FEVERCHAIN 10

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

Voiceover by the mesmerizing Emily S Hurricane! Many thanks to her for making this story come alive.

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I’m tired of looking up. Straining my neck at the night sky. Currently, through the kitchen window.

The moon is full for three days. The earth, moon, and sun only align in a single, fleeting instant—but near full is enough—Gwen is a werewolf for three nights. For three nights out of, roughly, every month. If there are twelve full moons every year… twelve times three is 36. 36 wolf nights. I can make that work.

It’s been four days since I saw her in the basement.

Four days since Smokey’s been missing. Panco’s Diner has been closed. Mom posted, called, knocked on doors with me—told the entire town there was a manhunt for Smokey. No one saw him.

“At what point do we stop…” Can’t finish, clawing my scalp at the dinner table. My chicken tortilla soup is going cold.

“Stop looking?” Clyde says.

Mom gives him a look, puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s a nightmare.

“It’s okay,” I lie. “I know we have to open tomorrow.” Shut my eyes and somehow there’s water left.

She rubs my back. “You need sleep, Bun. You need to eat.”

My phone buzzes between my butt and seat. I wince.

“A lot has happened,” Mom continues. “I can run the diner by myself for the rest of the week. The Dyers paid for the cleaners to come today so we don’t have to worry about that. Take a break.”

I shake my head. The Dyers make me sick.

“Didn’t you talk to Jordan recently? Gosh, it’s been forever. Take my car, go visit them.”

“I can’t!” I feel nothing but the phone in my pocket. My new phone. I flee from the table, shuffle down the hall.

“She’s acting like a teenager,” I hear Clyde grumble.

I slam my bedroom door and collapse on the floor. Peep under my bed, half expecting my husky to be there, but there’s nothing but old shoes and dust bunnies. I don’t want to look at my phone. I haven’t left, I haven’t said anything, I haven’t done anything wrong. Not yet.

Tap. Taptap.

On the glass. Of my window. I look up—my face slackens. I almost believe in god. I scramble to stand, rush to the pane.

“Smokey!” Someone is holding him. Guess who.

Shakily, I unlatch the window, push on the glass. Fuck, I suck at this. Squeaks as it inches up. From outside, fingers curl through the gap. The window gapes open in a gust of cold.

“I made a friend.” Gwen smiles, holding my panting husky in one arm. He whines, sniffs, licks my hand. I almost fall out the window. Luckily, our house has one floor. And I’m starting to get used to these miracles.

I hear the door open behind me. I must’ve shouted at some point.

“Oh my god!” Mom shrieks. Clyde stomps over.

I’m a mess, so he takes Smokey from Gwen’s arms into my bedroom.

“Smokey! Gwen!” Mom whirls around like a bat in an attic. “C-come around, I’ll let you in—”

“That’s alright.” She slides out of the darkness. I cover my face, it’s too much. Snot is running into my mouth. I bury myself into Smokey’s fur. He stinks—wet dog. I swing my head away to shiver.

“Where on earth did you find him?!” Mom’s a yeller, like me.

“He was in the woods, trying to find his way back.” Her hands are in her pockets. “Not too far from here, actually.”

“I just can’t believe this! Thank god you were… outside.” Mom’s mouth twists slightly as she regards Gwen, unblinking and surely wondering why the Dyers’ daughter was walking around in the forest at night.

We give Smokey lots of water, then kibble. He’s pretty dirty, so Mom and I bathe him while Gwen watches, touching my arm tentatively, bringing towels, attempting to engage with Clyde. So honorable.

My hero.

Still haven’t checked my phone. Don’t want to. But maybe Gwen’s mom and dad are speeding over here to kill us all with their arsenal.

“I gotta, um, use the other restroom.”

Gwen turns to watch me go. I lock the door, take out the surveillance phone and sit on the toilet.

A message from Wade. My empty intestines kink.

Gwen’s heading your way

A second message: confirm?

I send a thumbs up.

Once Smokey is dried and settled in Mom and Clyde’s bedroom, I’m finally alone with Gwen, which wakes me up more than a cup of coffee. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how much she knows.

We sit on my bed. Her hand envelops mine, warm.

“How did you find him?” I rasp.

Gwen laughs a little, averts her eyes. “Just saw him. He wasn’t too far from here, really.”

I stare at her until she looks back.

“What is it?” She blinks. Amish oakwood.

“You smelled him,” I whisper.

Her hand tightens around mine. “I think we all did.” Smiles again.

“No,” I say. “That’s how you found him. You smelled him. Where was he, Gwen?”

She drops my hand.

“How far away was he?”

She stands, shoves her hands into her hoodie pocket. Doesn’t face me. “Three, four miles north.”

I squeeze my lavender comforter. “How did you catch him?”

“He was tired.”

“He let you pick him up?” 56 pounds of fur for how many miles?

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t he freak out around you anymore?”

Gwen shrugs, peeks back.

I swallow.

She whips around and grips my cheap metal bedframe. The whole thing shakes. “How’d you know about my smell thing?” She smiles. “Sorry. It’s just—I don’t remember telling you. Telling you I thought it was real, at least. You believe it?”

I nod. Gwen leaps onto my bed. The whole thing shakes again. “Crazy, right?”

“Y-yeah. You hear better, too?”

“They’re trying to be quiet but… I hear your mom and her boyfriend right now.” She wrinkles her nose.

I put a hand over my mouth. “Ew.”

“Smokey’s used to it, I bet.”

“I’m not.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Like four months. Almost five. Shit.”

Her eyes scan my room, over photographs of me down the shore with my grandparents while they were still alive. “You don’t like him?”

I cross my arms. Uncross them. “He’s kind of an ass.”

Gwen smirks at me. “I picked up on that.” Pauses. “Sounds like he might have some redeeming qualities.”

It takes me a moment to process her words. Immediately, I regret it. “Jesus!” I slap her arm. “I’m gonna gag.”

She scoots closer, grin growing. “Now you have to suffer with me.”

“Ha, ha.” Too fucking real. “Please spare me.”

Her rosy cheeks fall. Sunken in. “You really believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I just do.”

Her brows furrow. “How?”

Because I saw, oh, what big ears you have. I press my tongue against my teeth. “I believe you when you tell me things. You should… believe yourself.”

“Careful.” She takes my wrist, stamps my knuckles to her forehead. “I’m crazy, remember? Delirious.”

“Then how come you found Smokey?”

Her eyes gleam. “Don’t make me think I can’t scare you away. Then I’ll tell you all kinds of things.”

“Like what?”

Gwen nuzzles my hand, wet lips. “Like how much I think about you,” she murmurs into my palm, sending a shock to my pussy.

I pull her close. She follows my arms until she faces me as we lie on pillows. A muffled squeak sounds. Gwen finds stuffed elephant under the sheets.

“Smokey’s toy. He sleeps with me, usually.”

“Aw.” I’m sure she could tell. He sheds like mad.

I grip the front of her hoodie. “Gwen.” My eyes mist. I want to tonguefuck her mouth, but my lip quivers. “You found him for me.”

“I wish I could’ve sooner.”

I cry, into her chest. So warm, the good kind. I writhe against her to dry my tears. Burn me alive. “Even after he bit you…”

She stops patting my head. “Bit me?”

I sniffle.

Gwen’s forehead scrunches. “He never bit me.”

I bolt up, electrified. Try to snatch her arm.

“What are you—”

“Let me pull up your sleeve just let me do it.”

She does. No injury. Those purple punctures—gone. “What!”

“Bianca?”

I look at her hands. Both of them. One was scabby and one was bleeding only four days ago. Now they were pristine and blemishless. My gaze flicks to hers. “How’s your foot?”

“My foot?”

“You broke it when you jumped from the roof?”

Gwen looks afraid now, and I feel bad. “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “Nevermind.”

“Tell me Bianca. Tell me. I don’t remember.”

I tell her. I tell her about how she showed up at the diner, bleeding. I don’t tell her she broke my phone. I tell her how her parents tranquilized her and carried her away. Not about their guns.

“Guess it healed.” She rubs her jaw. “My parents must’ve treated it. They care for me while I’m… out of it.”

“Bones don’t heal in three days.” Neither do bites and cuts and crumbly scabs. Not without marks. But she has much more skin and bone than I can see right now and maybe the wolf swallows wounds, too.

Her breathing quickens. “Then I guess it wasn’t broken.”

This is too much, too fast. “Yeah,” I comfort. I don’t know what lies her parents told her but I can see that house of cards toppling behind her stare. “You okay?”

Her eyes refocus on mine. She strokes my face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” Gwen falters, voice thick. “I’m sorry I’m—if I wasn’t selfish, I’d stay away.”

“Shut up.” I can’t tell her the whole truth. Not tonight. I wrap my leg around her hip, caress her lips with mine. “I want to see you. I want to know you.”

She exhales, hell from her lungs hazing my glasses.

“You will.” Gwen catches my bottom lip with her teeth. Blunt, but my breath shudders, and she smiles before her tongue lolls to my throat.

↟↟↟

8:10 a.m.:

we’re at the diner

8:47 a.m.:

Gwen’s gonna walk around in the woods for a bit

K. If we can’t find her it’s on you

Thx, wade. Have a good one

Im serious [gun emoji]

She said she’ll be back before we close

Wade fucking thumbs up the message.

I slam the phone on the counter. Breathe through my teeth. This was his—no, his parents’—plan all along. They needed leverage over Gwen, human leverage. Enter: Bianca Panco. She won’t run away without me. How convenient I am.

They’re wrong.

Last night I dreamed of the wolf. A rolling ocean of muscle and pelt, descending with open jaws like a tsunami. Inevitable.

I made Gwen eggs for breakfast and this time she did not hesitate. I cooked them in bacon grease. She licked the plate.

It’s always in the back of my mind. I’m not trying to figure out what ‘it’ is. Why would I do that when I already know? This is some Hansel and Gretel shit.

“More water?” Sheriff swallows whatever remains of his sandwich.

I adjust my glasses with a tremor, grab his cup from the counter. “Yeah, sorry.”

“That’s alright.” He cushions his curtness. “I, uh, heard about your dog.”

Before I can respond, Thornton enters. Right on schedule.

“Hi, Mr. Thornton.”

He lifts a claw at me and shambles to his booth by the door. Keeps his cigarettes in his pocket.

I return my attention to Sheriff. “We found him last night.”

“Oh.” His stache quirks. “What a relief.”

I smile and nod, ready to step away but his lips curl back:

“Because I’m ‘bout to go Rambo on these coyotes. I don’t care what that ‘Wildlife Alliance’ says.” He snickers to himself. “Or that Ivy League. It’s not like they’re from Princeton.” Sips his water.

“Did something happen?” This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Sheriff.

“Noise complaints. Somehow I control when the animals howl at night.”

“Complaints? How many?”

“More than ten on Saturday night. Worse than a high schooler party,” he chuckles. “Anyway. Glad you found your pooch.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.” Saturday night. While Gwen was turning. I remember the legion of coyotes outside of our Molly’s Motel room. She’s affecting their behavior. She’s the answer to the researchers’ questions.

Well, they’d never fucking guess this. What would happen if the wider world found out about Gwen, anyway? Would scientists kidnap her, run experiments? Would the army come? Would the President just nuke Pinetown?

And if werewolves are real, which I guess they fucking are, then why the hell doesn’t anyone act like it? Maybe it’s like Area 51.

The Dyers were right in this respect: I have to guard this secret.

The day passes. Clouds over the sky shift the light inside along with the falling sun. Puffs of steam float from the kitchen. A little smoke. Mom’s singing—I would die for her, I realize. Kill for her, obviously. It’s a sudden and overwhelming feeling. I try not to cry as familiar faces fade in and out. Around three, Erica walks in. My heart rate jumps.

The student approaches me with a small smile, so coy. Her green and black hair twisted into space buns. Equipped with a heavy duty jacket, backpack, gloves, water bottle—she was outside. Gwen is outside. My eye twitches.

“Hi, Bianca. I’m back.”

“Hey—what?”

“Back in Pinetown. Didn’t notice I was gone?”

“No.” That sounded mean. “Sorry, my dog went missing and it’s just been a shitshow.” Erica’s face expands in horror. “Don’t worry, we found him. Well, Gwen found him…”

A breathy, relieved laugh. “Oh yeah, Gwen!”

“Yeah.” I need to watch my tone. “Are you still, uh, researching?”

Erica nods enthusiastically, buns flopping. “Dr. Leo and Dustin are moving on, but I’m staying to observe more of the atypical coyote behavior. Dr. Leo decided the findings here could only serve as outliers and skew the data. He thinks these coyotes are stupid—neurologically poisoned somehow. That’s his theory, and he left it at that.”

“What’s your theory?”

“It could be brain damage, but it also could just be… stress. I’ve figured out that the coyotes’ behavior here is the complete opposite of their usual responses to lunar cycles.”

Oh Jesus. Is the whole town catching on? “Interesting.”

“It’s about visibility: the fuller the moon is, the brighter it is outside, and the more coyotes can rely on sight and, while hunting,” she pretends to prowl with her arms, swiveling her head, “have to keep quiet, need more cover to stay hidden. Under newer moons,” she chirps, “when there’s less light, they rely on other senses. They howl more to communicate with their pack and protect their territory, and will be bolder, go into more open areas. But in Pinetown…” she grins, wags her finger, “in Pinetown there’s the opposite effect. Reports of coyotes howling and prowling near residences increased during the most recent full moon here.”

I look into her eyes. “Why do you think that is?”

“I need to keep watching for a couple more cycles, but I think there’s a territorial dispute.”

“Between who?”

“Primarily coyotes versus coyotes, but also, coyotes versus us, you know?” She giggles at my blank expression. Her dark eyes draw towards the kitchen door behind me. “Coyotes ever get in your trash?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard about that happening to anyone here?”

“I’m not sure. Raccoons, maybe.”

“Ugh.” She slides onto a stool and rests her chin on her hand. “I should just sit here and interview whoever walks in.”

I’m kind of offended she hasn’t asked for my number at this point. “Were you in the woods?”

“Yes,” she sighs. “Checking the rub pads. Collecting samples.” She picks up a menu. “I’m exhausted.”

I set down a water for her. “Let me know if you need recs.”

The door chimes. Emilio walks in with a wild grin and points at me.

I nod at him, discouraging his mania.

He jogs over, open backpack sloshing notebooks and papers. He’s holding his camera. Sets it on the counter and leans to me, side-eyeing Erica. He puts a hand over his mouth: “Who’s that?”

“Erica.”

Emilio wolf whistles. The student snorts at him.

“Don’t harass my customers,” I say.

He puts his hand back over his mouth, black bangs obscuring semi-circle eyes. “Binks, I gotta show you something.”

“I’m working,” I glance at Erica. “And I don’t want to see any more roadkill pics.”

“No!” he strains. “This is different. This is, like, big time.”

Now I’m worried. “What is it?”

He climbs over the counter and scoots until he’s behind it with me.

“Don’t do that.” But I’m looking at the camera in his hands. Strange how Emilio doesn’t just record with his phone, but uses this dinky compact camera instead. It’s covered in scratches. “How old is that thing?”

“From 2008. It’s a Panasonic SDR-S7, dude. Thrifted.” He wiggles his fingers before flicking open the mini screen. “Ok—check it.” He pushes buttons to select his most recent video. Set in the woods.

Fuck.

He grins at me, grins more at my earnest anxiety. “Don’t tell my parents bro because they won’t let me in the woods again.”

“Okay… bro.”

He presses play. Fastforwards. Pause. Play. Fastforwards. Pause.

Exhales. Play.

It’s shaky footage of the forest, endless trees and pine straw. Something dark moves—a leg. Emilio zooms in. It’s Smokey.

“Wait—” His breath hitches. Two of Smokey’s back legs peek from behind the tree. Pause.

Anger fireworks in my head. “When was this?”

Emilio’s face creases. Play. Smokey backs up, looks at the camera. Emilio gasps.

“What?”

“Yo…” Fastforwards. Pause. Play. Rewind. Rewind. Rewind.

“Emilio.”

His mouth and eyes are open wide, chest rising and falling under his layers. “It’s gotta be…” He jams the buttons, looks through all his videos.

“When did you take this?”

He ignores me, keeps shaking his head.

“Hello?”

“The fuck!” He swings the camera to his side. Bites on his thumb. Erica studies us.

“Emilio. When did you take that video?”

He stares vacantly at the organic peanut butter jar under the counter. “Yesterday.”

“You saw Smokey yesterday and you didn’t tell anybody? You didn’t tell me?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head again. Looks like he might cry.

“E… it’s fine. We got him, it’s fine. I just don’t get why you didn’t tell us you saw him.”

“I didn’t see him.” He opens the camera. Clicks the video and rewatches the grainy, zoomed-in footage of Smokey. “Fuckcakes!” He storms out growling, blank algebra papers spilling from his bookbag.

I watch him walk briskly down the sidewalk from the window, still bleeding paper.

Erica lowers her menu, as if she wasn’t watching closely. “Does he know his backpack is open?”