Starfall (2 page)

The buzzing is so relentless and strong it feels as if it's taking up residence inside my brain. Involuntarily, I shake my head to loosen its hold, but it's a stupid thing to do because it only slows me down and gets me off balance so I collide right into the stinger of one of the wayward bees.

The pain is slight and oddly comforting because it's confirmation that this isn't a normal bee. I see a stream of silver light trailing from my body, and I know these bees are connected to Orion, his constellation and his intention. A star might not have fallen, but these bees have come from the heavens to kill me.

I have no choice. I have no other chance, so I take one deep breath and plunge into the river. The cold water is shocking and heavy and divisive; it's making the wolf come back alive and the girl drown. Wrestling with each other, the wolf and the girl struggle to get control, but what does it matter? If the wolf wins he and the girl will break through the surface of the water and into the waiting, angry swarm. If the girl wins she'll force them both to stay underneath the water until their breath abandons their body and they drown. Either way the outcome is the same: They're going to die.

Looking up through the opaque, gurgling surface of the water, I see that the swarm is relentless; it isn't moving, but something about its shape has changed. It's parted; it's created an opening in its center to make way for something, the queen bee perhaps? The true leader of the swarm, the bee that will wait until the thing below can no longer hold its breath and gives in to the natural desire to breathe? No, the swarm has separated because something stronger has entered the pulsating crowd—a butterfly.

Less than an inch below the water, I can see the black mass of the swarm, but it's as if they're miles away; there's only one thing taking up my vision: this beautiful butterfly. Its delicate wings are golden yellow, a flutter of sunlight amidst the dark night, and I know that this butterfly isn't real; it's a sign. A combination of Jess and Napoleon, my best friend and the grandson of my enemy, come together to offer me a way out. No! That isn't it! They've come together to remind me that I can get out of this on my own.

I may not have my own light, my own spirit may have been ripped from me, but I have Jess's light within me. She cut open my human flesh and poured some of her own golden magic into me so I would always carry her within me, so no matter where the journey of my life would bring me, I would never have to travel—or fight—alone.

Following pure instinct I open my mouth under the water, but the wolf is frightened; the wolf doesn't understand that Jess is going to help us, and he shuts his mouth tight. I can feel the water around me ripple and undulate, and it takes me a moment to realize that I'm causing the movement. My body is shaking violently because my paws are clutching at my snout, trying to open my mouth, and the wolf is fighting me.

A knife-sharp fingernail separates my lips and cuts my tongue. Blood seeps out of my mouth, and I watch the water around me change; streams of crimson liquid loop and dance and swirl around me as if firelight has ignited underwater. My eyes are entertained, so my body can take action.

Finally my paws rip open my mouth with such force I think I may see my severed snout floating amidst the bloodstained water. Instead I see a golden light, a light that emanates from deep within me, from my soul, impale the water. It cuts jaggedly through the swarm of bees, causing them to scatter, and then the light bursts open triumphantly, like the first light of a newborn star, to blind the bees. They don't know what's happening; they don't know if the yellow light is friend or foe, but they don't wait around to find out. Immediately, cowardly, they retreat back into the sky where they came from.

On the banks of the river I pant and gasp while air swirls around and inside me and I am grateful that my paws are touching dry land. The butterfly's wing flaps next to my ear, its gentle breeze like a tidal wave of love. I bow my head to it in an offering of thanks, and when I look up it's gone; the only remnant of its existence is a cluster of leaves still fluttering on a branch high above me and the vision of its beauty engraved onto my memory. Turning to the right I see the last of the black swarm disappear and fold into the dark, bleak sky, but when it vanishes completely, I don't celebrate; instead I beg God to bring it back because in its place is something even more frightening: Nadine.

The werewolf and the witch stare at each other, two cursed creatures forever joined at the soul. Similar and yet so very different. I know that with my wet, matted fur and shaking limbs I must look bedraggled and weak, while Nadine with her curved belly filled with both promise and danger looks commanding and strong. Roughly I shake the water that's still clinging to me off of my body in an attempt to appear aggressive, but Nadine only smiles. Until she opens her mouth to scream.

“It's here!”

Her voice is voluminous, and just like the roar of thunder, it produces silence. It takes the earth a moment to respond, but when it does, even though the reply is soft, it is even more dangerous. The snap of a branch, the click of metal. Slowly, I crane my neck around and see Officer Gallegos staring at me, a thick stream of sweat dripping down the left side of his face, introducing a pungent, musky scent into the humid August night. Louis and Barnaby may have given up the quest to find the Full Moon Killer—I really can't be certain—but there's no doubt that Gallegos is still on the prowl. He may be acting alone or within a larger group, whatever it is I can't speculate about that now because I'm under attack. His one knee is bent and pressing into the ground; his right arm is extended straight out so that the gun in his hand, pointing at my body, can be as close to me as possible. I don't know if he's under Nadine's spell, if he's a witch, or if he's just a cop hunting down a killer, but I don't have time to figure it out, because without blinking, without his body flinching, he pulls the trigger.

Springing low and to the right into empty space, I feel the bullet whip past the crown of my head. It feels the same as the butterfly's wings did; how amazing that beauty and death are so alike, almost as if they are one and the same. If Gallegos has his way, they will be.

I don't have to turn around to know that he is up and running toward me; I can hear the grass bending underneath his pounding feet. He shoots again, once more. Both bullets are wild shots and don't land anywhere near me, but he isn't giving up, and once he controls the adrenalin racing through his veins, he'll shoot with more accuracy. I can't wait for that to happen. Unfortunately, I may not have the chance to prevent it.

Just as I see that the ground is about to dip, I extend my front paws, but instead of slamming into dirt, I slam into air. For a few seconds I'm flying, graceful and disconnected from everything around me, but without warning I'm tumbling down an unexpected hill, rocks and twigs and unruly mounds of earth assaulting my body, making me twist and turn in all directions. The sharp edge of a protruding rock slashes into my back, and I look up to see Gallegos lying facedown on the wind, falling a few inches above me. His face is not contorted by surprise, but by a serene mask of hate.

Even in midair his gun is pointed at me; he might have lost his footing, but not his determination. I watch his finger pull back on the trigger once again. I hear the click of the gun, and I brace myself for impact.

My mind races, the mind that's being shared by both the wolf and the girl, and I realize that in the morning my secret will finally be out; everyone will know that Dominy Robineau is the Full Moon Killer; everyone will know that monsters are real. I don't know if I feel more sorry for myself or for them. But there is no bullet; there is no invasion into my body; the gun barrel is empty. The only impact is when my back crashes into the rocky earth and Gallegos's body smashes on top of mine.

When the blurred image comes into focus, it isn't Gallegos's face I see inches from my own, but Nadine's triumphant smile peering down at me from the top of the hill. One hand rubbing the orb that is her belly, the other waving at me in a perfect imitation of a friendly greeting, her actions proof that she is a sick, twisted girl. Growling and shrieking at the same time, I want to jump up and strike her with my claws, slice the smile off of her face with my fangs, but I can't move because the dead weight of Gallegos's body is pinning me to the ground.

Just as I begin to shove him off of me, his eyes flicker. Recognition gives way to terror, but in seconds both are overcome by purpose. Glaring into my blue-gray eyes, Gallegos raises the gun over his head; it may be empty, but it's still a deadly weapon. Good thing that so am I.

His blood tastes like mercy, a gift for the agony I've lived through tonight and these past few years, and I want the sweet, red liquid to fill me up until it spills out of me. If Nadine weren't staring down at me, gleeful at the prospect that I could so easily and so joyfully kill, I might do just that, but I can't let her win. She and Luba have already taken too much from me.

Howling madly I shove Gallegos's writhing body off of me and watch him roll several times before stopping. I can hear his heart beating and his panting breath from where I am, so I know that he's bruised, but alive. Just like me.

I look up expecting to see Nadine watching the scene with disgust, but she's gone. Makes sense since the entertainment is over; why should she stay any longer? And what would I do if she were there anyway? Now that my mind is free from the bloodlust, I know that I can't kill her while she's carrying a child; I can't be that much of a savage. Can I?

Gallegos's body starts to move, and I know that in a few moments he'll be awake, consumed with conviction, and ready to strike again, ready to win this fight against me. But I've had enough fighting and adventure and surprise for one night. It's time for me to return to the safety of the woods, back to the shadows where I belong. Where I can be alone in the darkness to wait for this thing that I know is coming. This thing that I know will change not only my world forever, but the world of everyone around me
.

Where is the sun?

Lying in my bed it's like I'm still shrouded in the bushes, still blanketed in a smooth sheet of blackness; I still feel like the wolf. Glancing at my arms I see skin and not fur, so I know I've changed back, but why do I feel like a full moon continues to hang in the night sky? Outside the wind gets a little rowdy, and in response the window rattles just enough to get my attention. On the other side of the glass the sun is shining; I can see its rays, a collection of yellows, reaching out in every direction except in mine. It reminds me of Jess.

Where was she last night when I needed her? I cried out for her, and she ignored me, and it isn't like she even has to hear me shout her name for her to know that I'm in trouble; she can read my mind. That is if she wants to. Maybe she has better things to do than always rush to my side when I'm in trouble and need her help, which I have to admit is starting to become more and more often. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe something isn't coming; maybe something is ending.

No! I can't imagine a world without Jess. I know that most everyone else has accepted that she's gone, including her family. Why should I think I'm so special that I should be able to keep her around long after she died?

Because remember, Dominy, you are special.

Possibly. Not better than anyone, but I guess this thing I become once a month does make me special. Then again continuing to see Jess after her death could be my penance. Maybe she's remained in my life because I'm the one who killed her. Let me get used to feeling I defied the odds and that our friendship, our connection will last for eternity, so our inevitable separation will be that much harder to handle. Because when I desperately needed my friend, she stood me up.

I fling the covers off of me and jump out of bed. Of course, when I try to shove my feet into my fluffy fake-fur red slippers (a fun and very unsubtle Christmas gift from Arla), my feet flatten out the heels, so I have to bend down to run my finger along the length of the inside of the slippers so it doesn't feel like I'm wearing clogs, which for some stupid reason totally annoys me. Oh yes it's going to be one of those mornings when everything gets on my nerves. Like looking outside to find out that it's going to be a beautiful, sunny day.

The sun wants to pour into my bedroom; it's aching to cover me in its golden glow, but the curtains are drawn, and the thin pink cloth is a barrier against the majestic star's yearning. Reaching up I grab the curtains and then stop myself from ripping them from the rod, because I'm reminded of my parents. These are the curtains I had in my old bedroom, almost the same shade as the color of the paint on the old walls, This Little Piggy. When I moved here into Louis's house, I needed something reminiscent of my old home and my past so I put up these curtains as a reminder. Since then I've conjured up a fantasy that my mother had picked them out special for me and my father watched her string the curtain rod into the hole at the top of the material while he painted my room. Who knows? It could be an accurate recollection of the past, my parents as a young couple setting up their firstborn's nursery. Their firstborn child who bore the brunt of Luba's curse.

Well, even though that child has grown up, and may still need to be comforted by things from her past, she also knows how to live in the present. Pushing the curtains to the side, I brace myself for the onslaught of sunshine, and I'm not disappointed. The light and heat and smell of the sun wrap themselves around me like an old friend. I close my eyes and get lost in the embrace, allowing myself to give in to the familiarity and accept its goodness. This is what an old truck must feel like when it pulls up to a gas station; it knows it's going to be rejuvenated. But, unfortunately, the feeling doesn't last very long.

The central air conditioning in the house is doing its job against the oppressive August heat. So while the sunlight remains in the room, its rays reaching out to dance on the ceiling, lounge on my unmade bed, and stretch to the far side of the room to shine some light onto my collection of stuffed animals, the heat and smell of the sun are quickly overtaken by the man-made power of the AC. Even here in my bedroom, sunshine cannot win.

I shake my head and feel the material of the curtains become twisted in my clenched fists because everything in my life really does venture back to Luba. I'm reminded that my natural goodness can only last so long before the curse kicks in and I'm on the hunt to kill some innocent animal to quench my hunger. Or kill my best friend.

My thoughts race back to Jess, not to the night that she died, but to last night. I know that in the end she sort of came to my rescue anyway—her light within me saved me—but it wasn't the same. A solo victory can feel hollow; it's so much better to win or defeat your opponent with your friend by your side. But Jess has constantly told me that although she has morphed into a powerful Amaterasu Omikami, she has limitations, so, no matter how painful it is to believe, I better start accepting the fact that her appearances may also start to become limited. Not everything can last forever. Or can it?

What's that sound? I hold on to the curtains tighter as if that's going to shush the world so I can hear more clearly and listen with my wolf ears. I was right! I can hear humming, a low vibration, just like a swarm of buzzing bees. I let go of the curtains and they fall silently against the window, my frustration still living within the fabwrinkles of the material, and following my wolf-sense I walk toward the sound.

The girl takes over and grabs my bathrobe from the hook on the wall. Just because I may have to defend the house and everyone in it from an assembly of angry, vicious bees doesn't mean Louis has to suffer a heart attack watching me do battle in a flimsy T-shirt and short-shorts. I can conquer evil just as easily wearing a soft pink fleece bathrobe decorated with rows and rows of smiling Hello Kitty faces. I suppress a gigglaugh when I realize that, even if I must fight on my own, I do have Jess underneath and on top of my flesh. I'm armed and ready.

The noise is louder in the hallway and coming from the left. I don't see anything; there's no black cloud floating in the air, but the sound definitely has a rhythm. Listening to the buzzing I can hear the volume grow, then hush, as if the dark mass is moving in one direction and then the next, not ready to strike, but too anxious for my arrival to remain still.

Could this be true? Could the bees have followed me home? Have they been waiting all night long to attack me again after I made them flee and retreat back to Orion or wherever they really came from with my faux light display? How did they track me again? The answer comes before I even finish my thought. Nadine. Maybe the bees weren't under Orion's command, but hers? If that's the case, then of course they know where I live, and it sounds as if they've been using the bathroom as their rendezvous point.

I stop outside the bathroom door and can hear the Nadinibees on the other side. With only the thin door separating us now, I hear their buzzing like a cluster of overeager heartbeats, and I know they can hear me because their movement has increased. Up and down, left and right, circling wildly, they can sense me; they can sense that the time to attack is imminent. They know that in just a few seconds they'll be given the command to zoom underneath the cracks in the door and douse me with so much fear that I'll run blindly in search of safety that doesn't exist. Forget it, Nadine! If I can fight off a bunch of bees as a wolf when I'm ambushed, there's no way I'm going to run in terror as a girl when I know what to expect.

Flinging open the door I realize my expectations have to be lowered.

“Barnaby?”

“Dude,” my brother replies. “Didn't they teach you how to knock at Stupid Girls' Academy?”

As insulting as that comment is, I must admit that it's warranted, and I do feel as if I graduated last in my class at SGA. My brother is standing before me at the bathroom sink, half naked, wearing only his pajama bottoms, shaving. He's holding an electric razor in his hand, and the three little wheels are spinning maddeningly against the air instead of the hairs on his face. The whizzing rhythm of the razor mimics the angry sound of the bees' buzzdance so perfectly I'm once again reminded that the wolf and the girl are linked together on so many levels, more levels than I probably have yet discovered. As are my brother and I.

“You can borrow it when I'm done,” he offers. “You know, if you need to take care of another outbreak of hirsuteness.”

Sometimes it's easier to strike down a foe of supernatural proportions than it is your brother, mainly because the former wants to kill you while the latter just wants to maim you with a lifetime of insults.

“It was a
phase!
” I scream idiotically.

“I know,” Barnaby replies, rubbing the razor lazily against his chin. “In our history textbooks it's known as The Doggirl Era, a fascinating time in our culture.”

It's so hard to argue with the truth. Before my very first transformation, the wolf spirit must have known the curse was about to begin, and it was trying to rush things, escape and break free from the invisible constraints a few months earlier than Luba had originally planned. The result was that I got a little hairy and grew a full-on mustache. Vernita, owner of the Hair Hut and beautician extraordinaire, restored my upper lip, my arms, and my legs to their silky smooth glory less than twenty-four hours after the outbreak, but when you're pushing sixteen and look like the cop from the Village People or some unshaven South American dictator, word gets out. Thankfully that part of the curse is behind me, and I'm girl enough to admit that becoming hirsute even for such a short period of time was one of the most devastating parts of this whole experience.

With no way to defend myself without revealing to Barnaby the details of the spell Luba cast on me before I was even born, I react the way any big sister would: by zeroing in on the attribute her little brother is most self-conscious about.

“That's all in the past,” I declare. “Unlike your huge nose.”

Examining his face in the mirror, Barnaby turns to the left and then to the right. When he's done he looks directly at his reflection, and his smile is filled with teen narcissism. “I like my nose.”

Whatever happened to teenage angst and self-criticism?

“You do not!” I pout.

He keeps his face pointed straight ahead so I can get a good look at his profile, but turns his eyes toward me. “It's got character,” he states. “And unlike most of your features, it's not hidden behind a bush of unruly hair.”

Where are the bees? Where are the deadly, Nadine-propelled bees so I can be engaged in a fair fight? Give me thousands of poisonous stingers instead of my brother's zingers that are admittedly kind of witty, but, worse than that, steeped in truth. Because against his comments I really have no defense and feel that I, in fact, didn't graduate last in my class at SGA, but graduated with honors.

“So tell me, manboy,” I start, hands literally on my hips in a bad imitation of a bad tween actress from some bad Disney Channel sitcom. “Does Louis know you stole his razor so you could play grown-up?”

Smirking, Barnaby shoves the electric razor in my face, and I have to step back for fear that one of the three rotating wheels will cut off my eyelashes. Big-sister stance is ruined when I bang into the door behind me, lose my balance, and my left hand has to fly out to press into the wall to steady myself from falling. When I see what's engraved on the razor, my big-sister bad attitude is ruined too.

BMR. My brother's initials, which stand for Barnaby Mason Robineau. Just as I have Jess inside of me, my brother will always have my father. And if he doesn't have our father in the physical sense to teach him how to be a man and guide him through the complicated rites of manhood, at least he has Louis.

“Louis gave it to me for my birthday,” Barnaby beams. “Man to man.”

Staring at my brother, I'm conflicted. Part of me wants to crack up in his face in response to his silly, melodramatic comment, but the other part of me wants to hug him tightly and tell him how grateful I am that he has Louis in his life now that our father's gone. I opt to straddle both sentiments with a response that can be construed as either sarcastic or sugary, depending upon how Barnaby chooses to hear it.

“Well, it's nice to know that one of you is finally growing up,” I say.

It's also nice to know that our little makeshift family is getting more familial all the time. Downstairs my slippers make scuff-scuffing sounds on the hardwood floor that I'm sure announce my arrival before I enter the kitchen, but Arla doesn't look up; she's too interested in whatever she's reading on her cell phone and too busy eating her breakfast. It's her usual ultra health food cereal, a concoction of soy milk, fruit, oatmeal, and granola. Normally it looks like inedible gruel to me, but this morning it looks appetizing.

“Yum, that looks scrumdillyishesque,” I gush. “What's a girl gotta do to get a bowlful?”

“Step one, open the fridge,” Arla replies, her mouth full of gushy froatola. “Step two, figure the rest out for yourself.”

When Barnaby and I first moved in with the Bergerons, even though we've known them our whole lives, we felt more like guests, completely wanted, but with an expiration date. I kept having the feeling that Louis was going to greet us at the door one day after school with all our bags packed, announcing that we were going to be shipped off to some Dickensian locale like the Weeping Water Orphanage. Unwarranted thought, because he and Arla have shown us nothing but kindness and patience and support during our transition from someone's child to someone else's ward. Now that Barnaby and I have been living here for well over a year, we've matured into someone's family, which is an incredibly comforting feeling. Just as comforting as Arla's borderline snarky comment.