Nocturne (20 page)

The realization sent such a wave of embarrassment through Claire that she was sure the others could smell it. Judith sniffed the air and gave a quiet, amused bark.

Claire's concentration fell, and she was snapped back into the clearing, the fire hot on her face, the other wolves staring at her, their ears laid back. She looked around at the pack.
Uh, maybe I should try to listen for Victoria instead.

Judith cocked her head to one side.
Is this ability failing
you, too?

A growl rose in Claire's throat before she could stop it. How dare Judith question her? After she'd worked so hard, done so much, was it really possible that she hadn't proved herself to this stupid she-wolf who would never come close to being as powerful as Claire's mother was, as powerful as Claire herself intended to become? She felt her lips pulling back into a snarl.

Claire! Enough!
Marie barked.

The ring of her mother's bark—the Alpha's bark—in Claire's ears was enough to shake her out of her angry display. She hung her head, arching her back in an effort to look as sorry as she suddenly felt. She hadn't meant to explode like that. It had just been too much—to be questioned, doubted, after she'd finally succeeded.

Beatrice sat back down, turned to Marie.
May I?

Marie dipped her head in assent. Of
course.

I can also listen to the speech of those who are far away.
Beatrice stared hard at Judith, who lowered herself to the ground.
I heard Matthew's voice, though perhaps not as well as Claire did.

Beatrice glanced at Claire and tossed her head.

To be honest, everything that Claire has just shown us would

have been beyond my reach at her age. I know she is younger than you,
Judith, and that she hasn't experienced all the things you have. But
that is no reason to doubt her word. It is no reason to treat her like she
has nothing to offer our pack. Her pack. To which she belongs every bit
as much as you do.

Judith pawed at her nose in apology, but Claire could see her ears pulling back in suspicion, just the tiniest bit, when her eyes turned in Claire's direction.
Thank you, Beatrice.
Marie stood and shook herself hard from head to tail.

Katherine edged over and nudged Judith with her nose, urging her up.

So, all that is left is the hunt.
Marie stared hard at Claire.
Are you ready?

Claire's paws twitched against the ground in answer. Hell, yes, she was ready. There was no pressure for her in leading the hunt. Beneath her pelt, her muscles strained toward the woods, desperate for the release of running through the skeletal trees. Hungry for the single-minded focus of tracking prey.

Let's go.
She stood and padded purposefully into the woods, nose lifted, scenting the air. Smelling small animals, warm in their burrows. Fat birds roosting high in the trees. And somewhere to the west, far away, the faint scent of something big and warm.

Without hesitating, Claire began to run, her nose working frantically to keep from losing the scent. She wove through the forest, her paws barely whispering against the leaves that littered the ground. The others trailed behind her, Marie close to her, the others farther away. There was no sign of their sprint through the woods, except for the tiny animals that fell silent as they passed. When they were only a few yards from her quarry, Claire circled around, flushing the deer from its hiding place and sending it scampering through the woods.

Oh! We lost it.
Katherine whimpered, panting hard.

Of course we didn't.
Claire bumped Katherine's flank with her hip as she raced back by the rest of the pack.
It's headed for
the clearing. C'mon, it's easier this way.

There was no time to explain. Claire focused on the scented air in front of her, the faint snapping of twigs and bracken beneath the deer's hooves. Carefully, she drove the deer back toward the clearing, until they were only a few yards from the fire. Breathing hard, Claire put on a burst of careless speed, not caring how much noise she made. It didn't matter— the deer knew she was coming.

Midstride, Claire crouched low and then leapt, landing on the deer's back and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Marie and Judith joined her at once, and in another minute, the deer lay dead on the forest floor. Claire tossed back her head and yipped. It was over.

Judith stood over the deer's nut brown back, panting hard, her shoulders hunched.

Well, you managed it, but Goddess, that was a long way to run.

Claire stopped her prancing and stared straight into Judith's eyes, not bothered that the other wolf ranked higher in the pack than she did. She was so over this.

It's easier to run a long way than it is to drag a dead deer a
half-mile through the forest with our teeth,
she pointed out.

Marie stepped between them.
Enough. Judith, Katherine,
help Claire and me bring the body into the clearing.
The feast went by in a blur. Claire was half-elated that she'd done everything with no missteps and half-exhausted from the effort of trying so hard. By the time the remains of the deer were buried deep in the forest, Claire was more than ready to change back into her human skin and crawl into her bed.

Marie sat in front of the fire, and the other wolves fol
lowed suit.
Let us return to our human forms.

There was a flutter of activity as the wolves transformed, dressing in an instant and then fussing around with tying shoes and tucking in shirts.

Marie stood in front of them, already dressed, down to the last button on her shirt. "This has truly been a remarkable night. Not only has Claire proved that she is a complete wolf, but our pack has grown, and we have had the most successful naming in our remembered history. Thank you, all of you, for your efforts this evening. Go home. Go home and be happy, and I will see all of you when the moon is full again."

Go home and be happy. Right.
Claire's mood deflated like a pin-struck balloon. Going home meant going back into her human world, and her human world was a mess. There was nothing to do about Emily and the party except cross her fingers and hope that Matthew had come through—and that Emily had believed their lies.

But Matthew . . . she didn't like the way she'd left things with him. She needed to talk to him—figure out a way to smooth things over.

Once he'd sobered up.

The women went their separate ways through the woods. Claire trailed a few paces behind her mother, carrying her bag in silence.

"Why so quiet, c
hérie
?" Her mother's tone was light, but there was an undertone of concern. Uncertainty.

"I'm just tired is all," Claire said. "There's been a lot today."

"Of course." Marie smiled. "I am sure that's true." She was all too happy to believe Claire—Claire could see her mother's desire to keep the moment unspoiled. To revel in her victory.

"I am proud of you, Claire. You have made me very happy to be your mother."

The words wrapped around Claire like a coat, warming her. Protecting her. She snuggled down inside the praise. If she could do something as impossible as making her mother proud, then maybe she could straighten out the tangle she'd made of her human life.

Chapter Eighteen

BACK AT THE house, Claire headed straight for her room. She grabbed her phone to send Matthew a text, and found a half-dozen unread messages. They were all from Emily. The first four were all variations of RU OK??? The first one sounded irritated, but the other two were pure worry. Claire wondered exactly what Matthew had told Emily.

The next one said, WHAT HAPPENED BTWN U AND MATTHEW? Claire's fingertips went tingly. Holding her breath, she clicked through the next two messages.

TEXT ME BACK AS SOON AS U CAN.

ARE YOU DEAD OR WHAT??? CALL ME ASAP!

The three messages went through Claire like an electric shock. What had Matthew said to Emily that could make her freak out like that? She stood, rooted to the spot, staring down at the phone.

She could feel her fingers twitching toward Emily's number, desperate to know. It was just a little after two—Emily might still be awake, surveying the mess . . . but probably not. And Claire was supposed to be so sick that she'd had to miss the party. If she called, it might look suspicious.

She knew she'd have to wait until tomorrow. There was no other way.

Damn.

Unable to stop herself, Claire opened a new message.

To Matthew.

I think we need 2 talk. Call me tomorrow.

She flipped the phone shut and buried her head in her hands. She'd been looking forward to the dance and the naming for so long, and the night had turned into a total disaster.

Well, not a total disaster. The naming had been amazing. Trying to hold on to that one bright spot, Claire did the only thing she could think to do. She headed for the bathroom and a hot shower. Claire spent the night tossing and turning, alternately too hot and too cold, slipping in and out of anxious dreams. When morning finally came, she dragged herself out of bed. It was a little after nine thirty. It was too early to call Emily, but she picked up the phone anyway. After the messages Emily had left her last night, it wasn't like she could be mad at Claire for waking her up at the crack of dawn.

It went to voice mail.

Claire hesitated. All sorts of horrible things were running through her mind, most of them involving Emily realizing that Claire had never been sick—that there was some other reason she'd skipped the party.

She got dressed and threw her hair into a ponytail, trying to find a way to make the time pass. She made her bed. She flipped through the channels on the TV. Eventually, she sat on the edge of the bed and watched the clock crawl toward eleven o'clock. She got more and more tense with each minute that passed.

At two minutes past eleven, she couldn't stand it anymore. She dialed Emily again. This time, Emily answered it.

"Hello?" Her rough, pained voice reminded Claire that she was supposed to be sick.

"Sorry," she said, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. It wasn't that hard. She just pretended that the ache in her chest was really in her stomach. "I know it's early. But I woke up and saw your texts and I'm freaking out. What happened?"

"Oh, God," Emily groaned. "It was—wait. Are you okay? Why didn't you call?"

"I think it was dinner," Claire lied. "I started feeling bad at the dance, and it got so awful that I had Matthew take me home. I was—it was gross." Even Emily was likely to let her off the hook when it came to details about throwing up. "Eventually, I just sort of passed out. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I really, really am."

"Me too," said Emily. Claire could hear her rustling around. "It was really fun, except . . ."

Claire's heart started thudding in her chest. "Except what?" she prompted.

"Matthew was—I don't know exactly what happened. He was drunk and talking about how the two of you had a fight. A couple of times Amy tried to pull him aside and talk to him, but I think he sort of brushed her off. She was really worried the rest of the night, but she wouldn't tell me why. She said it was private. Which pissed me off a little, 'cause it's not like I'm some stranger to her, but whatever. Anyway, long story short, there was definitely drama, and you probably want to sort that crap out with Matthew before the rumor mill grinds you to a pulp."

Claire doubled over, feeling like she'd been punched. What had Matthew told Amy that would make her so upset? If he'd let on that she wasn't really sick and Amy told Emily, it would shatter their friendship from the inside out.

In the background a door clicked and a voice—a guy's voice—rumbled.

"Okay, I'll be there in a second," Emily said to him. "Who's that?" Claire demanded.

"Randy," Emily admitted. "He was really sweet last night. A bunch of people stayed over, and even though he could have driven home, he slept on the couch so that he could help clean up this morning."

Claire had heard that same, wistful-excited sound in Emily's voice before. The one that meant she really, really liked a guy.

"Listen, I'm sorry, Claire. I've gotta go deal with things here. Just . . . talk to Matthew and then call me back."

"Okay," Claire whispered. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry. I'll talk to you soon." Emily's voice was worried, and Claire hung up with a knot of tension growing like wings between her shoulder blades.

With a stomach-churning chorus of self-doubt pounding in her head, she called Matthew. It went straight to voice mail.

"It's Claire. Call me. We need to talk." She tried to sound calm, but part of her didn't care if he knew she was freaking out.

She flipped the phone shut and sat down on the edge of her bed, running her fingers through her tangled ponytail, trying to figure out what to do. She needed coffee. And she needed to get out of the house. If she paced her room any more, she was going to be insane before noon.

The only place she could think to go was The Cloister, but it was better than nothing. She grabbed her history book and threw on a pair of shoes. Downstairs, her mother was in the darkroom, working. Claire knocked on the door.

"Yes?" her mother called. "What is it?" She sounded irritated.

"I want to take the car," Claire said. "To go to the coffee shop." It wasn't exactly a question. But it was the best Claire could manage, as upset as she was.

There was a pause from the other side of the door.

"Fine," her mother said. "The keys are on the hook. Be careful." The 'be careful' was a dismissal.

Claire scurried up the stairs, snatched up the keys, and hurried out to the car. The Cloister was far from empty, but the late-Sunday-morning crowd didn't involve anyone Claire knew. She ordered an enormous coffee and automatically headed for the little table by the window where she and Emily always sat. With the familiar cup in her hand, the comforting buzz of the coffee grinder, and the sugary smell of the pastries in the glass-fronted case, Claire felt herself calm down the smallest bit.

Something had happened. Okay. But maybe it wasn't as bad as she thought. After all, maybe Emily was exaggerating. What had happened between Matthew and Amy might not have been any big deal. Maybe Amy wasn't suspicious.

She checked her phone. Still no call from Matthew. No message. The blank screen smirked at her, and she shoved it back into her pocket.

She stood up, heading for the pastry case. Maybe an almond croissant would help take her mind off the waiting. The line was insanely long, and she decided to head to the bathroom first. It was a tiny, one-stall bathroom with a faucet that dripped and a mirror that had a chipped gilt frame. Claire stood in front of the sink, adjusting her ponytail.

The door swung open and Claire moved aside, glancing up to see who was squeezing into the bathroom with her.

In a halo of blond curls and ginger perfume, Amy walked through the door. Claire froze, her hands still wrapped around her ponytail.

Amy's eyes widened as she recognized Claire, and her automatic sort of smile slipped off her face. Claire watched her glance around the bathroom, checking to see if they were alone.

"Hey, Claire. You're . . . here. Are you okay?" Amy looked worried. In more ways than one.

Claire's breath came in quick, shallow little puffs, and the skin along her spine crawled with an adrenaline-filled warning.

"I'm feeling a lot better," Claire said carefully, letting go of her ponytail. "I talked to Emily this morning."

Amy winced, and Claire could see her think about lying, but then she squared her shoulders and took a step toward Claire, her eyebrows settling in a determined line.

"What did she tell you?"

Claire swallowed hard, her pulse pounding against the too-delicate walls of her veins. "I heard about what happened at the party."

Amy's determined expression gave way to sorrow. "I'm sorry. I—I can't imagine how hard all of this is for you, but I can't just keep my mouth shut. . . . After that stuff that happened at the mall and then last night and . . . I wasn't trying to listen in, but I heard you and Matthew talking. . . ." She took a step forward, holding out her hand like she meant to touch Claire but she couldn't figure out how. "I know what's going on with you. Why you're always hiding. I figured it out, Claire, and I want you to know that it's okay. I understand."

Claire's fear gave way to shock with such speed that she reached out to steady herself on the wall. It was like plunging down the first big hill on a roller coaster without any warning.

"You . . . know?" she choked out.

Amy gave her a sad little smile. "Yeah. There was a girl back in Philadelphia—well, I mean, I wasn't
sure
about her in the beginning, but now that I know what to look for . . . it wasn't that hard to see what you"—she glanced at the thin bathroom door and dropped her voice—"what was making you act so strange. Claire, I
know,
and I'm worried. You can't hide it much longer. I won't stand by and let you try to cover this up," she finished, her words lead-weighted with meaning.

The air around them was suddenly too thick to breathe. Claire's lungs had seized in her chest. Spots danced in front of her eyes.

"Claire? Are you okay?" She slumped against the wall, ignoring the cool, slightly sticky tiles. A breath burned its way though her chest. She couldn't think—her mind was nothing but a seething mass of panic and anger and betrayal. Because Amy knew.

Amy knew.

Amy knew.

Amy knew.

"I have to go," Claire whispered.

In one swift motion she turned, whipped open the door, and ran into the coffee shop.

As quickly as she could without looking inhuman, Claire hurried over to her table, snatched up her history book, and tore out to the parking lot without even looking to see if Amy was behind her.

She tossed her things into the Mercedes and drove home, running all the yellow lights and rolling through the stop signs on the way. With every second that passed, Claire's fear grew, shredding her from the inside out, howling inside her head until it was impossible to hear, to think. If Amy knew, it put everyone in danger.

There was no difference between the humans in Claire's life and the werewolves. One word from Amy's lips could destroy them all.