her whole throat wanted to evacuate her body. The smoke was thick, and white spots appeared like flashbulbs in her field of vision. Lexie called Archer’s name over the cacophony of cracking timber and growling flames. Through the smoke, she saw Blythe and Archer crash into the kitchen table, sending it flying.

Lexie clamored to Archer, the smoke clawing its way down her throat, forcing out the oxygen. She stumbled to her knees, coughing heavily, her throat burning. If she could change, she would be alright; her body could withstand this. But she couldn’t change. She retched onto the floor of the cabin, spitting and gasping. Archer and Blythe snarled at one another, both gunning for blood. Through the haze of her waning vision, Lexie watched as Archer and Blythe traded swipes and bites. Archer had Blythe by the scruff, and then, as quick as a heartbeat, Blythe had Archer pinned.

She tried to shout to Archer but it came out as a breathy croak, “I can’t change!”

Her cry stole Archer’s attention, and Blythe struck. She rammed her head into Archer’s side, sending her flying into the kitchen and knocking the propane tank onto its side.

Lexie tried to scream, but her voice was scorched by the smoke. She lurched forward, her limbs refusing to heed her commands. She grabbed the knife on her belt, the heated handle burning her palm. She croaked a pained scream as her skin melted against the hilt, but she didn’t release her grip. Lexie ran to the wolves and slashed the blade across Blythe’s haunch. Red welled up, staining the white fur.

Blythe lurched to standing and shrank into her human body. Lexie gasped to watch the change reversed so cleanly. Blythe screamed her pain in a human voice, her skin burning red with the heat and rage. She snarled and threw her fist across Lexie’s face, knocking her onto her back.

The whole cabin creaked under the burden of weakened supports and shifting weight. Archer barked and pounced, throwing Blythe onto her back, scratching and writhing, trying to catch some flesh in her claws. Archer hesitated before going for her throat, wishing the end didn’t have to be so clean. As she drove her jaws down to Blythe’s exposed throat, Blythe shifted back into her white wolf form.

The cabin groaned as the great trunk at the apex of the roof split in two and careened to the floor, crashing onto Archer’s spine, knocking her away from Blythe. With a yelp, she slid across the ash-covered floor and went still.

Lexie wanted to scream, but there was no air with which to do so. She gasped and retched, struggling to her feet.

Change! The moon must be up by now. Change!!! She begged in every language she knew, but her wolf didn’t heed her cries. Her eyes burned as tears struggled to flush out the ash.

Knife in hand, she crawled toward the wolves. Blythe stood and circled like a white menace, her cold blue eyes peering through the smoke for her prey. She surveyed the unconscious Archer, a lupine grin curling at her lips. One blow was all it would take and Archer would be gone forever. Blythe reared back, intent on the soft fur on her enemy’s throat. Her teeth glinted red in the firelight. Lexie gasped and choked, unable to scream. Blythe lunged through the smoke toward Archer’s stretched throat, but her jaws didn’t meet their target. A dark brown blur crashed through the room, tearing Blythe away from Archer. The light and dark creatures tumbled over one another.

Renee and Blythe fought, clawing and snapping at one another with renewed vehemence. Lexie crawled to Archer, throwing her arms around the wolf’s heavy skull as the flames closed in.

Come on, Archer. Get up. Archer roused as Lexie faded. Lexie had a dark and distant impression of a vise closing around her body, of teeth pressing but not breaking skin, of being dragged across ash and flame, and then cool grass and clean air.

She roused, clinging to Archer’s ashen fur as she coughed out her lungs. From inside the fire came the barking of wolf-speech.

You made me a murderer, Renee growled at Blythe.

You chose this! Blythe chattered back, gasping and coughing.

I chose to be a soldier, not a killer. I was fighting for something I believed in, not personal grudges.

Outside, the moon’s light outshined by the flames, the Pack watched the cabin dissolve into an inferno. The midnight-black Sharmalee whined high in her throat, and Corwin’s broad, caramel paw held her head against her shoulder. Hazel, tiny and mottled gray, sat on the ground, facing away from the fire as a golden Jenna nervously fidgeted with the collar of the clothes folded neatly at her feet. Mitch paced, burly and brindle, jerking toward the fire, and then away. None of them paid any mind as Archer dragged Lexie past them and back into the woods where the cold, moist air could expunge the soot from her lungs.

Archer and Lexie made it to the river before they heard the final crack of the rafters and a cacophonous explosion. Archer turned to the clearing, watching as the girls all gasped and cried out. The cabin had caved in completely, the walls replaced by fire.

Amidst the swirling smoke stood a solitary figure with dark brown fur, lean and tall, her muzzle coated in a thick, red sheen. She looked like a fire goddess, flames dancing behind her dark, tufted fur, her black eyes reflecting flames as if she could create them by deeming it so. She shook the timber off her solid back and looked to her sisters, then to the sky. Drifting ash mixed with tiny flakes of snow. Renee took one step through the flames, away from the limp white figure at her feet, before throwing her head back on her neck and releasing a howl from the depths of her body.

It was a mournful and prideful howl, honoring the turn of the tides and her new position as alpha of the Pack. The girls walked to her, throwing back their heads and joining her in their song of sorrow and celebration.

Chapter 26

The moon had set by the time Lexie awoke. She blinked up at a swath of indigo sky, shattered by the shadows of pine needles. She was in their treehouse, lying on the sheepskin she knew so well. A silent prayer of thanks skittered through her head as she realized Archer was with her here. Their world might have burned, but she had survived.

Lexie’s throat throbbed, raw and painful. Turning her head to the side, she saw a tall glass of water, in which tiny flakes of river flotsam danced in the approaching sunlight. Beyond the glass, Archer sat with her back to Lexie, her legs dangling over the edge of the platform, her silhouette bathed in shadow.

“How do you feel?” Archer asked sullenly, over her shoulder.

Lexie tried to talk but what came out was a short, gruff, cough. Her head was woozy, and she could use two more weeks of sleep, but she was alive. She looked at the palm of her hand, pink and raw, the delicate moon-shaped runes from the knife’s hilt scalded into her flesh.

Blythe’s death moved her little. The realization left her feeling cold inside, cruel, especially compared to Archer, who seemed to take on the burden of the death and infighting as if it were her sole responsibility. Lexie spoke across the distance, ashamed at the truth of her words. “Perhaps it was a just death, Archer.”

“I don’t think justice works like that, Lexie.”

“Perhaps it was just a death, then.”

A sniffle. Archer had been crying. Lexie crawled over to her. Her clothes were filthy, smelling like kerosene and char. Archer was nude.

“There are so many things that don’t make sense to me about you,” Archer said, wiping her eyes.

“Ask me anything,” Lexie said, laying a hand on Archer’s back. “I’ll tell you.”

Archer struggled to smile. “I don’t mean you specifically. People. I don’t get them.”

“Oh,” Lexie said. “Well, I think you and I have that in common.”

“You take so much for granted.”

“Like what?”

“It took me decades to be able to move through the world without feeling like a monster. Even at your most awkward, you are elegant. As elegant as any human, at least. Things like emotion, loyalty, love. I feel . . .” Archer sighed. “I feel like I’m a different species.”

“You are.”

“I know. But it’s not such a fun thing to feel. It’s more fun to forget. To think I’m among my kind when I’m with you. But . . .”

Lexie knew no platitudes would do the job here. She sat, like Archer had sat with her innumerable times, as Archer talked through her grief.

“I didn’t do a good job,” Archer said, her voice filled with tears. Her eyes were red, darting towards Lexie then back into the forest, shame flushing her ears and chest. “I didn’t save my Pack.”

“Maybe you did.”

“Blythe’s death--it was my fault.”

“It was Renee’s fault,” Lexie corrected.

“But it was my Pack.”

“I think you and I have different standards of accountability.”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I could have done something.”

“No, Archer, you couldn’t. They made their own choices. Give them the responsibility for their actions.”

“I believe in loyalty.”

“So do I,” said Lexie, but in her voice was an apology.

Archer turned to her, her mouth half-hidden behind her shoulder. She chewed on her lip.

Lexie wedged her hands beneath her thighs, “You don’t deserve the blame for my mother’s death, do you?”

“I was commanding the field.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“To me it does.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. But that’s okay.”

“It sounds sick, but I’m kind of relieved to know the truth about her,” Lexie said. “I never tried to track her down. Well, I never tried hard. I kind of figured that if she cared, she wouldn’t have left in the first place. In a way, I suppose, she was always dead to me.”

Archer honored that admission with silence.

“Temes tumtum,” Lexie said. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Archer nodded with a sad smile. “Little heartbeat.”

“Damn,” Lexie muttered. “I wish she had taught me her language. That is really sweet.”

“It’s not Cree. It’s Chinook jargon--a Creole language. A pastiche. Just like you.”

Lexie smiled and rested her hand on Archer’s. “And you.”

Archer’s smile faded. “I can’t stay here.” Archer looked at her hands, holding her breath for a long while. “Blythe was right. Other packs will hear about this. They’ll think I am to blame.”

“But I know the truth. So does the Pack.”

“I wish that was enough.”

Archer looked out into the twilight and sighed. “Will you come with me?”

Lexie knew this was coming. She knew there’d be a departure, and a question. There would be talk of family and futures. There would be the fantasies laid out in her mind as tangible for the very first time. That it was happening now, that Archer extended her hand in invitation now, atop so much death, so much wreckage, sullied the anticipation of it.

“Where?”

“Elsewhere. Anywhere. New territory, new life.”

“As women or as wolves?”

“Whichever we want, whenever we want.”

“But I can’t--”

“I can teach you.”

“--I can’t just leave college,” Lexie continued.

“You don’t need college.”

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

“You’ll learn more about life being on the road. College is just one of infinite paths; why not try one more interesting?”

“I’ll need you too much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes, there is. I’m just learning how to be on my own. I couldn’t even leave the state to go to college. I grew up, like fifty miles from here, and this the farthest I’ve ever been away from home!”

“That’s what I’m saying. We can travel together!”

“I want to travel,” Lexie nodded. “I want to see amazing things and meet amazing people and all of that.”

“That’s what I’m offering you.”

“But I want to do it in my own time.”

“Come with me,” Archer said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I won’t.”

Archer’s face twisted with tears and regret. “I’m sorry I killed that man. I’m sorry Blythe is dead. I’m sorry I let your mother die.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m not mad at you anymore, for any of that.” Lexie shook her head, expecting tears but finding she had none left. It made her feel clean. “I spent my whole life thinking that my mother skipped out to follow some deadbeat across the country, lost in love. I grew up believing she was stupid and weak, and maybe crazy.”

Lexie gaped at the audacity of her mistake. “Tonight I learned that she was some shaman, some magical diplomat.” She chuckled, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her soot-freckled hand. “And yet I still feel like she was a complete fool.”

Lexie spat the last word as if she could expel the thought that way. “I’m not going to follow love like some hungry bloodhound. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. Not now. I’m eighteen. I need to be eighteen for a little while.”

“I want to have a family with you.”

“I know.”

“I will be the best mate for you.”

“Probably.”

“I will love you and take care of you. Come with me.”

Lexie grimaced now, unable to sew up her heartbreak, plumbing its depths to sear its characteristics into her memory, recognizing the worth of this moment. She tried to apologize, to look into Archer’s eyes and tell her so, hoping that would make her understand. But Lexie wasn’t sorry.

“Blythe was right, Archer. This situation is out of control. Let me do this for you. Let me finish what you can’t. Blythe was a tyrant, but she was right that we can win. I think the Pack is doing it wrong. My dreams were my mother’s instructions. They weren’t just telling me how to recognize werewolves, they were telling me how to communicate with them. I believe that Renee will be a good leader, and I think I can help. The Pack needs me. “

“I need you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I want you.”

“I want you, too.”

“Please come with me.”

“No.”

Archer’s hand tightened on Lexie’s, squeezing as if to make their bodies merge. “I can change. I will change for you.”

“What for?”

“We could marry.”

“You’d become a man to marry me?”

Archer nodded, her desperation clawing at her features.

“That’s insane.”

“I could, I think. I would. For you.”

“Please don’t.”

A solemn silence filled the space between them.

“Where will you go?” Lexie asked.

“I don’t know. South. Maybe the desert for a while. I’m tired of trees.”

Lexie kissed Archer gently. They held one another for long and lonely minutes, Lexie breathing deep to take in as much of Archer as she could.

“I love you so much, Lexie.”

“I know,” Lexie said. “I love you, too.”

Chapter 27

The sun didn’t rise that morning. Instead, the whole sky grew brighter at once, like a lazy florescent bulb, slowly clicking itself into action. While her peers were waking with hangovers or pressing snooze on their alarms, Lexie tried once more to mourn her mother.

She was alone again within the familiar comfort of her truck, and though she was free to cry or scream, none of it came. She tried running through the meager catalogue of memories she had stored in her mind--her mother braiding her hair, singing her lullabies, zipping up her jacket. The banality of the memories evoked only cold remove. She wondered whether this nothingness she felt was reflective of her lack of feelings for her mother, or whether it boded a hard-heartedness she had never recognized in herself before.

Staring in the rearview mirror, Lexie smacked herself in the face, hard, to see what it felt like. The marks of her fingers swelled on her skin. It felt like nothing. She did it again, and then once more. Warmth came, then pain. Another hit, and she drew forth tears. It felt like a small accomplishment, seeing the tiny tear well at her right eye. It proved she was still part human, if nothing else.

Lexie drove away from Archer’s cabin, stopping at the River View Diner. She joined the flanneled workingmen enjoying their hearty breakfasts and black coffee. She squinted at everyone in the diner, trying to glean werewolves in people’s clothing. Instead, she just saw the tired and solemn faces of third shifters and day-workers. No one paid her any mind, and she remembered for a moment that to the residents of Milton, she was just another townie, no one special. She watched them eating alone, reading the newspaper, or just looking blankly ahead, chewing. Lexie practiced being like them, complete in her solitude. She could do that again, or at least she would like to try.

It was ages since she’d eaten, and she was forced to blot up a pool of her saliva that splashed the table as she read the menu.

The sausage and gravy settled heavy her belly as her truck rumbled to the Den. Frost fought at her windshield, and she pined for a sweatshirt for the first time in months. The Den was dark, but she could hear the crying and murmured conversation of the women from the driveway.

She turned the knob without knocking, knowing that they all heard her as she pulled up. She stepped gingerly through the space. The girls sprawled around the living room floor, not unlike Lexie’s first night in this room. Corwin dozed as Sharmalee lay on her chest, weeping quietly, clutching at the flesh of Corwin’s belly. Jenna scratched Mitch’s head as he leaned forward on the heels of his hands, his bleary, bloodshot eyes fixed on the square of carpet between his ankles. He looked as though he were running out of tears and relied on Jenna’s hands to squeeze out whatever was left. Hazel curled beneath a blanket in the corner, snoring.

Apart from them all stood Renee. She leaned over the kitchen sink beneath a solitary incandescent light, blotting at a wound on her left arm. It was deep and ragged, the gap showing all shades of red. She had dressed the wound once already, the old bandages lying in a rusty heap on the counter top. Her hair was charred, divots of it missing like a pillow short on stuffing. She turned as Lexie entered, digging her fingers into her hair in a vain attempt to fix it.

They looked at one another like survivors and wished for one blessed moment for the sisters to be out of ear-shot. Lexie felt like a traitor, and in Renee’s exhausted eyes, she could tell she felt the same way. In that gaze, Lexie felt as if she were pardoned by a crooked judge. She had given up on the lifelong embrace of her love to stand in a cold kitchen among sobbing women at seven a.m. on a Sunday.

Their shared silence was a show of solidarity, though Lexie’s nerves were frayed by the pool of women in the other room. She desperately needed to be alone, but her unawareness of the fact was magnified by her need to be scratched behind the ears and told that everything would be okay. So, she stood with her sisters to hide among the shell-shocked.

“Things will change,” Renee said, exhaustion stealing the elan from her voice. “Blythe was a hypocrite. I won’t make her mistakes.”

Lexie nodded with a half-hearted smile.

“Take my room tonight,” Renee said. “I’m sleeping in Blythe’s. Always wanted an eastern view.” She laughed without humor. Lexie didn’t join in. “Thank you,” Renee said. She didn’t smile, but Lexie felt the words’ truth. Lexie’s bleary eyes burned. She nodded.

In Renee’s room, Lexie squeezed her eyes shut as she stripped, trying to feel the fleece beneath her cheek, the wood grain ripple against her fingers. She thought of that night at the Full Moon Tribe, experiencing her last few moments of pure humanity, and the events that made up her life since. Frost clung to the window, not yet burned off by the morning. It looked like it might snow again. Somehow it had become winter and Lexie had missed it entirely.

The cotton sheets scratched her skin. She sighed, bitter at her discomfort. Stretching and squeezing, trying to make herself comfortable on this unforgiving bed, Lexie kicked off the sheets and buried her face in her hands. The cool, still air of the room crept over her skin, its chill easily mistaken for the crispness that filled her head each morning as she awoke in Archer’s arms.

Lexie feared she had made the wrong choice, even as she knew in her heart she hadn’t. In saying no, Lexie had sent a glorious love away. Yet, as she lay in the brightening room, she realized that in saying no to Archer, she was saying yes to something else. She struggled to hold that in her mind, to play with the possibilities of that yes.

As sleep came to steal her from the turmoil of her mind, her back shivered, craving the curve of her lover’s body to rescue her from the coming chill.

Acknowledgements

The existence of this book is due in part to the silent and bawdy support of my extraordinary community of friends, lovers, peers, family chosen and family borne.

Great thanks to those who read and commented of various drafts and sections of this book: Tatyana Brown, Julianne Carroll, Katie Lippa, and friend Jeff.

To the Goddess of Track Changes and my knight in shining corsetry, Alyc Helms.

To Jon Imparato, for your generosity of spirit and keen artistic mind. You have been like a father to me for years, and I love you.

To Matt Walker. If Jon is my spirit dad, you’re my wacky uncle. Thanks for lending me your eagle eyes.

To the extraordinary community of people at the LA Gay & Lesbian Center. Thank you for the work you do and the home you gave me while I nurtured my artistic self-expression.

To Caryn Solly, for your tough love and grounded enthusiasm.

To Professor David Higgins for your love, respect, and wisdom. You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.

To JP for your boundless creativity and generosity. Thank you for creating such a gorgeous image to go with my story.

To Kara Wuest for sound judgment and guidance.

To Mom and Dad, who told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up, and meant it.

To Adrienne and Ken, for putting my coming-out article on their fridge.

To the women of Camp Beaverton, who showed me what a righteous group of babes looks and feels like. You are my inspiration.

To the supportive community of online readers and fans, for cheering me on and sticking with me over years of development and postponements.

To the legion of couch and spare-room owners who happily housed and fed me when I decided that the thing to do in a down economy was quit my job and write a novel.

To all the acquaintances who said “Lesbian werewolves? I’ll totally read that.”

And beyond all, love and thanks to Reid Mihalko, my cheerleader, my pace car, my powerful exception, and my biggest champion.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Allison Moon is a founding member of Camp Beaverton for Wayward Girls. She grew up exploring the woods of Ohio, and now she's exploring a different kind of wildlife in the California Bay Area. In 2011, she was named a Lambda Literary Foundation Emerging LGBT Writers Fellow. Lunatic Fringe is her first novel. Learn more at http://www.TalesofthePack.com