There would be no more close calls. Ever. Even if it meant becoming a hermit.
Upstairs, Claire got ready for bed and sent Emily a text, asking her to call or text or something to let Claire know that she was okay. A text seemed safe enough. Normal. Human.
She flipped her phone shut and slipped into bed, where she dreamt restlessly of jealous dogs and ringlet-crowned intruders. And running.
Lots and lots of running.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, Claire had a text from Emily. It was time-stamped at nearly two thirty in the morning, and from the number of bizarre typos, it looked as though Emily had still been pretty wasted when she sent it. But at least she'd made it home, and she promised to tell Claire the whole "ftory" when they had coffee.
She went downstairs and flipped on the TV. The local news was on, doing some story about adopting shelter puppies. The next segment started with a shot of a nervous-looking reporter standing in the forest. Claire tensed, her fingers curling around the remote control.
"We're here live in the woods on the west side of the city, where visiting lycanthropist Dr. Masaharu Otsuke took a tour early this morning. Dr. Otsuke's visit represents a major coup for the university's research department, whose international funding has dropped sharply in the wake of this summer's failed attempt to cure a local werewolf. Dr. Otsuke will spend the next few days assisting the Federal Human Protection Agency's investigation into the werewolf 's death, which occurred while it was under the care of local lycanthropist Dr. Charles Engle."
Claire leaned against the back of the couch, her teeth clenched.
They cut to footage of the night woods. The glare of the television lights bounced off the tree trunks, making the forest look stark and menacing.
The reporter droned on. "In addition to touring the forest, Dr. Otsuke will be the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the Rotary club, and a special fun run is scheduled—"
Claire clicked off the TV, a pleased relief spreading through her. There was no mention of anything having been found in the woods. No evidence. Nothing weird. Her secret was safe.
At least, for the moment.
That afternoon, Claire's mom actually let her take the car—again—so that she could meet Emily and Amy at the coffee shop on Fourth Street. She didn't have a ton of time before she had to get ready for her date with Matthew, though, since Emily had texted her and pushed back the time. Twice. Apparently, having a hangover the size of Montana made it pretty hard to get out of the house.
When Claire walked into The Cloister, Emily was already sitting at their usual table in the front window, nursing an enormous latte. There was a long, thin scratch across her right cheek. Her eyes were puffy, and she had the pale, sallow look of someone who's had a rough night. Besides which, Claire could smell her hangover. The poisoned, cheap-beer scent seeped out of Emily's skin.
"Hey." Claire shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it onto the chair across from Emily. "How're you?"
Emily winced. "Not so loud, okay?"
Claire bit back a smile. She hadn't exactly been yelling.
"Let me go get my coffee, and I'll be right back."
Emily nodded, reaching for the cup in front of her.
Claire got her own drink and settled herself at the little table. "I'm so sorry we got separated in all the craziness. What happened to you and Amy?"
Emily snorted. "It's a little tough to remember all of it. I ran and found Matthew, but he was waiting on you, I think. Anyway, Amy was more sober than I was, and she managed to hide us and a couple of other people behind a hot tub in Yolanda's neighbor's yard. The cops walked right by us. We got really, really lucky, 'cause according to what everyone was posting and stuff this morning, they snagged a ton of people. What about you and Matthew? You guys found each other and everything?"
Claire could still feel the rough wood of the shed against the palms of her hands. She could still taste the terror that had flowed through her when she transformed. It had been so close. Emily had been so close. The coffee swirled unpleasantly in her stomach, and she resolved yet again to keep Emily out of harm's way.
Claire worked to keep her face casual. "We were both sober—we got separated for a minute, but we found each other. He'd parked a couple of streets away." She shrugged. "We drove home. No big deal."
Emily grunted. "Lucky. Why wasn't he drinking, anyway? I thought the soccer season was over."
"It is, but he's still waiting to hear from UCLA about scholarships. If he gets caught drinking—if he gets in trouble—it could ruin his chances. He's worked so hard that he's not going to screw it up now, you know?"