Hunter's Moon: Chapter 1

By the end of this story, I will fight a shapeshifting monster. And I'll be one too.

For Amber: I promised you a good werewolf story. This was the best I could do.

By the end of this story, I will fight a shapeshifting monster. And I'll be one too. But before any of that happens, I have to survive the car line at Sunny Meadow Elementary School.

Car line is actually one of the nine circles of Hell. It looks boring enough, but once you're stuck there with all the other unsuspecting parents, you realize you're trapped. The asphalt loop that circles the school is a Wi-Fi and cell data dead zone, which must be intentional on the school's part and no doubt requires black magic of the highest order. Social media apps won't open, forget catching up on your favorite Netflix show, you can't even reply to an email. The school obviously wants us parents to be paying attention when we pick up or drop off our kiddos and make sure we don't run anybody else's over in the process. 

Which I get. I don't want to run over anybody's kids—except maybe the teenage boys who live down the street and think it’s the height of comedy to ding-dong ditch their neighbors at ten o'clock at night—but I would like to be able to at least check my email during the hour-long wait for school dismissal. 

Not that I get a lot of emails. I'm not one of those moms who is also a C-suite executive or an entrepreneur. I don't make million-dollar deals or launch new products on Etsy or Amazon. The only job I've ever had, actually, was working as a receptionist at my ex-husband's office. That job ended long before the marriage did. Once Izzie was born—the child I'm currently sitting in Hell Line waiting to pick up—Blake made it clear that it was more important for me to be at home, keeping the house clean and the meals hot, than to pursue a career. I failed at those things, too, for those keeping score at home.

I could read, except that even with the AC blasting, cars sitting in the Florida sun become giant Easy Bake Ovens, and reading in that warm, quiet cocoon always makes me sleepy. I've seen other parents doze off—head back, mouth open—only to be woken by the angry blatting of car horns when the line starts moving. 

What I can do to thwart boredom is crochet. Baby blankets, baby hats, booties, and little toys called amigurumi. I make adult hats and scarves too, but I like working with the bright, happy colors of baby yarn. I pull a length of yarn from my crochet bag and loop it around the hook. Look at the clock on my car's dashboard—thirty more minutes. Enough time to get a few more rows done on another baby blanket. I'm making a shell pattern; it eats a lot of yarn, but women love them, especially for baby girls. This one is in a soft, recycled cotton yarn with dark purple, pale lilac, and teal. Perfect for a mermaid-themed nursery. 

I used to give all my creations away, but since the divorce I've started selling them at farmers markets and craft fairs. Our alimony settlement pays the rent, at least for another two years, and I'm not really qualified to do much of anything, so at least this lets me feel like I'm earning something. It isn't much, it certainly isn't a career, but it's the only money I have that isn't tied to Blake. And I'll be damned if I'm going to give that up. 

Exes are like demons—you can summon them just by saying their name. Blake must be a particularly high-ranking soldier in Satan's army, because I can summon him just by thinking of him. My phone rings, and the familiar tone sets my teeth on edge. 

"Aoife," he says, with no greeting, and before I can even decide if I want to offer one—"I can't keep the girls this weekend." 

I dig the sharp crochet hook into the bed of my thumbnail and hiss out a breath. Stay calm. Don't react. "Our agreement is that you have the girls every other weekend, Blake. And if either of us—"

"I know our goddamned agreement. Jesus Christ, I wrote the damn thing." 

Did I mention that Blake is a lawyer? More proof that he's Hellspawn. 

Don't make it about you. Remind him of his obligation to the girls. 

"Blake, when you cancel last-minute like this, it impacts the girls—"

"Don't you DARE try to make me feel guilty about how YOUR decision to leave is ruining our girls, Aoife! Don't you DARE!"

I sigh, put the blanket and yarn back in the bag, and settle back in my chair as my ex-husband lists all of the ways I failed as a wife, a partner, a lover, and a mother. 

Blake is an amazing lawyer, the way a snake is an amazing predator. He never raises his voice, never shows any emotion other than quiet confidence and authority. He makes people feel safe, feel smart, feel right in their assumptions. They never realize he's stalking them, wrapping them up in his coils. That's why rich people pay him to get their kids, or themselves, out of trouble. But, at home, with me, all of that went away. Blake has a fuse the length of a matchstick and a rage that would rival a bee-stung grizzly bear. In the beginning of our relationship, I thought I could match him, even beat him, in the rage department. But then I got pregnant, and for the first time I had to consider how my actions would affect someone I loved. 

You read that right. 

So I learned to temper my anger. Mostly through running, though I have a few other, less healthy methods of relieving stress. As I got quieter, Blake got louder. I thought Blake's fiery outbursts were a result of the stress of the job, that he couldn't help it, and that I was somehow serving him and our family by accepting his anger. 

He also cheated on me about as often as he went out to play golf, and with the same level of casual indifference. By then it was hard for me to speak up for myself, and when I did. . . . 

He was wasted that night, the kind of drunk where he'd cry one second and bellow the next. I told him I knew he was cheating—again—and that I wanted to leave. He pulled his handgun out of the nightstand drawer, waved it around the room, said he'd rather die, rather we were both dead, than destroy his family. 

Frozen with shock, I watched the barrel of that gun swing in my direction, then away. My chest burned with a gasp I was too afraid to release. I don't know if I thought he would intentionally kill us, but I knew he was drunk enough to accidentally kill me. I did the only thing I could—I remained absolutely frozen, waiting out his rage. I remember I bit the inside of my lip so hard it bled. The pain and the hot, copper tang of my own blood kept me from fainting. 

A few minutes later, Blake collapsed onto our bed, bawling like a baby about how hard his life was. I shushed him, rubbed his back, and waited for him to fall asleep before I took the gun from him. 

I left four days later. On a weekend while he was golfing. My mother took the girls and I paid a moving company to get all of our stuff out in one day. I honestly didn't know if he'd kill me when he saw what I'd done. But I knew I couldn't stay. 

I never called the cops, never told anyone except my mother and my best friend, and so Blake was able to keep his reputation. He filed our divorce papers himself, then kept right on slithering through the grass like the reptile he is.

De-escalate the situation without accepting. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, twist the crochet hook into my thumb, and ask, "Blake, can you take the girls tonight?"

An angry huff from the other end. I'm off-script, not defending myself and my right to leave. "Yeah, I can take them tonight." He almost immediately winds back up, voice rising in volume as well as tenor. "But you have to pick them up tomorrow morning. I have golf with an important client at eleven." 

I grit my teeth, grind the point of the metal hook into the soft flesh at the nail's edge. "That's fine. That works, Blake. I'm picking up Izzie now. I'll swing back home—"

"Home?!" he scoffs, striking at a new soft spot. "Yeah. How's the rental working out for you?" 

A voice inside me shouts, It's great, Blake! Sure, we miss the heated pool and the game room and the sense of stability, but you know what? At least now the girls can sleep without waking up to you screaming at me. Another breath, another slice into my thumb. "I'll pick up Alice and we'll head right over." 

"Don't feed them," he says, a command, a final shot. "I'm taking them out." Then he hangs up the phone. 

The school's security guard opens the gate. We move in a slow, submissive line toward the child pick-up area. Once the caravan of the damned has stopped moving, I pick up the baby blanket and resume stitching. 

The phone rings again. "Hey, Aoife!" says a bright, cheery voice. 

"Hi, Charity," I answer, putting the call on speaker phone and continuing my stitches. 

"Are you ready for the most amazing girls night out in history?"

"Ummmm . . . I thought we were going out to dinner?"

Charity blows a raspberry. "We're going to the New Moon music festival tonight! I got us VIP tickets. Food, drinks, even backstage time with the bands. It's all included!" 

I stifle the groan in my throat. Charity will hear it, and she'll only redouble her efforts to get me excited. Charity is the mother of Alice's best friend, Jax. Somehow, this made her my best friend, whether I wanted her or not. And I mostly didn't, until the day I moved into the rental. She was the only person who showed up to help. With Jax, two large pizzas, a Greek salad big enough to feed a small army, and a bottle of wine. Now she and Jax are extensions of our family. 

So it's not Charity that makes my stomach grow teeth and gnaw at itself. It's people. Crowds. Being outside, exposed. But Charity—and everyone else in my life—seems to think the best way for me to defeat that anxiety is to attack it head-on. 

"Great," I say, with what I hope is enough enthusiasm to sound true. 

Hordes of children burst from classrooms, throngs of pint-size bodies laboring under full-size backpacks. I see Izzie and roll down my window to wave at her. "I gotta go, Charity. I'm picking up Izzie." 

"Hi, Izzie!" she calls in a cheery falsetto. Then to me, "My house. Six o'clock." 

Izzie jumps into the car a second later. I look back at my second daughter as we pull away. Izzie, short for Elizabeth, is a prototype for the modern American girl. Today she has on a coral T-shirt and striped shorts with an elastic waistband and a big, decorative bow. Coupled with this charming ensemble are her black high-top sneakers and a ponytail tight enough to give me a headache. Izzie always dresses for fun and fashion, a perfect outward display of the personality within. She loves to get her nails painted, even though they chip within hours when the impulse to go tree climbing or rock hunting strikes her. She is both tomboy and princess, warrior and maiden. She is gentle and fearless, graceful and goofy. I often look at her and wonder how I ever produced such a confident, self-possessed child. 

"Are we going to see Daddy?" she asks, her hazel eyes bright with excitement. 

I nod. "We just have to pick up Alice first." 

Izzie's eyes darken and I sigh at her reaction. If Izzie is sunshine and rainbows, Alice is shadows and sharp edges. Even more so since the separation. While she agreed that we needed to go, she is angry in that directionless, all-consuming way of children whose lives have been uprooted. No matter what I do to try to restore a sense of safety and normalcy to our lives, Alice knows that her adults have failed her. 

Or maybe since high school. Alice was never bright and bubbly like Izzie, but she was fiercely proud of her intelligence and abilities. Her elementary and middle school teachers adored her, and she loved them back. This year, all she talks about is how hard math is and how stupid all of her classmates are. She resents moving away from Jax. No one is as cool. No one understands her. Even though it's only a 20-minute drive, and Charity and Jax visit all the time, and Alice spends every free moment on her phone or tablet with her friend, school is now a desert of anxiety, mistrust, and loneliness. 

The only bright spot is her new PE teacher, Coach Jessup, who has been encouraging her to join track, which she refuses, and the new countywide gay student coalition he leads, which she accepts. Because Alice is a walking thundercloud of negativity, she says she resents the intrusion into her personal life, and also how did he know she was gay? Probably from the rainbow knee-high socks she wears almost every day despite the heat, or the Pride pin on her backpack, or the beaded bracelet she wears every day that says LESBIAN. I never say these things out loud, because she doesn't need or want me to argue with her. I listen, and I smile when she attends the coalition meetings with Jax and says they're stupid but she keeps going. 

Or maybe it's hormones. I mean, some of it is definitely hormones. Either way, living with Alice is like living with a Fabergé egg with a bomb inside it. Beautiful, fragile, and likely to self-destruct. 

Izzie plays her favorite pop songs on the way back to the house. I can hear Alice's voice from where I stand in the garage, but when I open the door the house goes quiet. The heavy, almost sentient silence that always means someone is in the house with you, listening for you. "Alice," I call. "Time to go to your dad's."

A sound closer to a growl than a groan leaks out from under her door. I hear her say goodbye to Jax, promising to be back online as soon as she can but you know my dad, and then she emerges from her bedroom. My first thought is always the same—she's beautiful. Both girls inherited my curly hair, but while Izzie's is sunshine blond, Alice's hair is darker, a rich chocolate with natural highlights of honey and caramel. Her eyes are hazel blue. Her skin, gorgeous and creamy a year ago, is now splattered with small pimples on her chin, and there is a new blackhead on her nose. She hasn't been using the skin care regimen I spent a fortune on the last time we went to the dermatologist. 

I reach out to touch her, to brush a stray curl from her cheek, and she flinches back with a scowl. She's picked up on my appraising gaze and resents the attention. Living with a young teenage girl is like living in the shadow of a volcano. Most days the view is amazing, but every now and then the mountain erupts and rains down hellfire and ruin. 

She keeps her headphones on when we get into the car, so she doesn't hear me say, "I'll pick you both up tomorrow morning." Izzie doesn't ask. Children who grow up in toxic homes quickly learn to go with the flow, fly under the radar, not attract attention. Alice knows this lesson too, but she usually asks anyway. She's angry about the divorce, blames both Blake and me for it equally, and never flinches from a fight when she thinks she's right, which is most of the time. 

When we pull up to the house that used to be our home, Blake is standing in the open doorway. Izzie wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks and my lips before running up to her dad. Alice just stares glumly, refusing to get out of the car. 

"Are you okay, Bean?" I ask. Bean has been her nickname since I first found out she was growing inside my womb. 

She glares at me. "Someone is killing gay and trans kids in our town. No, I'm not okay."

There's always a guy killing somebody. This is America, home of the Heavily Armed and Easily Triggered. But I don't say that, because Alice has known she was gay since she was nine years old, and last year her best friend Jacqueline became Jax. This is her community. 

"Where?" I ask. 

"Here," she says, like I am literally the stupidest person on the planet. "Right here. Katy from group died last month. Everyone says it was an overdose, or maybe suicide, but she wouldn't have done that. Someone definitely murdered her." 

I remember now—the Amber alert, and Alice telling me it was a girl from group. They'd found her body in an abandoned car, an empty bottle of Oxycontin in the seat next to her. Alice told me that too, that they'd found the missing girl. She'd said it so matter-of-factly, as though she'd read the story online and hadn't known the girl at all. I'd asked if she was okay at the time, and Alice had assured me she'd hardly known the girl. But it must have scared her nonetheless. I feel like an idiot and a bad mother all at once for not recognizing Alice's depression as a traumatic response. "Oh sweetie," I say, swiveling around in my seat to face her. "I'm sorry. Do you want to stay home?"

We both know Blake will blow his top if I try to keep her home, especially if he hears why. Alice rolls her eyes and opens the car door. "I'll be fine, Mom. I didn't know Katy that well. She was a senior. She didn't talk to me much. It's just . . . knowing someone is out there, wanting to hurt us." I cringe at the weight in her words. While I don't believe there's a child-murdering serial killer on the loose, I know this fear will be part of her reality for her entire life. There will always be people in the world who do not accept her for who she is, who want to change her, or punish her for not changing. 

"Besides," she says, "It's not like someone's going to come get me at Dad's house. I'm not even allowed to be gay here." This barb thrown at her father finally gets her to smile, and she flashes a conspiratorial grin at me. It's true that Blake has continually questioned Alice's sexuality. She's too young to know, this is a phase, she'll outgrow it—all the usual bullshit straight people say when they are uncomfortable with a loved one coming out. Blake is one of the people Alice will have to deal with, and the fact that he is her father only makes it worse. 

"I love you, Bean." She blows me a kiss in response, then trudges up to meet her father. Blake doesn't even wave goodbye. The door shuts behind them. 

I leave my children with their father, knowing they are safe with him in a way I never was, and head out to meet Charity for the New Moon Festival. 

Where I will meet the werewolf who will change my life forever.