Sunblind (23 page)

Looking into the past as an observer, I can see what I never saw before; I can see Luba attack me from behind. Her energy, black and twisted and cruel, knocked me out so my father was left alone with unexpected company. My father's eyes remained shut, so he never saw Luba intervene and alter our history once more, and he never saw Nadine's face contort like that of a rabid animal and her body hurl forward and attack him.

“Grandma wanted your daddy dead, so I killed him,” Nadine tells me. “I understood the need because the curse had only just begun; it would've been such a sin to see it end so soon.”

She's speaking to me in this sing-song, childlike voice, like a higher-pitched version of Luba's gravelly tone, and I'm amazed that someone who looks so normal could be so demented. Nadine wears her sanity like a costume, and now she's decided to take it off so her true self can breathe.

“Look at how I make my fingers sharpen into claws so, when they rip into your father's face, he thinks you're attacking him,” Nadine squeals, pointing at herself from the past. “He's so convinced it's you, he never once opened his eyes.”

She's right. All during the pain that Nadine inflicts upon my father, he keeps his eyes closed. Despite my being held up by the silver light my knees buckle, and I fall to the floor of the cabin. I don't feel the wood underneath my knees, but I don't fall through the floorboards either. I'm being suspended between two worlds at once, one more devastating than the other.

If only my father hadn't been so afraid of seeing what he thought was happening! If only he hadn't tried to protect whatever remnant of his daughter he felt still existed within the body of the wolf, he would've seen that someone else was trying to kill him. If he had just for one second, one moment, opened his eyes, he would've seen that someone else was trying to keep the curse in full force and not reverse it! Before I realize it my screams are filling the cabin alongside my father's. Despite his most valiant efforts, he can't conceal the pain that he's feeling; he has to give it a voice. He has to allow his screams the chance to live, even while his life is being taken away from him. The sound of my father's howls is unbearable.

“Stop!!!” I scream. “Stop it!!!”

I can't stop what this witch has already done, but I can stop her from gloating. I can stop her from using my father's death as a source of pride.

“Enough!”

The word roars out of my throat, but quickly turns into something indecipherable, a growl, a sound that doesn't belong to a girl. Startled by the sudden ferocity ripping through time and space, both Nadines—the killer from the past and the tour guide from the present—are startled. My father's lifeless and bloodied and desecrated body falls to the floor with a thud, and while one Nadine callously wipes his blood off her lips with the back of her hand, the other stares at me with a confusion that causes the silver rope to disentangle from me. Our connection is destroyed and so is our link to the past. Not that it matters. I've seen everything I need to see. Luba didn't kill my father. She was too much of a coward to do the deed herself; she enlisted her granddaughter to do the dirty work for her. And Nadine didn't disappoint; she carried out the deed with gusto.

Ignoring Caleb's instruction, I react without thinking.

“I'll make sure you're locked up for what you've done!”

Laughing hysterically, Nadine jumps off of the tombstone and lands on top of the bouquet of flowers that adorns my father's grave, a crushed clump of yellow and pink and red petals lying helplessly underneath her boots.

“Oh really?” she asks. “If you tattle on me, I'll tell everyone that you killed your BFF, and to prove it I'll tie you up in the town square during the next full moon so everyone can witness firsthand that you're nothing but a disgusting killing machine!”

We're at a stalemate. Neither one of us can really harm the other without exposing our own secret and unleashing it onto an unsuspecting and, most likely, unforgiving world. Neither one of us knows what move to make next, but then inspiration strikes. Unfortunately, it strikes Nadine and not me.

“I take that back, Dominy,” she seethes. “Caleb was right. You really are such an amazingly special creature.”

That's no coincidence. She didn't randomly choose the same words Caleb just spoke to me. She must've overheard him; she must have been watching our private moment. Or something much worse than that happened.

“How did you know he said that?” I snap.

Floating, rather than taking a few steps toward me, Nadine smiles. “Your boyfriend and I are very close you know.”

That isn't true, it can't be true, and neither can this! Why am I transforming in the middle of the day, under the blinding light of the sun? It isn't possible!

The burn ignites underneath my skin like someone poured gasoline into my veins and struck a match. Heat engulfs and envelops my body, and the wolf growl that ripped through the air moments earlier is long gone; in its place is the scream of a terrified girl. What is happening to me?!

Looking down at my body, I see I look the same. The outside remains untouched, but internally I can feel the wolf trying to take control, trying to break free, but why? Are the rules changing again or am I simply losing my mind?

Frantically I swipe at the air in front of my face because I can't see. The world around me is fading away, not replaced with darkness, but with a shadow, an undeniable presence separating me from the rest of the world. Like the plastic bag has been lowered over my head and the world is distorted.

I stupidly clutch at my throat and try to rip the plastic bag off of my face even though I know that there's nothing there; there's nothing tangible that I can grab onto. I'm fighting against an unseen enemy. But why isn't the enemy taking complete control of me? Why do I still feel skin on my hands and neck and not fur? Why haven't my limbs snapped in the wrong direction and why am I still standing upright? Shouldn't I be on all fours, clawing at the dirt, growling at the unseen moon? Why am I still a girl and not a wolf?

Because this is just a game, a game that Nadine wants to play and one that she's going to lose.

Since she's part of Luba, she must be connected to the curse and its power, which means, in some way, she must be able to control it. That's what she's trying to do now; she's trying to force me into a transformation even though the sun is occupying the sky and not the full moon. Nice try, Nadine, but even you're not that powerful. You are, however, that stupid if you think I'm going to let you win.

Now that I understand what's going on, I can react, but not instinctively. I need to heed Caleb's lesson; I need to think, and act only when I've weighed my options. Being strong isn't enough; I also need to be smart.

Although I'm no longer having difficulty breathing or seeing, I claw at my throat and flail my arms in front of me to let Nadine think I'm still under her control. Slowly I can feel my strength begin to pulse through my veins where seconds earlier I thought they were being burned by my boiling blood. Panting wildly I must look like I'm gasping for air when I'm simply pumping up my body, letting the adrenalin take over, letting it consume me until I see that Nadine has let down her guard, smugly confident that I'm lost within the shadows of her power. Wrong.

Striking out I easily hit my target: Nadine's throat.

The choking sound she makes means she was as stunned by my actions as I wanted her to be. The crashing sound she makes when she flies into the tombstone and splits it in half means my action was way more powerful and destructive than I had intended.

Lying on the ground, the two symmetrical pieces of stone on either side of her, Nadine starts to laugh. Not like an amused teenager, but like the vindictive granddaughter of a witch. She's reveling in the damage she's helped create, and I can tell she can't wait to share this story with her family. I can see her sitting at her dinner table regaling them with the tale of how she pushed Dominy into defiling her father's gravesite.

Why not help her out so she can tell an even more interesting story?

While Nadine is sprawled out on the ground, her fingers pressed to her lips, sick laughter spilling out of her like pus from a wound, I silently apologize to my father and bang my fist onto one of the two pieces of stone to shatter it. A part of me understands that what I'm about to do next is wrong; it's violent and unethical and immoral. But I ignore that part of my mind. I'll deal with the consequences later. I know what they'll be, I've thought about them, and now I'm ready to act.

Grabbing a piece of stone, one with a sharpened edge, I lift it over my head and throw it down onto Nadine, aiming straight for her head. My movements are quick, but so are hers. She doesn't move; she doesn't roll out of the way; she doesn't do anything; she allows the spirit within her to offer protection. I'm disgusted when I realize she's mastered the same technique that I'm working on. She has learned how to coexist with the spirit that possesses her soul, so they each can act independently from each other as well as in sync. It's something I've yet to discover.

Just as the stone is about to impale the space between Nadine's eyes, her body disappears, giving way to a silver cloud. Parts of the cloud look like satin, others like fog, and I assume this spirit is like a human being who has many different sides. When the cloud parts I see Nadine's truth that can no longer be buried.

A burst of black darkness erupts and rises up out of the silver shimmer. It sways in the breeze for a few seconds before the silver rises up to join it, and then both colors intertwine and spin around each other until their coil is so tight they have no choice but to unravel. When they're done spinning, Nadine is standing in place of the black and silver light.

“Missed me,” she says.

Unable to think of a way to fight back, unable to think of anything that can satisfy the rage filling up my body, I lash out at Nadine with words.

“Damn you!” I cry.

“Correction, Domgirl,” Nadine lashes back. “You're the one who's damned.”

Chapter 21

Thank you, Nadine.

As much as she's taken from me, my former friend has also given me something quite unexpected: freedom. I've been living with the guilt that I literally killed my father when that guilt was never mine to own. Yes, I still know that he died in a futile attempt to release me from the curse, so he died
for
me, but he didn't die by my hand. My French ancestors call that
le différence humungo.

And yet how can I hate her? I mean how can I really blame Nadine for doing something I was going to do myself? We both had our selfish motives: I wanted to break the curse; she wanted to maintain its hold on me. I'm no better than she is. So while I despise Nadine more than ever, I owe her.

Not that I'll ever send her a thank-you card. My gratitude will remain unspoken. Even if I wanted to express my thanks, it would be difficult, because I haven't seen much of her since her gravesite visit. None of us have.

Fleeting glimpses of her in the hallway, usually snickering with Rayna Delgado of all people, or turning a corner at The Retreat, but no more confrontations, no more journeys to the past. It's as if she's biding her time, waiting for the right moment to make her next move.

Napoleon's been acting the same way, keeping his distance from me. It's as if he never stuck that
Help me
note in my pocket. Honestly, I'm not sure what's better—their silence or their actions. Because within any silence is a voice that can't be ignored.

Archie's told me that every time he tries to discuss the Jaffe clan, Nap changes the subject, saying that he'd rather concentrate on his very own Winter Wonderland. Borderline TMI, very sweet, but also very scary. Nap can remain silent about his family, but that doesn't mean his family will remain silent. Their voices screech like animals sound right before they kill. And whoever hears that sound cannot be considered lucky.

But so far Archie has been. He and Nap were able to spend the pre-holiday season together, collect memories and private moments, before Nap and the shrews left town. He told Archie they were going to spend Christmas in Connecticut, but we wouldn't be shocked to find out they really went to some Club Med for homicidal witches.

Even if that turned out to be true, the biggest Christmas shocker would still belong to my brother. When Barnaby handed me a beautifully wrapped present on Christmas morning, I thought for sure he had uncovered my secret and was giving me a book on werewolves or had partnered with Lars Svenson to put my face on the cover of the
Three
W with the headline “Weeping Water Serial Killer Finally Caught.” But underneath all of that shiny gold paper, it was a real Christmas gift. And not just any Christmas gift, a thoughtful one: a copy of
Jane Eyre
with a funky Japanese anime cover.

In one fell swoop he managed to include Caleb and Jess in his gift. I remember looking into my brother's eyes for the follow-up, the gotcha moment when he reveals the true meaning of his gift, that he's going to end my relationship with Caleb and expose me as Jess's killer, but I only saw my little brother looking back at me. Correction, my little brother all grown up. I got the impression that for the past few months he's been under some sort of a spell. Just like Louis.

Speaking of my guardian, I hate that Louis is going to become collateral damage, but even if Mrs. Jaffe weren't cheating on him, we'd still have to break up their relationship. She's not like Napoleon; she's not fighting against Luba; she's part of the horror. Plus, she killed her husband! We can't risk the two of them getting any closer and Louis's suffering the same fate. No, our New Year's resolution is to expose Melinda Jaffe for the maniacal fibber she is. At least that's my resolution.

“I don't know if I can do it, Dom,” Arla says.

She's sitting on her bed combing out the newest wig her father got her for Christmas, a strawberry-blond shag that's about three shades lighter than my own hair color and about six inches shorter. I'm plopped into her beanbag chair. If anyone saw us they'd think we were trying to figure out how to spend the weekend and not how to destroy her father's love life.

“You have to,” I reply.

“I know I have to. We've let this relationship fester way too long,” she replies. “But for the first time in years my dad's actually happy.”

“Would you prefer he be a happy corpse?” I blurt out.

Arla almost drops her wig. “Dominy!”

“Sorry, but the time of the year for soft and fuzzy thoughts has passed,” I declare. “It's resolution time, and we have to resolve to separate the cop from the lady-killer. Or would that be the husband killer?”

“Could be either,” Arla replies. “Depends upon if you want the phrase to include an adjective or a hyphen.”

At least Arla's taking grammar seriously, if not the situation.

“Well, if the constant in the equation is
killer,
we have no choice but to break your father's heart,” I say. “And I have the perfect solution.”

Clutching the wig close to her, Arla pleads. “Please tell me your plan is convoluted and surreptitious and doesn't involve me speaking to my father to confess Mrs. Jaffe's true nature along with all our other secrets?”

I cock my head to the side and make that annoying, adult tsk-tsk sound. “Don't you know me better than that?” I ask. “It's time we resurrect our detective team, like when we uncovered Nadine's tattoo.”

“Which is really some icky supernatural birthmark,” Arla grimaces.

“Exactly,” I reply. “But if you, me, and Archie work together, I have a way that we can help Louis learn the truth without ever having to say a word.”

“If I didn't always have a headache,” Arla says, “the sound of that would give me one.”

“Sorry about the headaches,” I reply.

Shaking her head, but furrowing her brow at the same time, Arla says, “It isn't always so bad, and it's better than the alternative. And my only alternative if I want to help my father see the light about his girlfriend is to join in, so you can count on me.”

Excellent! That was easier than I thought. Or was it?

“On one condition,” Arla adds.

“And that would be?” I ask.

“As long as my father doesn't find out I played any part in his emotional devastation.”

Not a problem. “Your role in our mission will remain secret.”

And once Archie finds out what the plan is and that he can't tell Napoleon in order to protect him from his mother's possible wrath after she's dumped, he's also on board. In fact, he's giddy at the prospect.

“We haven't even celebrated our six-month anniversary, and I'm already lying to my boyfriend!” he squeals. “I feel downright heterosexual!”

Admittedly we're all way more excited than we should be. A man's emotional fragility is at stake, and since Melinda has proven to be an MWM—Most Wanted Mom—we should not feel cavalier while crouched in the bushes in front of the Jaffe house. We should be serious and dour and nervous, but we're not. Jaded or justified, we're acting as if we're about to watch a movie and not a middle-aged man get his heart shredded into tiny little pieces and bleed all over whatever remains of his self-confidence.

“That's his car,” Arla whispers.

Through a small hole in the thick bush, I can see Louis's car pull up in front of the house. When he gets out, Arla grabs my hand, because she notices that he's wearing the new sports jacket she bought him for Christmas, the one with the chocolate-brown suede elbow patches, the one he told her he'd only wear on special occasions. Tonight definitely counts as one, but not in the way that Louis imagines.

When Melinda opens the door, it's evident by her wardrobe that she has no idea tonight was supposed to be special. She's wearing a long, fluffy pink bathrobe. It's actually really cute and something Jess would covet, but not appropriate attire for a woman on a date. However, it is appropriate attire for a woman with the flu.

“Oh, Louis,” Melinda says, her voice rough and nasally. “Didn't you get my text?”

Awkwardly, Louis steps back when Melinda doesn't immediately allow him entry into her home. The light from the half-moon is strong, and it shines on Louis, creating a soft halo around his head, not perfectly angelic, but as close as a man can get.

“No . . . I . . .” he stammers. “Are you sick?”

Physically?
Probably not.
Mentally?
Absolutely!

“I have the flu,” she says. “Came over me this morning. I'm so sorry, but I have to cancel our date.”

Ever the gentleman, Louis has a substitute option for whatever out-on-the-town plans he had for them.

“That's all right. I can stay and make you my world-famous chicken soup,” he says. “Well, it's Weeping Water famous anyway, a local favorite. I haven't posted the recipe online, though Arla keeps telling me I should make videos of me cooking and put them on the Internet. She thinks I could be ‘Cop Chef' and have a huge following.”

Arla pokes me in the arm and mouths the words “I really do,” giving testimony to her father's rambling.

Unfortunately, Melinda isn't a foodie.

“I'm sorry, I'm not up for any company,” she says, clutching the collar of her bathrobe.

Even though he doesn't have much experience dating, Louis is perceptive enough to deduce by her body language that there is no way he is getting lucky or anywhere near her tonight. The bad news is that we aren't either.

Our plan was to sneak into the house before they left for their date, swipe Melinda's cell phone, and text Winston to rush over for a rendezvous. When he showed up and saw Louis with her, we assumed nature would take its course, and Louis would discover that Melinda was two-timing him. Her sudden sickness hasn't just ruined Louis's evening; it's ruined ours too.

Then again, maybe not.

After Louis drives away I feel a flutter in my stomach; could be optimism, could be a premonition. Whatever it is it's enough to convince me the night will not be a total loss.

Stepping onto the front lawn, I look up and see that, despite the January chill, one of the upstairs windows is partially open. I walk closer to the curb, and the glow of the half-moon is strong enough for me to see into the room, just as Melinda enters. Naked and carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine. Why not let the cold in when Winston Lundgarden is already lying on your bed waiting to warm you up? The evening has become gross and fortuitous at the same time.

“This is perfect!” I whisper-shout to Arla and Archie after rejoining them in the bushes. When I tell them what I just saw, they don't share my opinion that I've witnessed perfection.

“How can this be perfect?” Archie asks. “The plan is ruined.”

“And those two are going to have old people sex right above us,” Arla adds.

Sometimes my Wolf Pack is as sharp as a flock of lost sheep.

“If we're grossed out by just thinking about it,” I say, “how do you think Louis is going to feel when he sees the two of them in action?”

Arla's jaw drops, and her head shakes. “Dominy, you are a brilliant werewolf.”

A truer compliment was never spoken.

“Archie,” I say.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Okay, so my Wolf Pack isn't always shrewd, but they are snarky, which is sometimes a lot more fun.

“Did you bring your lock-picking apparatus like I asked you to?”

“No, ma'am.”

Now my Wolf Pack is just plain disobedient.

“Why not?”

“Because we don't need to break into their house when my boyfriend gave me a key.”

Arla's jaw drops again. “Archie! Have you snuck in before to, you know, have your own private meetings?”

“I do not kiss and tell, Arla,” Archie says, which actually makes us both sigh with relief. “But since we did a lot more than kiss . . .”

“Quiet!” I shout more than whisper. “Our time is limited, and we need to spend it exposing the truth behind Mrs. Jaffe's sex life and not Archie's.”

Following Archie up to the front door, Arla whispers in his ear. “I want to hear every single detail about your Napol-erendezvous when this is all over. Deal?”

“Deal.” Archie grins.

Once inside the Jaffe living room, we keep the front door slightly ajar in case we have to make a quick escape, but we're not greeted by anyone, and the rest of the house is silent. I look at my fellow break-in artists and bring my finger up to my lips so they keep quiet. I'm reminded of the many times my father used this signal on me, but instead of feeling depressed, the reminder energizes me. I'm following in his footsteps and being proactive just like he always tried to be.

Using my enhanced hearing I can hear sounds coming from the basement. It's only the TV, but that means someone is down there. Upstairs I hear soft classical music, strings of some sort, maybe violins, but since I know very little about classical music that's as specific as I can get.

When I see a cell phone amid a pile of magazines on the coffee table, I'm certain it's Melinda's. Nadine and Napoleon are witches, but they're also teenagers, so I'm pretty certain they have their phones on them or nearby at all times. When I notice that the phone isn't password protected I'm certain; it has got to belong to an adult.

Deftly scrolling through her contacts, I find Louis's name and type in a text, then press Send. As expected, he immediately responds, and I reply. I place the phone down on the mountain of magazines and turn to Arla and Archie.