Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath (15 page)

“Let me look you over,” Jake says. “All it takes is one bite.” He grabs my hands, holding them out, inspecting them. He studies my forearms, then flips my palms up, surveying the other side. He’s surprisingly focused for as drunk as he is.
 

Jake grabs my chin, turning my head side to side. “Hold your hair back.”

I pull my hair into a pony tail, exposing my neck. He seems satisfied there are no puncture wounds.

“Lets see the legs,” he says.

I sit down at the kitchen table, extending one leg out at a time. First my good leg, then my bad. The boot is covered in teeth marks from the gnawing and gnashing.

“I guess it’s a good thing you broke your leg,” he says. “That boot saved your ass.” Jake seems relatively certain that I’m bite free, but there’s still a twinge of doubt in his eye. “You start feeling sick and burning up with fever, let me know.”

“Why, what does that mean?”

“Means I need to put a silver bullet in you.”

“You wouldn’t really shoot me, would you?”

“Hell yes! The last thing this town needs is one more of those varmints running around.”

“Uncle Jake!”

“Those mangy bastards should know better than to mess with me. I got plenty more silver buckshot where that one came from.”

Jake staggers to the refrigerator, grabbing another beer.
 

“Uncle Jake, when’s the last time you were sober?” I ask.

He ponders this a moment, then booms a resounding “1992.”

I shake my head.
 

“Don’t you get all high and mighty on me,” he says, ambling back to the table. “This here’s what keeps me alive.”

“It’s called addiction,” I say.

“It’s called self defense.”

“You’re self medicating.”

“You’re damn right! This stuff is poison to those bastards. I keep as much of it flowing through my veins as possible.” Jake grins, guzzling the beer. “I reckon that’s why they don’t mess much with me.”

“So, alcohol is poison to werewolves? Any kind of alcohol?”

“I don’t know, I suppose. All I know, is when I started drinking this, my werewolf problems went away.”

I grab for the can of beer. “Let me see.”

“Oh, no, this ain’t for you,” he says, pulling the beer close to his chest.
 

“I’m not going to drink it,” I sigh.

 
Jake reluctantly slides the can over to me. The label reads:
Eisenhut Doppelbock. Brewed in Germany
. The coat of arms depicted on the label features a wolf, wreathed in filigree, with a cross floating above it’s head, beaming rays of light.

I study the label as condensation beads on the aluminum. I can’t help thinking there is something more to this beer than meets the eye. “Do you ever think that it’s not the alcohol? That maybe it’s something else in the beer?”

“I like to think it’s the alcohol,” he says, with a grin. “Harlan Davis told be about this, back in the day. Crazy old bastard. Never had a problem since. Well, until tonight.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Once they get a whiff of something that tickles their fancy, they’ll hound it forever.” Jake’s tone is ominous.

I gulp, and my nerves tingle with dread. “What kind of werewolf problems did you have? You know, back in 1992.”

Jake takes a deep breath, the memories playing across his eyes. “That’s a story for another day,” he says, drooping his head, his face forlorn. He wipes the corner of his eye with his knuckle as it begins to tear. Jake is clearly heartbroken.
 

“What was her name?”

Jake glances to me, puzzled.
 

“You’re not that hard to read,” I say.

“Take my advice, stay away from them. I know they can seem intriguing, but they’re wild animals, and can’t be trusted. They will turn on you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”
 

Jake glares at me.

I can tell this is too painful of a memory for Jake, so I drop it. Though, I’m intrigued. This is a side of Jake I’ve never seen before. I want desperately to know more about this love story that he’s not sharing.
 

 
“These wolves that attacked you tonight, do you know who they are?” Jake asks.

“No.”

“I reckon they’re going to be out for both of us now.”

“That’s reassuring,” I say.

“They tend to hold a grudge,” Jake says. “I’m not so worried about them. These wolves were newly turned. I’m more concerned with who turned them.”

“How can you tell they were newly turned?”

“A mature werewolf will transform completely under a full moon. Eventually, it will gain the power to transform at will. These wolves were snot-nosed little punks, still crawling on all fours.”

“Is it true that they all need to consume human flesh to survive?”

“The more flesh they consume, the more powerful they become.”

 
Jake’s answer concerns me. It means that Ethan has consumed a lot of human flesh. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I watched Ethan transform at will. He is, no doubt, a powerful werewolf, but I have a hard time picturing him feasting on innocent people. Maybe that’s just me being naïve? Being stupid?

 
“Is that why the vampires hate them? Because the werewolves feed on the same food supply?”

“It runs deeper than that. The feud is centuries old, and you sure as hell don’t want to get in the middle of it.”

“That seems almost unavoidable, living in this town,” I mutter.

Jake chuckles.
 

“So, what started the feud?”

“Why don’t you ask that werewolf you’ve been hanging around?”

“What werewolf?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Jake says.

“How do you know about Ethan?”

“I may be a drunk, but I’m not stupid. Besides, I can smell them a mile a way. They smell like wet, mangy dog.”

I roll my eyes. “No they don’t. You’re just being mean. They can’t all be bad, can they?”

“Those mutts would have been using your bones as toothpicks had I not intervened.”

“Ethan’s different,” I say.

“You keep on thinking that. Let me know how it works out for you.” Jake rises from the table, grabs the shotgun leaning against the wall. “You can do what you want, but I see a werewolf on my property, I’m gonna shoot it.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep a loaded gun in the house. What if Noah gets a hold of it?”

“I keep it locked in a safe. Don’t worry,” he says.

“I worry.”

“I’ll teach him about gun safety. I’ll teach you too. I got my first shotgun at twelve.”

“And look how you turned out.”

“Saved your ass,” he snarks.
 

Jake staggers down the hall, bumping into the walls, scraping along the cheap wood panelling.
 

I hear the muffled sound of a car pulling up outside. I move to the front door, peering through the blinds. It’s a black Cadillac SUV. The engine cuts off and a figure emerges from behind the wheel.
 

CHAPTER 20

JEN STEPS FROM the shadows, looking anxious. I pull open the front door.

“I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour,” she says.
 

“Shit. My phone.” I glance down to the base of the steps and see my phone still resting in the grass. Jen scoops it up on her way inside, noticing the broken railing on the steps.

“What happened here?”

“Long story,” I say.

I close and lock the door behind her as she enters.

“Who’s car is that?” I ask.

We sit on the couch in the living room, and I give her a play-by-play of everything that happened.

“I was worried sick about you. I heard growling and you scream, and then the line went dead,” Jen says.

“Ethan warned me not to go out tonight,” I say.

“You didn’t get bit, did you?”

“Relax, I’m fine.”

There is a long, awkward silence. The kind of silence where neither one of you really knows how to bring up a topic—so you sit there waiting for it to come up all by itself—but it doesn’t.

 
“I guess I need to get back before my dad realizes I snuck out and took his car,” Jen says.

“I guess. Unless there’s anything else you think we need to talk about?”

Jen arches an eyebrow at me.

“It’s not like I haven’t figured it out,” I say.

She leans close to me, her eyes staring deep into mine. “Tell no one.”

“You can trust me,” I say.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Mums the word.” I zip my lips.

“Okay. Want to see something?” she says, with a glimmer.

I nod.
 

Jen takes my hands and closes her eyes. A rush of energy flows into our palms, growing in warmth. It feels electric. One of Jake’s empty beer cans wiggles and rattles on the coffee table. After a moment, the crinkled can lifts and rises into the air. Then another can. Followed by another, and another. Soon, a swarm of empty beer cans and tiny, empty, airplane bottles of whiskey hover in the air. They swirl around, orbiting Jen and I, like planets circling the sun.

“Neat trick,” I say.

The cans crash to the ground clanking and pinging off the coffee table.
 

“Let’s see you do it?” Jen says.

“I’m not a witch,” I say.

“Come on smarty pants. Let’s see what you can do.”

“I don’t know the first thing about this.”

“Focus,” Jen says. “Lift the cans with your mind, just as if you were picking them up with your hand. Draw from the energy around you.”

“How?”
 

“Just try one can,” Jen says.

“Fine.” I glance around at the scattered cans and bottles, picking one. I close my eyes, and think about the can. Nothing happens. My face tenses and I feel like I’m going to burst a blood vessel in my head, trying to will the can to rise. But it doesn’t budge.

“Not as easy as it looks,” Jen says, smugly.
 

Now I’m frustrated, and my competitive spirit is starting to get the best of me.
 

“Just relax,” Jen says. “Don’t expel energy. Draw it in from your surroundings, like inhaling air.”

I wiggle my shoulders and shake the tension from my muscles. I close my eyes again, concentrating on the can. I breathe deep, and imagine my body drawing in the energy of my surroundings. My body tingles, and I feel a radiating glow. When I finally open my eyes, Jen is staring at me, slack jawed.
 

The beer can is floating in the air, along with a whiskey bottle. I glance around and see that all of the cans and bottles are suspended in the air.

“You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” Jen says.

“Why not? You just told me how to do it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be able to,” she says. “I was just messing with you.”

With my mind, I gently lower the cans and bottles.
 

“It took me six months to learn how to do that,” Jen says.

“Beginners luck,” I say. “What else can you do?”

“I’m not giving away anymore of my tricks.”

“Oh, come on. What am I going to do with them?”

Jen sighs, giving in. “Do you think I’m really that good of a makeup artist?”

“I knew it!”

“I’m apparently not too good with protection spells. My car wasn’t supposed to get so much as a scratch.”

“You put a spell on your car?” I ask.

“You think I’d drive that fast and crazy without one?”

“At least you walked away from it.”

“True,” she says.

“Who all knows about your little gift?”

“You and me,” Jen says.

“What about your parents?”

“Clueless.”

“So, they’re not…?” I ask.

“No. Think of it like a recessive gene. It may skip generations. And some people who have the gift, may never cultivate it.”

“How do you cultivate it?” I ask, intrigued.

Jen arches an eyebrow at me, like I’m encroaching on her territory.
 

“Jen, come on.”

“It’s like a muscle. You work it out. And I’ve got a personal trainer, so to speak. And no, I’m not going to tell you who it is.”

“Who?” I ask.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“So I’m told,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“All things happen at the time they were meant to happen,” she says.