“But you do.”
I pull away. He lets go. I walk over to the door. A quick flick of the fingers unlocks it. A nice pull opens it up. Wind blows snow inside. The world glows from the snow and the only tracks that I can see are filling with snow already. The only tracks are mine and a dog’s. My hand is grabbing the threshold of the door, bracing me against the wind, against the truth, but I still think I might have to fall down, pass out or something, because this cannot be happening, this cannot be real.
Nick stands behind me. He puts a hand on my waist.
I yank in a breath. The world seems to swirl around me.
“Are you going to faint?” he asks.
I back into him and blurt, “But you’re so cute. Werewolves aren’t supposed to be cute. Vampires are, I think. They are in the movies. But the werewolves are pretty much ugly and they wear leather jackets and are all dirty with these monster sideburns.”
“That’s all you have to say? That I’m cute?” He takes a stray piece of my hair and curls it around his fingers. “Most people faint or shriek or never talk to me again.”
“Have you told a lot of people?”
“Not many.”
“Your parents?”
“Yeah, they know.” His face tightens. “It’s genetic.”
“Your dad?”
“Both.”
I nod, thinking for a second and then lifting my hands up to the sides of his body. One hand touches the roughness of the wool blanket. The other hand touches his smooth skin. “Does your shoulder hurt?”
He shakes his head and his hand leaves my chin and moves to the back of my head, cupping it there. “Thank you for taking the arrow out.”
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm down. I’m really not sure if I am more freaked about the fact that he’s telling me he’s a werewolf or that his lips are so close. “I save people who think they’re werewolves every day, didn’t you know?”
“No,” he says, leaning in. “I didn’t.”
His eyes are so beautiful and dark and they do look like that dog’s—I mean, that wolf’s. They are kind and strong and a little bit something else and I like them. I like them a lot. No, I like them way too much. Something inside me gets a little warmer, edges closer to him.
The fire crackles and I jump again, jittery, nervous, but I don’t jump away from Nick. I jump toward him. Nick in the firelight with just a blanket on is a little hard to resist, no matter how crazy he might be. His skin, deep with heat, seems to glisten. His muscles are defined and good but not all steroid bulky. He is so perfect. And beautiful. In a boy way. Not a monster way. Not a wolf way.
“Are you going to kiss me?” My words tremble into the air.
He smiles but doesn’t answer.
“I’ve never kissed a werewolf before. Are were kisses like pixie kisses? Do they do something to you? Is that why you never kissed anybody?”
He gives a little smile. “No. It’s just I never kissed anyone because I never thought I could be honest about who I am, you know? And I didn’t want anyone to get attached to me because . . .”
“Because you’re a werewolf.”
“Because I’m a werewolf,” he repeats softly. Watching his lips move makes me shiver; not in a scared way, in more of an oh-he-is-too-beautiful way.
I put my hand against his skin. It is warm. It’s always been warm. He smells so good, like woods and safety. I swallow my fear and move forward, and my lips meet his, angel-light, a tiny promise. His lips move beneath mine. His hands move to my shoulders and my mouth feels like it will burst with happiness. My whole body shakes with it.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Wow.”
Our mouths meet again. It’s like my lips belong there . . . right there. One tiny part of me has finally found a place to fit. We pull away for air.
“Are there a lot of you? Because I think there could be a market for these werewolf kisses,” I ask.
He laughs. “There are a few.”
I pull away, just a little bit, adjust my shirt, try to make sense. “Are there any more in Bedford?”
“Yeah. Actually, there are a lot in Bedford, more than other places. Some have moved away.”
“Why are there more here?”
“Genes. Inbreeding back in the eighteen hundreds or something, I don’t know.” He touches his wounded shoulder with the palm of his hand. “But it’s not like the only place there are weres.”
“Do I know anybody else who is one?”
His eyes stare into my eyes. “Betty.”
“Betty?”
“She’s a tiger.”
Here there be tygers.
One second passes. Two. I slam my hands into his chest. “Get out!”
He raises his hands in the air. “What?”
“You can’t go telling me my grandmother is a freaking tiger, okay? Just get out!”
“Zara . . .”
“It’s too much,” I tell him, slumping away and throwing myself on the couch. “Okay? It’s just too much.”
Algophobia
fear of pain
Let��s just say I’m a wimp. Okay?
Here:
I’m a wimp.
I get off the couch and pace back and forth, chanting.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I rush over to the fire and put my hands out to see if I’ve gone mad or if I can feel its warmth. A fire is real. Crazy people often lose touch with reality.
“This is not happening.”
But it is.
A hysterical laugh bursts out of me. I cover my mouth with my hands.
“This is fine,” I mutter. “This is okay. You can deal with this. My grandmother is not human. Nick is not human. There are humans who are not human.”
Nick doesn’t say anything. He sits on the edge of the coffeetable, watching me. He’s all rigid, like he’s a soldier ready to be ambushed, ready for the painful shot to the gut. Finally, I stop pacing.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I whisper.
He cocks his head and relaxes. Then he raises his finger for me to wait and trots into the kitchen. I stay where I am and in a moment he comes back, paler than normal, wearing the blanket around his waist and one of Grandma Betty’s oversized navy blue hooded sweatshirts. He yanks the metal zipper up and then crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall, just past the woodstove.