“Tell me what happened.”
Claire told her the whole story, including the part about seeing Beatrice in the woods. The only thing she didn’t mention was the last conversation she and Matthew had. Her mother narrowed her eyes and looked at Claire.
“You are leaving something out, yes?”
Claire reburied her face in the pillow to hide the heat that rose in her cheeks. “I dunno,” she mumbled.
“You want to see him,” her mother guessed.
Claire felt her shoulders tense, and her mother sighed as she read Claire’s body language.
“Well, it’s not like it’s dangerous anymore. It’s not like he’s going to guess what I am and tell his dad. Matthew chose, Mom, and he chose us. So why shouldn’t I?” Claire turned her head just enough to peek at her mother.
“Oh, chérie.” Her mother sighed and ran a hand over Claire’s hair. “I just think love always ends badly, whether or not you are human. But maybe I am too cynical. And most everyone seems to survive heartbreak, at any rate. I am sure you will too, no matter what happens.” She gathered Claire in her arms and hugged her tight. “You grow up too fast, you know that?”
“Mo-oom,” Claire protested—but she didn’t try to escape from her mother’s embrace.
After a final squeeze, her mother let go and gave Claire a gentle shove in the direction of the door. “Now, go shower and ask Lisbeth to fix us something to eat. I could eat a horse.”
Claire lifted her eyebrows into a question, teasing.
“Very droll, but how would you get it up the stairs? Non, for now, I think an omelette will do nicely. I am going to call Beatrice. She will not like it, but things have gotten out of hand, and something must be done about it.”
“Okay.” Claire walked out of the room. She leaned against the closed door for a moment, feeling something she hadn’t felt in months—hope that things just might work out after all.
Buoyed by her optimism, Claire convinced Lisbeth to drive her to Emily’s house. She wanted to see Emily, but preferably somewhere without any werewolf evidence stashed in the closets.
Claire bounded up the walk, knocked at Emily’s front door, opened it, and stuck her head in.
“Helloooo,” she called. “Anyone home?”
“Claire? Hang on a sec. Crap!” Emily’s voice floated down the stairs, followed by a series of banging noises. “Oh my God, you’re here!” She came flying down the stairs, the hems of her jeans dripping wet, and squeezed Claire into a tight hug.
“Is everything okay?” Claire asked, while Emily’s jeans dripped on her toes.
“What? Oh, yeah. I spilled some watercolors. You surprised the hell out of me! God, I’ve been dying to see you.” Emily’s enthusiasm made Claire smile.
“So, do you have time to do something?”
“Um, of course! Do you mind waiting while I get the paint cleaned up? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Em, I’m even willing to help. Where’s the carpet cleaner?”
Emily turned and headed for the kitchen. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re the best friend ever?”
Claire followed her, still grinning. Things with Emily wouldn’t ever be the same as before, but maybe she could make something new. A friendship that was good in its own way, even it if wasn’t normal.
That afternoon, the local news interrupted the regular talk show. Claire had to turn it up—downstairs, Lisbeth had her music on loud enough that Claire could hear it in her room. The camera cut to a very pale Dr. Engle, his tie crooked and his hair a mess. Claire noticed that the building behind him wasn’t the same lab where he’d imprisoned her mother.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. I am sorry to tell you that when my colleagues and I arrived this morning, we found the werewolf deceased. We are working to determine the cause of death, though we believe some sort of parasite—perhaps a nematode—may be involved. Of course, we are deeply saddened that we were unable to cure this, erm, creature. Its death marks a blow to our research and also to the small group of …”
Claire clicked off the television and walked over to her closet. Bitterness coated the back of her throat. She could taste it on her tongue like medicine. He hadn’t even said that Zahlia had been killed. She’d guessed that he wouldn’t. After all, if the public thought he couldn’t keep his “research” safe, why would they trust him to keep the werewolves away?
*
More than a week later, Claire pulled the last clean pair of shorts off her shelf and yanked them on. On top of everything else, she was going to have to do laundry. Great. The TV was on, and a flustered-looking Dr. Engle was being interviewed yet again about the mysterious death of “his” werewolf.
Her bedroom door swung open and Claire’s mother peeked in.
“Don’t you knock?” Claire asked, exasperated.