 
Prologue

Zoë tightly held onto her father's forefinger as they walked across the dark parking lot. He tugged her along, trying to get her to keep up with his long strides, but Zoë kept stopping to look over her shoulder—something was wrong with the man standing by the store entrance. He stood in the shadow of the building, dressed in a black that made the shadows all around him pale by comparison. His face was featureless porcelain, like a doll, with two great holes for eyes—deep, hollow, and endless. He was staring at her.

Zoë began to cry.

"What's wrong, Babydoll?" her father asked. He didn't look down at her; he didn't slow his pace. He just kept walking—each step clicking off the rain-soaked macadam with swift purpose.

Zoë pointed, "That scary man is looking at us, daddy," she whimpered. Jon Marsh glanced briefly over his shoulder and stiffened.

His eyes grew wide, and the color drained from his face. The man by the building started forward.

Jon's hand enveloped his daughter's entirely as he gripped her tight and made a mad dash for his battered station wagon. Zoë flailed helplessly behind him like a rag doll, crying as Jon nearly rent her arm from its socket.

"Daddy! You're hurting me!" Zoë cried, but Jon kept running.

He flung open the passenger's side door and deposited his daughter on the seat before running around the to other side and climbing

into the driver's seat. He slammed the door closed behind him, his breathing ragged. Zoë was sobbing.

Jon reached over and rubbed his daughter's shoulder gently, "Oh, I'm sorry Babydoll, daddy didn't mean to hurt you. But daddy saw something scary that it knew wanted to hurt you, and he had to get you someplace safe before that bad thing got you."

"Was it that scary man?" Zoë sniffled.

Jon released a shaky breath, "Y-yeah," he stammered, "Yeah Babydoll. You could see that man?" Zoë nodded with all the exaggeration a four-year-old could muster. Jon licked his lips, trying to remain calm.

"What else can you see, Babydoll?" Jon asked, trying and failing to keep the quiver from his voice.

"Lots of scary things," she confessed, "Sometimes they talk to me, and ask me if I want to go with them so we can play."

Jon's stomach seemed to turn to water as a chill worry pimpled his skin with gooseflesh and coiled tightly in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. When he opened them again, he turned to face his daughter, "Okay...okay, Babydoll, I want you to play a game, and this is a very, very important, game okay?" Jon licked his lips, "Daddy wants you to pretend you can't see these things."

Zoë sniffled and wiped her nose, "Why?"

"Well, they're playing too. See, if the bad things catch you looking at them, then they can touch you, and if they touch you, you lose. But if you pretend you can't see them, they can't touch you, understand?"

Zoë nodded slowly, "Like tag?"

"Y-yeah, a little bit. But you can't tag them, and you can't ever, ever, let them tag you, and the only way to do that is to pretend they aren't real, get it?"

When Zoë was young, it was hard for her to be able to pretend she couldn't see monsters. They were the people she knew, people she didn't, and sometimes they didn't bother pretending to be people. Their eyes watched her from the shadows, always watching, waiting for her to slip up.

"Freaks" her father called them.

House after house, town after town, the freaks were always there. Thirteen years passed, and still, Zoë's terrifying visions went on. She never forgot her father's words to her though, and as Zoë grew into a young woman, what had started as a game became a life-altering law:

Rule #1: Don't talk to freaks.

Rule #2: Don't look at freaks.

Rule #3: Don't let freaks see you.

JANUARY

Wolf Moon

Zoë

It was midnight.

Zoë Marsh lay awake in bed, the covers pulled up to her waist, legs wrapped around a pillow, and a ragged teddy bear under one arm. It was January, and cold, but Zoë felt like she was on fire. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as she sat up, trying to catch her breath.

That dream, she thought bitterly as she swung her legs over the side of her bed. Why is it always that same damn dream?

It was like this every month. On a full moon, or when she was on her period, a particular dream would always plague her sleeping hours leaving her tossing and turning until she awoke with a start, panting, and covered in a hot, sticky sweat.

In her dream she was running through the woods, the evergreen pines closing in around her like a cage. They stabbed at the night sky like jagged spears trying to burst the full moon. In that night, the moon reigned supreme, too bright to let the stars shine beside it. But then, as it always did, a shadow would fall across the moon, like an eclipse, but instead of black the shadow was blood-red. Then there came a harsh wind that would yank at her clothes and hair, bringing with it the baying and howls of so many wolves. They sounded sad, almost in pain, calling to her for help.

"I'm sorry," she'd weep, "I'm so sorry..."

And then there was pain. Without moving she was suddenly standing. She'd look down and see a masculine hand, holding the hilt of a silver, jewel-encrusted dagger. As the stranger slowly pulled it out of her stomach, she could see the blood drip from the blade and fall to the ground. Every time she saw that dagger, she would look up, thinking I need to see his face. If I could just see who...

But that was where the dream always ended.

No matter how many times she'd had the dream, she could never see the man's face, only the beautiful jeweled dagger, all silver, and crimson.

Each time she had the dream she awoke with her heart pounding, blood run chill with fear, and clammy with sweat. It didn't matter how accustomed to the dream she had become, this was always her body's reaction. The same fear.

Zoë reached over to the shadeless lamp at her bedside and pulled the cord to turn it on, sending a handful roaches skittering into the shadows. She shielded her eyes against the sudden stark light that flooded the room and sat there for a moment to let her eyes adjust. The sleep in her eyes scratched annoyingly against her cornea as she blinked several times.

Groggily, she stood, grabbed a fresh pair of panties out of her dresser drawer and headed to the bathroom. She didn't need to double check to know that her blood had come. The dream had been enough.

In the bathroom, Zoë washed up, took care of business, and changed her panties before moving to try to wash the red stain out of the first pair. She sighed angrily as she scrubbed.

Zoë regarded her reflection for a moment. She wasn't magazine-pretty, but she did all right for herself. Half African-American and half Hmong, her skin was soft mahogany with almond-shaped dark brown eyes. Her straight, choppy, black hair—ruffled from sleep—fell around her face and shoulders. She'd cut and styled it herself to mimic a favored video game character. At the age of seventeen, she had a high forehead and a tapered chin with a flat nose, wide nostrils, and full lips. She was also very short—no more than five-foot-four—but with the body of a gymnast; all springy muscle and leonine grace with short, strong fingers meant more for balance beams than art supplies.

The stain wasn't making any progress, and, sighing with exasperation, she decided to give it one last rinse and threw the panties in the washing machine downstairs before heading back up to her bedroom and flopping down on her bed.

A lazy croak sounded from her curtain rod, and she opened one eye. Eddie Lizard, her pet iguana, sat atop his favorite place on her curtains and croaked a second time.

"Oh shut up," she said. In response, Eddie ate a cockroach that wandered too close. Zoë stood up on her bed to retrieve him. Stepping down to the old hardwood floor she crossed the small room to Eddie's terrarium on the floor, placed him atop his heat rock, and closed the cage.

"Go to sleep, Eddie," she told him sternly, and he gave a croak of defiance.

She smirked and crossed back over to her bed.

By then the cloying sweat from earlier had all but dried, but Zoë was still hot. She pushed aside white curtains and opened her bedroom window to let in the crisp January air and breathed a sigh of relief. She reached down to the tackle box she kept under her window and retrieved the cigarettes and lighter she hid there. She lit up, the cherry end burning in the night like an ember as Zoë took a drag to calm her nerves.

She looked up at the moonless sky dotted with a handful of stars, the tiny silver pinpricks of light straining to shine in a well of purplish black. She held up her cigarette against the sky, a single red-orange star burning beside the ghostly pale glow of the natural, heavenly bodies.

No moon tonight. You can't have an eclipse without a moon, she told herself. She finished her cigarette and tried to go back to sleep.

Though her alarm sounded hours later, it felt like mere seconds. Zoë grumbled her aggravation and slammed her hand down on the snooze button.

Maybe I can just lay here for ten more minutes, she thought, it'll be fine...

Then she remembered how sweaty she had been last night and realized she would need a shower. Her eyes snapped open and she made a second agitated sound.

Zoë got out of bed, grabbed a towel from the pantry, and made her way to the bathroom.

The day had barely begun, and already she hated it.

When she got to the bathroom, she locked the door behind her, stripped off her pajamas and turned on the water. It had been a while since there had been hot water at the Marsh house, and her parents' battle with the landlord didn't look like it was going anywhere soon.

She stood in a backbend to wash her hair, trying to keep the icy water from touching her. Sweat be damned, the water was too cold!

Shivering, she stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry before brushing her teeth, drying and styling her hair, applying her makeup and heading back to her room to get dressed.

She had left the window open all night, and the frigid January air had turned her room into an icebox. After her shower that was the last thing she needed. Zoë shut the window and danced around a bit to try to warm up.

Eddie gave a superior croak from his heat rock where he was quite warm and comfortable. Zoë stuck her tongue out at him and kicked her space heater up a notch so she could dress in front of it. She put on her favorite pair of jeans that had no less than a dozen holes in them with funny and cute buttons in-between. The jeans were old, and weathered, and stained with several different splotches of paint in as many colors. She layered herself in a Batman tank-top and her favorite red hoodie. On each wrist, she wore two thick leather bands.

She was shrugging on her coat over her hoodie when her cell phone buzzed and danced on her bedside table. She flipped it open and saw a text message from her friend Riley saying she was waiting outside.

Zoë stuffed her phone into her messenger bag, let Eddie out of his cage so he could hunt the many cockroaches that skittered about, grabbed her art case and headed for the front door.

Her parents were still asleep this early in the morning. Her dad was a tattoo artist at a popular shop called Ink Me, and her mom played bass guitar in a local band called Succubus when she wasn't working as a bartender at the Starline. They were always up late and slept in a lot, so Zoë caught a ride to school with her best friend.

Her breath misted in the air before her as she stepped out into the icy morning, her feet crunching on the frost-covered grass as she made her way across the lawn to Charlie.

Charlie was a car. Well, not just any car; Charlie was the car: twenty-seven hundred pounds of candy apple red and crème German engineering sat atop four white-walled tires as exhaust rose into the air like chimney smoke. The VW Bus looked like it had stridden out of a Willy Wonka remake and into reality without deigning to ask permission.

Riley had saved up every penny from her babysitting and tutoring jobs to pay for her car and kept it running in surprisingly decent condition. Zoë tossed her art case into the back seat and rested her messenger bag across her lap as she buckled into the passenger side.

"Took you long enough," Riley chuckled as she shifted Charlie into gear. One of Riley's J-pop songs danced its way out of the speakers. Zoë turned the music up before warming her hands by the vents.

"Yeah, sorry about that," she said light-heartedly, "I had a hard time sleeping last night, and I feel like crap..."

"Laaame," Riley said, drawing the word out, "Coffee on the way to school?"

"Please!"

Riley laughed and took off. She was a willowy thing, tall—easily brushing five-foot-nine—with hardly any breasts or hips to speak of, and a mass of freckles under jade colored eyes smiling out from behind golden, oval-shaped glasses. Despite her slender frame, she had a round, almost cherubic face and a graceful smile. Her cream-colored skin was striking against her long, vibrant red hair that she never knew what to do with. Girly things did not come naturally to Riley, to say the least. She was bundled up against the cold in jeans and a heavy jacket. Her baggy clothes made her look like a scarecrow.

After a long moment of nothing but J-pop, Riley finally gave Zoë a sidelong glance and asked, "Dream again?"

Zoë sighed. If anyone could tell, it would be Riley. The girl knew Zoë all too well. "Yeah," she admitted reluctantly.

"Sorry," Riley gave her sympathies, but they both knew there wasn't really anything to say.

There was a pause where Zoë sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She was utterly exhausted from last night, and a day at school was that last thing she wanted to put up with.

Maybe I'll ditch today...

But it was senior year, and she needed to push her grades as far as she could to get into a good university. It was taking a lot of studying and a lot of help from Riley—whose grades were always perfect—but she didn't know if it would even matter. She was beginning to think her only hope was an art college somewhere.

By then they were in the drive-thru of The Daily Grind. Riley sang along to the J-pop music she was still playing while Zoë stared groggily out the window.

She didn't let her eyes linger on any one thing for too long. Even in the daylight, she could see the shadows writhe with the creatures that hid within—small things that looked like little black lizards with purple eyes, spiders with ten legs instead of eight, and so on. Just like her father had always made her promise, she pretended not to see them.

Rule #: Don't look at freaks.

Zoë had learned, however, that pretending not to see the monsters didn't stop them from affecting things. As the years passed no matter how Zoë tried to ignore them, the monsters could still touch her—pull her hair, trip her, make her drop her books. It was all things that seemed harmless, stuff that happened to everyone, but Zoë had always felt it was just a matter of time before they tripped her down a flight of stairs, made her crash her bike, or worse.

After ten minutes in line, they were finally at the ordering box. Zoë ordered a coffee with cinnamon and Riley got a cappuccino. They used Zoë's employee discount at the window and were on their way to class with not as much time to spare as Riley would have liked. Zoë prayed for traffic.

Fresno High was a cookie-cutter school. Almost all the schools in the Fresno and Clovis area had been designed by the same architect—one who apparently wasn't very creative and was better suited for developing prisons than schools. Every building looked the same—squat cement colored cubes with small windows and not a lot of grass or trees.

One upside to her school was that it was half a block away from the City College where Zoë and Riley would sometimes bum cigarettes off the college kids or weasel their way into parties.

They parked Charlie in the student parking lot in the back of the school and headed for their lockers. The halls were filled with students grabbing their books and bags and heading off to class before the bells chimed. Zoë stuffed her coat and art case into her locker and pulled out her Geometry textbook.

Riley closed her locker and leaned against the pale grey metal, "Hey, let's go to the shop after school."

Zoë knew Riley meant Ink Me, the tattoo parlor where Zoë's father worked. His co-workers were friendly, and once in a while, his boss gave Zoë twenty bucks for one of her sketches to add to their repertoire. Every so often the girls would spend an afternoon lounging in the waiting area, doing homework and making the place look busy, but lately, Riley had been asking to go more and more often.

Zoë raised a brow. "You're never going to go through with it," she said.

Riley had been trying to pick out her own ink for weeks now, but Zoë knew it would never happen. Both of her parents were cops, and neither of them wanted her to have a tattoo. Riley was the epitome of a good-girl, which was why she and Zoë got along so well—she was like the yang to Zoë's yin.

But no matter how badly she wanted her own ink there was no way her parents would let her live if they caught her. Riley straightened to her full height.

"Sure I am. You have tattoos, why can't I?" she said with a breathy air of superiority. When Zoë was sixteen, her father had given permission for Zoë to get a small tattoo. After some deliberation Zoë had decided on the simple design of a sea turtle on her left hip and her dad's boss, Spider, had done the work.

Zoë smirked, "Because your mom will scrape it off with a butter knife."

Riley remained resolute, "Well, maybe I just won't tell her."

Zoë laughed, and by then the bells were chiming. The girls said their goodbyes and were off to opposite ends of the campus for their first period classes. Zoë tried to concentrate, but it looked like her coffee hadn't done its job. She felt like a zombie, and every word on every page was a jumble of nonsense. In her third period English class, she had a seat by the window in the back. She spent most of the class doodling in the margins of her paper, so it still looked like she was taking notes and was thankful her professor didn't call on her for daydreaming.

Before long it was time for lunch, then Advanced Government with a teacher Zoë had lovingly nicknamed Satan, and finally art: the class Zoë had been looking forward to all day. She had been working on her portfolio for her Advanced Studio Art class all year, and today she had in her case project four-of-five. The theme was a series of artistic nudes, Riley—the model—posing with a sheet in front of a bay window with the sunlight streaming through.

Most of Zoë's work was a reflection of the things she could see, the freaks that lurked in the darkness, but for this project, she knew she'd needed to do something different, if not for the grade, then for herself.

They were all graphite pencil on paper, and Zoë was very proud of them all. She'd framed the first three on white foam board, and they waited along one wall in her room for her to place them in her case and to be shipped out for judgment. She pulled the top off her cylindrical art case, pulled out a roll of paper and laid it out on her desk before jiggling the case to retrieve her plastic-wrapped pencils.

She sat down and started trying to work. She looked down at the paper, at the soft lines and delicate gradients, and sighed. Her pencil hovered over the page, waiting for her to begin, but she couldn't. Something else was fighting to get out, something she needed to put to paper. Chewing her bottom lip, Zoë pushed her project away and pulled out her sketchbook. She turned to a fresh page and started something new.

Her dream flowed out of her pencil and onto the page—sharp, dark lines, crosshatch shading, jagged shapes that formed wolf and tree and moon.

"Looks good," said a voice behind her.

Zoë spun around in her seat. Eric and Elipsy Valentine were standing behind her, smirking smugly. The Twins had always been something to gawk at during school hours. They were almost always behind whatever hijinks went on around campus, but they never got in any notable trouble for it. There were rumors that their parents had ties to the school, and that that was why they received special treatment, but no one knew for sure.

What everyone did know was that the Twins were a pair of jerks. They were the type of people that thought they could own the world someday.

Eric Valentine was always in an out of the principal's office for one reason or another—fighting, stealing, carrying weapons, you name it, and there were rumors Elipsy slept around with the boys at school. Looking at her attire, you'd be hard pressed to deny it. But like most of the rumors surrounding the Twins, no one was sure. They were celebrities, class clowns, delinquents, and enigmas, but worst of all: they were very, very popular.

Zoë opened her mouth to tell them to get lost, but suddenly Eric snatched up her sketchbook and held it up.

"Hey!" Zoë complained sharply.

Eric laughed and held the picture up next to his sister's face, "Kind looks like you," he snickered.

Elipsy had a heart shaped face with large gray eyes, darkened by smoky make-up, and long sandy brown hair with strips of violet and black running through its soft curls. Her peach-toned skin was accentuated by the dark clothes and make-up she favored. Her arms were painted with intricate and colorful tattoos that she'd had to have used a fake ID to get.

A burning heart encircled by a golden crown covered her right shoulder. Roses of red, black and white blossomed in the warm glow of the heart, and a laughing skull made its home amongst them. Ocean waves akin to Katsushika Hokusai's The Great Wave off Kanagawa wrapped around and beneath the roses, and blended into a pack of running wolves at her elbow. The wolves dashed through a pale forest mist until a little way before her wrist.

Her left arm was half-sleeved with an intricate design that involved large orange and red flowers and green and brown thorns twisting into a paisley design amongst two large koi—one black with a white diamond on its brow, the other white with a black diamond circling each other in a yin-yang.

Elipsy giggled as she looked at the picture, twirling a lock of hair around her purple-nailed pinky finger, "Oh, you think so?"

Zoë stood and put herself between the Twins, her face only inches from Eric's. "Give it back, Valentine," she warned, her voice acid.

Eric made a sound akin to a growl as he sneered down at Zoë, "Or what?"

"Now," she said through clenched teeth. She wasn't about to play his stupid game. Any threat she made against him wouldn't matter. There were two of them and one of her, and she didn't feel like rolling the dice today. She did, however, want her sketchbook back. Eric held her gaze for a moment longer, a heat born of friction and bravado building between them until Zoë thought it would smother her.

Eric was taller than Elipsy, with a slender face and a pointed chin.

He had a mohawk that he wore down and tied into a ponytail when at school, though that didn't mean he designed to remove his lip ring or the spiked collar he wore around his neck. He was paler than his sister, but he had the same statuesque quality about him—like hard, unyielding stone. He wore high-quality red contacts that almost looked real, even standing this close to him it was impossible to see the tell-tale signs of the contact lens.

Elipsy sighed behind Zoë. "Oh, let her have it back, Eric," she said. He held her gaze even as he dropped her sketchbook back on the table and smirked. "You know, if you'd fix that attitude problem, you'd be kinda cute."

"Not even in your dreams, Valentine," Zoë sneered.

He removed a backpack from about his shoulders and handed it to Elipsy who smiled as he kissed her on the cheek, "See ya' sis," he said and clicked his tongue at Zoë before turning on his heel and striding out of the classroom, waving a peace sign over his shoulder, his right hand clad in a fingerless glove.

Zoë scoffed. That guy was such an ass sometimes, smug like he owned the place...

Elipsy gave a small laugh, looking Zoë up and down. Zoë rounded on her, "And just what is so funny?" she demanded.

Elipsy leaned over and whispered in Zoë's ear as softy as a lover's kiss, "You really should switch to a perfumed brand, then maybe you won't reek. Plug it up, would ya?"

She pulled away and smiled at Zoë as though she knew some kind of secret. Zoë's cheeks burned with hot embarrassment. She narrowed her eyes at Elipsy. "What did you just say to me?" she hissed.

"Oh, did you not hear me the first time?" Elipsy smirked. She cupped her hand over her mouth and raised her voice up, "Hey everyone! Zoë—" but she never got to finish what she was saying. Zoë shoved Elipsy backward, taking her by surprise. She stumbled and caught herself on a chair behind her. She glared at Zoë. "You little bitch!" she hissed, and before Zoë could react, Elipsy's hand dashed out and turned Zoë's head with a loud smack.

That did it.

Zoë turned back, her hand already eye-level, and backhanded the other girl, sending her reeling. Elipsy cried out as her head snapped to the side, hair flying.

"Cat fight!" someone yelled. Zoë turned to tell whoever it was to keep quiet, but her cheek suddenly exploded in fire as Elipsy's punch took her by surprise, and her words tumbled uselessly to the ground. She turned around to face Elipsy, her hands becoming fists. If Elipsy was going to fight dirty, then Zoë wasn't going to hold back.

Zoë swore as she swung with her right and caught Elipsy in the jaw, drawing a gasp of pain and surprise.

By then the class was jeering and calling for blood. There was a fire in Elipsy's eyes as she turned back, showing teeth. Zoë just smirked and motioned for her to bring it on.

The other girl pounced like a jungle cat and landed on Zoë's chest, bearing her to the ground. Zoë's scream turned into a wheeze as the air was forced from her lungs. Elipsy straddled Zoë and cocked her arm back. She swung down, hard, punching Zoë in the face and making her see sparks. Zoë pushed herself through the pain and grabbed a fistful of Elipsy's hair and pulled, yanking her off her and keeping a lock of her hair for good measure.

The next thing she knew a voice rose up above the others and a set of heavy hands were pulling Zoë to her feet.

"What's going on here?" Mr. Nicoles exclaimed in her ear as he grabbed Elipsy's arm just above the elbow.

"She started it!" the girls cried in unison. Mr. Nicoles kept a firm grasp on Zoë's arm as his furious gaze turned from one girl to the next and back, "Both of you: principal's office. Now!"

Zoë sat next to Elipsy in the entryway to the principal's office with a pair of pink slips in their pockets. Both girls were sitting in hard plastic chairs with their arms folded over their chests, staring at the trophy case across from them, and saying nothing. Zoë chewed the inside of her cheek, fuming.

Wonder what made them think leaving us alone was a good idea? she thought absently.

A door opened, and Zoë turned to see Gabriel Pierce, the principal, standing there, "All right you two, let's get this over with."

Both girls stood and filed into the principal's office. They seated themselves in the two chairs before of the impressive desk that Pierce seated himself firmly behind. Principal Gabriel Pierce was a tall man in his mid-thirties. He had olive skin and crew cut silver hair. Silver. Not grey. Crows feet tugged at the edges of his dark green eyes behind the rectangular silver frames of his glasses. Hard lines drew his tight mouth into a frown.

As he leaned forward, he adjusted his glasses, then rested his elbows on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. He fixed them each with a piercing glare, "Would you girls like to explain what happened?" he asked in a smooth voice, his anger barely audible in the velvety basso.

"Zoë lost her damn mind and started shoving me," Elipsy answered quickly.

"Watch your mouth young lady," the principal said sharply. Elipsy crossed her legs, folded her arms, and pursed her lips in response. Gabriel looked at Zoë, "Is this true?"

Zoë sighed, "Yeah," she sighed, closing her eyes, "it's true." There was no beating Elipsy Valentine when it came to getting out of trouble.

"And what made you think that was okay?" Gabriel prompted.

Zoë crossed her arms uncomfortably, "Elipsy told me I smelt like blood, and thought it would be funny to start screaming to the entire class that I'm in the middle of my..." she hesitated, embarrassed, "...time of the month," she whispered.

Pierce sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat. "I'm tired of seeing the two of you in here like this. It's my good fortune that you're both graduating at the end of the year, and you'll be out of my hair. Miss Marsh, get yourself to the nurse's station and get that cut cleaned out and a covered."

"Yes, sir," she said standing. Elipsy stood as well, but Pierce stopped her, "I didn't dismiss you yet," he said, "Sit down, Miss Valentine."

Elipsy groaned and plopped back down, pouting as Pierce scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Zoë who, gratefully, took it and left.

As she headed to the nurse's station, she looked down at the piece of paper and grumbled. It was a slip for Saturday detention. Zoë's face wrinkled with distaste. Great, she thought, now I have to waste my Saturday with that annoying girl.

After the nurse had put a band-aid on Zoë's cut, she offered to let Zoë call home. "I'm fine," Zoë assured her and got the second white slip she needed to get back into class. The period was already half over, but if she hurried, she could get a decent amount of work in before school was out.

She walked back into class, handed Mr. Nicoles her passes, apologized, and sat down to get to work.

Nothing soothed Zoë like her art. As Zoë put pencil to paper she lost herself in the lines of graphite, in the shapes and gradients and tones. It was one reason drawing the horrors she saw helped make it bearable.

She was so caught up in her newest piece that she didn't realize that she needed to pack her things up until the bell had rung to signal the end of the day. She put her pencils back in their bag, and rolled her picture up and slipped it into her case before tossing it and her bag over her shoulder. By then Eric was there to pick up Elipsy—whom Zoë hadn't realized had come back to class. She managed to slip past them without being noticed and breathed a sigh of relief and exasperation.

Outside the courtyard was teeming with students, heading home or to after-school practices. Zoë tried to make her way through the throng and towards the parking lot to meet Riley, but someone jostled her, and she lost her balance. She fell, and her art case tumbled down the stairs toward the street. Zoë cried out, reaching for it uselessly as it rolled away. If that case were smashed or damaged, she'd lose part of her project! She watched it bounce down the concrete steps and roll across the sidewalk to stop abruptly under a boot.

She followed the worn, tanned work boot up to see a man dressed in dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt, denim vest, and a faded, brown leather jacket. His age was difficult to determine. He looked young, maybe only a few years older than Zoë herself, but his rough features made it hard to be sure. He had a sharp, hawkish brow accentuated by a sharp, chiseled nose. His lips were thin, sharp, and surrounded by a light stubble of dark hair that covered his strong, square jaw. He was tanned, as though he spent a good amount of time in the sun, but not enough to have turned him into a piece of leather. He held himself with a sort of lazy grace and strength. His thick black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, and his strange golden eyes looked at her with a strange look Zoë couldn't decipher.

He looked unreal somehow, yet strangely familiar.

"Drop this?" he asked her in a voice like lazy thunder as he picked the case up from under-toe.

Zoë stood, nodding, the words caught in her throat.

He held the case out to her. Zoë hesitated; there was something about him that made it hard to move or even breathe. She forced her body into motion and moved cautiously down the steps toward the man and gingerly took the case from him. She shifted her weight nervously as she slung the case over her shoulder. Something about him seemed dangerous. It was the same cold tingle she felt around the freaks.

If he weren't human, I'd be able to tell, she thought, so why do I have this feeling?

"Thanks," she said in a voice that was surprisingly timid for her, "Who...who are you?" she asked. Something about this guy was oddly familiar. It was downright spooky. She felt like she should know him from somewhere, but couldn't place him.

Of all things he gave a small smile, "No one, really," he said in a dark, satin basso, "Just picking up a few pups."

Suddenly, Eric and Elipsy Valentine walked up, giggling about something. They paid Zoë no notice as they piled into a massive truck behind the man who had saved her case. It was an old, white Ford F with rust chewing at the underside, and an interior that looked in desperate need of fixing.

Zoë opened her mouth to say something, but the man had already turned to get into the driver's seat of his vehicle, "See you around," he promised and pulled away from the curb. Zoë swallowed audibly, her heart thumping in her chest. What's with this reaction? she wondered, Why do I feel scared?

"Hey, what's wrong with your face?" asked a familiar voice.

Zoë screamed in surprise and fell on the ground, so lost in her own thoughts that Riley's gentle interruption startled her. Riley laughed and offered her a hand up, "You okay?"

Zoë grumbled. "Yeah," she said, feeling like a klutz as she accepted Riley's hand.

"Who was that guy?" Riley asked as she helped Zoë to her feet.

Zoë looked after the truck as it drove off into the distance, the hairs on the back of her neck still on end, "I...I have no idea..."

Keenan

Classic rock filled the truck's cab as Keenan Valentine pulled out of the high school parking lot and onto the main road. "You're sure that it's her?" he asked his bother and sister as the truck rumbled down the road.

"We're sure," Elipsy confirmed, "I could smell it on her."

Keenan turned a corner as Eric reached over to change the song on the radio. "Don't even think about it," Keenan told him. Eric sat back in his seat, grumbling.

"I really hate that girl," Elipsy was saying, "You know she pulled my hair out!"

"I know," Keenan said sternly, "Uncle Gabriel called me."

"Oh..." she said with a guilty cadence.

"So now you know who we've been looking for," Eric said, "Now what? How are we supposed to get closer to her?"

Keenan's brow furrowed, "I haven't quite figured that out yet..." he admitted begrudgingly. Keenan never lied. Not only because he was very, very bad at it, but because he hated it. Lies only lead to trouble—they get complicated and hard to keep straight. Telling the truth was easier. His father had taught him that.

Eric scoffed, "Why don't you just step up and take what you want? I mean, what is she going to do? Stop us?"

"It's not that easy," Keenan explained, "We want her on our side. Loyal to us. And we need to do it subtly. The last thing we need are the hunters catching on to what we're doing. We make a wrong move, we could have them knocking at our doorstep. Some things need to be handled delicately."

Keenan didn't say it, but he wasn't so confident that this Zoë Marsh was the girl they were looking for. Elipsy had a great nose and even better intuition, but that didn't always make her right. Keenan wanted to be sure that she was the one.

"You always want to handle things delicately," Eric sneered as he pulled a music player out of his bag, "I'm tired of tip-toeing around everything like it's some kind of dangerous thing. We're stronger than them than all of them! We should—"

"What?" Keenan snapped harshly as his temper flared. "We're not Gods, Eric. We can't just do whatever we want and not have to own up to the consequences!"

"You're not Dad, Ke—" Eric began, but Keenan slammed on the brakes. Eric and Elipsy jerked forward, their seatbelts cutting into them as tires screeched and cars honked loudly behind the truck.

"Keenan!" Elipsy screeched.

Keenan grabbed Eric by the scruff of his collar, "No, I'm not. Dad," he growled, baring teeth, "Dad is dead. The hunters killed him, along with mom and dozens of our kind. If you think for even a second that I would risk any one of us getting killed, then you can get out of this truck right now. Do you understand me?"

Eric didn't say anything. He glared at Keenan with those fierce red eyes, challenging him. Keenan was unrelenting. He met Eric's eyes with his own as his anger simmered. Keenan was fed-up with this age-old argument: It had become a sort of ritual—one Keenan did not relish in. Ever since their father's death, when Keenan had stepped up to take his place, Eric had been challenging his older brother. At first, Keenan had told himself that Eric was just angry over the loss of their parents. But as the years passed, and the hurt thinned into a dull ache, he was less and less certain.

Eric believed that the power they had, that the truth of what they were, gave them license to do as they pleased and damn the consequences. But that was not the world they lived in. It was not the world their father had tried to raise them in, and it was not a hunger Keenan wanted to submit to.

Eric lowered his gaze. "I understand," he growled, his lips peeling back from his teeth.

"Good," Keenan snarled back and released his brother. He ignored the persistent honking and angry swears of the drivers behind him and joined the flow of traffic once more.

An icy silence filled the cab, as sharp and fragile as glass. One wrong word could shatter it and the fighting would start all over again. Keenan kept his eyes on the road, his jaw painfully tight as they began their errands.

They stopped by the grocery store first and picked up some food. It wasn't much. Mostly food that was easy to stretch—macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles, tuna, and so on. Keenan felt a sting of embarrassment as he swiped his food stamps card across the reader to pay. Three jobs and ninety hours a week later he still couldn't afford food without the government's help.

He grumbled to himself as they loaded up the truck. Next, they stopped by the Cents Store for a few hygiene essentials, and finally the butcher shop where Keenan had a standing discount with the owner. They loaded up the blue cooler that Keenan kept in the bed of his truck with specialty meats that the owner hunted himself—venison, caribou, moose. Most people in town didn't like the rarer meats, and since Keenan was always more than happy to take them off the owner's hands, he was given a lot for very little.

With the shopping done and the cooler laden with meats, Keenan, Eric, and Elipsy made their way home.

Keenan was silent as he drove. He was on autopilot, his mind wandering. Who was that girl with the art case? Could she really be the one they had been searching for? And if she was, where did he go from here? He frowned, thinking.

"What are you thinking about?" he heard Elipsy ask.

"Hmm?"

"You always make that face when you're thinking," she explained, "What's up?"

Keenan glanced at Eric who was looking out the window, bobbing his head to whatever song was playing through his headphones. They were loud enough that he could hear them from the driver's seat—heavy bass and conflicting, tinny guitars.

He's gonna make himself deaf someday, Keenan thought absently.

He glanced back at Elipsy who was watching him expectantly. He opened his mouth to say something, but then an idea struck him. "Actually, maybe you can help me," he said and Elipsy's eyes widened ever so slightly. "Tell me everything you know about that girl from earlier..."

Zoë

After school Zoë and Riley stopped by the pet store and purchased a pair of fancy mice before heading to Ink Me. The tattoo parlor was one of a dozen in the Tower District but it was, by far, the best. It was tucked into a corner behind a large, popular bar called Babylon like a well-kept secret. The outside was all barred windows that looked in on a modest waiting area with the shop's name written across the pane in garish, golden letters.

A little bell chimed as they walked through the front door. The parlor had a retro-diner feeling to it with a black and white checkered floor and bright red walls, filled with chrome Neptune chairs and appliances. The smell of ink, metal, and antiseptic tingled in the air. Zoë inhaled the familiar aroma deeply and began to feel a little more human. Metallica reigned supreme over the speakers perched in each corner of the shop as the girls stepped up to the counter where Spider, the owner, leaned over a magazine, loudly chewing gum and flipping through the glossy pages.

"We bring an offering of flesh," Zoë told her as Riley held up the box containing the mice. Spider didn't look up from her magazine. "Stick them in the cage," she said and popped her gum, "Leslie's out, but she'll eat later."

They walked over to the terrarium against one wall that was home to Leslie, the gold and alabaster boa that lived in the shop. Technically she was Spider's, but over the years Leslie had turned into somewhat of a store mascot. "Wash your hands afterwards!" Spider called to her, even though the girls knew full well what to do. Riley dropped the mice into the cage and tossed the cardboard box into the trash as she went to a sink to wash up. When done, Riley grabbed a binder and plopped down on one of the lip-shaped couches in the waiting area.

"Hey Babydoll," came Jon Marsh's voice. Zoë turned and smiled, "Hey Daddy." His eyes snapped to the bandage on her cheek. He grabbed her chin and tilted her face up to his. "What happened to you?" he demanded. Zoë looked away but didn't try to escape his grip. "I'm fine," she assured him in an irritated voice. Jon gave her a stern look that told her she needed to explain things. She sighed and shifted her weight uncomfortably. "So uh...I have Saturday school this week."

"Why?"

"I got into a fight..."

"Uh-huh, that's what I thought," her father said and jabbed a finger into the band-aid, causing a small bite of pain. Zoë winced and snapped at him. He gave her an exasperated look and put a hand on her shoulder. "You know I don't like you fighting," he said.

"It was that bitch—"

"Watch your mouth."

"Sorry. It was that girl's fault." She explained everything that had happened in her best apologetic and innocent tone. Of course, her father saw through that in a heartbeat, but he seemed to think the bruise that was already forming on her cheek was sufficient enough to rule out a grounding.

"I want you to really hit the books tonight," he told her by means of dishing out punishment. Zoë nodded glumly, "Yes daddy."

As if.

He kissed her unmarred cheek and Zoë sauntered over to sit beside Riley. She looked over the other girl's shoulder as Riley contemplated a flaming skull design. She flipped the art binder closed with a sigh of defeat. "Oh, I don't like any of these!" she moaned defiantly. Zoë giggled. Riley rounded on her then, a glint suddenly sparking in the corner of her eye, "You should design something for me!" she said excitedly.

Zoë blinked, "You're joking."

"No!" she put both of Zoë's hands in her own, "C'mon Zoë, please! Please design a tattoo for me!"

Zoë tried to wrestle her hands from Riley's grip, but to no avail. "Okay, okay, I'll design you something," she said, giving in.

Riley made a sound like a screech owl and threw her arms around Zoë's neck. They giggled as they disentangled and settled back into the couch.

On Saturday morning, Zoë slammed her fist down on her alarm clock and grumbled angrily. She woke up hating Elipsy Valentine. Groggily, she sat up in bed, swung her feet over the edge to the cool hardwood floor beneath, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Eddie croaked from his cage.

"Shut up, Eddie," she snipped. She stood and dressed in her Superman tank top, jeans, cherry high-tops, leather bracelets, and shuffled like a zombie to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Saturday school ran from eight o'clock to noon, and was always watched over by Principal Pierce. Four hours, trapped in a library with your principal looming over you...not fun.

After she'd brushed her hair and teeth and applied a gentle layer of make-up, she retrieved her school bag and hoodie, shrugged on her coat, and went downstairs to meet her mom. Pahua Marsh was leaning on the island in the kitchen wearing her pajamas and nursing a cup of coffee. They exchanged muzzy pleasantries as Zoë poured herself a mug and sprinkled cinnamon into her coffee. They were both too tired for a decent conversation.

Pahua wasn't up early on any given day, but she had agreed to give Zoë a lift to the school. Besides, she had band practice later that day. Succubus was playing a gig at the Starline next month and the ladies wanted to comb out a new song.

With half-lidded eyes and bellies full of coffee that hadn't quite kicked in yet, Zoë and Pahua made their way to Stein. Stein was short for Frankenstein, which suited the car to a T. It had originally been a white station wagon, but had been to the chopping block one too many times as a result of various crashes and accidents and was now more of an amalgamation. The passenger side door was bright red, the driver's side was green, the hood was blue, and the oak colored wood paneling was dulled and looked ready to fall off.

Pahua had started the car some time ago to let the heater warm the car and the two of them sighed pleasantly as the warmth of the cab enveloped them. They drove down the street in groggy silence, neither one of them much wanting to discuss why they had to be up that early on a Saturday.

When they arrived Zoë leaned over, kissed her mom on the cheek, thanked her, and got out, leaving the warm cab behind her. She shivered once as she acclimated. Pahua waved and turned the car around to head home as Zoë made her way to the library. Her breath misted before her lips as the chill bit at her nose, her shoes silent on the cold concrete.

When she arrived, Elipsy and three other students she didn't recognize were all standing there, dancing outside the locked door to stay warm.

Elipsy caught her eye and Zoë stuck her tongue out. It was her fault she had to give up her shift at work and come down to school on a Saturday. Why should she be nice? Elipsy looked taken aback for a moment, then stuck her tongue back out at Zoë with matching fervor.

Moments later, Gabriel Pierce walked up holding a steaming thermos and jangling a set of keys. He opened the door to the library and they all shuffled inside without a word. The lights and heat were already on, meaning Pierce had been there earlier to set everything up before the kids had even arrived, and had probably left to get whatever was in the thermos.

"All right," he said, sounding bored, "I hope you brought some kind of homework. Find somewhere to sit and get started."

The delinquents shuffled into the atrium and filled the seats of the little rectangular desks that stood all around. Zoë found one near the back and was pulling out her sketchbook and pencils when she looked up to see Elipsy setting her stuff down next to her.

"What are you doing?" she hissed under her breath. Elipsy didn't answer, only sat down and pulled out a book. Zoë made a rude sound and started to move when suddenly Mr. Pierce spoke up, "Is there something wrong, Miss Marsh?" he said in a tone that told her he didn't like the idea of her moving a lot. He looked up at her from over the rim of his glasses, his hands filled with a crossword puzzle and pen. For a moment Zoë thought about pointing out that the whole reason the two of them were there was because of their little cat-fight, but instead she sighed, exasperated, and sat back down, "No," she said rudely.

"That's what I thought," he said.

Zoë watched him go back to his crossword puzzle. Frustrated, she flipped open to a blank page in her sketchbook and started doodling. She had plenty of homework, but she was too groggy and too upset to do any actual work—plus Riley wasn't there to help her—so, as it often was, art became her solution.

As she was finishing up the preliminary lines, something brushed her left hand. She glanced over. Elipsy pulled her hand away from a legal pad that had appeared between them, leaving behind a set of neat letters on the yellow page:

Sorry about the other day.

Zoë glanced back at Elipsy, but she was pretending not to have noticed, and had her nose firmly buried in what looked to be some kind of sappy romance novel, judging by the reviews she could make out on the back.

Zoë narrowed her eyes. Why was she apologizing? Was she actually sorry, or was she possibly setting Zoë up for another prank? Zoë glanced up and looked at Mr. Pierce who was firmly enthralled by his crossword and scooted her pencil over just enough to write on the line under Elipsy's:

Why?

She went back to her sketchbook, but it didn't take long for Elipsy to respond. Out of the corner of her eye, Zoë saw her fill in the third line, writing without taking her eyes off her book.

Because I did a pretty shitty thing. If it had been me, I wouldn't have wanted someone shouting my personal information around a classroom.

Then why did you do it?

I don't know. Wasn't thinking I guess. You ever have one of those days where the whole world pisses you off, and you just need to do something about it?

Zoë glared at the script. She could understand all too well, but by the same token it wasn't much of an apology either. She twirled her mechanical pencil in her hand a few times as she thought. With a small sigh, she slowly moved her hand over and jotted down.

Sorry about your hair.

From there things went in a very different direction than Zoë had expected when she woke up that morning. The two girls quickly tore through the yellow legal pad with their silent conversation. To neither of their great surprise, they had a great deal in common.

It seemed to Zoë like a typical bro story—I met my best friend in a fight. To say the least, neither of them got very much done as far as academia was concerned.

Hours later, Mr. Pierce stood and began collecting his things, "All right, everyone, you're done," he said flatly. Zoë stood and stretched, feeling her back pop luxuriously.

Elipsy looked over as Zoë started packing her things away. "Hey," she said, "I was thinking I could make the other day up to you."

"Nah, don't worry about it," Zoë said waving off Elipsy's words, "We're cool."

"Seriously though," Elipsy smirked, "have you ever been to The Warehouse?"

Zoë paused as a twisted, mischievous smile crept across her lips. She turned to Elipsy. "Oh, honey," she said, "you have no idea..."

That night, the girls stood in line at The Warehouse, waiting to get in.

Cigarette smoke trailed out of Zoë's cherry lips and into the night air as she sighed. The girls were dolled up to the nines: Zoë in her same old ragged jeans, red Chuck's, and favorite red hoodie, but with a black bikini top that covered little more than her breasts in lieu of a shirt. She was counting on her flash of cleavage and sparkly belly-button ring to gain her entrance. She could feel the weight of her phone, wallet, pocketknife, and cigarettes in their respective pockets as she stood in the chill air, and drew comfort from it.

Riley—whom Elipsy had insisted on dressing since the girl had nothing very club appropriate anyway—wore an off the shoulder lemon yellow long sleeved shirt, scarlet skinny jeans, and black flats. The girl would kill herself in heels. Finally, Elipsy out shone both of them in her plum colored halter top and black mini skirt with a pair of staggering wedges that laced to her knees like Greek sandals.

They were getting closer to the front of the line, and Zoë started unzipping her hoodie as Riley leaned in. "I still don't understand. I thought we hated her," she whispered. Zoë shrugged, "Nah, she's cool."

"Since when did you guys become cool?" Riley asked skeptically. Zoë chuckled and said she'd explain later. By then they were flashing their fake IDs at the door. "Hi Moose," the three of them sang in unison as they scooted past the familiar bouncer. He gave a curt nod of the head, "Girls," and not-so-subtly looked over their behinds as the girls sashayed into the club.

Bass pounded through the air, vibrating the floor as the music hummed. They shrugged off their coats at the door and gave them to the clerk who sat, bored, behind the counter. Zoë didn't understand how anyone could be bored with music like this playing. Even this far away from the speakers, it made her want to move.

The bass, the beat, and the bodies all flowed and clashed together as red, green, and yellow strobes turned the world into a sea of chaos, sweat, and music. Zoë smiled. Here there were no demons, no shadows, no monsters. Only the rhythm of the beat.

The three girls nearly skipped as they made their way onto the floor.

The Warehouse was an old winery on the edge of Clovis, Fresno's daughter city, that had been repurposed by the owners into a night club. They used a lot of the old piping in the motif of the place, giving it a dark, industrial feel. Graffiti and stickers covered every inch of the inside and outside walls, making the building look like someone had thrown up all over it. Old and battered couches lined the walls where people could sit when they got tired, or rest as they downed one of the cheap beers the club sold behind the bar. It didn't matter how bad the beer was though, once you started dancing, it went right to your head. Zoë loved the dizzy tingles that ran up her arms when she danced after a few beers, the floating feeling she got in her head, the silliness that crept into her bones.

This was a place to lose yourself—a place of pleasure and sin.

Zoë wasn't sure how long it was that she lost herself to the music, to the sensation of writhing bodies pressed up against hers; of the glow of the lights, and the beat of the music. The dance floor was so crammed with bodies it could have been an orgy. The girls danced until they were breathless and Riley begged for a break. Laughing, they all made their way to the bar where they slid onto the stools and waved over the bartender.

"What'll it be?" the man behind the counter asked.

Zoë couldn't believe it. "I knew you looked familiar," she said breathlessly.

The man behind the counter, the man who had saved her art case, smiled. "Aren't you a little young to be here?" he asked incredulously, but there was a little smirk on his lips. Zoë shivered under his gaze. The crimson glow of the bar made his face look almost demonic in the dark chaos of the club, but his eyes—those hungry yellow eyes—looked like an animal's.

Riley broke the tense silence with a laugh like daybreak. "Are you going to bust us?" she dared.

If he did, Riley would be dead in a second. If her parents found out Riley was in a place like this, they'd flay her alive and never let her see daylight again, much less Zoë. Fake IDs could get them in, and get them drinks, but they were utterly useless when someone recognized you.

The guy behind the counter's eyes flickered over to Riley for a brief moment. "Depends," he said.

"On what?"

Zoë knew where this was going. She pulled a five dollar bill out of her bikini top and held it out for the man. "Guys gotta eat, right?" she smirked.

He took the tip and pocketed it without a word. Elipsy rolled her eyes, "Oh give me a break, Keenan," she giggled. He gave her a look, "Aren't you supposed to be studying?"

Elipsy winked, "Elipsy is studying. What you see before you is a hallucination brought on by work-exhaustion."

The guy shook his head, sighing, and dropped the subject. He looked back to Zoë, "What'll it be?" he asked.

Zoë and Elipsy each ordered a beer and Riley got a soda since she was the one driving later. Riley and Elipsy sipped their drinks and made small talk as the bartender set Zoë's bottle down, "I'm Keenan by the way," he said easily, leaning on the bar, "What's your name?"

She watched him over the edge of the bottle as she drank. She didn't know who this guy was, but something made her want to answer him, made her want to tell him the truth. "Zoë," she said softly, thinking maybe he wouldn't hear her over the music. Something flashed in his eerie golden eyes though, something primal that Zoë couldn't explain. Something hungry.

Someone called to Keenan from across the bar and he straightened. "Nice to meet you," he said before he moved away. Zoë sighed and took another sip of her beer, feeling like she could really use the drink.

The girls sat there as they finished off their drinks, laughing and talking. Zoë could already feel the alcohol swimming in her head as she giggled. Her blood was rushing so quickly that the booze had gone straight to her head, making her feel comfortable and numb. This was the feeling she needed—the reason she came to The Warehouse.

Bliss.

Elipsy looked at Zoë for a moment, and smirked with black lips. She tugged at Riley's shirt, "Hey, let's dance," she said. Riley looked surprised, "Uh..."

"Come on!" Elipsy insisted and dragged Riley off the barstool. Riley looked to Zoë for help, but Zoë waved them on, "I'll catch up. My legs still hurt."

Riley gave her a pleading look before being swept away into the rolling tide of bodies. Zoë giggled and took another drink.

As though on cue, Keenan returned cleaning a glass with a rag, "Where'd your friends go?" he asked.

Zoë shrugged, "Back on the floor. How much for the drinks?"

Keenan leaned back on the bar and looked at her. "On the house," he said. Zoë smirked.

He gave that same hungry smile she'd seen him flash so many times now. The smile that made her shiver, the smile that made her want to run. And yet as she tipped her bottle back she couldn't take her eyes off him.

"So," she said as she set the empty bottle down on the bar and narrowed her eyes, "What's your deal?" she asked.

"My deal?" he echoed, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Zoë shrugged one shoulder, "You're Elipsy and Eric's...what? Uncle?"

Keenan laughed, a deep, languid sound, "Try brother," he said, "I think I'm a bit young to be anybody's uncle."

He looked at her for a moment, then pulled out two shot glasses and filled them both with amber liquid from a bottle whose label was covered by duct tape. The shots seemed to burn with an inner, golden light in the crimson glow of the bar. He lifted one and held it out to her.

When Keenan reached for a glass Zoë noticed a something strange on his right palm, "What's that?" she asked.

Keenan put the shot glass in his other hand and held up his palm to the light, "Oh nothing," he said cheerily, "Just a little something I picked up a long time ago."

It looked as though a pentagram had been burned into his skin with an iron a long time ago. The silver skin was slightly raised, like an old scar.

Zoë traced the outline of the pentagram with her finger, feeling the softness of the lines, "So what? You like a Satanist or something?"

Keenan gave a half smile, "No, nothing like that. It's a family thing. If you'd like I could tell you all about it over dinner..." Zoë looked up at him skeptically. His eyes were trained on her.

Rather than take the glass from his hand, she grabbed the one still on the bar and held it out to him, "Cheers?" she said and he touched his glass to hers. The glasses chimed, and they both tossed back the shots. Zoë shivered as the heat spread through her body, and the smoky-sweet scotch played a symphony across her tongue.

Zoë had to admit, she was enjoying the little tête-à-tête they were playing. It was a nice change of pace. Most of the guys she picked up here she could eat alive, despite the fact that they were all much older than her, but Keenan was different. He had a sense of power about him that was lost to most men in this day and age. As much as he scared her, she couldn't deny she was curious. He was different.

The music changed, the beat grew faster, harder. Zoë smiled mischievously. "Dance with me," she asked. The lilt in her voice made it less of a question and more a statement as she slid off the barstool. Keenan looked her up and down as she stood there, waiting.

"I'm working," he said by way of answer.

Zoë shrugged one shoulder and turned towards the dance floor. "Your loss," she said as she sauntered away. Cat and mouse it is, then, she thought as she moved through the crowd to the floor and found an open space. The bass was dark, jagged; the treble zinged and hummed through the air making her skin tingle as she let the music take her.

She turned as she danced in the sea of bodies, sweat permeating the air. She caught a glimpse of Keenan behind the bar, trying to work, but he kept looking up—kept looking at her. She smiled as she turned her back to him and kept dancing. For some reason it made her feel good to know he was watching. He was beautiful but frightening, like something from a nightmare—and he was watching her. She wasn't sure if she should be playing with fire like this. He could be anyone, but as much as the rational side of her mind told her that she should collect Riley and leave, she kept dancing, kept moving, waiting to turn around again and find his eyes trained on her.

A hand slid onto her hip, a body pressed against her back. Warm breath tingled against her ear as a voice whispered, "You're not what I expected."

She turned and saw Keenan. He was wearing a black T-shirt, black pants, black shoes—a shadow.

"And what did you expect?" she asked under the pounding music as she moved against him. He took her by the hips, trying to lead, but Zoë was having too much fun to let him. She moved so he would have to follow her instead. He smiled darkly. "I expected prey," he said, "But that's not you."

She held his gaze as she ground her pelvis into his, moving in time with the music as he tried to keep up and couldn't. He was out of his element, and they both knew it. Zoë flashed a wicked smirk. "You don't know me," she told him.

"I know a lot more than you think," he said as he spun her around so her back was to him, and tried to lead. He wasn't bad, but he was way off beat. She laughed at him and put her hands over his. "Stop," she told him silkily, "Follow me."

She held him close as she moved. It was obvious he didn't know how to follow, but he was trying to keep pace with her. She felt a buzz of delight as she twisted in his arms, losing herself.

Zoë felt like she was vibrating. His hands left tingles in their wake as they moved up and down her body. It was like she was falling and floating all at once, but she didn't stop dancing, didn't ask him to stop. She was dizzy with the thrill of him, the music, the heat.

Was there something in the drinks?

As the song slowed and she turned back around to face him, Zoë saw something strange out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look, and felt like she had been plunged into a tub of ice water.

It was a freak—a woman, skin white as a sheet, her eyes sewn shut, blood as black as ink streaking her alabaster cheeks. Zoë quickly looked away, her breath catching. Keenan caught her eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

She faltered. "N-Nothing," she lied, trying to find the beat again but her eyes fell on another freak just over Keenan's shoulder—it was something akin to a man mixed with an antelope, three rolling red eyes resting in one socket on its brow. Zoë looked away again, trying to make it look like she was just dancing, but suddenly there were so many of them. They were in every corner, every shadow, filling up the room. Bodies twisted and bloated, alabaster flesh imbrued with ichor, fangs glistened from quivering maws, claws reached out to snatch her. And everywhere eyes—eyes watching her.

Rule # Don't let freaks see you.

"Dammit," she cursed under her breath.

Her stomach cramped with dread, and she froze. Keenan stopped, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What is it?" he asked.

Zoë opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out was air. She swallowed audibly and licked her lips. "I...I need some air," she managed to stammer.

Zoë didn't wait for Keenan to respond, or even see if he'd heard her. She turned and strode off the dance floor, wishing she could run. She forced herself to walk, calmly, as though nothing was wrong. She walked out the front door and into crisp night.

Free from the muggy heat of the club, she staggered and leaned against a pillar for support as she gulped down the cold night air like it was water. It was like stepping out of a fog, her mind slowly beginning to clear from the sobering chill. Goose bumps prickled up her arms and legs, but her stomach still felt like she was inside a washing machine.

Dammit, she thought angrily, This was supposed to be a safe place. There weren't supposed to be freaks here, just people...

Suddenly Riley came running outside, her brow furrowed with worry, "Zoë! Zoë what the hell...?" she asked, allowing the words she didn't say to speak for her.

Zoë turned around, feeling calmer by the moment. "Sorry," she said. "I..." she trailed off, looking around for some kind of excuse, "I feel sick," she decided. "I'm...having a heavy flow and I don't feel well. Could you take me home?"

Riley nodded, trying to look sympathetic, but she didn't seem heartbroken at the idea of putting the club in the rearview mirror.

Thanks Riley, Zoë thought with a great deal of relief. The door opened and Keenan and Elipsy came out wearing concerned looks. "Is everything okay?" Elipsy asked.

"Zoë isn't feeling well," Riley explained, "I'm going to give her a lift home."

The others nodded, offering up no argument. Riley slipped her hand into Zoë's. "I'll grab our coats," she said and gave Zoë's hand a tight squeeze before returning inside.

Keenan looked at Zoë with sharp yellow eyes. "Give me your phone," he told her, holding his hand out.

Zoë gave him a questioning look, "Why?"

"So I can put my number in it. In case I need another dance lesson."

Zoë thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. What could it hurt? She pulled out her phone. "Here," she handed it to him, "Give me yours."

Smiling that hungry smile again, Keenan produced his phone and she entered her information into his contacts. By then Riley was back with their coats. She looked to Elipsy. "You coming?" she asked. Elipsy shook her head. "I'm good," she insisted, "See you at school."

Zoë and Keenan exchanged phones again, and Riley and Zoë headed back to Charlie.

The ride home was, thankfully, a quiet one. Riley seemed worried, but she didn't press Zoë for information. Zoë just leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. They made it back to Zoë's house where they bade each other a good-night and Riley told Zoë to call her tomorrow and let her know if she was feeling better. Zoë nodded and went inside, the sobering chill of the house enveloping her like an ice box.

She leaned against the front door and sighed.

Home. Safe.

It was dark inside. Jon and Pahua were probably still at the Succubus concert at the Starline. It had been the whole reason Zoë had been able to sneak out.

She sighed, tired, and made her way upstairs. In her room, she caught Eddie staring at a spider web in the corner where a roach was trying to escape. A daddy-long-leg was waiting for its meal to stop struggling but Eddie looked ready to swoop in a grab it. Zoë scooped Eddie up and put him back in his terrarium. "No Eddie. What have I told you?" she chastised, "Roaches are food, spiders are our friends."

He croaked in agitation, but offered no resistance as she placed him on his heat rock.

Suddenly exhausted, Zoë turned and flopped down on her bed without changing her clothes and slowly fell into an uneasy sleep.

Luke

The cobalt blue '68 Camaro Z28 growled like a beast as Luke McAvoy turned into the parking lot of The Daily Grind, the vibrations from the engine leaving a gratifying tingle across his whole body. The coffee shop was in the Tower District, a little slice of Fresno that stood out from the rest. Those who worked and lived in Tower (as the district was most commonly referred to) would like to think of it as cultured; as a place of fine dining, and art. The food was good all right, but Luke didn't think anyone had a right to call it 'fine'.

Tea shops and dives lined the streets between antique, smoke, tattoo and new age shops. Every building stood out in brilliant color, decorated in fantastic and imaginative murals and harsh, dark graffiti. The smell of cigarette smoke mingled with 'medical' marijuana, sandalwood, and car exhaust as Luke breathed in the smells of Tower.

As he did every morning, Luke parked in the third stall from the front door, and turned the key to cut the engine. Even as the beast rolled over into submission, Luke could feel the residual vibrations of the engine, making the hair on his arms stand on end. As he did every morning, he got out of his car, locked it behind him, and headed into the small café. He grabbed a copy of the Fresno Bee from the rack beside the glass portal.

And, as he did every morning, Luke walked to the front register to order coffee and a scone.

Luke McAvoy was twenty-eight, with short black hair and gun-metal grey eyes. He was clean shaven with thin lips that made his smiles seem sharp, and was possessed of strong cheek bones and a square jaw line. His hooded brow intensified his grey eyes over a hooked nose that had been broken twice. He wore a hunter green sweater, blue jeans, and black steel-toed boots.

"Hey Luke," said the girl behind the counter in a sing-song. Luke smiled. Zoë was one of the regular weekend baristas. She was cute with choppy hair and well applied, attractive make-up—just a little eye-liner and bright cherry lips. She was still in high school, good at light-hearted flirting, and had a big smile.

"Good morning, Zoë," he said. She had already side-stepped away from the register and to the pastry case where she was retrieving his customary maple scone and was placing it on a ceramic plate. "How's it going?" he asked politely as she turned to fill a ceramic mug with hot coffee from the spout. Zoë, like most of the people here, knew his order by heart.

Zoë shrugged, "Oh y'know. Another day, another dollar."

"What happened here?" he asked, tapping his own cheek in correspondence to a bruise that colored her cheekbone under a small bandage.

Zoë blushed and waved her hand in the air as though to wave off his words and said nonchalantly, "Oh, just a little scratch, nothing to worry about. I got it a few days ago." She smiled up at him tiredly as she set the mug down on the counter. She was acting like her normal self, but Luke couldn't help but feel that something was wrong. He liked Zoë, saw her often enough, and couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern for her. Maybe it was just his line of work, but Luke couldn't help but feel that it was simple human nature. Empathy came easily. It was how people felt guilty. Even if the moments were brief and fleeting for most, concern for the fellow man—or, in this case, woman—was a reflex.

"You sleeping okay?" he asked, "You look tired."

Zoë lowered her gaze, blushing, and chewed her bottom lip, "Man, you always know..." she said and laughed, but there was no mirth in it, "Yeah...I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. Weird dreams, y'know?"

Unfortunately Luke knew all too well about bad dreams. In his line of work it was expected.

"Yeah," he admitted, "I do. What's your dream about?" he asked, probing. She hesitated, but eventually she said, "I get killed," in a low voice so others couldn't hear. It wasn't quite a whisper, but she spoke below the sounds of the café to keep their conversation private. Her cheeks reddened with blush again, but her eye's didn't falter from his for long. She met his gaze and asked as innocently as a child asking where babies came from, "What do you think it means?"

Luke didn't have an answer. He heard about dreams like this a lot, but he'd never really understood them or what to do to get rid of them. He had a hard enough time trying to deal with his own nightmares, much less someone else's. But he liked Zoë, she was a valued acquaintance, so he said, "I'm sure there's a way you can figure it out. Maybe do some research?"

Her face stretched into in interesting expression then: she twitched one brow higher than the other as though skeptical, but the side of her mouth came up into a smirk that made it look as though he had said something amusing. "Yeah, me and books," she said with a harsh chuckle, "That'll be the day."

Luke smiled. "You'd be surprised how helpful books can be. An old doctor of mine once said that books are the best weapon in the world," he said, almost teasing. She gave a small laugh then, a real one that made him want to smile back, and rung him up with a discount to thank him for his advice. He smiled, thanked her in kind, paid, and took his usual seat in the corner where he could put his back to the wall and see the whole café while hiding behind his newspaper. He spread the paper wide and started scanning for the type of headlines that brought him work.

Zoë

The rest of Zoë's shift passed in the blink of an eye. Before Zoë had a chance to check the clock it was already time for her lunch break, and then suddenly the day was over. She checked her watch. It was only three in the afternoon.

The library closed at seven.

She knew it sounded dumb, but maybe Luke was right. Maybe there would be some books at the library on dream interpretation. The internet held too much potential for misinformation and anyone she might ask would probably think she'd lost her mind. Zoë hated to admit it, but her only hope possibly lay in books.

She biked home a little faster than usual, took a frigid shower to scrub off all the sweat, coffee, and syrup of the day, dressed in a pair of jeans, a Wonder Woman tank-top, her red hoodie, her coat, and cherry Chucks.

She put her phone in one pocket, her wallet in another, grabbed a pack of cinnamon gum off her night stand, her cigarettes and lighter from the tackle box under her window, and her pocket knife before picking up her MP player and shoving all of her items into the various pockets of her attire. Fuck purses.

Satisfied that everything was in place, Zoë headed downstairs to say a quick goodbye and let her parents know where she was going.

"To study," she lied, "I've got an English paper due and I have to use a real book as a reference."

Her parents looked skeptical, but in the end they nodded their acquiescence. "Call us if you need us to pick you up," Pahua told her and Zoë nodded. She walked out the door and waited until she'd walked three houses to light a cigarette. She breathed the smoke in deeply, and exhaling it into the cool January air alongside the steam of her own breath.

She bobbed her head along to the music from her MP player as she made her way to the bus stop down the street. When she arrived it was empty. She sat down on the metal and blue plastic bench and waited for the FAX as she finished her cigarette and counted gum stains on the pavement.

She felt rather than heard her phone ringing in her pocket and pulled it out to see that she had a text message from Keenan Valentine. She flipped her phone open.

How about that dinner?

Zoë chuckled. Guess he wants another dance lesson, she thought mischievously.

She sent a message back explaining that she was headed to the library to do some homework and wouldn't be available that night. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and sat there tapping her foot to the beat of whatever song came over her MP player and finished a cigarette. Half an hour or so later, the bus rolled to a stop beside the gum riddled curb, filling the air around her with heat and the smell of exhaust. Zoë climbed on, paid the dollar twenty-five fare, and took a seat near the front.

As the bus jerked to a start Zoë looked out the window, trying to avoid eye-contact with any of the other passengers. Public transportation in Fresno wasn't for the average school girl or barista; it was a realm reserved for the invalid, screaming toddlers, bums, and the occasional Bulldog gang member. People like Zoë, who didn't have a car and just needed to get somewhere, were at a loss when it came to taking the FAX. It seemed to her as though the company of the bus was some kind of punishment for being without your own vehicle.

That's why she had the pocketknife. She'd never needed to use it, but with things like this, it was better to be safe than sorry. Last time she'd been on the FAX, a homeless man had almost pissed on her, and so it came as no surprise when a forty-something year-old man dressed in a baggy red jacket with paw tattoos on his hands, the word Bulldog across his forehead and Fresno on his throat sat next to Zoë and tried to start up a conversation.

"Hey mama," he said through a mouth full of teeth stained and blackened by drugs, his breath smelling of cigarettes, "Where you headed?"

Zoë ignored him and turned up the volume on her MP player, keeping her vision firmly out the window. She had the advantage of being in a public space where the gangster couldn't do much but be insulted by her cold shoulder.

Thankfully, her stop came up just a few minutes later and she exited the bus, albeit a little faster than she might have otherwise.

"Stuck up bitch," she heard the Bulldog mutter as she left him there. Zoë inhaled the fresh air trying to get the aroma of the man out of her nostrils. She made a disgusted noise and muttered, "Creep!"

She made her way through the old brick and cobblestone passageways of the Civic Center, her worn Chucks silent over the stone, and into the library. It was an old building, like most of those on this side of town, with a long list of books dating back to before the library was even built. If she was going to find something, it would be here.

She walked in, the smell of pumpkin spice and paper heavy in the air as the heat of the building hit her in the face like a bolt of cloth. She made a contended sound as she crossed the entryway and shed her coat. The librarian on duty briefly looked up from her computer and then returned to her work as Zoë walked past her and into the common area where she draped her coat over the back of a chair at a small table, claiming it, and started looking around.

Zoë decided to start in the sciences section, and easily found the psychology books. There had to be something there to do with dream interpretation. Who else would know about crazy stuff but a shrink?

However, after a few minutes of searching, she could only find three books that had to do with dreams, and she wasn't sure this would be enough to get to the bottom of things. She tried the religious section next, and found one book that looked like it might be useful, but the rest were almost all bibles or the study of religions through the world. Next it was on to the fantasy section, but it was all fiction and she quickly abandoned it. Lastly, she made for the new age section as a last ditch effort.

It wasn't very big compared to other sections—really it was hardly a section at all, and almost every book was some kind of reference book to Wicca, or a copy of the Satanic Bible.

Finally though, Zoë was able to sift through the mass of useless things and find a section on dreams. There were too many to effectively differentiate between useful and useless, so she just started grabbing all of them. She had time enough to kill; she might as well make the most of it. All too soon, however, the pile of books in her hands became a tower as she tried to blindly make her way towards the reading table she'd picked out.

Damn, I can't see anything in front of me, she thought as she shuffled forward.

Suddenly, she bumped into something sturdy and lost her balance, the books raining down around her as she fell. She groaned as she rubbed her rump where she had landed, hard. "Son of a bitch...guess that serves me right," she mumbled to herself.

"You should really be more careful," came a voice.

"Eh?" Zoë made a startled sound as she looked up to see Keenan holding one of her books and wearing a sympathetic expression. He had on a green button down that looked to be of a sturdy fabric, jeans, a pair of ragged work boots, and the same leather jacket from the Friday. He smiled at her and started picking up a few of the other books as he clicked his tongue. Zoë blinked at him, confused, "What? Keenan, what are you doing here?"

Keenan gave her a nonchalant glance, "Returning some books for my sister. I would have had to give her a ride anyway, so I just came alone." He held one of her books out to her, "I think you dropped something."

Zoë hurriedly began picking her books up. "Oh, sorry," she said, still a little taken aback. She guessed he had forgotten that she mentioned she was coming here.

"Just be more careful," he said as she stood up, a few of her books in hand. Zoë awkwardly made it to her feet as she tried to balance the grip of books she'd picked out. "Thanks," she said as he handed her the rest of them and headed towards the front desk.

Once she had the books balanced again, Zoë slowly, and carefully, made her way to the table she'd picked out and set the mighty stack down.

She sat and began searching through the plethora of tomes before her, trying to find her answers. Most of the books didn't help.

Some were wordy beyond comprehension; others didn't have anything in them about what she was looking for. Wolves, the forest, running, the dagger, the moon, her blood, none of it was in any of these stupid books.

I've been here for hours, she thought angrily as she rubbed her tired eyes. But I have to know, she thought, Its not like being able to see the freaks, it's different. I know it. I just need to figure out what it means...

With a huff, she tossed aside one book and picked up another.

"Dream interpretation, huh?" came a voice. Zoë looked up to see Keenan standing by her table. He sat down without asking.

"Are you following me?" she asked warily as she looked him up and down.

He smiled that hungry smile as he looked up at her, "What would you do if I was?" he asked, unabashed.

Zoë didn't say anything, just narrowed her eyes.

Wordlessly, Keenan started looking through the books and picked up a particularly thick one with a crisp, indigo binding. "Here, I think this is what you're looking for," he said and handed it to her. It was one of the books from the psychology section. The Interpretation of Dreams Through Psychosomatic Elements Within stood out boldly in thick, serif letters.

Zoë gave Keenan an incredulous look, but she took the book all the same. How did he know what she was looking for?

Wordlessly, she flipped through it and realized this was it.

Oh wow, he's totally right, Zoë thought with a rush. She found a section that looked helpful and read the first few lines...

Recurring Dreams:

A recurring dream demonstrates that the subconscious is trying to find its way out of a difficult situation. Some people have recurring dreams for years, while others have recurring elements from their dreams. Recurring dreams must be treated with great import.

It didn't sound like anything Zoë hadn't already guessed, but it still looked like she was off to a good start. Maybe this is really it, she thought as she bit her lower lip and crossed her ankles. She flipped to the index and looked up the first word that came to mind.

Wolf:

To see a wolf in your dream, symbolizes survival, beauty, solitude, mystery, self-confidence and pride. Negatively, the wolf represents hostility, aggression, or sneakiness. To hear a wolf howling in your dream represents a cry for help from somebody in your waking life.

A cry for help?

But from who? If this book was anything to go off of, who could it possibly be referring to? With an eerie shiver, she recalled her sobbing apologies as the wolves howled all around her. Was it representing someone she had let down? She'd been having the dream for years, it was hard to believe that she hadn't already met whoever it was that was supposed to need her help. She flipped forward in the book to look up another element from her dream.

Running:

To dream of running in company with others, is a sign that you will participate in some festivity, and you will find that your affairs are growing towards fortune. If you stumble or fall, you will lose property and reputation. If you run from danger, you will be threatened with losses, and you will despair of adjusting matters agreeably.

Zoë licked her lips; this wasn't looking very good. Briefly, her eyes flickered up toward Keenan, but he just sat there with his face in his hand, his gold eyes watching her expectantly. With a shaking hand she flipped forward some more trying to find some good news. There has to be at least one good thing in here, right? she thought.

Forest:

To dream that you are in or walking through the forest signifies a transitional phase. Alternatively, it indicates that you want to escape to a simpler way of life. To dream that you are lost in a forest indicates that you are searching through your unconscious for a better understanding of yourself.

Zoë sighed. Of all the things she had read in this book so far, this was the one that made the least amount of sense. Then one of the phrases in the passage stood out to her: a transitional phase.

She smiled wryly. She supposed that could mean the end of the year, going off to college, missing Riley. But she'd been having this dream for years now, so the transitional phase the book mentioned couldn't be about college, it didn't make any sense. She flipped about, looking for another aspect of her dream.

Moon:

To see the moon in your dream represents an aspect of yourself. It is often associated with the feminine intuition. Alternatively, the moon signifies your changing moods. To see the eclipse of the moon in your dream may mean that some hidden aspect of yourself is coming to the surface.

The passage left her with an ill feeling in her stomach. She didn't like the idea of not knowing something about herself or her body. Though the passage seemed to give her a bit of a better understanding as to why she had her dream when she was menstruating. It was eerie and made the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end, but it made sense.

She gulped audibly. There was only one last thing she had to know...

Stabbed:

To dream that you have been stabbed implies that you are having difficulty dealing with a controlling issue or person. You may have been deceived by someone you previously trusted.

"Deceived?" Zoë read aloud, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Individually the passages made her uneasy, together they made her anxious. She didn't know what she had expected to find, but it certainly wasn't this. Disgusted, she threw the book onto the table and flexed her hands as though to clean them.

"This is stupid," she told herself.

"Then why did you come here?" Keenan asked suddenly. Zoë had forgotten he was even there, and she visibly jumped. He only smiled and stood. "Sounds like you need to open your mind a little more Zoë Marsh."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Keenan turned and smirked at her over his shoulder. "You came here to find answers, right?" he asked, "What that dream means, and all the other things that set you apart from everyone else? Why you can see all those things no on else can? You'll never figure it all out with that attitude."

Zoë's stomach turned to water and she felt cold all over. "How do you..." she started, but her voice trailed off as dread coiled around her throat. He started to walk away as Zoë sat there, confused. He waved to her over his shoulder, beckoning her to tag along.

Did he know what she was? What she could see?

Zoë stood so quickly that she overturned her chair. "Hey!" she cried, but he didn't change his pace. Zoë's brows knit together as she gathered her coat and chased Keenan out the library, leaving her chair over-turned and her table covered in books.

"No running, young lady!" the librarian behind the front desk chastised, but Zoë was already pulling on her coat as she burst through the front door in her pursuit. "Hey you! How did—YOU!" she gasped, stopping short.

Keenan glanced at her over his shoulder as he made to join two men standing some feet away. Zoë blinked, confused and amazed as realization hit her like a brick to the gut. "Principal Pierce?" she gawked. Gabriel Pierce stood there, the silver of his hair practically glowing in the fading light, wearing slacks, a button down, and tie under his jacket. He smirked as he took the glasses off his nose and dropped them gracefully into an inside pocket of his coat.

What the hell was her principal doing here?

"You can just call me Gabriel, Zoë," he told her in a velvety basso.

"Wha—?" As the initial shock subsided, she realized there was a third man standing there. His shaggy auburn hair almost fell over his muddy brown eyes. He looked about average height but slender—well built for running. He looked like he was around Keenan's age and handsome. He wore a white T-shirt under a blue denim jacket, his dark jeans looked expensive, but his boots were old leather, worn from use.

"These men are part of my family," Keenan explained, "This is Gavin, my cousin," the man in denim nodded wordlessly, "and you know Gabriel, my uncle."

Zoë took a step backwards, disquiet settled in her stomach like bad spaghetti. "How..." she began, but her voice was little more than a squeak. She cleared her throat, "What's going on?" she demanded in a loud voice.

"Follow me," Keenan said darkly, mimicking the lilt she had used when they danced, "and we'll tell you." He turned and began to walk away into the night, flanked by his cousin and uncle.

Zoë stomped her foot on the ground, anger drowning her fear. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" she practically screamed.

None of them stopped to answer her or see if she was following them. They just kept walking, keeping a casual pace as though they were in no hurry.

This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid, her mind was screaming as she took her first tentative step forward, heart hammering, So stupid, so fucking stupid...

She followed the line of Keenan and the other's footsteps and saw that they were headed for the park on the other side of the Civic Center. It was a small park, with a single play structure for kids, a water fountain, and a couple dozen trees.

If they're trying something weird, I should be able to get away, she told herself. She shoved her hands into her pockets and wrapped one hand around her pocket knife and the other around her phone. Cautiously, she followed, each step making her feel braver and more afraid all at once. Where in the Good Idea Handbook did it say that following three strange men into an all but deserted park at night was just fine and dandy?

But if they know something...

Zoë squared her shoulders and kept putting one foot in front of the next.

The park was dark, and cold. The lamps along the pathways illuminated the cobblestone only enough for her to see the men in front of her. If she had to run, she didn't know if she'd be able to find her way back. Knowing my luck I'd run straight into a tree, she thought.

None of them were watching her, assuming she'd follow. And like a fool she was.

She swallowed audibly and tightened her grip on her pocketknife, hoping she knew what she was doing. The further they went, however, the more and more her anxiety and trepidation gave way to frustration and anger. The whole cloak and dagger act was starting to grate on her nerves. Just who did these guys think they were acting like this?

"She certainly doesn't look the part," Gabriel was saying, obviously not caring to keep his voice down. Whether it was because he wanted Zoë to hear, or because he didn't care about her presence, she wasn't sure. Either way it pissed her off.

"She's the one," Keenan assured him.

Gavin shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked. "I guess we'll have to wait and see then."

Zoë stopped and stamped her foot on the ground angrily. "All right, that's it!" she shouted and they all turned to regard her. "I'm not taking another step until you tell me what the hell all this is about! Who are you, really? More importantly...how do you know about my dream?" the last part came out far less violent than when she had begun shouting, but she could see that her point had been made.

Keenan's expression was unreadable as he surveyed their surroundings. They were in the center of the park next to the stone fountain that featured a school of mermaids enjoying the water and pouring it out of conch shells. Empty benches stood at the edges of the lamp-lit courtyard, surrounded by deep, ominous shadows. The mist of dusk made little halos of light around the lamps, limiting their light.

Don't balk now girl, Zoë told herself and she set her jaw and brow into a stubborn expression.

Keenan stepped forward. "I'm sorry for dragging you out here like this," he said, "but we have a good reason. I know we just met, but the truth is—"

Suddenly, there was a loud rustling from somewhere behind Zoë. She jumped and tried to turn, but she was too slow. Whatever it was grabbed her from behind, pushing one of her arms up so painfully behind her back she thought it might snap out of its socket. Zoë tried to scream, but a hand came up and clamped over her mouth.

"Eric!" Gavin yelled, his hands becoming fists.

"I won't let you go through with this!" growled a familiar voice in her ear.

Eric...Valentine?

"Let her go," Keenan growled, his nose crinkling, a triangle of rage forming between his brows.

"Eric! Don't allow temporary emotion cloud your judgment," Gabriel said sternly, "Step back and think about this."

"What I'm feeling isn't temporary," Eric growled in her ear, "I'll never trust a damn human!"

The hands on her arm and mouth felt as though they were moving—beneath the flesh. Bones crunched as fingers lengthened in a motion that reminded Zoë oddly of a snake shedding its skin. The flesh of his hands became coarse and fur began to sprout from his pores like a Chia pet on crack, his nails grew and sharpened like talons.

The rational side of her mind began to kick and scream against the reality of the situation. This couldn't be happening; it was impossible. She knew Eric, he was just some jerk from her school; he couldn't be a monster!

As the rational side of her mind continued to gibber, futilely trying to wrap itself around the situation, her body moved on instinct. She pulled her free hand from her pocket and flipped the blade of her pocketknife out with a flick of the wrist. She plunged it, hard, into the arm that barred her chest and felt the steel blade bite through flesh and fur. There was a howl of pain next to her ear that resonated so loudly she thought she might go deaf on one side. Eric shoved her forward onto the cement and she heard her pocketknife go skittering across the pavement. She turned over onto her elbows and looked up to see what was really going on.

What she saw wasn't a man—couldn't have been a man.

His face was growing longer, his nose becoming a snout, his jaw adjusting as bones snapped and cracked. He hastily shed his leather jacket as his skin darkened with a layer of pitch fur. His feet grew longer and longer until they elongated out of his shoes to resemble a dog's hind legs. His spine began to audibly pop out of his back like a snake rising up, ready to strike. He howled, loud and low, his back arching in an impossible way as coarse black fur grew over his muscled torso. The spiked collar around its neck snapped as chorded muscle and thick fur outgrew the leather and metal studs.

Zoë gaped in horror as the monster snarled at her, baring its fangs that dripped blood and saliva. She'd seen freaks before, she'd seen them all her life—monsters that loomed in the darkness and shadow, that tricked and lied and hurt. Even when they pretended to be human she could see through the masks and the illusions; but she had never seen one transform this way, never seen one go from man to monster without her being able to see past their disguise.

"That's...impossible..." she breathed in disbelief, eyes wide with terror.

Suddenly Keenan was in front of her, dashing forward and swinging a powerful right hook into the freak's snout. It whimpered and staggered backwards before regaining its footing and roared at Keenan, the force of the sound making Zoë's blood run cold.

"What is that thing?" she demanded in a shrill voice.

"My brother," Keenan growled without turning to face her. He stepped forward, "Gavin, Uncle Gabriel, get Zoë out of here."

Everything began happening very fast then.

Gabriel scooped Zoë up in his arms as though she weighed nothing. "Hang on tight," he snapped. Zoë didn't see how she had much of a choice.

Her gasp died on her lips as Gabriel started running at breakneck speed. Trees, benches and brush became blurs at the edges of her vision—he was moving so quickly she could barely keep her eyes open. She bit back her scream as she tightened her grip on the man's neck. He jumped, and she felt her stomach fly up into her chest.

"Gabriel! Watch out!" she heard Gavin cry. She dared to open her eyes as Gabriel landed with the grace of a cat, the wind spitting her scream back into her mouth.

"Let her go!" someone shouted. Suddenly Gabriel's back arched and he howled in pain as ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through his body. Zoë could feel his skin vibrating under his clothes as he dropped her. He staggered forward and Zoë inched away on her bum, staring up at him, amazed that he could still be standing. He opened one green eye and looked down at her, his face set in a grimace of pain. "Run," he growled, showing his teeth.

Zoë didn't need to be told twice.

Scrambling to her feet, she took off running in whatever direction seemed best, and at the time, that direction was anywhere.

"Zoë!" she heard someone shout, and suddenly Gavin was there.

"What the fuck is going on?" she screamed helplessly. He took her by the hand and pulled her forward as she ran on. He wasn't as quick as Gabriel, but he was fast enough that Zoë could barely keep her footing as he dragged her along, "Run now, talk later!" he shouted back.

"What about those others guys?"

"They'll be fine," he promised, but his words were less than reassuring. Gavin pulled her around a bend but stopped on a dime, reversing his momentum too quickly to be humanly possible. Zoë's own momentum carried her forward and she slammed into Gavin, hard. He stood there, unphased, like a brick wall.

"What is it?" Zoë asked breathlessly, but Gavin didn't need to answer. Standing before them was a man wearing all black.

"Let her go!" he cried as he pulled a gun from a holster at his hip. He leveled it at Gavin with all the sureness of a police officer—turning his body to create a smaller target and cupping one hand under the other. His finger flicked off the safety of the gun as his green eyes narrowed.

What the hell? Zoë's mind had just enough time to think.

"Get down!" Gavin cried as he shoved her to the harsh cement. She scraped her chin and the impact left her teeth chattering and her head spinning. There was a loud popping sound as the gun fired. Flashes of fire burst like hibiscus flowers in the night, destroying Zoë's night vision. She heard Gavin grunt then scream, and something wet fell onto the back of her hand.

Zoë's eyes widened as she watched the bead of blood settle onto the mahogany of her skin.

Gavin knelt over her, teeth bared, eyes gleaming like an animal's in the moonlight. He yanked her to her feet by the back of her coat and pushed her to his left. "Run Zoë, and don't stop running until you're safe." He started walking towards the man as he shrugged off his coat.

"But you're—" she began.

"Just trust me!" he snarled, his eyes wild. Zoë hesitated, her mind reeling, and then started running again. Her heart was in her throat as the blood rushed in her ears, but she kept running, her legs pumping madly.

Right then she didn't care that she was lost, all she cared about was that she was scared out of her mind, and that she needed to get away from that place as fast as her feet could carry her. The park looked completely different at night. She wasn't sure she had ever been to this section—or had she? Gavin had sent them in circles; she had no idea what to do. She looked this way and that for some kind of escape, but she didn't know where to go.

"Over here!" someone shouted. She whirled around toward the sound of screeching tires and saw a cobalt Camaro come to a halt on the street—when had she gotten next to the street? The passenger side door swung open, inviting her in. There wasn't time to think. She ran, dove, and made it inside the car in the span of a second.

"Buckle up," the man in the driver's seat said, and only then did she realize who it was.

"Luke?" she cried shrilly.

Luke McAvoy didn't deign to respond, only stomped the gas pedal into the floorboard and sped away from the park. Zoë tried to catch her breath; her lungs were full of needles and she was shaking all over. She tried to form a sentence, but it just kept coming out as gobbledy-gook. Finally she managed a sloppy, "What are you doing here?"

Luke gave a smirk, "I've had better thanks."

Zoë opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly a great black something with golden eyes landed on the hood of the car. Zoë screamed and Luke turned, trying to throw it off. It roared, its wolfish nose rippling in a snarl as it punched the windshield, trying to break in. The glass crunched under the force of the blow but did not break, the cracks forming a giant spider web. Zoë swore.

The freak pulled its massive fist back to strike again, but Luke turned the wheel, spinning the car about and shaking the what-ever-it-was off.

The Camaro spun around twice more, stopped on a dime, and sped away from the park like a lightning bolt.

Luke

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" Zoë shrieked in a shrill voice riddled with anger and confusion.

Luke turned the Camaro into the scrapyard where he lived. Pieces of metal, big and small, stuck out of the dry dirt at odd angles that reminded him of a sort of crooked graveyard. The whole place smelt of rust, oil, grime, and dirt. Scrap meant iron and steel—two of the heavy hitters when it came to keeping the things that lurk in the darkness away. The business of the yard kept the moderate bills at bay, and afforded him a great deal of solitude.

He gave Zoë a sideways glance as he made his way through the yard. Runes and circles of protection, holding, shielding, or banishing had been drawn onto the pieces of metal that shielded his house like a wall in red or white paint.

Zoë's face was ashen as Luke glanced at her, but her expression was more angry than afraid.

Why isn't she scared?

The Camaro growled to a halt outside the door to his house, which sat on the property of the scrapyard. The vibrations of the engine slowly died on his skin as he got out of the car. Zoë followed hurriedly and glared at him over the hood of the car. "Seriously Luke, what the hell is going on?" she demanded, "What were those things? And what were you doing at the park?" she asked this all very fast and in a sharp, irritated voice.

I don't think she's going to buy the normal script, he thought with a wince. Normally when things like this happened—when a victim or witness became caught up in the supernatural, Luke was able to convince someone that they had been drugged or another semi-logical explanation, but he didn't think Zoë was going to be like the others. Even if he tried it, he doubted he'd be able to stay her off for long. This girl was a firecracker, not at all like the girl he knew from the coffee shop.

"Look," he said, trying to sound calming, "I'll explain everything, but first I need you to calm down."

Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks flared red, "Calm down?" she repeated, venom in her voice, "Calm down? Luke those things—and Keenan...I don't even know what the hell was going on there, but those people in the park tried to kill them and me! How am I supposed to calm down?" Luke put his hands up in a defensive manner, "Look those people in the park weren't trying to hurt you, they were trying to protect you."

"How would you know that?" she demanded, her hands on her hips. Everything from the look in her almond eyes to the way she held herself told him she was ready to lash out.

"Because," he began cautiously, "they were with me."

As he expected, Zoë took a moment to process this new information. She stared at him with a blank expression, still standing in that same offensive position. Then in a very low, very displeased voice she said, "Excuse me?"

Luckily that was when the cavalry arrived.

Farrell Kapoor's clunky old chocolate-brown van came up through the scrapyard, and Luke heard the heavy metal gate being closed behind. The headlights were dulled by years of dust and poor cleaning so Luke and Zoë didn't need to shield their eyes. She didn't say anything as his team unloaded themselves from the van one by one. Instead she cocked her hip to one side, folded her arms under her breasts and gave him a skeptical look, "So, what? You've got a team of people that go around scaring innocent people in the park half to death with tasers and guns?" she said acidly.

Luke sighed. This was not easy.

"Look," he offered as the others began to notice him talking to her and fell silent, "how about I just give you a lift home, and we forget all about this?"

Zoë shook her head, "Fuck no! I want to know what's going on here. Why did you guys just attack Keenan and Mister Pierce out of the blue? And, more importantly, what they hell were those guys?"

Luke groaned inwardly. He stepped up to the front porch of his little home and opened the door, indicating for her to step inside, "We can talk in here," he said. Zoë shot one last glance back at the others and stepped past him. Damien Cryon ran up and whispered hoarsely, "What's going on?"

Damien was a tall man of about twenty-five, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. His blonde hair was cut close and his eyes were a bright green under a hawkish brow. He was one of the fastest members of the team, but his greatest asset lay in his marksmanship, and his connections to the Fresno Police Department. Even just standing there in civilian clothes you could tell he was a cop, just by studying his demeanor and the way he held himself—even the way he spoke.

"She wants answers," he explained.

"So?" Damien said.

Luke sighed, "I know this girl. It'll only take a moment. Anyone hurt?"

Damien grumbled, obviously displeased, "No, we're good. You want us to wait out here?" he asked with a touch of ire. Luke nodded and Damien walked away, calling to the others, "Hey, let's grab some grub!" He watched them all stand by the van, discussing what had happened. They'd be fine.

Turning back into the house, Luke found Zoë looking around his home curiously. It was a simple home, he knew, but that was how he liked it. No knickknacks or photos adorned his walls; nothing to signify that anyone lived there if you ignored the books and furnishings. Rows of salt packed tightly into bags stood vigilant near the front door, and every window was barred with more steel. He had a nice television, and three bookcases that ran the length of two of the living room's walls. Books of all sizes rested on his shelves, a great deal of them old and haggard from use, many of them bound in faded leather that ranged from black, to brown, to crimson, to green. Others were much more modern paper backs, but all of them covered the same subjects.

Zoë turned toward him and plopped down on the sagging dark green sofa in front of the worn, old trunk that served as a coffee table.

He looked at her eyes and her posture. Unlike everyone else he'd rescued from situations like hers, she didn't seem afraid—maybe a little confused, but not because she couldn't wrap her head around the situation, but because she wanted answers. It was as though she'd always known something like this could happen.

That's different, he thought, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

"Zoë," he said gently rolling into his usual and easily recycled speech about things that go bump, "I know this must be difficult for you. What you saw tonight is something that few people ever see."

She crossed her legs and leaned back into the sofa, her arms still folded beneath her bosom, and tried to look at ease, but the poor condition of the couch forced her to lean back further than she had intended, and she just looked pouty. "Save it," she told him, "I'm not concerned about what I saw, I want to know why what went down, went down."

Luke blinked. That was also new. He shook his head and tried not to sound surprised when he spoke again, "You're not concerned about what those men are?" he asked.

"They're not human, I know that much now," she grumbled. Her features softened as she looked at him. "Look I'm not trying to be a bitch here, I just don't like not knowing what's going on. Fill me in. Did you know they were going to be there? Is that why you suggested I go to the library?"

"What?" he exclaimed, shocked, "Do you really think I would do that?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. All I can process right now is that half the people I know aren't what they appeared to be," she glared at him, "It's still pretty suspicious that the day you tell me I should go to the library, and I do, is the day all this crazy shit goes down. How about you explain that one?"

Luke sighed, irritated, and sat down in one of the chairs that matched his dark green sofa on either side of the coffee table. He rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward, steepling his fingers, "If I told you its pure coincidence, you wouldn't believe me, would you?"

She met his gaze, "I don't believe in that sort of thing."

Luke spread his hands helplessly and shrugged, "Then there's nothing I can say. I'm sorry this happened, Zoë, but I didn't set it up," he said and steepled his fingers again.

Zoë looked at him for a long time, saying nothing, and then nodded once. "Fine," she said, defeated. Why didn't she seem afraid? Luke narrowed his eyes as he regarded her, "Most people would be screaming their heads off, or would have gone into shock by now with what happened to you tonight. So, what's your deal? Why aren't you afraid?"

Zoë sighed, almost tired, and chewed her lower lip. She stared at the coffee table, the glare in her eyes deadly. He opened his mouth to press her further, but before he could speak she closed her eyes and said begrudgingly, "I can see them, okay?"

Luke raised a single, dark brow. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Zoë sighed, opening her eyes and resumed staring at his coffee table. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she spoke, the venom in her voice betraying her anger. "I've been able to see them all my life," she began, "Demons mostly. I think. I don't really know what they are, but I've always been able to see them—in the shadows and at night. I knew there was more to them than just what I could see. I've been trying to ignore them all my life... Don't look at freaks. Don't talk to freaks. Don't let freaks see you," she ticked them off on her fingers and recited the words like a prayer. She turned to him then and met his gaze icily, "Guess I blew it tonight, huh?"

Luke sat there, dumbfounded. A seer? His grandmother told him about people gifted with the sight to look into the darkness, but he'd never thought they were real, much less that he would ever meet one.

That must be why the wolves were after her, he thought, But to what end?

He'd have to keep the girl close and watch her.

"So," she said, dragging him out of his thoughts, "I've told you mine. Your turn."

Luke raised his brows in amazement as he gave a nervous laugh. What was he supposed to say to someone like this? He cleared his throat and leveled his gaze, meeting her eyes. "You said you can see those things, see monsters?" Zoë nodded and shrugged at the same time. "That makes you something called a seer," Luke explained, "Not everyone can do what you can. In fact, it's so rare I didn't think people like you even existed until tonight. Hunters are rare too, but not as much. That's what I am; it's what my team is. We hunt the suckers down and we gank 'em."

Zoë snorted, "Yeah well, great fucking job," she said, a sardonic edge to her words, "There's a shit-ton of those freaks out there, I see them every day." She paused. "In any case, you still haven't told me what those guys back there were. Keenan, Eric, Mister Pierce, Gavin...I've never seen anything like that before."

Luke raised a brow. He knew a good number of those names.

"You know them?" he asked, probing.

Her lips stretched to the side in a funny way. "Well, sort of," she admitted. She rubbed her brow the way people do when their heads begin to hurt, then looked at him expectantly.

Luke sighed. He could try beating around the bush some more, but he already knew there was something special about Zoë, and the last line of coddling excuses he tried to feed her she spat back in his face. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other so his ankle rested on his knee and watched her. "They're werewolves," he said simply.

She laughed. It was the first sign of the girl he knew from the café she'd shown that night. "You're joking, right?" she giggled.

Luke met her gaze with stern grey eyes and dropped his voice to serious tones as he leaned forward again, "You can see these things, Zoë. You can see behind their masks and glamours and see the monster underneath it all. I can't even begin to fathom what that's like for you, being as young as you are and being around all the horror every waking moment. But I would think that someone like that, someone like you would understand that things people disregard as bullshit are as real as you or me."

She had the decency to lower her gaze and even blush a little. It was an attractive look for her. "I'm sorry," she said soberly, "It's just...most of the things I see don't look like the stuff out of storybooks. I didn't think things like werewolves existed, I mean it's just so...I mean c'mon!"

"Anything is possible," he told her.

She sighed heavily, "Yeah. Whatever."

There was an awkward pause, neither of them really knowing what to say. Luke was trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone with Zoë's ability could be so blind.

Luke had been raised as a hunter, but he was part of a dying breed. People were all too willing to ignore what was right in front of their faces, especially if they didn't like it, and that was just with the normal, every day stuff. Murderers, rapists, child molesters, politicians...they all lied, they all did wrong, and even though they were as mortal and human as those around them, people were all too willing to sweep the things they didn't like under the rug and go back to their day-time soaps. That was just with every day realities. Things that went bump in the night, things that rational and logic couldn't easily explain were even worse. Monsters only existed in movies to most people.

Could he really blame Zoë for wanting to pretend she had a normal life when everything around her was so dark?

But maybe it didn't need to be that way anymore.

She needs to be with people like her, he thought, People she can trust. And if she was with us, the possibilities could be astronomical...

"Zoë, do you know what those guys wanted with you?" he asked.

She licked her lips nervously before answering, "You know that dream I was telling you about earlier at the store? They said they could help me. I followed them into the park, and it seemed like everything was going okay, but Eric..." she trailed off. He could see the cogs turning in her mind, saw how she was working things out for herself, shutting him out as she processed the information alone.

"You haven't had any experience with these things have you?" he asked plainly. She looked at him with a small smirk as though to say, "Duh, dude."

"That's what I thought." He clapped his hands together as he came to his decision, "Why don't you come work with us?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Be a hunter, like me, like us. Be our eyes."

"Like, go around town and take those freaks down?"

Luke nodded, "Your sight can be of use to us."

"So, what? I'm just some tool for you?" she spat.

"No," Luke told her firmly, "But someone like you could make a real difference in this world. What you can do is amazing; it's something only a handful of people in the world can do, and if you come with us, I know a lot of people will be much safer."

She gave him an incredulous look. "You must be Catholic," she said, "that guilt trip was practically scripture."

Luke stood and offered her a hand, "You don't need to make a decision tonight. For now let me give you a lift home. But think about what I've said. Please?"

She stood without taking his hand and didn't look at him when she said, "Yeah, sure thing."

Keenan

The bruises were already starting to make his back and shoulders ache as Keenan carried Eric over his shoulder up the walk to the front door. His brother groaned as Keenan hiked him up his shoulder to keep from dropping him. "Shut-up," he growled, "If it hadn't been for you everything would have been perfect."

"...wrong..." Eric wheezed. Keenan had half a mind to drop Eric onto the grass and leave him there. Instead, he fiddled with the door handle, his bruised and bloodied fingers clumsy against the brass. He swung the door inwards and stumbled over the threshold with an involuntary grunt.

He looked up as Elipsy gasped his name, leaping from the couch and rushing over to him. Her face was stretched with worry as she helped him set Eric down on the couch. "What happened?" she asked.

They were battered, bruised, and bleeding from their fight, their clothes in tatters. Keenan didn't answer as he staggered into the kitchen and pulled down a cup from the cupboard. He leaned heavily against the sink as he filled the cup from the tap. He emptied the cup with a few hard, loud gulps and put it under the running water to fill it again. He could feel Elipsy's eyes on him from the entryway, "Keenan, what happened?" she demanded in a harsh voice. Keenan hung his head as he caught his breath, "Hunters," he groaned as he straightened, his back screaming in pain.

He turned to see Elipsy, pale faced and shivering, "Hunters did this?" she whispered.

He leaned against the sink as he shook his head, "No. Eric tried to snap Zoë's neck when we tried to talk to her. Uncle Gabriel and Gavin grabbed her, but Eric wanted a fight. The hunters showed up just after. I grabbed him and got out of there."

Elipsy's jaw dropped and she gawked at him like he'd told her something mad. "Keenan, what the hell?" she cried, "You guys did this to each other?"

Keenan sighed angrily, "He tried to kill her, Elle," he said. He tried to keep his voice level, but he could hear it rising, filling with anger, despite himself, "Even if we didn't need the girl's help, he tried to kill someone. What did you expect me to do?"

Elipsy looked over her shoulder at her twin and shivered. He could see the denial behind her eyes—she didn't want to believe what he was saying any more than Keenan did. But he had been there. He had looked his brother in the eye and saw the depths of his rage and just how far he was willing to go.

Suddenly there was the sound of the door bursting open. Keenan and Elipsy rushed to the entryway as Gabriel staggered through the door supporting an unconscious Gavin, one arm on his belt, the other holding his arm over his shoulders. Gabriel looked as though he had run three miles, the torment of battle evident on his torn clothes. Gavin was bleeding from several injuries, the stink of silver fouling the air as the wounds smoked and festered.

"Hunters," Gabriel growled, half choked with fatigue and rage. "Gavin's been shot."

"Get him onto the table!" Elipsy cried. Keenan dashed forward and helped support Gavin as Elipsy ran ahead and swept her arms across the table, shoving a bowl of fruit, several articles of mail, and a glass onto the floor. Gavin tried to scream as Gabriel and Keenan helped him into the kitchen and hefted him onto the table. Keenan's joints and shoulders ached as he held Gavin's arms down. Gavin thrashed as his muscles convulsed, his face etched in pain. Gabriel tore open the blood-soaked fabric of Gavin's shirt to reveal his chest and stomach. Blood flowed lazily from a handful of bullet wounds, each one rimmed by a steadily darkening halo as the poison spread through him.

Keenan swore as he struggled to hold down his cousin's arms, Gabriel practically sitting on Gavin's legs to keep him still. "Hurry up!" he called. He looked over at his sister as she dug through the cabinet under the sink and came back with a tackle box. She rushed over, shaky hands fiddling clumsily with the latches. She made a panicked sound, and finally managed to get the lid off. She pulled out a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and opened it, practically emptying it onto Gavin's chest. He screamed as his back arched, smoke billowing out of his wounds. Gavin's spasms became even more erratic as the alcohol burned. Elipsy dug back into the tackle box and pulled out a pair of long clamps and moved to dig the silver out.

"Don't you have anything to give him for the pain?" Gabriel growled as one of Gavin's legs almost got away from him.

Keenan frowned as he struggled to hold Gavin in place, "There's bourbon in the liquor cabinet," he said through gritted teeth. "Elle, hurry!"

Elipsy made a surprised and scared little sound and jumped up, rushing over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the bourbon. She unstopped the bottle as Keenan helped his cousin up and steadied him as Elipsy lifted the bottle to his lips. They helped him to drink down as much as he could, trying to numb him, but through the pain and screams he only managed a few large gulps. They laid him back down as Elipsy took a swig of liquid courage for herself and set the bottle aside.

With a shaky hand, Elipsy picked up the clamps and set about trying to dig the bullets out before the silver poisoned Gavin further. Gavin screamed louder as Keenan and Gabriel struggled to hold him down. Keenan scowled, "At this rate he'll swallow his tongue."

He let go of one of his cousin's arms and reached down to the clasp of his belt. He undid the buckle and tugged the leather from around his waist with a single sharp jerk. Folding it in half, he shoved it into Gavin's mouth and said, "Bite down," before grabbing him by the wrist again. Gavin screamed through the leather as Elipsy continued to dig for the silver.

"I'm sorry!" she said sounding panicked, "I'm trying to get it out!"

She plunged the clamps down into the open wound, the flesh had begun to bubble and turn red around the bullet holes, festering. Beads of sweat formed on Gavin's brow as he bit into the leather. His face was pinched in pain.

"Hold him still!" Elipsy cried as Gavin jerked and the clamps slipped.

Keenan swore. "Hurry up, dammit!"

Eric appeared in the entryway then, leaning heavily against the frame of the house. His dark clothes were torn and he was covered in blood—Keenan's and his own—but he was standing. His crimson eyes smoldered with disdain as they met Keenan's. For a moment Keenan thought Eric was about to start another fight, but instead he staggered over to where Keenan was holding down Gavin's arms. He took one of Gavin's wrists from Keenan and used his other hand to steady Gavin's shoulder. Keenan did the same, the two of them never breaking eye contact.

Keenan was still livid about Eric's little stunt in the park, and he had a feeling Eric was still angry about trying to find a human to help them, but right now none of that mattered. A member of the family had been hurt, and every hand was needed to help.

In unison they broke their gaze, turning their attention to the task at hand as Elipsy finally managed to pull a bullet from Gavin's abdomen. She let it fall to the floor at her feet, smoking and acrid, and released a shaky breath. "One down, three to go."

Gabriel pulled the sheet over Gavin's lifeless body with a sorrowful sigh.

The ordeal took what felt like hours, but when Keenan checked the clock he found that no more than forty-five minutes had passed. He was sore and aching all over, tired beyond functioning, but his injuries were trivial. Keenan leaned against the wall holding a cup of coffee in his hands to keep them warm as he stared at the sheet covering Gavin's body. Little spots of red began to seep through the cotton, staining the cloth, and Keenan felt a lump forming in his throat.

This is my fault, he thought distinctly, each word striking at a heartstring until there was a very real pain blossoming in his chest. This was the very thing he had sought to avoid.

"We'll wrap him in that...put him in the truck," Keenan said numbly, his voice distant and emotionless as his eyes fell towards his coffee, "We'll bury him at the cabin tonight. I'll call into work tomorrow."

Gabriel nodded, the lines of his face betraying his age as he hung his head. Eric ran a hand through his hair, his crimson eyes rheumy, face red and pinched. Suddenly he stomped out of the room and down the hall, picking up speed as he moved and dodged into the bathroom. Keenan could hear his brother vomiting between tears. He closed his eyes, trying to swallow his emotions.

Keenan clenched his jaw until it hurt, and opened his eyes, staring back down at his coffee. It seemed such hallow succor.

Suddenly the idea sickened him. Anger bubbled up inside him as he scowled at his coffee, and he had the sudden urge to throw the mug across the room, scream, fall to his knees and beat the tile of the kitchen floor until his knuckles were bloody.

He swallowed his anger, and instead he crossed over to the sink to dump some of the hot black liquid down the drain. He set the mug with the remaining coffee on the counter and added several spoons of sugar and a good deal of milk to it before heading out back.

Elipsy was sitting on the porch, her hair mussed and sticking to her brow and neck where sweat had dampened it. Her leg was bouncing like a coke addict's as she exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke. Her hands were still coated in blood as she sat there, looking up at the slender crescent moon.

During a full moon the children of the moon were virtually unbeatable—they were faster, stronger, and wounds healed easily. But as the moon waned, or when the moon was a slim—like tonight—the rejuvenating properties of the moon were difficult to harness. If the moon had been fuller Gavin might have lived.

Keenan sat besides Elipsy, his back complaining, and silently offered her the cup of sweet coffee. She accepted it wordlessly but did not drink. Keenan's brows met in worry.

"Elle," he said softly, placing a hand on her back, "You did the best you could."

She sighed and stopped shaking her leg. She looked at him with glossy eyes, "You should have waited for a larger moon," she said stiffly, her wet voice accusatory.

Keenan's jaw tightened as her words hit him like a sledgehammer to his gut. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't expected hunters to be there, that they might not have had another chance to talk to Zoë like this; but what he said was, "I know...this is all my fault..."

Elipsy looked away and took a drag on her cigarette, releasing the smoke through her nose. She lowered her head, her face stretching into a grimace as a fresh wave of tears came on. Keenan pulled her closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she allowed herself to cry.

"It's all right," he whispered, trying to keep the sorrow from his own voice, "It's all right."

"I'm so scared," she whispered, her voice wet with tears.

"Shh," he cooed, "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise."

Zoë

Zoë stared at her house as Luke pulled up alongside it in the Camaro. The lights were all off, meaning her parents were either out or asleep. At least she didn't have to worry about getting grounded. She turned to Luke, "Thanks for the ride," she said, more fatigue than she expected seeping into her voice. He nodded, his gun-metal grey eyes sharp in the light of the streetlamp, "No problem. I'll see you at the shop," he promised, "and I'll be waiting for your answer."

Zoë nodded, "'kay," she said like it was no big deal—like they were nonchalantly making plans for some simple thing instead of talking about the wildest thing Zoë had ever fathomed.

She turned away and got out of the car, the vibrations from the engine lingering on her skin as she closed the door behind her. She could hear the rumble of the engine as he sat there, waiting for her to make it to the door. She didn't look back as she walked inside, but she could hear the car pull away from the curb as she closed the door.

After tonight she didn't know what to think of her favorite customer, but one thing was for certain: he had a sweet-ass ride.

"I'm home," she whispered to the darkness and slowly, quietly, made her way upstairs. In her room she turned on the shadeless lamp that stood on her bedside table, and flooded the room with stark light. Eddie croaked from his terrarium as he woke. One of her parents had at least come up to her room to put her iguana away. She smiled weakly and crouched beside the glass, "Yes I know," she said, "I'll try to be home earlier next time." Eddie croaked approvingly.

She chuckled and walked to her bed where she kicked off her shoes. She pulled her cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket and opened her window before shedding her jacket and covering her hair with her red hood. She leaned out her bedroom window and lit her cigarette, taking a long, calming drag to settle her nerves.

She released the smoke in a sigh and the strange analogy of an orgasm came to her mind.

Zoë looked up at the night sky, thinking.

Keenan, Eric, even her principal, and now, she supposed, Elipsy were all monsters. How could she have not noticed?

That pentagram on Keenan's hand, she thought, Eric and Elipsy must have ones too. That's why they wear those gloves.

Was that the mark then? The sign of the werewolf?

She took another drag.

Then there was Luke to consider. He'd been a kind customer and a great guy to talk to in the mornings, but she had never thought that he'd be something as inane sounding as a monster hunter. That was something you heard about on bad TV shows and books. But if there was such a thing as demons and werewolves, then she supposed there would have to be at least someone out there who knew and decided to do something about it.

Still, the idea of running around and hacking freaks to little bits sounded too good to be true. She couldn't really deny, even to herself, that the idea of being able to do the same didn't interest her. A little payback for all the years of scaring the crap out of me, she thought. The only problem was that she wasn't sure she trusted Luke. How could she trust someone she barely knew suddenly saving her from werewolves, and then saying he killed them for a living?

"This is bullshit," she said exhaling the smoke from another drag. Zoë folded her arms on the sill and rested her chin on them. Joining up with Luke and his posse would mean hunting down some well deserving freaks, but would it also mean hunting Keenan and his family? Would that really be such a great idea? One of them was her principal for Christ's sake. There was all kind of trouble he could make for her if she decided to work with Luke—and with the most important part of her high school career coming up. If she started hunting things could turn sour, fast.

She already knew she wasn't going to a fancy university, like Riley. Her only hope was an art scholarship somewhere, but Gabriel could either make or break that deal if she told Luke yes. She didn't want to end up stuck in Fresno forever working at The Daily Grind and going to community college.

So what then? Zoë finished her cigarette and stamped the butt out on the roof and dropped it, her lighter and remaining pack into her tackle box before turning back into her room and closing the window. Eddie gave a concerned croak as she got up to change into her pajamas.

"I'm fine," she said, more to assure herself than him as she pulled her baggy Dr Pepper shirt over her head. She shimmied out of her jeans, kicked her space heater to life, and crawled into bed without brushing her hair, teeth, or bothering to take her make-up off. She was sore all over, her mind was racing in circles, and she was angry.

She turned her lamp off and stared at the water-stained ceiling in the darkness for a very long moment, the only light in the room the crimson glow of Eddie's heat lamp, fighting against the silver light of the moon and stars on the other side of her thin white curtains. Silver and crimson fought for control of the small room, even as logic and emotion quarreled within her to dominate her next move.

Finally she closed her eyes, plunging herself into darkness, blotting out all light, I don't want to think anymore, she told herself, I just want to sleep. I'll figure it out tomorrow.

The next day, Zoë woke with her alarm, and hit the snooze button until she had a choice between getting up or being late the school. She donned her clothes from last night since they were the closest, grabbed her bags, and headed downstairs. She grabbed two chocolate pudding cups from the fridge and stuffed it into her bag along with some pop-tarts and two cans of soda before heading outside to meet Riley.

The air was frigid compared to the warmth of her room, and she shivered involuntarily. She couldn't wait for summer. Riley gave her a narrow-eyed glare as she hopped into the bus, the warmth of the vents blasting salvation onto Zoë's hands and face. "What took you so long?" the red-head asked, "Now we won't have time for coffee."

"Who needs caffeine when you have sugar?" Zoë asked as she handed Riley a pop-tart. Riley smiled, albeit begrudgingly, and took the sugary treat.

"Good enough, I guess," she said, taking a bite.

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," Zoë said. She opened both sodas and set them inside the drink holders on the dash before starting in on her own pop-tart. As they drove along, bobbing their heads to the J-pop Riley had going, they settled into a comfortable conversation about the pudding Zoë had brought, too tired to be interested in much else. Zoë was thankful for the cynicism of the morning. She didn't want any reason for her mind to wander very far, not after last night.

They got to school and headed for their lockers, throwing their trash in a bin as they went. Zoë pulled her Anthropology book out of her locker alongside a notebook and some pencils. Riley leaned against the locker next to her. "You know, if you actually took those home and studied, you'd be able to bring up your grades," she said, indicating Zoë's books.

"Why break my back hauling around dead trees?" Zoë smirked, "Besides, I'm passing all my classes."

"Barely."

"Touché."

A little while later the girls were sitting in Anthropology, the only class they had together, taking notes as Mr. Reis lectured. Rather, Riley was taking notes and Zoë was doodling in the margins of her notebook, jotting down something that sounded important every once in a while. Reis was in the middle of explaining something-or-other when the class phone rang.

"Just a moment, students," he said as he walked over and picked up the receiver. Riley looked over at Zoë's page and gave a knowing smile. Zoë moved her hand over and started doodling on Riley's page instead, but the girl pulled her notebook away with a silent laugh.

"Zoë Marsh?" Mr. Reis said as he hung up the phone.

"Yeah?" Zoë called, trying to make it sound like she had been paying attention the whole time.

"The principal wants to see you," he said and scribbled something on a little pink paper and tore it off a sheet. Zoë's brows furrowed in a moment of confused anger, "What the—" she began but then she remembered. Gabriel was one of those things. A werewolf. A stark chill ran down her spine, leaving her cold. What if he thought she had told someone? What if he thought she had told Luke, and now he was going to find a way to keep her quiet? Permanently.

"Zoë?" Riley asked beside her, drawing her out of her thoughts. She hadn't realized she was standing there, shaking like a leaf. She shook her head to clear it and walked up to Mr. Reis and took the pick slip with clammy hands. She kept trying to tell herself that Mr. Pierce wouldn't do anything, not in the light of day, not with the possibilities of so many witnesses, but she couldn't shake the worry that crawled across her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

For a moment she considered just leaving. It wasn't hard to sneak off campus, she'd done it a thousand times before, but she didn't know if she could afford the trouble it would cause with the school. It wasn't as though she'd snuck off between classes. She'd been called to the principal's office in the middle of first period; if she just left someone would come looking for her.

So it comes to this, she thought, biting her lip, the possibility of death, or the possibility of detention for the rest of my life...

She stood in front of the door to the main office, clenching and unclenching her fists. What to do? What to do?

She held her breath as she opened the door and walked in. The secretary at the front desk looked up at her. "Yes?" she said.

"I'm here to see Mister Pierce," Zoë said with a calmness that was at odds with her anxiety.

"Ah yes," the secretary said with a smile, "He's been waiting for you. Go on in."

Zoë turned. She forced her legs to move as she walked into Gabriel Pierce's office, her motions robotic and awkward.

Dammit, I'm not doing this, she thought angrily, I'm not going in there afraid. He may be big, and he may be bad, but we're still at the school. Pierce can't touch me.

As she opened the door, holding her head high, she saw Gabriel sitting behind his desk. There was a cut on his lip and a bruise on his cheek, but other than that he looked unharmed. There was a tired look in his eyes, masked by his glasses. He sat rigidly, as through trying not to touch anything.

He must have other injuries under his clothes, she thought. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his dark green eyes like an animal's. Zoë wasn't sure if it was because it should have been obvious all along, or if it was because she knew the truth that he looked so feral then.

Silently, he indicated to one of the seats in front of his desk. Zoë hesitated, wary. Why was he being so quiet?

Biting her lip, she took a seat, cautiously never taking her eyes off him. "Did...did they do that to you?" she asked, "The hunters?"

"I told everyone I was in an accident," he explained nonchalantly. Gabriel leaned forward a little to meet her eyes, "I think you know why I called you in here."

Zoë nodded, "I haven't told anyone about you guys."

"I didn't think you would," he said, interlacing his fingers. She could see dark crescents of dirt under his nails. Zoë gave him a confused look. "If we're right about you, then you have quite a few secrets of your own. You strike me as someone who's good at keeping secrets."

Zoë narrowed her eyes, "Then why am I here?"

"I wanted to talk about...about last night," his voice caught in his throat for a moment as his eyes began to mist behind his glasses. Zoë opened her mouth to say something, but he blinked several times and continued speaking before she had the chance, "I know it might sound hard to believe after what you saw, but we're not the mindless beasts that some think. As someone who can see as you can—"

"How do you know about that?" Zoë interrupted sharply. She'd only ever told her dad, and now Luke. There's no way Gabriel could have known.

"We have a very keen sense of smell," Gabriel answered in a voice that held no pleasure.

Zoë felt her face grow warm with an angry blush. "So that's why Elipsy—" she blurted, but stopped herself short. She felt so embarrassed and somehow violated. What kind of sick bastards...? she thought. She clenched her jaw. "What do you want?" she said through gritted teeth.

"Your help," he said simply.

Zoë blinked, so taken aback that his words broke through her anger. "My help?" she echoed, "What could you possibly need my help with?"

Gabriel closed his eyes, and it seemed to Zoë that he aged five or so years in doing so. He looked exhausted and sore. She almost felt a little sorry for him.

He wasn't really the one who tried to hurt me, she thought, he tried to save me, didn't he?

"The truth of the matter, Zoë," Gabriel went on, his eyes still closed, "is that we are a cursed people. We know what we are, and we know what we're capable of if we're not careful. None of us have ever taken a human life, but there are many who condemn us simply for being what we are."

Zoë narrowed her eyes, "You're monsters," she said through gritted teeth, "What makes you think I'd believe you?"

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked at her pointedly. "Because it is the truth," he said in a harsh basso, "You call us monsters because we are different from you, but mortal men—humans—have and will kill more violently and more wretchedly than my family ever have. You condemn us for being different, fine, but never mistake us for murderers because of it."

"Bullshit."

"We are not the monsters here," he said, baring teeth. Zoë quivered as a tendril of fear tightened in her spine, but didn't avert her gaze or turn to run. Gabriel's brows met as he said in a voice so quiet, so strained, that at first Zoë was scarcely certain she heard it, "My nephew, Gavin, was killed last night by those men. They are the real monsters here, not us."

Zoë squirmed uneasily, not sure what he wanted her to say. "I'm sorry about your nephew," she murmured quietly. Gabriel lifted his right hand and stared down at his palm, looking sad and angry at the same time. She could see the marking on his hand—a silver pentagram; the flesh looking like an old scar. "Every month, during the full moon, we leave town for a week," he said still staring at his hand, "We're careful never to hurt another person, only the animals we hunt. I know it's a lot to take in, and that it's a lot to ask, but I'm asking you to trust us," he looked up at her, his sharp green eyes void of the remorse that was there before, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze, "to help us."

Zoë stood abruptly, "Look Mister Pierce—Gabriel—whatever, Eric did try to kill me last night. He tried to snap my damn neck."

Gabriel closed his eyes, sighing, "Yes, that was...unfortunate. You understand that we had no intention of letting him harm you. The boy has been troubled ever since his parents—"

Zoë looked down at him, "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Gabriel stood suddenly, and Zoë jumped, despite herself. He hadn't said anything, hadn't raised a hand against her, and yet somehow she felt frightened. In that moment, she truly felt afraid of Gabriel. He hadn't done anything to intimidate her, and yet she was. With every fiber, this very normal looking man frightened her.

Is it because of what he really is? she wondered. She stepped back, "Look, I'll keep your secret," she said, her voice shaking, "But don't expect me to help you. You people are the very things I've been trying to run away from my whole life. I have no reason to help you."

"Are you sure? I'm the principal, after all. It wouldn't be difficult for me to make things very difficult for you."

Zoë turned her back on him, "Do your worst," she said, growling the words through her fear, "My grades are already in the gutter. I'm not afraid of you."

She walked out of his office, trying to mimic a cool calm. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard him say behind her, "Keep your bravado, little girl. I can smell your fear."

Luke

As he did every morning, Luke McAvoy parked his car outside The Daily Grind, went inside, grabbed the newspaper from the stand by the front door, and walked up to the front counter to order a cup of coffee in a ceramic mug, and a maple scone.

The familiar aromas of coffee and sugar filled the air as he stepped into the warmth of the café. Somehow he always took a measure of comfort coming here. It reminded him, in a small way, that even if something were to happen to him, this coffee shop would still be here, people would go on about their daily lives, blind to his deeds and the darkness lurking all around them.

Blissful ignorance.

It also gave him a chance to do some people watching—these people were the reason he did what he did, and while it was a hard, thankless job, because of him these people were safer.

It was finally Saturday—which meant Zoë would be working. He saw her behind the front counter, taking orders and ringing up customers. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes and she wasn't wearing any make-up. Luke had always noticed that she didn't wear much, but seeing her without it still seemed...odd somehow.

He'd waited a week for her to think about his offer, and now it was time for her to answer him. The anticipation had him white-knuckling it all the way to the front of the line.

When he finally got there, he gave her a sympathetic look, "You look like you haven't been sleeping," he said. Zoë glowered at him, "Gee, thanks," she spit acidly then sighed with ire. "It's just some stuff going on with school," she said breathily, "Nothing you really need to worry about."

"Are you still having that dream?" he asked.

She lowered her gaze, looking sad, "Not right now. But I have it every month for a week, sometimes two," she said. A moment passed, then she straightened, smiled cheerily, and said, "But like I said, don't worry about it," and went about filling his order.

Luke gave a quick glance around to make sure no one was paying them any heed before leaning in and asking her in an undertone, "Did you have time to think about what we talked about?"

Suddenly her whole demeanor changed. She went from looking haggard and tired, to alert, maybe even nervous. Luke could be mistaking the blush on her cheeks for something else, but he would have bet money on anxiety.

"Yeah," she said, her voice strained, "I did. I uh...I want to do it. I want to be a hunter."

Luke nodded very seriously, "You understand what that means? It's not going to be easy. I know I already said this, but this is a very dangerous business to get into. So I'll ask you again, are you sure?"

He watched her, searching for a crack in her resolve, anything that would make him change his mind about letting her do this. It didn't matter how much he needed her, he'd already let one innocent person delve into the darkness without being prepared—he was not about to do it again.

She nodded stiffly, setting her jaw stubbornly, "Yeah, I'm tired of being pushed around. I wanna do this."

Luke pulled the money for his coffee, scone, and paper out and handed it over, doing his best not to click his heels together as he said, "I'll send someone to pick you up next week, I can start showing you the basics then. I want you to be ready."

She raised a single, incredulous brow, "You still remember where I live? That's a little creepy."

Luke shrugged one shoulder. "I remember everywhere I drive."

Zoë hesitated before shrugging it off and opening her register. They exchanged goodbyes and Luke gathered up his things before heading over to his favorite spot in the corner and opening the paper, scanning the pages for work.

Zoë

Work was going as work often did on Sunday night shift—slowly. The night was winding down and so was the stem of customers, which meant there were less and less things that needed to be done in the store too. After all, you can only clean the same thing so many times.

The night air was cool and soothing compared to the warmth of the store as Zoë pulled the large trash can out the back door and started to wheel it across the parking lot to the giant trash bin. The street lights were just coming on as she wheeled the grey bin across the pitch macadam, the squeak of the wheels the only sound in the night. Zoë tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she opened the large metal door that closed off the trash cans. The screech of the door, while nothing new, still made her teeth hurt. She coughed as a wave of putrescent, septic aroma assaulted her olfactory and she swore.

With a sigh, Zoë began unloading the bin, bag by bag. The bags filled with mostly cups and filters were light, but there were whole bags of nothing but wet coffee grounds that were heavy and she struggled. Zoë had learned the hard way that if she wasn't careful those bags could rip open and cover her in spent espresso. Not fun.

"Need a hand?" came a voice.

She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She stopped and rose to her full height, stiffening. "Hello, Keenan," she said mildly. She spun around, eyes pinched in anger. Keenan stood there, dressed all in black—his uniform at The Warehouse. It had been a week since the incident at the park, but there was a still a nasty bruise on Keenan's jaw.

"What do you want?" she asked stiffly.

Keenan gave her apologetic look, "I'm sorry I didn't call you after everything that happened last week. I wasn't really sure what to say. In all the confusion I don't even know if you all got out okay."

She nodded stiffly, "Yeah."

Things were quickly growing tense. So, finally, she asked, "Why are you here?" sounding agitated.

"I needed to talk to you," he explained. She scoffed, "Like how your little brother tried to kill me? Or about Gabriel threatening me with my grades? Or about you being a werewolf?"

Even as the words left her mouth they sounded ridiculous. It didn't matter that they were true, they still felt awkward and cartoony just saying it. She tried to stare him down, but Keenan met her gaze with those otherworldly, golden eyes and she faltered. The street lamps were dim in the growing gloom, and she could only see half his face, but those eyes rang out clear in the darkness, reflecting off the light like an animal's.

"I'm sorry that you had to find out that way," he said, "I was going to tell you. It was the whole reason I tracked you down at the library. Yes, I'm a werewolf, or child of the moon, or whatever you want to call it; and my family and I need your help."

"I know. Gabriel told me," she said, shifting her weight to one leg and crossing her arms under her breasts, "I'm finding it hard to see how, exactly."

Keenan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "Look, my family...we're not what the hunters think we are. Every full moon we head up the mountain and stay there until the moon wanes. That way we don't hurt anyone. But Luke and his gang don't care about that. They see us the way they want to see us: cold killers. But none of us have ever killed or hurt another person."

Zoë shifted her weight as she chewed her bottom lip, "Gabriel said that too. How do I know you're not lying?"

"I guess you don't," Keenan admitted, "Will you damn us so easily because of what we are? Without even understanding us?

Zoë verily pouted as she looked at him. He had a point, and a good one, but she had already agreed to help Luke, already decided that she wanted to hunt. That made them enemies. "You're plenty powerful on your own," she said, "I saw that last week. What do you need me for?"

Keenan took a step toward her, "We need you as some kind of alarm. You're a seer, you should be able to let us know when the hunters are coming so we can bug out."

"So I'm a tool to you, too?" she murmured.

"That's not what I meant—"

Zoë made a rude sound and backed up shaking her head, "Look, you've been lying to me this whole time. Why should I believe you now?"

Keenan looked tense, "Okay, maybe you don't have a lot of reason to believe me. But I'm asking for your help all the same. We don't know who else we can trust. Our list of friends isn't a long one."

Zoë sighed, leaning against the brick wall that encased the trash cans, staring down at her feet. Keenan wanted her for her sight, then; just like Luke. That was all that anyone seemed to care about. She sighed, angry, "Even if I wanted to help, it doesn't work that way," she told him. She chewed her lip, feeling suddenly guilty, "Look, I like you, so I'll be straight here...Luke offered me a place on his team. He offered to make me a hunter."

The pain on Keenan's face was awful. He looked like someone had punched him in the gut. No, worse. He blinked, and took a step back, "Zoë—"

"No Keenan, you don't get it," she snapped off his argument before he could even really start. She didn't falter as she looked up at him, every chord in her humming with determination to show no fear. "You can't see the things I see," she seethed, "You don't know what it's like not being able to shut it off, to shut everything out. If I can't do that, I might as well take a few of the suckers out, right?"

"You don't know what you're saying," he argued.

"And you don't know me," she insisted, "I know you say you're not the bad guys here, but there are plenty of things out there that are."

Keenan just stared at her, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. She released a sound of frustration, and went on, her emotions in too much turmoil to meet his eyes, "Fuck it," she said and threw her hands up, "I need to get back to work. Talking to you is pointless right now."

She turned and made to heft another bag out of the trash bin and into the dumpster when suddenly Keenan had her up against the wall. She gasped, amazed and terrified all at once.

He moved so fast I didn't even see it!

They were inches apart, her back pressed hard into the stone wall surrounding the dumpsters, his hands to either side of her shoulders, pinning her down. He leered down at her, baring his teeth in a primal, animalistic show of aggression that left her feeling helpless. His golden eyes simmering in the darkness like the dying embers of a fire. She shivered as her stomach turned to water.

Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to scream, and she made a little choking sound. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face as he snarled in rage. "What you're talking about isn't justice, its slaughter! You think you can judge if someone should live or die because of what they are? You jaded child! You think you're better than everyone else because of what you can see, but all you really have is your hubris. And that stupid pride is what stops you from trusting me—from trusting anyone. If you can't trust others, you're either going to end up dead or alone."

Zoë's brows met in a blend of anger and fear. She'd had the advantage over Gabriel at the school—they were in broad daylight in the middle of a public place. But here, with Keenan, it was dark, and she was alone.

Scream, she thought, Just scream.

"I can't let anything else happen to my family, Zoë," Keenan growled in a low basso like rolling thunder, "My brother and sister are all I have left. I'll do whatever I have to to protect them. Even if it means I have to stop you."

Zoë tried to think. She knew if she didn't do something, things were going to turn ugly, fast. Gabriel already had her by the short hairs at school, and now this. She tried to breathe, but her chest was too tight.

He just doesn't want his family to get hurt, she realized. It had been the same with Gabriel. They'd tried talking, tried reasoning, but when they thought they had no other choice, they used the only option left—threats.

"Then do it," she found herself saying. He blinked. "You say you're not like other freaks, right?"

"Don't call us that!" he snarled.

Zoë flinched and bit back a whimper. "You're sure as hell acting like one," she went on in a shaky voice, "So do it. If you're going to kill me...j-just do it."

He narrowed his eyes, watching her, weighing her words. Zoë felt a single tear roll down her cheek, her brows knitting together. She was embarrassed by the quake in her voice as she told him, "I'd rather die than be afraid for the rest of my life."

Keenan's eyes narrowed and he growled; a deep, animalistic sound. He didn't move, didn't say anything. He just stood there, pinning her to the wall and loomed over her like a wicked shadow. Zoë took several breaths to try and calm herself. "I can't keep being afraid my whole life," she said, "I need to find a place to take a stand, and if it isn't now, it might never happen." She scoffed as she averted her gaze, "Why am I bothering to explain this to you? What does someone like you have to be afraid of?"

He dropped his gaze as his shoulders sagged and the rage seemed to slowly evaporate from him, "A lot more than you think..." he told her feebly.

He let her go, but didn't step away, the distance between them barely a hair's breadth. She looked up at Keenan, trying to keep her breathing calm and measured against the panicked beating of her heart. "Maybe we can work out a deal?" she offered, trying to keep her voice steady. He narrowed his eyes at her, briefly. Zoë licked her lips, "If I go with Luke, I'll be on the inside. I can feed you guys information and keep them off your tail at the same time. E-Everyone wins."

Keenan didn't say anything. His eyes fell away from her and into shadow, making his expression hard to read. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her pocket knife. He held it out for her, staring at it rather than her, "You dropped this." he said.

Zoë hesitated, then, trepidatiously, took the knife from him. She looked down at it, then back at him. "I...I know it's weird," she admitted, "But it think it will work. I know we haven't known each other long, but I...maybe we can still be friends?"

The edge of his mouth twitched up in a pitying smirk, "Hunters don't have friends, Zoë. They have enemies."

She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it was died in her throat. She was at a loss, and all she could do was stare at him with a slack jawed expression. He nodded at her once, and left without a word.

February

Hunger Moon

Zoë

Zoë walked through the front door of her house, her school bag slung over one shoulder. Her mom looked up from the couch with her bass in her lap and what looked like a thousand notebooks all around her. She smiled, "Hey menyuam," she said, using the Hmong nickname she'd assigned Zoë long ago. It meant baby. Zoë kissed her cheek, "Hey niam."

"How was school?"

Zoë made a rude sound as though it were some kind of answer. Her mom chuckled and told her to relax. Zoë didn't have any objections that that idea. Today was the day Luke said he would send someone to get her, so he could start showing her how to hunt. As excited as she had been before, after talking with Keenan last week she had mixed feelings. She had to be careful now. Dammit, she thought, how did everything get so complicated all of a sudden?

She let her bag drop next to a chair in the living room and headed for the kitchen, rummaging for something to eat. She decided on some ramen since the fridge was void of anything worthwhile and she was too lazy to make anything else. She had just enough time to put some water on to boil before there was a knock at the door. Her mom cocked her head to the side, confused. "You expecting anyone?" she asked as Zoë crossed over to the door.

"Friends," she lied.

Zoë opened the door to reveal an Indian boy standing on her porch, wearing a black and white striped hooded sweater, jeans, and Converse. He had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there was a red string around his left wrist. He was golden skinned, with a pronounced widow's peak and perfectly round silver framed glasses that reminded Zoë of an old professor. His features were soft and young, but handsome—he looked around twenty-two maybe older. He was tall but his build was hard to determine under his baggy clothes. His thick, black, shoulder length hair was pulled into a ponytail behind his head.

"You must be Zoë," he said in a British accent that took Zoë by surprise.

"Uh, yeah," Zoë said, catching herself, "Luke sent you?"

The boy—well, he was older than her, so she didn't know if she should really call him a boy—nodded once and introduced himself, "My name is Farrell Kapoor."

Zoë looked him up and down once more and then asked him to wait there. She left the door open since there wasn't any air conditioning on anyway, and strode into the kitchen where she took the kettle off the burner, left her chopsticks on the counter, then went into the living room where she kissed her mom good-bye and was about to leave when her mom called, "Hey, don't leave your things in the living room."

Zoë sighed and backpedaled, grabbing her messenger bag and art case and heading up stairs to put them away. She shrugged her hoodie on upstairs and grabbed her pocketknife, phone, and wallet before heading back downstairs, said good-bye to her mom again, and walked out the door with Farrell.

He tried to make small talk as he led her to his van. Pedo-van would have been too kind a word for this vehicle. It was old, with no windows in the back, and a chocolate brown paint job that was fading fast. There was evidence of a fender bender in the back, and she could see some paint chipping here and there. It was a bad joke waiting to happen.

"Nice car," she said in her sweetest voice.

She couldn't tell if Farrell knew she was teasing or not because he just gave an embarrassed smile and climbed into the driver's seat. She followed suit and tried to look unassuming as the clunky old engine had to be coaxed into life. After a few failed attempts, the engine finally turned over and Farrell gave the dashboard a loving pat before taking off.

As they puttered down the road, Zoë felt like she should say something to break the silence, "So...you're British?" she asked, finding it hard to think of anything that didn't involve killing monsters. Farrell nodded, "My sister and I are from Liverpool. Our grandparents are from Durgapur, though."

"And Durgapur is...?"

"In India," he smiled.

"Oh. So...what are you doing here? In Fresno, I mean?"

She watched the Adam's apple bob up and down on his long slender throat as he swallowed. He waited until they had turned a corner before answering, "My dad was a hunter. A good one. He dragged my sister and I all over Europe and eventually to America. As time passed we eventually made our way to California. My dad met Luke, became mates, and eventually I started working with him."

"What about your sister?"

"When my sister turned eighteen she left and eventually settled down with a man. I think she has a baby now, I get letters every so often. She didn't come to our dad's funeral."

Zoë opened her mouth to offer her condolences but Farrell shot her a smile, "Don't worry, it was a long time ago, and he was an ass."

As they reached the scrapyard the van came to a puttering stop. Farrell got out and opened the chainlink gate, interwoven with green plastic, and got back in the van. She looked out the window as they drove up to the little house on the other side of the yard. She hadn't had much incentive to look around the last time she'd been here, she'd been too high-strung. But she'd never imagined that the clean, quiet man who so often sat in her lobby lived in a place like this. Useless scrap covered the yard. There were cars, and appliances, and all manner of other metal scrap she could and could not identify. The smell of oil, beer, and dead earth was staggering.

Farrell gave her a brief smile and pushed his glasses back up his nose as the van came to a clunky, shuttering halt. They piled out and Zoë looked at the little house. It was squat and in disrepair, painted a faded, ugly shade of yellow with white trim, making the whole thing look like a giant, run down Twinkie.

Farrell led her inside and called for Luke. Zoë stood by the door and looked around the little living room. Books and books that lined his walls, piled themselves on the floors, in corners, and covered desks. Each of them was old, worn, and bound in leather dyed black, red or green. Some were big, some were small, but they were all ancient, and it made the living room smell like a used bookstore.

She couldn't help but think Luke's living room looked like some kind of medieval library that just happened to have a crappy sofa and TV.

"You made it," came a pleasant voice. Zoë looked up to see Luke coming out of a back room, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor. He wore a grey, long sleeved shirt and dark jeans, his hair neatly combed, and he looked like he'd shaved earlier that day. Zoë gave him a look, "You sure do have a lot of books," she commented; the understatement of the year.

He gave an almost embarrassed laugh, "Yeeeeaaah," he said, drawing the word out. "Anyway, these are more for reference. The big guns are down stairs."

He led her to the back of the house and opened a heavy door that led to pitch blackness. The smell of cold cement fluttered on the air, and Zoë could almost feel a barrier as the temperature changed noticeably between the rest of the house and the doorway. Luke reached a hand in and turned on a light that illuminated an iron stairwell leading downwards into some kind of basement or cellar. Zoë looked at Luke, "Is this the part where you lure me down into the basement and handcuff me to the pipes?"

Luke gave a small, throaty chuckle and smirked down at her, "I guess if you're into that sort of thing..."

She gave a girlish giggle and followed him down the steps. The stairwell wasn't long, but their footfalls on the aged metal echoed off the concrete walls, making it sound like there were ten of them. When at last they stood at the bottom, Luke flipped another light and the room seemed to burst into life. Zoë had to blink, but when at last her eyes stopped stinging she opened them and looked around.

The basement was more like a fallout shelter. Iron shelves lined the walls filled with tarps, large bags of rock salt, boxes and boxes of ammunition, a few trunks, even more books, several sawed off single-bolt-action and double-barrel shotguns, and every pointy or edged weapon you could imagine—swords, throwing knives, axes, katanas, daggers, and so on. Each of them was tipped in gleaming silver that made the wall look like a disco ball.

"You know, when you said the big guns were down here, I thought you were being figurative," Zoë said giving Luke a sidelong glance. "Why so much silver?"

Luke picked up a dagger off the wall and twirled it lazily in his hand as he spoke, "When Judas betrayed Jesus to the Romans, his reward was thirty pieces of silver. Since then, God has cursed man to suffer no wicked thing, and made silver his weapon against the forces of darkness."

"I don't know about all that bullshit, but it sure does hurt the bastards," came a voice from behind them. Zoë turned to see a man coming down the stairs. He was tall and angular with a pointed nose, high forehead and thin lips. His short black hair was styled into a faux-hawk, his bangs bleached orange, and he wore a white shirt under dark flannel, worn jeans, and black CT's. Square, rose-colored glasses shielded his eyes making his eye-color impossible to determine.

Zoë's brow furrowed, "Who are you?" she asked.

"Name's Switch."

"Switch?" Zoë repeated skeptically. What a stupid name.

The guy shrugged a single shoulder. Luke folded his arms. "Switch does most of the research around here."

"I just do some internet browsing. Look for any weird things going on in the Valley, sometimes we find something out of state," Switch said nonchalantly.

Zoë gave Switch another cursory glance and nodded, then turned her attention to the rest of the room. "So...this is how you kill them? The monsters?" she said. It sounded a little odd. Luke watched her as she walked around the room, examining things. "Not always," he told her, "Some things can be killed in the same way a human can; others you have to use special items, or take them down a certain way."

"Mostly it just takes the right type of ammo, but once in a while we get the occasional silver blade, dead man's blood, holy water, blah, blah, blah," Switch added.

Zoë licked her lips. She didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Zoë took a deep breath, chewing her bottom lip as she shifted her weight uneasily. She could feel Luke and Switch watching her, waiting.

Damn, this is a lot bigger than I expected.

But she couldn't balk now. There was too much at stake. She took a deep breath and looked up at Luke. "Okay," she said. "So...guns, knives. What else is there?"

Luke winked, "Come meet the team," he said. The three of them made their way up the stairs and back out into Luke's living room where Farrell was talking to a man in a police uniform. He looked up when he saw Zoë and smiled, "Oh, you must be Zoë," he said in a voice that was kind, yet firm, "Farrell was just telling me about you," he said.

"'Sup," Zoë said easily. The man held his hand out to greet her and she took it. She appreciated that had had a firm handshake, even when dealing with a woman. So many people expected her to have a wimpy handshake that they always gave her what she called "fish hand"—a handshake so weak it felt like she was holding a dead fish.

"I'm Damien," he said, "Nice to meet you." Zoë met his eyes and noticed their green depths. Something clicked in the back of her mind and she realized he was the man that had shot Gavin in the park last month. The one who killed him.

"Likewise," Zoë said, her mouth suddenly dry.

Luke put a hand on Zoë's shoulder and laughed, "Welcome to the family."

Luke

Over the next week, Zoë came to the scrapyard every day after school and someone helped show her the ropes. Luke expected that since Zoë was a 'seer', she might know a little something about defending herself, but the poor girl didn't know how to shoot, how to hold a knife, or even how to guard against spirits.

On the first day, Luke sat her down with some of the books from his grandmother's collection and started explaining to her the different types of monsters there were. Of course, Zoë didn't seem to be in agreeance with so much reading, but Luke figured it was better to start with some of the boring stuff, and let her ease into the harder things. Like wading into a cold pool instead of jumping right in.

On the second day, Switch showed her the different websites they had where people posted stories about bizarre activity going on in their homes, and how he weeded out the attention grubbers from the real cases.

"What's CVPI?" Zoë asked.

"It stands for Central Valley Paranormal Investigators," Switch explained, "It's just a dumb anagram I threw together to make us sound legitimate. People send us information about what they're experiencing and we comb through it, looking for the real deal."

Luke watched Zoë cock her head to the side, "How do you tell the real ones from the fake?"

Switch smiled wryly, "When you've been doing this as long as we have, you start to get a certain intuition about this stuff."

On the third day, Farrell took her aside and showed her how carry a knife, and talked about the different types of ways to use it. "We'll show you how to fight with them soon," he assured her, "To be honest I think they're more useful than guns, as long as you're not afraid of close combat."

Zoë made a face as she looked at the hefty knife Damien had handed her and gulped audibly. Luke couldn't help but smile to himself as he watched on the sidelines, pretending to read. There was something adorable about her reactions.

On the fourth day Luke and Damien took Zoë to a shooting range just outside of town and showed her how to fire a pistol. He made her memorize each part of the gun before shooting. The poor girl couldn't stop shaking, and Luke had to help her steady her weapon before firing. There was something he found pleasantly intimate about showing a girl how to shoot. After an hour or so, she managed to fire without fear, and Damien took the reins in showing her how to improve her aim.

"The guns make me a little more uncomfortable than the knives," Zoë admitted on the drive home, "but I think I like being able to keep my distance."

Luke flashed her a half-smile in the rearview mirror on the way back to the scrapyard, "Well, for what it's worth, you've got potential with both."

She blushed and punched him hard in the shoulder.

On the fifth day, Damien and Farrell were explaining why salt was so important and teaching Zoë how to compact it into buckshot when Switch approached Luke holding a grip of paper. He looked up from the book he was reading as the slender man stood before, him, silently waiting for Luke to give him his attention.

"We have a case," he said the moment Luke gave him eye contact and shoved the papers into his hand. Luke set his book aside and looked at the papers. At a glance they appeared to be the account of a family in Tulare who had been experiencing strange things in the house they had recently moved in to. But some of the other papers were photographs and newspaper articles about the house and a fire that erupted there in the fifties.

"What is this?" Luke asked as he started reading in better depth.

"Apparently the house has been turned over several times over the last few years," Switch explained, "No one who buys this place stays for very long. Supposedly there was a pretty brutal suicide in the fifties—a man named Simon Carter. I tried to find out more, but it looks like he didn't have any friends or family when it happened and public record doesn't have much from back then. Police reports are pretty vague and no one really knows why he did it."

Luke looked at an old looking photo of a building swathed in flames that licked the night sky and cracked the wood of the house. He narrowed his eyes, "Did he try to burn the house down before killing himself?" he asked.

"Supposedly he burnt himself alive inside the house," Switch said, "Nearly took the house with him, but they never found the body, just the ignition point and a pile of ash. The house was renovated soon after that, but every owner since has cleared out in less than a year."

Luke's eyes dashed over the page, his face growing hard as he read more. "All right," he said, "this bears looking into. We might have something."

Luke looked across the room at Zoë as she examined a shell she had just loaded. Damien had an approving look on his face as he nodded. Zoë smiled.

Luke narrowed his eyes, "I think we should take Zoë," he told Switch, "She might be able to see what's going on better than us, if these reports are legitimate."

"You think she's ready for that?" he asked, "It's only been a week."

Luke smirked, "She's had enough time to wade into the waters. Now it's time to go swimming."

Switch gave him a look that said he didn't understand Luke's analogy, but Luke ignored him. He stood and strode over to where Zoë sat with Damien and Farrell, still holding the pages Switch had given him. "How's it going?" he asked.

Zoë smiled up at him with excited pride, "I think I'm starting to get the hang of things," she said holding up the shell for him to examine. He was surprised that she'd been able to do it after being shown only a few times, and smiled at the bandages wrapped around her fingers where she'd cut herself.

"Nice," he said, handing it back to her. "Ever seen a ghost?" he asked.

Zoë shrugged, "A few I guess. Mostly other stuff."

"All right," he said and set the papers in front of her, "How about we take a little field trip?"

Zoë

After school let out on Friday Zoë caught a ride home with Riley, already mentally ticking off the things she would need for an overnight bag.

"Hey, wanna catch a movie?" Riley asked, "I hear that new shoot-'em-up is really good."

"Oh...no, I sort of had plans," Zoë said. Riley gave her a brief look of skepticism before putting her eyes back on the road. "You don't want to see an action movie? Are you sick? You love those."

"No," Zoë said trying to sound nonchalant but she thought it just sounded weird, "I just have a lot of homework I have to get done this weekend," she lied, "and I was going to work on my art project."

Riley laughed once, a harsh, barking sound, "Ha! You're doing homework?"

Zoë gave a defensive laugh, soft and fleeting, "Yeah, well, the end of the year is coming up and I really need to buckle down. My grades have been slipping and I need to study."

That wasn't entirely untrue. It had only been two weeks and she wouldn't have a report card coming for a while yet, but if Gabriel held true to his threat he'd have sullied what few good grades she had. Riley shrugged, "Okay," she said easily, "You know, it's good that you're finally taking school seriously."

"Yeah, well...senior year and all."

Riley nodded, then asked, "You want some help?"

"Uh, no, it's okay," Zoë said quickly, "You're in advanced classes and my work would just get in the way of your stuff." Riley gave a shrug, accepting the excuse without hassle. When it came to studying Riley was a very focused person. She was in several advanced placement classes and tutored other kids on the side for extra money when she wasn't babysitting. Sometimes Zoë was a little jealous of Riley for that, but in this case it worked to her advantage.

Riley dropped Zoë off in front of her house and said that if she changed her mind about needing a study partner to give her a call. The girls said their good-byes and Zoë made her way inside. Both her parents were sitting on the couch playing a fighting game and screaming loudly at each other and their game sprites, knocking into each other to mess the other up. Zoë chuckled. Yeah, my parents are totally normal, she thought and headed upstairs without being noticed.

She packed a small bag with a single change of clothes and some hygienic necessities, shoving her wallet, phone, pocketknife, and MP player into all their regular pockets before heading back downstairs.

Her dad was whooping with laughter when she reached the bottom step and holding his first two fingers out at the screen so that they formed a V. "Victory!" he cackled.

Zoë chuckled as she headed for the door. "Okay, I'm heading out," she called to them over her shoulder.

Jon looked over at her as he paused the game, the sound cutting out suddenly, leaving a strange buzzing in the air. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"I didn't even see you come home," Pahua commented.

Zoë flashed them a smile, "A couple friends and I are going to stay at those one-night camp spots in Woodward Park," she lied easily, "We're just going to hang out."

Their eyes narrowed with skepticism for a moment as they regarded her. She tried to look nonchalant as she stood between the living room and the door, waiting for them to excuse her. They turned towards one another and whispered in low tones that Zoë couldn't make out for an uncomfortable moment. Zoë bit her lip, wondering if her plan was going to fail before it ever began. Jon and Pahua turned back to her with disquieted expressions, "All right, just keep your phone on," Jon told her.

Zoë released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and nodded, "No problem," she said. She crossed over to them and hugged and kissed them both good-bye before making her way out the door. They were back at their game before her hand even touched the knob.

Zoë grabbed her bike from the side of the house and rode away.

When she got up to the scrapyard a good forty-five minutes later, Damien and Luke were loading up the Camaro. Luke smiled at her as she parked her bike on the side of the house and walked up to them, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "Hey!" Luke said, sounding happy to see her.

"Wow, haven't seen you in a minute," she said, smiling back.

"Why? Miss me?" he teased. She leaned against the car and gave him a look, "Oh you know I can't live without you," she said facetiously.

They had enough time to smile and laugh at each other before Switch strode up, holding a duffle bag, "Ready?" he asked as he shoved it into a small nook in the trunk.

"Yeah," Luke said as he turned and closed the lid, "Let's get going."

Zoë and the boys piled into the Camaro. It was a tight fit, but a fit nonetheless. It didn't take long for them to get on the road and make for the highway.

"So," Zoë said from the backseat as she wriggled to get comfortable between Farrell and Damien who both had broad shoulders that could humble a moose, "my mom's band is playing a gig on the fourteenth at the Starline, I was wondering if you guys wanted to go."

"A concert?" Switch said already sounding like he didn't want to go, "What kind of music?"

"Rock," Zoë said vehemently.

"Can't," Switch said absently, not even bothering to look over his shoulder at her. She gave him a dirty look then turned to Farrell who looked uncomfortable, "Farrell?" she prompted, "Wanna come? Succubus is really good!"

"Oh gee, um..." Farrell said, "I don't know if I can make it, but yeah I'll try..."

Zoë gave him a smoldering look and raised a brow, "If you're gonna lie, you should practice more," she said and turned to Damien, "What about you, D?"

Damien shrugged, a motion that tottered Zoë like she'd been smacked with giant fan, "The truth is Farrell and I already have plans," he said apologetically, "He's just too nice to say so."

"Plans?" she echoed incredulously. A sudden wave of realization hit her. "Oh..." Zoë said, failing to mask her surprise. She hadn't expected that. Damien seemed like Farrell's polar opposite—fair skin against a golden bronze, flaxen hair against thick black locks, sharp green eyes against soft, dark ones. Even his build seemed more heavily muscled than Farrell's. But, it was like Riley always said: the prettiest ones always bat for the other team.

Zoë looked back at Farrell who gave her an awkward, apologetic smile. She groaned and leaned forward, "All right, Luke, don't ditch me like these losers, come to the concert, pleeease!" she drew out the last word, folding her hands as though in prayer.

Luke glanced over his shoulder at her and gave a small smirk before focusing his eyes back on the road, "Let's focus on the job for now," he said by way of answer. Zoë huffed and leaned back, folding her arms and grumbling.

"My thoughts exactly," Switch said as he pulled a manila folder out of a bag at his feet, "Now we all know this is going to be Zoë's first rodeo," he said as Luke pulled onto the highway.

"Yippie ki-yay, cowgirl," Damien chuckled, nudging her with his elbow.

"Yes, yes, we're all very excited," Switch said flatly, "Now, the clients are Bryan and Allanah Christensen, and their daughter Kayci. They recently moved into a home in Tulare, and they've been experiencing some things that sound like some stereotypical poltergeist activity—things moving on their own; they'll leave and when they return stuff will be stacked in the middle of the floor. They've reported feeling like they've been touched, heavy weights on their chests. A lot of the activity has been centered around Kayci, the daughter. She's reported seeing a dark figure in her room, waking up to a deep voice speaking into her ear, and, worst of all, bruising and scratches that she can't explain.

"They put a lot of money into renovating and moving into this home, so they can't move out without filing for bankruptcy. It's sounding pretty desperate, and their accounts are consistent with real activity, so I think we should get down there and look into this today."

Luke nodded. "All right. Switch and Farrell, you'll be on tech, Damien and I will be handling interviews, and I'd like Zoë to observe. We'll introduce her as a medium so the clients won't be concerned with her just looking around. Zoë, I'd like you to try to focus on the daughter."

"Why?"

"Studies and personal experience have shown us that a lot of poltergeist like activity is heightened when there's a teenage girl living in the house. It's an emotional rollercoaster at that age, and often times the entity will feed off of the energy of those emotions."

Zoë blinked, "Whoa, really?"

Farrell shrugged, "As best as we can guess. It's one of the few theories that make sense."

"Oh sure, perfect sense," Zoë mocked. Switch sighed, cleared his throat, and began telling them about the house and the fire that had started almost sixty years ago. Zoë listened intently, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation: this wasn't a joke or a game. She was really hunting down a freak.

She suddenly felt nauseous.

Some hours later, they pulled up alongside the client's house as the sky began to light up with the golden fire of sunset. Switch and Farrell began to unload the car while Zoë, Luke, and Damien walked up to the front steps.

The house was small—white with blue trim and a wood panel door. Pretty lawn, small garden. On the outside the house looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. These people had barely moved in and they were already trying to hide what was going on inside.

Luke knocked on the door. A moment later a tired looking woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and skin the color of crème opened the door. "Can I help you?" she asked warily. She looked tired, as though she hadn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks. The fatigue aged her beyond her years, and stooped her shoulders like an old woman's.

"Allanah Christensen?" Luke asked. The woman nodded. "My name is Jonathan Cain I'm with the CVPI; we're answering your message about the strange occurrences in your house."

Zoë raised a brow at the back of Luke's head. Why did he give a fake name? Was there some kind of worry about this being illegal?

Good thing I'm still a minor, she thought with a groan, If this goes south, I'll just get community service.

A flash of fear, relief, joy, and apprehension all came and left Allanah Christensen's face in the blink of an eye. Finally, she nodded silently and opened the door to let them in.

The interior of the house was rather beautiful, Zoë thought. The floor was hardwood as they stepped into the foyer, a chandelier hanging above them. It was small, and looked old, like a restored antique. The smell of cold and vanilla hung softly in the air like a mist, and each room was filled with light as though they were afraid to go anywhere without being able to see.

As they walked in Zoë could see a doorway that lead to a living room off to the left, stairs that took them up right ahead, a dining room off the to right, and a hallway that lead off around the stairs, probably to a kitchen.

The instant she stepped across the threshold she felt warm. Too warm. It wasn't the kind of warmth a person would usually have in their home with the season turning. She coughed, feeling smothered and claustrophobic.

This was not the way a normal house was supposed to feel.

"Something's wrong..." she whispered.

In her peripheral vision she saw Luke look down at her. She couldn't make out his expression; her eyes were trained on the stairs, frozen stiff. She felt Luke's hand on her shoulder, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze "That's why we're here," he told her.

She swallowed and reminded herself she needed to look like she knew what she was doing. The client was at her side then, so quickly Zoë fought the urge to step away. "Who are you supposed to be?" she asked, a wariness to her voice that reminded Zoë of a long, drawn out violin note, on the verge of a snapping bow.

"Zoë," she blurted before she could think to come up with a clever cover name, "uh...the medium." The lie sounded ridiculous, especially coming from her, but she hoped that her hesitance would sound more like modesty at announcing herself as something so inane instead of a lie. Allanah opened her mouth to say something, but Zoë cut her off as politely as possible, "Would it be all right if I go upstairs?"

"Yes—yes, of course," she said nodding shyly, seemingly taken aback by Zoë's words. Zoë turned to the stairs as Allanah led Luke and Damien over to the table where they could speak.

Slowly, Zoë ascended, the stairs squeaking beneath her weight. With each step it seemed to grow warmer and warmer until she was sweating. She tried to keep her breathing even as she reached the second landing and slowly made her way down the hallway. She bit her lip, unable to shake the feeling that something was going to leap out around the corner at her at any moment.

Suddenly there was the sound of a toilet flushing and a door to her left opened and a girl maybe a year or two younger than Zoë stepped out. She looked like she was a naturally thin girl, but the stress had taken its toll all the same. They'd only been here a short amount of time, and already they looked like they were dying. Her brown hair bushed the nape of her neck and framed her face. Her light brows gave away her natural hair as blonde, and her large, sunken eyes were sea-blue. She looked at Zoë warily. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Kayci, right?" Zoë asked. The girl gave a curt nod. "I'm Zoë. Uh, with the CVPI?"

She didn't know what to say after that. This all seemed so bizarre. She pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket and offered it to Kayci. The girl looked at the gum, then back at Zoë, then back at the gum and took it. They both smiled shyly as they slipped the cinnamon gum sticks into their mouths and broke the ice. "So," Zoë said, trying to sound official, "We're here about the disturbances in your house."

"Oh," Kayci said, "Aren't you kind of young for this sort of thing?"

"I'm an intern," Zoë lied quickly with a blasé shrug. "So, I hear you've really been affected by all this," she prompted. She figured it might be best to get started instead of dilly-dallying. "Wanna talk about it?"

Kayci nodded, leading Zoë into her room. Zoë was surprised at how very similar it was to her own room as they sat on the bed to talk. "So..." Kayci began wringing her hands, "What do you need to know?"

Good question, Zoë thought. "Why don't you just tell me about what's been going on?"

Kayci looked about as nervous as Zoë felt. "Most of the stuff happens at night; but a lot of the time, early in the morning, it'll get so hot in this room it's hard to breathe. A few times, it's sounded like a man's voice...really deep and guttural, telling me he wants us to get out." As she spoke her voice became thin and uneasy.

"What do you mean?" Zoë pressed gently.

"A man's voice, literally whispering in my ear, 'get out'..." she sniffled. "I've woken up in the middle of the night once, and it felt like something was holding me down. Actually, physically holding me down on my bed. It was so heavy; it felt like I was going to be crushed!"

Kayci took a moment to recompose herself, taking long, slow breaths. Zoë offered to get her some water, but she shook her head. She launched into an explanation of everything that had been happening over the last few months—hot spots, strange noises, stuff flying around the room, growling sounds, and worst of all a shadow, as black as black can be. It appeared in the night, or sometimes would dash around corners just when she thought the room was empty. And then there were the screams—Kayci told her about awful, gut wrenching screams that went on an on in her dreams. It didn't matter how many ways she tried to explain it, this girl was terrified.

"I haven't slept for a full night since we moved in!" she finally cried. The tears had begun a while ago. She'd been wiping them away ever since but now the flow was hard to stem. "I just don't know what we're going to go if you guys can't fix this. My mom and dad are always fighting now, and they've never done that before. We can't leave because we're out of money...I'm just so scared I can't stand it anymore!"

So scared you can't stand it anymore... Zoë thought heavily.

Zoë knew a lot about being so scared you'd do just about anything to escape from it, just so you'd have control over something in your own life again. How many things might have gone differently in her life if even one person had helped her sooner?

Kayci wiped her eyes, and Zoë took her by the hand. "We're going to fix this, I promise," she said. Kayci looked at her with large, glossy eyes. She tried to smile, but her tears turned it into a grimace. "Thank you..."

Zoë helped Switch and Farrell set up the equipment through the house. It was a lot of motion detectors, some night vision cameras, and a UV detector in Kayci's room.

"It's more viable to look for ultraviolet traces than infra red," Switch told her almost gleefully as she helped him set it up. "Most activity isn't actually picked up on an infra red scanner because the entity isn't solid. It's harder to rule out natural causes with cold spots. UV is much more solid."

It all sounded like tech-gibberish to her, but Zoë didn't argue.

They did an initial scan of the house using what they called an EMF detector—EMF being electro-magnetic field. EMF picked up on electric changes in the room to detect spirits, but could be set off by every day objects.

"High frequencies can cause a slew of symptoms," Damien explained when she and the home owners asked about it. "Headaches, stomach trouble, nausea. This test sees if there's anything in your pipes or electrical system that could be causing what you're experiencing, as opposed to it being something supernatural. If the levels are normal, then it means there's further cause to investigate."

Everything seemed to be in order.

They set up tape recorders in each room, and lit a few candles to see by. Luke asked Allanah and her husband Bryan—who had come home from work—to turn off all electrical devices in the house, unplug everything they could, and told everyone to turn their cell phones off.

It was dark now, and the next part of the investigation was underway.

Luke was in the living room with the clients; Zoë and Kayci were in Kayci's room. Farrell and Damien were roaming the house respectively, and Switch was sitting behind a grip of computers that recorded video and sound from all over the house.

Zoë sat on the edge of the bed with Kayci.

Kayci was holding a nightvision camera as Zoë let her eyes flit about the room. Switch had given her a small walkie-talkie that looked more like a Bluetooth device. It looped around her ear once, but she had to fiddle with it to get it to rest comfortably.

She was nervous, and she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. She wrung her hands so tightly they hurt, wishing there were more than a few candles to push back the dimness.

In a voice she hoped didn't come out as shaky as it felt, she spoke the words Luke had given her: "Are there any spirits here that wish to communicate with us?"

It sounded like some lame-ass ghost hunter line—the kind on 'reality' shows with people running around in a dark house with night-vision cameras...exactly like they were right now. She groaned inwardly and wondered briefly if Luke and the others weren't cons after all.

Nothing happened.

She steeled herself. "We aren't here to hurt you. If you could just give us a sign of your presence..."

Half a second passed, and suddenly a soft knock sounded somewhere in the house. Before Zoë had a chance to react Farrell came on over her com, "We just got a knock, was that either of you girls?"

A chill ran up her spine. Zoë pressed the sensitive button on the headset. "No, not us," she said. She took her hand from the headset. "If that was you, can you do it again?" She looked around the room, waiting for her answer.

"You left your com on..." Switch's flat voice sounded in her ear. Zoë rolled her eyes and pressed the button on the headset again.

Suddenly there was a loud thump close enough to make Zoë's heart skip. Kayci sounded like she was about to hyperventilate at any moment. Without reserve, both girls reached out for each other's hands. Zoë's heart was in her throat as she went on. "What do you want with the people in this house?"

Suddenly the room started to grow hot. Very hot. She could feel sweat beading on her brow, and she wiped her upper lip.

The wind outside moaned and shook the windows. The girls jumped.

"...get out..." came the raspy whisper, like gravel and smoke. Zoë gasped and Kayci looked at her. "What's wrong?"

"Didn't you hear it?" Zoë squeaked.

Shadows played across the walls. Zoë's eyes fell on the corner of the room and the gloom that hung there, heavy like fog. "Get out," it came again, stronger this time. As Zoë peered into the darkness, she began to see a figure take shape. Crimson blood wept from open wounds beneath charred and blackened flesh. Its nose, lips, and genitals were gone, burnt away by whatever flames had taken it's life. The smell of burning meat filled the air as the thing looked at them—but no, it had no eyes. Just black voids where the eyes had melted away. And yet, somehow, it was looking right at them.

He barely had flesh, let alone hair, and there were parts of his arms and legs where the muscle had burnt away to reveal bone and sinew. The moisture of his body was gone, leaving his form shriveled and desiccated.

"Oh my God..." Zoë whispered, covering her mouth. He looked like a burn victim—a severe burn victim. It was horrible, like walking into a nightmare. Her skin started to sting all over as she looked into the void of its eyes, quivering. She could smell smoke, feel the air growing thin as she sat there, too afraid to move.

"Zoë...?" she heard Kayci behind her, "What is it?"

"Go downstairs," Zoë said breathlessly as she stood quickly, "Go slow."

"What's going on?" Kayci whimpered.

"Just go!" Zoë hissed but Kayci didn't move.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" the thing in the corner bellowed. The force of its scream shook the windows, the bed, the table.

The girls jumped and screamed and made a B-line for the door. Kayci got out and dashed for the stairs, but just as Zoë started to cross the threshold the door slammed in her face and a force of heat and power pulled her violently away from the door, knocking her into the opposite wall and driving the air from her lungs.

Zoë coughed as stars danced in her vision. She could hear a pounding on the door, someone shouting her name, but it seemed distant and indistinct. She tried to move but suddenly the freak was standing before her, looming down at her without eyes, the heat emanating from it's body smothering her.

"This is my house," it sobbed through its lipless mouth, teeth chattering, "Get out of my house!"

Her heart was beating so hard it hurt and her breaths came in jagged, painful rasps as she tried not to hyperventilate. She could feel hot tears rolling down her cheeks, stinging her eyes. She was afraid.

No, she told herself, Don't be afraid. It can't hurt you.

"...can't hurt me," she said, barely audible above a whisper, "Can't hurt me."

The thing roared, blasting hot air in her face, and grabbed her by the shoulders. It screamed, a low, wailing basso; a keen that rang out with pain and sorrow and rage.

And then suddenly it was gone. Its cry stopped short and died in the air, its form disappeared is a whirl of smoke leaving behind it the smell of burn and fire. Zoë suddenly felt very cold. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground in a heap, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Zoë!" Luke called as he moved to her side.

"Luke," she choked on the word. Her mouth tasted like ash.

She looked up to see him setting aside a carton of salt as he moved to help her up. Damien and Farrell were in the doorway wearing expressions of concern and ire. Zoë jumped and released a sharp, surprised note as Luke laid a hand of her shoulder. A dull ache settled across her skin where the freak had touched her. Gently, Luke peeled away the fabric of her hoodie to expose her shoulder. His face hardened. A garish red burn the size and shape of a human hand colored her mahogany shoulder. It didn't look any worse than a really bad sunburn, but it frightened her.

The damn thing had reached out and touched her for Christ's sake. Touched and burned her.

"I'm all right," she said in a breathy, weak voice as she pulled her hoodie back up to cover the burn. He didn't press her.

"What happened?" he asked as he offered her a hand and helped her to her feet.

"I saw it," she gulped. As her emotions began to calm and she managed to speak with a normal pentameter. She explained everything in as cool a manner as she could, starting from the first knocking sound. "Switch had mentioned that a man named Simon Carter had died in the house, right? Burnt himself alive? I think that must have been who I saw. It's the only thing that makes sense. I think maybe he was under pressure of losing the house, and decided to burn it down and himself with it. That way no one could take it away from him..."

"Is that what you saw?"

"Luke, this thing made Freddie Krueger look like a pussy...who else could it have been?" she said, looking up at him. For a moment he searched her eyes, as if trying to decide something, but Zoë couldn't tell what. Finally he nodded. "All right," he said. "Let's go downstairs and talk to the family."

They had turned the lights back on and Switch, Damien, and Farrell were tearing down equipment and packing up. Luke was making Zoë sit in the living room with the family and 'explain her findings'.

Bryan, Allanah, and Kayci were all huddled together on the couch opposite her, watching her intently as she told them everything she had told Luke and the boys.

"My God!" Kayci gasped.

"So what now?" Bryan asked, looking more than a little upset.

"I think what is best for tonight is to try and get some rest," Luke told them. "No one will think less of you if you try to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. My team will examine the data we've collected, and contact you tomorrow afternoon with our findings and a plan."

"Well, why can't you do something tonight?" Bryan said, sounding livid. Zoë couldn't blame him. She understood what it felt like to be violated, to be up against a wall with no where to go and nothing to do.

Luke put out his hands defensively, "We have a process. We'd like to take some time to assess the data, and form a plan—"

"We're going to help you," Zoë cut Luke off sharply. Luke looked at her. They all looked at her. Her hands balled into fists on her knees as she glared at the empty coffee table in front of her. She didn't want to look around the house, not if it meant seeing that thing again. She clenched her jaw painfully as she said, "It might not be tonight, but we're not going to stop until you're free of this thing."

There was a moment of silence, then Allanah looked at her with glossy eyes, her lower lip quivering. "Thank you..." she said. "Thank you."

Afterward, Zoë helped the others pack up the gear. They said their farewells to the family, who told them they would be staying at a hotel and gave Luke some contact information, then piled into the car. They didn't have to drive far before they found a small motel not far out of the way. They found their overnight bags in the trunk and headed inside, each of them weary and sore. Zoë didn't know about the men, but she felt exhausted.

They paid for a set of rooms that had a connecting door on the ground floor. Zoë shared a room with Farrell and Damien, and Luke and Switch took the adjoining room. Each room had a bathroom, little kitchen, television set, and a pair of double beds.

Zoë didn't bother changing into the pajamas she'd packed. She kicked her shoes off and curled up on one of the double beds, closing her eyes tightly and fell into torrid dreams of cracked and dead soil where blackened hands reached up from the ground to claw at her clothes and skin.

Luke

The night breeze played with the ends of his hair as Luke leaned against the wall that separated the two motel rooms, smoking. He stood there, staring up at the stars as he blew smoke rings into the night, the azure smoke catching the stark, white light of the lamp above his head, turning them into little halos as they floated away.

"Couldn't sleep?" came a soft voice. He looked over to see Zoë in a tanktop and jeans stepping out of the room she shared with Farrell and Damien. She closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against the wall beside him. Her hair was tussled and there was a sleepy look to her eyes.

His gaze lingered on the burns on her shoulders, but he didn't say anything. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Okay I guess. I didn't know you smoked," she said.

"I've quit about a dozen times," he chuckled, cigarette smoke winging from his lips.

Zoë held out her hand. "Can I bum one off you?"

"You smoke?" he said, handing her a cigarette and his box of matches.

She lit up and took a drag. "Yeah. Calms my nerves," she said, letting the smoke flow out with her breath in a thick plume.

Luke nodded. "Better than drinking, I guess."

"I guess."

They stood there for a long time, silently burning through their respective cigarettes until Zoë finally asked, "So why couldn't you sleep?"

Luke hesitated, "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." He watched as she tossed the butt of her cigarette away. "Bad dream," she said shortly.

Luke nodded glumly and offered her another. "Nightmares come with the territory," he admitted.

"So then why do you do this?" she asked, taking a second cancer stick and putting it to her young lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Hunt," she said simply, blowing out more smoke, "Why do you do it?"

Luke shrugged, "Well, if we don't who will?"

Zoë sighed, sounding agitated, "I know that, I mean...why do you hunt. You can't see them the way I do, so why do you even know about monsters?"

Luke lowered his gaze. No one had ever asked him that before, and he had never deigned to explain it freely. He'd liked it that way—the past deserved to stay the past, and his story wasn't an important one. At least, he'd never thought so.

But something made him want to tell her. He wasn't sure if it was because he felt like it was time, or just because it was her, but he told her everything.

"My mother apparently never knew who my father was," he began softly, "From what little I know of her, she wasn't a very responsible person. She was self-destructive, stubborn. I was told that she died in child birth, but once in a while I wonder if maybe she gave me up. I was raised by my maternal grandmother." He felt a soft smile caress his lips at her memory, "She was a kind person, loving, but fiercely protective. When I was little she tried to get me to call her Grandma, but I only ever managed to say Mama, and it kind of stuck.

"She was a hunter. A damn good one. She showed me everything she knew, and when I was old enough she started letting me tag along. I never found out why she started hunting though, I guess I never thought about it until she was gone. By then it was too late.

"Most people would have considered her to be in great health for her age, but no matter how hard she fought it her age still caught up with her. Her reflexes dulled as time went on, she started forgetting little things here and there, her eyes started failing..." he trailed off briefly as a lump began to form in his throat. He tried to push down the sudden well of emotions that threatened to show on his features. He pressed his cigarette to his lips and breathed in the tang and burn of nicotine. He closed his eyes and released the smoke as he went on, "I begged her to stop, to let me go on my own, but she always told me it was her job to protect me." He smiled wistfully, "Stubborn," he murmured warmly, remembering how red she got whenever her age came into question. He chuckled once before his mouth twisted into a frown as images of what came next began to resurface.

"When I was sixteen we were in Michigan—we moved around a lot then, going wherever it sounded like there was trouble—and we were supposed to be dealing with a wendigo that had been eating people. It was the first time we'd ever taken anything so big on by ourselves, but..." he trailed off a moment, his throat tightening as a pain bloomed in his chest. It had been years since that night, more than a decade, but Luke had never told anyone how it had happened. Even with years of dust settling over the story, drudging it up made it hard to speak. He closed his eyes, remembering the smell of blood—metallic and sweet in the chill night air—the sound of bones crunching like shards of glass and thick twigs. And then there were the screams—those wailing keens that had plagued his dreams ever since. Even now he could recall them with such stark clarity that they felt real, present.

"She forgot her knife," he said softly, breathing the words. There was a moment where he couldn't say anything. The words seemed to cut him inside as though he had swallowed glass. And yet...it felt as though there had been a weight lifted off his shoulders. He had kept the truth bottled up inside for so long, he hadn't realized the weight it bore.

He found himself chuckling suddenly, overwhelmed by the sheer release. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he admitted, "I've never told anyone this."

She looked away and tossed her second cigarette butt out into the parking lot. "What happened to her?" she asked gently.

Luke licked his lips, "I cremated her the night after that. Some people still call it a hunter's funeral. She left me everything. The house, the scrapyard, most of my weapons, all of my books, they all used to belong to her. Sometimes I like to think that even though she's gone, she's still with me, in the books and some of her old things. It's nice, y'know?"

"Luke, I am so sorry," Zoë said quietly, "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right," he said gently, "I'm glad you did."

There was a long pause between them, quiet, but strangely comfortable. Then Zoë asked, "Am I really the first person you've told?"

He nodded.

She blinked up at him. "Why?" she asked with a raised brow.

He shrugged. "Dunno," he said and flashed her a smirk, "I guess you just have one of those faces."

She rolled her eyes as she stepped back to look at him. Luke smiled tiredly. "I guess we all have our skeletons," he murmured.

Zoë

The next morning Zoë caught the first shower—thankful for some hot water—and changed into a fresh pair of clothes before heading to the car. They drove to a small diner to eat breakfast while Switch showed them his findings.

Zoë was on her second helping of pancakes when he said, "Well, obviously the best evidence we have is what Zoë saw, but I was also able to catch some pretty powerful audio and UV readings from the girl's room."

Switch set a tape recorder on the table and hit play. Zoë heard herself asking the spirit to manifest and made a face. "Urgh, I hate the sound of my voice," she said. Somehow it was always a lot higher than what she could hear in her own head, and a lot girlier because of it. She wished what she heard in her head was what her actual voice sounded like.

"Shh!" Switch hissed just before you could hear on the tape, "...get out..."

Zoë shivered and took a big gulp of chocolate milk.

"I didn't even need to clean it up. That's one of the clearest EVPs I've ever heard."

"EVP?" Zoë asked.

"Electronic Voice Phenomena," Switch explained shortly. "It's what we call it when there's a voice we can't count for, and we believe it to be the communications of the dead."

Zoë didn't say anything and just went back to her pancakes with a roll of the eyes.

"Unfortunately, this spirit doesn't seem to be the poltergeist we thought," Damien said as he rested his chin in his hand. Zoë looked at him, "What do you mean?" she asked through a mouth full of food. She swallowed and went on, "Switch said on our way here that it was a poltergeist."

"That's what we originally thought," Damien said, "but there are many different types of spirits. Even as hunters, we don't fully understand the preternatural world, and there are a limited number of people that have seen fit to share the knowledge they have through books. One of the things that we see a lot in our line of work though are spirits and ghosts, so we've come to know a bit more about them. Normally when a spirit is haunting a space, even violently like the one we're dealing with here, it's because a piece of them is trapped there and separated from the rest of its remains. We haven't been able to understand why, but it often stops the spirit from moving on. However, in instances like this where the remains of a person were completely destroyed, we deal with what's called an imprint."

"What's an imprint?"

"Unlike a ghost or spirit that would be involved in a normal haunting, and imprint isn't considered to be a lost soul, but a lasting impression of a person's emotions or energy. The last thing Simon Carter wanted in the world was to keep his house, and he was willing to burn himself and the house down in order to do it. That much greed and anger can sometimes create an imprint."

Zoë frowned, "So basically, if a person's last emotions are strong enough, they can stay here in the real world, even if the spirit moves on?"

"That's one way to explain it."

Zoë made an uneasy sound as the others began to discuss what to do about the situation.

After breakfast they returned to the client's home where they gathered in the living room. Luke explained their findings to the family—about Simon Carter, the fire, and how everything they've been experiencing had been validated. They listened in quiet consternation, hanging on his every word until finally when he was done, Bryan Christensen asked, "Well then, what do we do now?"

"We're going to take your house back," Luke answered simply, "In these cases, demanding that the spirit move on and leave your house won't work. From what our medium has been able to gather, we may have to do a home exorcism. It's a very simple process, but we'll need your full cooperation. Afterwards we'll do a house blessing, and cleanse the space. That should do the trick."

"Should do the trick?" Bryan echoed incredulously. "What if it doesn't?"

Luke looked him dead in the eye. "Then you'd better hope you can get a good loan and get the hell out of here."

As darkness fell, they turned off all electronics in the house once more and lit some candles. Zoë had an uneasy feeling about this, but Luke gave her arm a reassuring squeeze to try to calm her, careful not to touch her shoulder.

They moved the furniture away from the center of the living room, opening up a wide space on the hardwood floor. Farrell asked the family to stand in the center and Zoë helped him pour a thick ring of salt on the floor around them, the grainy white substance flowing like soft powder onto the hard ground.

"What's this supposed to do?" Bryan asked incredulously.

"It'll protect you," Luke told them simply from the dining room without looking to see what Bryan was talking about, "Now while Farrell is smudging the house—"

"Doing what, now?"

"Smudging," Farrell answered calmly as he pulled a lighter and a bundle of sage out of bag, "Native American Indians and many Pagan religions believe sage to be a cleansing agent. It will help drive the spirit out."

"If you say so," Bryan said, looking doubtful.

Luke sighed as he turned to the family, "Please try to ignore us while we're working. And whatever you do, don't step outside the circle. Now, I need you to demand your house back. Speak directly to the entity and tell it that this is your home and it's no longer allowed here."

Allanah and Kayci were eager to oblige. They started off slowly, almost timidly, but as the time passed, their voices grew louder, stronger. Switch turned out the lights as Luke finished lighting a number of while pillar candles to drive away the darkness. Damien and Farrell began to chant a small prayer that was supposed to help, but Zoë couldn't tell what language it was in.

Farrell was walking around the house, waving the sage this way and that and lining each doorway with a pungent white smoke. Damien followed him with a bottle of holy water, splashing some here, some there. Luke and Switch both had one of Switch's UV cameras and were looking around the room intently as chiming in with Farrell and Damien. Bryan was silent.

"Bryan you need to lend your voice or it won't work," Luke told him. Bryan huffed and started speaking then, but there was no conviction in his voice.

And then Zoë heard it. "...get out..."

"He's here," she gasped.

Luke appeared at her side, "Tell us where."

Zoë's eyes flitted around the room, but there was nothing. Luke told the family to keep going, as she searched.

"Get out."

She saw it in the corner emerging from the shadows. What were left of his features twisted in agony and rage, his body black and burned as blood oozed from wounds that would never heal. Zoë gasped and took a step back, fear making of her extremities tingle and her core cold as ice.

"What is it?" Luke asked.

"There," Zoë pointed, gritting her teeth against the forces that threatened to overwhelm her. Luke turned to Bryan. "Bryan you have to have conviction," he urged. "If you don't mean it, it won't work. He's behind you, now tell him to get out!"

Kayci rounded on her father. "Get away from my dad!" she cried and Zoë watched as Carter scooted back away from Bryan as though pushed. His face contorted in rage and pain, but Kayci wasn't done. "Get out of this house and get away from my family. This is no longer your house, it's ours. You're dead, now move on!"

As she screamed, Carter's burnt skin began to give way, sloughing off and falling to the floor, only to disappear into a shower of glittering dust. "What the...?" Zoë breathed. She watched as fire began to ignite across his skin, cutting though the lines of charred flash left by his burns, billowing out of his mouth and eyes as he screamed—a terrible, shrill choking sound as the fire consumed him. A powerful wind began to blow within the house, pulling at their hair and clothes, knocking things down where they shattered on the ground, the candlelight flickered as several flames snuffed out, plunging them into darkness. Zoë watched as Kayci, Allanah, and Bryan cried louder, demanding their home and sanctuary, and all the while Carter's flames grew brighter and hotter. The room filled with a terrible flame that smothered her, stealing her breath. She tried to scream, but the wind spat it back in her face.

Zoë closed her eyes as the wind and flame stung. She could feel it burning her hands and face, even as Luke tried to hold her steady. She clung to him in desperation as Carter's cries rose higher, the whole house vibrating around them, and as they reached their crescendo it all ended.

There was a sudden vacuum of force as the wind and flame died together, and Zoë gasped.

The house was silent.

Nothing moved, no one breathed.

They were still as air shifted. Where it was once warm and stifling, it became cool, open, breathable.

Zoë looked around. Simon Carter was no where to be seen. Every corner, though dark, was empty. There was nothing there but shadows. "It's over," she said as Switch turned on the lights, "He's gone."

Luke detangled himself from around Zoë and gave her a smile. She stood of her own accord as Luke turned to Bryan. "Now," he said, "about our fee..."

Keenan

The bell dinged as Keenan stamped his time card and placed it with the others on his way out of the small building. The day was cool enough that he'd worked with his ragged old flannel over his work shirt, but by the end of his shift he was sweating and felt the need for a nice cold shower.

Keenan collected his things and waved to his coworkers as they made their way to their own cars or trucks, "Gringo! Espera!" Pancho, his boss, called to him as he was walking away. Pancho wasn't really the boss, he was really just one of the guys, but he knew what he was doing better than the building manager, and most of the men, including Keenan, came to him when they needed something. Keenan turned to regard the old Mexican man, "Si jefe?" he asked, hoping this wouldn't take too long. Pancho was a great guy, but when you messed up he'd tell you, and Keenan hadn't exactly been in high spirits lately. He'd probably botched something and Pancho didn't want to embarrass him. God knew Keenan had a lot on his mind recently.

Instead, Pancho stuck his hand into an ice chest in the bed of his truck and came back with a beer that he handed to Keenan, "Tómate una cerveza. Se no ganado el día de hoy con su duro trabajo."

Keenan smiled as he took the beer, "Gracias, jefe," he said tiredly. Pancho was a good guy. He gave a wide smile that was more mustache than teeth and slapped Keenan on the arm. He got himself out a beer before climbing into the cab of his truck and called, "Hasta gringo," over his shoulder as he drove off.

Keenan had had to learn to speak Spanish just to get a job in construction, or at least keep pace with the others, but he found it funny that no matter what job he was working, none of the guys could say his name, so they all just called him "gringo".

White boy.

He headed for his truck and placed the beer between the seats where it wouldn't roll around and started for home.

Journey's Wheel in the Sky was playing on the radio, and he turned it up and hummed along. He pulled onto the main road when his phone began to sing Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry. Keenan narrowed his eyes at the cellular device resting on the dashboard.

That was Zoë's ringtone.

For a moment he considered just letting it go to voicemail and ignoring her call. They hadn't spoken for weeks—ever since their conversation by the dumpster by her work. Their only means of communication had been awkward, strained nods to one another in passing when Keenan picked his brother and sister up after school.

The situation at home hadn't been any easier either. Eric took every opportunity to crow about how wrong Keenan had been, that Zoë wasn't to be trusted, and that if they had handled things the way Eric has suggested in the first place, none of this would have happened.

The worst part was that Keenan was beginning to think Eric might be right.

The ringing continued, and Keenan groaned. He turned down his radio and answered his phone. "Yeah?" he snapped into the receiver. He didn't much care how gruff his voice sounded. There was a slight hesitation on the other end, and he though her heard Zoë scoff.

"Hey, I need your help," she said, eventually.

"Doesn't feel so good when the shoe is on the other foot, does it?" he sneered.

There was a frustrated sound on the other end, and Zoë came back on saying, "Jeez, Keenan, I'm on your side. I know this is weird, but can you just lend me a hand, here?"

"Give me one reason why I should help you?" he spat as he came to a stop at a red light.

"Because I've got some things to tell you about your little friends, and because I'll owe you one. Good enough?"

Keenan sighed. This was the last thing he needed. There was a honking from the car behind him, and he looked up to realize the light had turned green. He shifted into gear, his phone held to his ear with his shoulder like a contortionist, and took off.

Maybe there's still a chance to get her on our side, he thought as he chewed his lip and settled back into his seat. He sighed again, exasperated. "What do you need?" he asked stiffly.

"Just a place to talk and some aloe..."

"So he just went up in flames?" Keenan asked skeptically as Zoë sat at on the edge of the kitchen chair and rubbed the aloe into the burns on her shoulders. She nodded. "I know, right? It was crazy. I mean, I never thought that just telling one of those freaks to go away would actually work, but I guess I'm learning a lot of new stuff lately."

Keenan nodded and watched her over the edge of his beer bottle as he took a long draw of the yellow, fizzy liquid. Zoë was wearing a Wonder Woman tanktop, the red hoodie slung over the back of the chair she sat in. A bottle of aloe sat on the table from which she squeezed small amounts into the palms of her hands and gingerly worked the lotion into the burns on her shoulder—hand-shaped, hand-sized burns.

They sat in his small kitchen, mugs of coffee in front of them as Zoë recounted everything the hunters had been showing her, and told him about the spirit they had encountered in Tulare. When Keenan had picked her up, he asked why she had needed his help, specifically. She told him she didn't want Luke to notice, and she didn't want her friend Riley or her parents finding out about the burns. He'd made his agitation at having to help her known, but in the end he'd agreed. And he'd regretted it.

Just being in the same room with her put him on edge. The tension in the room was palpable; though by the way Zoë was acting you'd think they were the best of friends. He wasn't sure if she was putting on a front or just that naïve.

She winced with every touch of the cooling aloe. "I swear, if this shit scars..." Zoë grumbled to herself. Until he'd seen them himself, Keenan had had no idea that something dead could leave such a mark on the living. He frowned.

"Do they hurt?" Keenan asked, surprising himself. She looked up at him briefly, as if remembering he were there, and went back to her arms.

"Nah," she said and got up to wash her hands. It sounded like a lie.

Keenan scratched at the label on his bottle and stared at the center of the table. Looking around the little kitchen, you'd never know a man—his cousin—had died on this table. It had only been a couple of weeks since the hunters had taken the life of one of his pack, and now he was entertaining one of them as though they were a welcome guest.

He gave Zoë a sidelong glance as she washed her hands in the sink and tries to remind himself that she was acting as a sort of double agent. It didn't help.

"He's going to get you killed, y'know," he told her as he took another draw from his beer. Zoë stopped washing and just stood there, her hands under the running water, her eyes trained on the faucet. "That man is poison," Keenan added.

"I can take care of myself," she said stiffly without looking at him, "I need this right now, Keenan. I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking you to trust me for now."

Keenan tore his eyes away from her and contemplated the last bit of beer sitting at the bottom of the bottle. He grumbled, then finished his beer without a word.

"Hey," Zoë said suddenly as she turned to him, drying her hands on an old wash rag, "do you have plans Valentine's day?"

Keenan scoffed, "Yeah, me with plans on Valentine's day," he said with wry sarcasm, "maybe when Hell freezes over."

"Great!" she said as she sat back down, "My mom's band is playing a concert at the Starline, and I don't have anyone to go with. Wanna be my date?"

Keenan was surprised to find himself blushing. "I have to work," he said, forlorned, "When you said plans I assumed you meant...romantic plans."

Zoë frowned, "Oh..." she said at length, "Well, that's all right, I'll just go by myself. My usual Valentine's plans got shot down anyways."

"What plans?"

Zoë giggled, "Well, usually Riley and I stay in and watch yaoi all night."

"What the hell is that?" Keenan asked, making a face.

Zoë giggled again, "Trust me, if you don't know, you don't want to." She crossed the small room and gathered her aloe and hoodie, shrugging it on with measured care. He stood to see her out and they both made for the front door. Zoë hesitated in the doorway, and turned to face him. "Well, thanks for everything," she told him with a wary smile, as though testing the waters.

Keenan opened his mouth to say something, but the world, whatever they were, died in his mouth. He wished he knew what to say to her. She'd been his last hope, her sight might have saved his family. But she was a hunter now. They were supposed to be enemies. Still, he couldn't help but wish things had been different.

If I could just find the words to make her understand... he thought with a small pain. He couldn't.

He closed his mouth and nodded once, wordlessly.

Her smiled faded, and she looked him up and down once before turning to leave in silence. Keenan watched her walk away and bit the inside of his cheek, narrowing his eyes with concern. "Hey," he called after her when she was about twenty feet away. She turned to look at him, her hood up over her hair, her sleeves rolled up to show her forearms and the thick leather bands she wore at each wrist. She raised a brow, questioning. Keenan tapped his left shoulder with his right hand. "Be more careful," he called to her, "You're no good to me dead."

She cocked her hip out to one side and flashed him a mischievous grin, then raised one hand up and waved a silent good-bye before turning back and walking away.

Zoë

It was Valentine's Day.

It had never been one of Zoë's favorite holidays, and she had only had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day twice before.

The first time she had been in Junior High, and Aaron Caudle had given her a stuffed bear and a box of chocolates. He'd taken her out to a movie and a small dinner; by all accounts it was one of the best dates she'd ever been on. Then, at the end of the night, Aaron had explained to her that he wanted to end it all. His family was moving to Texas, and he wanted to make sure that they had a great last date.

That night was Zoë's first kiss.

They were both young, but they had the foresight to know that a long distance relationship wouldn't work. They had remained friends online for a while, then, as Zoë knew they would, fell out of touch.

The second time was her freshman year of high school, and she had been dating a boy named Alex Grant. He'd told her to come to his house after dark, and she had been surprised with a candle-lit dinner he'd prepared himself. He'd also broken into his father's liquor cabinet and they'd shared a few glasses of wine. After dinner things got hot and heavy, and they lost their virginity to each other.

The next day Alex's parents had caught the two of them, naked, in his bed, and ranted and raved. They shipped Alex off to military school practically the next day and Zoë had never seen or heard from him again.

So each year she and Riley would stay in together, pop some popcorn, and watch , Troy, Spartacus, and any other movie involving mostly naked Gods of the big screen fighting tooth and nail until they were covered in blood and sweat. Washboard abs were a sure-fire cure for any Valentine's Day blues.

But this year had brought a different turn of events. It was a school night, so Riley had been forced to stay home with a pile of homework while Zoë sat at the bar at the Starline sipping a beer she'd acquired with a fake ID and swaying languidly to the smooth, haunting melody of Succubus.

Tonight was a big performance of some of the city's local bands—Channel, This Island Earth, Grooveyard, and her mom's band, Succubus.

Zoë had thrown on a dusky rose tank top over a longer grey one. They showed her bra straps, but she didn't much care. She wore her favorite pair of ratty jeans—the ones with about a dozen holes that she'd decorated with a slew of witty and adorable buttons—her cherry Chucks, and a formfitting brown mini skirt made of a thick material that she'd added some buttons to long ago, and had strapped on two studded belts. She'd been applying generous layers of aloe where she could manage it without Riley, Luke, or her parents catching her, and the burns on her shoulders had faded away like a bad sunburn.

Thank God, she thought with a sigh of relief.

She drank as she watched the performance. Her dad was nearer the front to help support her mom, meaning Zoë didn't have to worry about his seeing her drinking. She was glad for a few moments of darkness and solitude. She hadn't had any time to herself in a long time, and it was good to have just a moment, even it if was in the middle of a crowded room with the music cranked up to eleven.

She closed her eyes and fell into the music. She imagined dark colors dripped onto a virgin canvas, purples, blues, and blacks leaked down and somehow reminded her of blood overflowing from a bathtub as the base strummed, alone and solemn. Then came the drums, dark and slow, and the colors in her mind began to fill the canvas like an overturned ink bottle.

Beth's haunting keen came in, sounding far off and auto-tuned, adding a sunburst orange to the canvas. Rolling lines of gold twirled like lazy smoke.

Then, suddenly, the lead guitar came in and the drums picked up, and red erupted in her vision, bleeding out from the center like a rose unfurling at hyper speed.

It was beautiful.

"I haven't heard anything so dark in a long time..." said a voice said in her ear, stealing her away from the canvas behind her eyes. She opened her eye and smirked. Luke sat on the barstool next to her, dressed all in black—jeans, boots, V-neck shirt, and an open button down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He'd shaven and styled his hair.

"Decided to come after all?" she asked.

He smiled as they spoke below the music, his voice low and rich, "I'm glad I did. This song is very..." he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Haunting," she offered, and he nodded his ascent. The bartender arrived then, and Luke ordered a beer.

For a while they were silent, simply letting the music wash over them, lost in the melody and sorrow. Zoë took another sip of her beer and turned toward the stage.

Luke pulled a white box out of his pocket and set it on the bar between them.

"What's this?" Zoë asked. The song ended and there was a round of applause and shouts from the crowd. Succubus started playing another one of Zoë's favorites for their final encore. Unlike a lot of their music, instead of slow and haunting this song began slow and angry, as though it had a purpose. The lyrics were very visual, and she didn't need to try very hard to imagine what they meant, but when the refrain came in, the music almost became a plea for help.

"Open it," Luke said smiling softly, indicating the box. Zoë gave him an incredulous look as she set her beer down and opened the box. Inside was a vintage perfume bottle with an atomizer. The bottle was sphere shaped with frosted, lilac colored glass. In slender golden letters that wound around each other with dizzying elegance the bottle read Fleur de Cirey, Eau du Purfum.

Zoë blinked, confused. It was beautiful, and even without spraying it she could smell the floral bouquet of the perfume, but it looked too expensive for Luke's modest budget. She looked at him, "What's this for?"

Luke leaned on the bar as the bartender delivered his beer. He shrugged nonchalantly, "Just something I thought you'd like," he said. She watched as he took a long drink from the hunter green bottle, the condensation that clung to the glass catching the dark, smoky blue lighting of the club, making it look like he was drinking stars. He set the bottle down and gave her a sidelong glance with those gun-metal grey eyes, "What?" he asked.

She made an odd face, "It...just looks really expensive."

"Don't worry about it," he told her in a quiet basso and winked, "I wanted to get you something...nice."

"Luke I...I don't know what to say. This is—"

"Zoë," Luke interrupted her gently. She looked up at him, his eyes dark, his expression difficult to read. "Don't be so quick to over think things," he told her, "You were phenomenal in Tulare. I wanted to get you something to show you how glad I am that you're on the team."

Zoë raised a skeptical brow, "You buy everyone on your team expensive perfume?"

"No," he said, meeting her eyes with a soft challenge. He didn't have to say anything more for Zoë to understand.

Zoë opened her mouth to say something and found herself blushing instead. She didn't know what to say, and she had a feeling that even if her mind could wrap around a sentence she'd have a problem spitting it out. She settled with, "Thank you..."

Luke smiled warmly, "Happy Valentine's Day."

March

Crow Moon

Zoë

Zoë ran through the forest, her legs pumping beneath her. Roots sprang up to trip her, branches stretched out to tear at her clothes and skin. Her chest was on fire as her heart hammered painfully, her lungs burned from rampant breathing. Blood rushed in her ears, deafening. She fell, stumbling to her knees. Her whole body ached as she tried to catch her breath, spittle dangling from her lips as she fought against hyperventilation. She didn't know how long she'd been running, or where she was. All she knew was that fear was gripping her like a vice, contracting her ribs tighter and tighter around her lungs. She shook with the force of her sobs, every bit of her aching.

"I'm sorry," she wept, "I'm so sorry."

A wind came then and gathered up her hair and clothes, swirling around her as wolves howled through the night, angry and dismayed. Tears streaked her face as she looked up, grimacing at the starless night and watched as a blood-red shadow fell across the heavy full moon, blanketing it with crimson.

And then there was the pain.

Without moving she was suddenly standing, a dagger pressed into her stomach. She looked down and watched as the anonymous hand pulled it away, the silver blade slick with blood—her blood. The viscous crimson fluid dripped onto the forest floor, and Zoë swooned.

She looked up, trying to catch a glimpse, anything that would tell her who this man was.

If I could just see his face, she thought.

Suddenly she awoke with a great start, a scream already on her lips as she sat bolt upright in bed. She was sitting in a pool of her own sweat, the blankets were tangled around her legs in knots, and her pillow had been knocked to the ground. Seconds later her door burst open and her parents rushed in, her father was holding a baseball bat and her mom had a butterfly knife.

She jumped and almost screamed again, but suddenly she began to bawl as the stress and fear found an outlet. Zoë covered her face, trying to make it stop, but the harder she tried not to cry the more she did.

"Zoë what's wrong?" Jon demanded as he came to her side. Pahua climbed onto the bed and started looking her over, but Zoë kept her hands firmly in place.

"Nothing, I'm fine," she lied in a wet voice.

Stop crying! she told herself angrily, but to no avail.

She felt her mom's arms go around her, which made her attempt to rein in her emotions and calm herself all the more difficult. It would be so easy to just weep into her mother's bosom and cry herself back to sleep. But she didn't want to do that. She couldn't allow herself to stoop to such a level of weakness.

Choking on her sobs she tried again to stop her crying, but her father placed a hand on her shoulder and asked her gently, "What's wrong, Babydoll?"

Zoë sniffled and finally managed to stop her tears enough to speak. It had been so much worse this time, so vivid and strong. Her stomach still hurt from where the dagger had impaled her, and her heart was still hammering like a frightened rabbit's.

"It—" she said but her sob threatened to return and she stopped. She took a deep breath, trying once again to pull herself together and she managed, "Just a bad dream."

Jon gave her a look as Pahua started smoothing back her sweat dampened hair, and Zoë took several slow, deep breaths to calm herself. He squeezed her shoulder, "Ice cream or coffee?" he asked.

"Ice cream," she said softly, and he kissed her forehead before heading downstairs to prepare the bowls. Zoë pulled away from her mom, telling herself she didn't need to be coddled, and told her mom, "I'm sorry I woke you guys up. I didn't mean to." Her voice was still raw from screaming and crying.

Pahua gave her a very motherly look, her violet hair falling down around her face to frame it as she dabbed the sweat from Zoë's brow with the sleeve of her shirt. "Oh menyuam, we were so worried. We thought someone was hurting you."

Someone was, Zoë couldn't help but think. "I'm all right," she assured her again.

Pahua hugged her once more, tightly. "Come on," she said, "I think your dad has a treat for you."

Zoë washed her face in the bathroom before going downstairs to meet her mom and dad at the island in the kitchen where a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream was waiting for her. She sat down and started eating it slowly, thankful to have such wonderful parents.

Jon looked to his wife, "You can go back up to bed if you want, honey. I know you have to get up early."

Pahua gave each of them a serious look, "You're sure?" she asked. Jon nodded, but it wasn't until Zoë gave her acquiescence that Pahua agreed. Her mom kissed Zoë on the brow and gave her a tight hug before taking her ice cream up to her bedroom to finish it off before falling back asleep.

And so, as she knew it would, the dreaded question came, "So, what was your dream about?" her father asked. Zoë squirmed under his gaze. How could he possibly understand? He was afraid of the shadows and the secrets within them. He'd told Zoë her whole life how to avoid been seen by these things. What would he be able to do for her?

He's still my dad, she thought hopefully, He still wants to look out for me.

Maybe it was time to tell him...

She took a deep breath and a bite of ice cream to steady herself, then began. At first she was slow, trepidatious, but once she began it was like the hull of a dam had broken and words and emotions began spilling out so quickly she was stumbling over her words and doing her best not to shake. She told him everything—about the dream, how long she'd been having it, the times of the month that she had it, her trip to the library (which she lied by saying was a fruitless attempt), and how each and every time it frightened her more and more. By the time she was done, she was breathless and red-faced.

Jon looked at her, his expression silent stone as he tried to mask his surprise. Zoë shivered, suddenly very cold. She forced herself to meet his eyes, "It's because of what I can do, isn't it? Because of what I can see..." she asked evenly.

"Yes," he said, his voice tight. He sighed heavily, almost angrily, and put his face in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose as he frowned deeply, "I had hoped you would have been one of the lucky ones."

Zoë's brows met in a rush of anxiety, "What are you talking about?" she demanded, fighting to keep the panic from her voice. Jon looked back up at her, "People who can see what we can see are special," he told her, "but it makes life very dangerous, that's why we have rules. Some of us are limited in what we can see, but others are able to glimpse...more. You're more sensitive than I thought when you were small, Babydoll. I'm sorry I wasn't more prepared for this."

Zoë shook her head, "Dad, you're scaring me."

Jon met her gaze, the lines of his face becoming hard, "Your nightmare isn't just a dream. It's real. Or, at least, one day it will be. Some of us have what's called a seer's dream. It shows you...it shows you how you'll die."

At first Zoë wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. "Die?" she repeated slowly, the word sounding foreign on her tongue. Jon nodded, shadows of grief falling over his features, "Oh, Babydoll, I'm so sorry. If I had known you were having this dream I would have told you a long time ago."

Her chest was tight and her head was swimming. Zoë felt her stomach drop out from beneath her. Chills ran through her but she was too shocked to shiver. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe.

That's how I die? she thought distantly, as though this was someone else's life she was watching on television, That...that can't be true.

"I-I..." she stammered but had no idea what she was going to say. Shakily she got to her feet and steadied herself on the island. Jon stood suddenly and embraced her suddenly, holding her against his chest, his arms cradling her tightly as he whispered apologies and promises of protection. "I'll make it all right, Babydoll," he said, "I'll make it all okay, just you watch."

She let his words wash over her without paying them heed as she stood there, numb.

On some level she had always known the dream was an omen of death. For years she had watched herself die in a mess of fear and pain, but she had always given in to the delusion that perhaps it was just some unfounded nightmare, a gross exaggeration of the fears of her heart, and nothing that could truly hurt her.

Numbly, she let her dad lead her back upstairs and tuck her into bed, kissing her brow and shutting off the lights, leaving her to her thoughts and dreams.

Fatigue settled over her like a dense fog, but as she stared up at the water-stained ceiling above her bed, she felt restless. Sleep, she willed herself, Sleep, but nothing worked. How could she sleep after hearing news like that? How could she ever sleep again knowing her dream was really just a portent of a gruesome end?

Sitting up in bed, the sheets still soaked with sweat, she flicked on the shadeless lamp by her bed, sending several cockroaches skittering back into the shadows, and picked up her phone. It was next to two in the morning, but she went through her contacts list all the same. She sent out a message to Riley, Luke, even Elipsy, and Keenan, desperate for a voice—any voice—to speak to.

Are you awake?

Keenan

Keenan stepped out of The Warehouse and into the cool night air. The bouncers had long since driven out the patrons, and Keenan and his other co-workers had set to cleaning up before closing everything down. It had been a long night, and he was glad it was finally over. Especially since he had to be up early for his janitorial job at the mall.

He put his elbows out and twisted this way and that to loosen his back and gave an almost pleasurable moan as his back popped audibly and the tension began to ease out.

He was heading to his truck when his phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket and dragged his thumb from top to bottom to view the message. He paused mid-step when he saw the name: Zoë.

"What does she want this late?" he found himself thinking aloud. He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. It was after two in the morning, and he was sore and tired and wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep.

It could be about the hunters, he thought absently. At the very least, he had to believe that if whatever was happening wasn't important, she wouldn't be trying to get ahold of him so late. He grumbled and tapped the screen to call her phone rather than message her back.

She answered on the second ring.

"Keenan? I'm not bothering you, am I?" she said by way of greeting. She sounded distant, her voice lacking any of her usual exuberance. He climbed into his truck, "No I just got off work. Are you all right? You don't sound good."

Her sigh came with a rush of static, "I...I found out what my dream means..." she said, and he could hear the small quiver of tears at the edge of her voice. "Oh," he said, not sure what else there was to say. He bit his lip. "Well, why did you text me?"

"I dunno," she said softly, and he could tell she meant it, "I just...I tried to get ahold of a couple people. You were the only one who called back."

Keenan closed his eyes with ire and was silent. There was an equally long pause on the other end. This felt so awkward, so strained. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Hey, if you're busy, it's cool," Zoë said so quickly he almost didn't catch her words. He sighed, closing his eyes and fought back an exasperated groan. He was tired from a long day of work, and he needed to be up early which didn't leave him a lot of time to eat and sleep left in his night. It would be easier to tell her that he couldn't make it. It would be easier to tell her to deal with her dream herself and not be bothered. After all, he barely knew this girl. He didn't owe her anything. She'd put a wrench the size of the Grand Canyon in his plans; if anything he should hang up then and there, go home, eat a potpie, and go to sleep. He looked at the clock on his dashboard and contemplated it.

"Text me your address," he heard himself say, and there was a small, "Thanks," on the other end before he disconnected. He gripped his steering wheel. He hadn't spoken to Zoë in weeks and then she messages him out of the blue...it was so bizarre. This must be something bad, he decided, She's been handing Elipsy all the information on the hunters. If she's talking to me...

He spent some time coaxing his truck to life. As the engine turned over with a disgruntled clunk he found Zoë's information sitting mildly on his screen. He shifted into gear and thundered out of the parking lot and in the direction of Zoë's house.

Minutes later he pulled up alongside the curb of an older looking two story just outside Tower and killed the engine. His truck fell into silence with a thankful warble, and he got out.

The lights were out, the house was quiet.

Could she have gone to sleep without letting him know he didn't need to come by after all? He was about to pull his phone back out and call Zoë when he noticed a trail of smoke slowly winding into the night from a second story window. He walked across the lawn to the back gate, his footsteps silent as a shadow as he moved through the night. Leaning beside the fence, he saw the golden glow of the tip of a cigarette, the moonlight cascading into Zoë's room, bathing her in a silver glow as the stark yellow light from her bedroom haloed her.

She looked solemn and grave, her large brown eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped, her cigarette limp in her fingers. A thrill ran through him for the briefest moment. She looked like she stepped out of a painting or a photograph. He tried not to stare, but he found himself entranced. But, more than that, he realized how young she really was. Even with the shadows digging hard lines into her features, he suddenly remembered that she was the same age as his sister, and that she hadn't exactly had the easiest of times lately.

Maybe I was too hard on her, he thought.

He gave a little whistle to get her attention. She looked down at him.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair," he called. A little bit of relief fell across her features, and she beckoned him up with a wave of her hand.

Keenan made a face. It wasn't enough he was here, he had to scale the side of her house now?

I guess that's what I get for making a princess joke, he thought as he opened the gate and stepped into the backyard. By the light of the moon he found a ladder and made his way to the first story roof where he walked slowly, so as not to make too much noise, up to Zoë's window and perched himself on the sill.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Hey," she replied, her voice raw.

"What happened?"

She looked away for a moment, as she sat on her bed with her legs under her and her cigarette hanging out the window in a limp hand. It was the first time Keenan had ever seen Zoë without make-up. She never wore much, but it was noticeable, and he couldn't help but think she looked so much nicer without it.

He glimpsed the rest of her. It looked like she was a men's-shirt-and-panties kind of girl when it came to pajamas, and she hadn't bothered to put on pants. He tore his gaze away from her legs and focused on the gibbous moon, on its power and glow. As a child of the moon he was connected to it and its phases. The healing and invigorating properties of the lunar goddess washed over him as he sat there waiting for Zoë to be ready to talk. In that moment he couldn't help but think how sad and lonely it must feel to not be connected to the moon, to not be able to feel her silver rays coursing through him.

He turned as Zoë moved and sat beside him on the windowsill. She flicked the cherry off her cigarette before taking one last drag and tossing it off the edge of the roof. She released the smoke in a long breath, sending vaporous tendrils curling into the night. Her feet dangled off the sill and onto her bed while his stretched out across the roof.

Finally, when Keenan could take it no more, he said, "I thought you wanted to talk," as gently as he could. He wanted to help, but he didn't have all damn night.

"Sorry," she said softly, and he realized she'd been trying not to cry this whole time. He put a hand on her shoulder, a strangely familiar gesture. She sniffled and began, "My dream..." she said, "isn't a dream. It's some kind of premonition." She said the last word as though it sounded foolish.

Keenan cocked his head to the side, confused, "What do you mean?"

"I guess...when I see myself die in my dream, it's not like an ordinary dream. My dad said it's something called a seer's dream. It's going to happen. I'm going to get stabbed, and then die."

Keenan blinked several times, "How is that possible? You can see the future?"

Zoë shook her head, "No, it's just that one moment. It's like the cyclops in Krull, they know when they're going to die, it doesn't make them psychic."

He blinked several times. "The what in what?" Keenan said, baffled.

Zoë groaned, "Nevermind!"

There was a long moment of silence where Zoë put her head in her hand. Keenan tried to absorb what she was saying. He shook his head, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, "I'm sorry," he breathed, the weight of her words surprising him.

Her eyes were trained on something in her room, down cast to hide the gloss of tears he could see building in the light of the moon. "Its funny, y'know," she said in a wet voice. She swallowed. "When this all started, I thought you were the one that was going to help me figure out what my dream meant. That's why I followed you at the library."

Keenan let his eyes drift up toward the night sky so he wouldn't have to see her tears, "I lied," he said softly. He felt her eyes turn towards him, but she didn't say anything. He kept his eyes trained on the moon as he went on, "I heard from my dad a long time ago that seers have this intuition that flows into their dreams; see danger coming their way, things like that. That's why I thought you could help us. I thought your dreams would be the thing that kept my family safe. I didn't know they worked that way."

"Well, I guess it's not going to matter much longer," he heard her say, "Sooner or later my dream is going to be real."

"We all die, sooner or later," Keenan said quietly. Zoë looked up at him, her brows meeting oddly and her mouth tight. "If there's one thing I've learned is that no one lives forever. Gavin, my parents, grandparents...they're all in Heaven now, and not a one of them from natural causes. Even knowing that their existence was a fragile one, they lived as fully and happily as they could. It was just fate's design. After my parents died, you know what I realized? Fuck fate."

He looked back at her then, tears tugging at the edges of her eyes where she refused to let them fall, "Your dream hasn't come true yet," he said, "And it doesn't have to, if you don't let it. Take your life into your own hands and fight for it. Fight for every breath, until there's no fight left in you, but you don't ever give up and let some dream run your life. You have to believe that things can be the way you want them to be. Otherwise, hope is just some useless word politicians throw around to get votes."

Zoë looked at him for a long time, her mahogany skin almost ebon in the silver moonlight while the stark light coming from her shadeless lamp bathed her in a glow that made her skin look like it was polished bronze. She was on the divide. Two sides, two options. Fight, or give in. As a small smile drifted across her lips, he thought he might know which she would choose.

"Thanks," she said gently, "that was...really poetic. I think I know what to do." Zoë moved with a gentle grace then, and pressed her lips, soft and warm, to his cheek. It was brief, sweet, but it made Keenan falter for a moment. She leaned back and gave him an easy smile, her lips leaving tepid warmth and hushed longing in their wake.

"I was surprised you came," she said, unabashed, "After everything that happened I figured texting you was a real shot in the dark."

Keenan blinked several times and shook his head to clear it. He made a face, "I guess I surprised myself a little too," he said, thankful for the steadiness in his own voice, "When you told me you wanted to be a hunter, I thought it was the end. I know I never really said it, but I'm sorry about what happened in the park. We should have handled the whole thing differently. And for what it's worth...thanks for watching our backs."

Zoë nodded, "I'm starting to think I made the right decision." She smiled up at him. "Thanks for coming."

Keenan shrugged, "What are friends for?"

"I thought Hunters didn't have friends?" she quirked one brow.

Keenan looked at her for a moment. "Well," he said, "maybe just this once."

Luke

Luke yawned as he sat up in bed, the light of morning streaming through his thin bedroom curtains to fill the room with a soft, pale light. He contemplated a shower as he scratched his head and chin where a growth of stumble was beginning to itch. He blinked several times to clear the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs over the bed and set them down on the thin, azure carpet. He stood, stretched, and padded blearily into his bathroom. He turned the knob for the shower and let the water heat up as he undressed, and stepped inside.

The heat of the shower was warm, allowing him to transition easily from sleep to wakefulness as he shaved and scrubbed. Afterwards he toweled dry, ran a comb through his hair, and dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, rolling the sleeves up over his elbows.

As he did every morning, Luke grabbed his keys, heading toward The Daily Grind for his morning coffee and scone, but when he opened his door he found Zoë standing on his doorstep with a look of surprise, hand poised to knock.

Luke blinked. "Z-Zoë," he stammered, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. "What are you doing here?"

She shifted her weight as she let he hand fall to her side. "I need to talk to you," she said.

"Of course," he said and opened the door to her. As she stepped past him he could smell the light aroma of flowers clinging to her.

She's wearing the perfume.

Zoë perched on the edge of the couch with a heavy sigh. She looked upset and tired, as though she hadn't slept the night before. Luke closed the door and sat down in the chair closest to her. "What's going on?" he asked.

She looked up at him. "It's...about this dream I keep having—y'know the one I told you about right before all the crazy stuff at the library?"

Luke's brows met as he searched his memory. "Vaguely," he admitted to her and she nodded as though she expected as much. "Well," she said, "it turns out it's not just some little dream..."

She rolled into an explanation of the dream, from the frequency with which she had it, to how it affected her, to a play-by-play of every detail of the dream—how she ran through the woods, wolves howled all around her, and finally the jewel encrusted dagger sliding into her abdomen and stealing her life. He kept quiet all through her explanation. Luke was at a loss for words.

Zoë wrung her hands. "Last night my dad told me that it's something called a seer's dream, that sometimes people like me can see how they die, just not when. I...I don't want to die Luke, especially not like that," she put a hand defensively over her belly, "But that's why I need your help." She looked over the back of the sofa at the shelves and shelves of books that stood against his walls, a look of desperation on her face. "There's gotta be something in one of your books, right?" she asked, "Something that can make it stop? Or protect me?"

Luke looked at the books that lined the walls, at the leather bound tomes that sat side by side on the shelves, that piled themselves in corners, that lay spread across table-tops and atop couch and chair cushions, and exhaled a long breath. "Zoë," he said at length, "I have a lot of books here, but I don't think any of them are going to help you."

Zoë looked crestfallen, "But you have so many. And I know there's a few in here about symbols and circles of protections and shit like that. I mean look at your—I guess lawn wouldn't really work—but you've got symbols drawn all over the place! Why are they there if they don't mean anything?"

Luke leveled a steady gaze at her, "They do," he admitted, "But it's just a dream, Zoë. It can't mean anything."

She stood then, very suddenly. "I'm not making this up!" she said, her words hard.

"Calm down," he told her gently, but that just seemed to make her angrier.

"Dammit, Luke," she spat, "I came here because I thought you could help me. You wanted me on your team so I could help you. Don't you think it should be a two-way fucking street?" She stood there with her arms folded over her chest, her weight on one leg as she cocked her hip out to the side, and leveled a deadly, acidic glare at him. Luke frowned and then sighed.

"You're right," he said at last, "Sorry. You can use my books."

Zoë didn't so much as wait for Luke to finish speaking before she got up and closed the gap between her and his bookshelf in a single, long stride. Luke sat there a moment, bewildered. He'd never seen Zoë this intense before—she was usually so upbeat and had a resolve about her that was rare in this day and age.

But now that all seemed muted.

She held herself rigid, her shoulders squared, her eyes narrowed, and her jaw set. She was wound tight, like a coil, ready to snap at the drop of a hat. Luke gave her an uneasy look.

He stood as she continued sifting through the old books, "I'm going to get us some coffee," he told her, "You'll be okay here by yourself?"

She didn't answer him, just started flipping through the pages of a thick, leather bound book. Luke's lips disappeared as he shifted his weight, waiting to see if she'd respond. When she didn't he left. He jumped into his Camaro and headed towards The Daily Grind.

She has to be wrong, he thought as he drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

He tried not to think about it, tried not to let his imagination take him places he didn't want to go. He shook his head to clear it, bringing him back to reality as he pulled into his usual spot, three spaces away from the front door, at The Daily Grind and killed the engine.

Inside, he asked for two cups of coffee to-go, the Sunday paper, and decided to forgo his usual scone. The barista behind the register winked as she charged him, "You got a lady friend over, Luke?" she asked, noting the difference in his order. Luke gave her a placating grin but said nothing as he collected his things and headed back to his car.

How can someone dream their own death? Luke thought, agitated as he brought his beast of a car to life, I know she's a seer, but still. I won't believe it, he told himself, Its just a silly dream, not reality. She'll be fine. Besides, by the time I get back she'll be burnt out on reading. Zoë hates books.

When he returned, however, he found Zoë at the desk in the living room, a dozen books in front of her open and piled atop one another. He paused in the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand and the newspaper under his arm. He hadn't expected this.

"Wow...you're really determined, aren't you?" he asked as he crossed the living room and set the coffee he'd brought for her down on the desk. Zoë made an agitated sound and ignored the coffee, "How can I not be? This is literally life or death; I can't take this lying down!"

Luke stood there, watching her for a moment. She'd barely looked up since he'd gotten back, her face buried in the pages before her. Something in his peripheral vision caught his eye and he picked up a piece of paper with a drawing on it. It was a dagger, about eleven inches from pommel to tip, and of an ornate design. The blade itself was straight and wide, the hilt simple, but with a pommel and guard wrought in gleaming jewels.

Luke felt a cold shudder turn his stomach to water as he looked at the drawing, and yet of all the thousands of things he knew probably should have crossed his mind, he found himself thinking, instead, how very talented Zoë was with a pencil.

"This is the dagger from your dream?" he asked, his tone even.

Zoë glanced up at the page he was holding, nodded, and turned back to the open book before her. "I sketched that while you were out. If there's a slim possibility that that particular dagger has any meaning to this whole thing, I want to find it."

Luke licked his lips and set the picture aside. "What makes you think that it will?" he asked.

Zoë didn't look up as she answered him, "Well, why that dagger? Hell, why a dagger for that matter? Why not a kitchen knife, or a box cutter? It's got to mean something..."

Luke closed his eyes, trying to make sense of everything. He couldn't. This is insane, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Zoë, his expression softened, "You really think you're going to die, don't you?" he asked, surprised by the softness of his voice.

She didn't look up at him, but she seemed to deflate a little then. Her gaze dropped to the bottom of the page as she sighed, then nodded. "I've been having this dream since I was fourteen years-old, almost every other week," she placed a hand over her stomach, "Sometimes it's so vivid I wake up and for a moment I'm not sure if it's still a dream. After what my dad said..." she trailed off, and took a breath to steady herself, "I just need to know that I did everything I could to make it stay a dream, that I didn't just roll over and let it beat me."

Luke sighed. She looked so small, so helpless, not at all like herself. Zoë was usually in such high spirits. Seeing her here like this was so unusual.

She really thinks she could die, he thought as his shoulders slumped, but that's...just not possible.

"All right," he said softly. She looked up at him, confused, "I'll help you," he told her. For a moment she didn't seem to understand. "I thought it was just a dream," she said.

Luke shrugged, "If its important to you...then I guess its important to me too. I'll help," he said flatly. She didn't say anything, but her smile was soft and warm.

Wordlessly, Luke sat in the chair next to hers and starting looking through the books she already had assembled. He tried to hide his chortle as he looked at the book with dismay. She was looking in the completely wrong place. He stood and started gathering the ones that would be more helpful and they went into the kitchen where there was more space—his living room looked as though a tornado had swept through it.

They sat down and started reading. Luke lost track of the time as they sat next to one another, pouring over old books, the smell of old parchment and coffee filling the small room.

He buried himself in the books before him, searching page after page to find Zoë her answer. It's just a dream, he told himself over and over, it can't mean anything. There's no way—

"Here," she said suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts. Luke looked up and saw Zoë standing there holding a plate with a sandwich on it. Luke blinked, "When did you make this?" he asked, bemused. He'd never noticed her getting up from the table. She raised a brow at him as the corner of her mouth twitched upwards, "I told you I was making lunch a few minutes ago. Didn't you hear me?"

Luke took the plate. "I guess not," he said, "I get a little absorbed when I'm reading."

She gave a little laugh and grabbed a pair of sodas from the fridge before sitting next to him with a sandwich of her own. In the brief moment that Luke looked up he noticed that the sun had moved much higher into the sky. He checked his watch and blinked in amazement as he realized they'd been sitting there for hours.

He glanced at Zoë out of the corner of his eye. She already had her face buried in another book, her brow set in a steady gaze of determination. He took a bite out of his sandwich and flipped ahead in the book he was reading. Suddenly, an illustration caught his eye. The book was a guide on the seals of Solomon—there were forty-four in total, each designed to fit together to form a final seal. In the legend, King Solomon used the seal to trap and ward away demonic and evil forces. Luke even had a handful drawn on iron plates outside.

Bizarre glyphs, each the size of a fifty-cent piece, dotted the pages, each design more complicated than the last. The section he'd turned to had a series of illustrations for each seal, and gave a brief description of the purpose of each—protection from evil, protection from bad dreams. Everything she was looking for was right here.

"Hey Zoë, check this out..." he said passing her the book. She looked up from her sandwich, curious, and looked at the book.

He watched her eyes trail over the symbols and the descriptions, watched her face brighten as her lips split into a smile. She dropped her sandwich and snatched the book out of his hands. "This is it," she said as she set the book in front of her and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from under another book. She quickly started copying down a select seven of the symbols with surprising accuracy, writing down the numbers 13, 14, 23, 24, 36 beneath the corresponding seal. As she leaned closer to him he could smell the flowers in her perfume again—the perfume he'd given her.

When she was done copying down the symbols she sat back in her chair. "Thanks Luke," she said folding the piece of paper up and slipping it into her back pocket, "This might have been just what I was looking for."

"Good," Luke said and breathed a sigh of relief. Zoë stood and started picking up the books they'd been using, but Luke took her hand in his. She looked down at him with a confused expression. "Leave them," he told her, "I'll take care of it later."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Are you okay?" she asked, sitting back down. At first he didn't say anything, his jaw clenched painfully. Where did he even begin?

He was still holding her hand. He kept his eyes focused there for a moment, with his hand around hers.

"Zoë," he said in a basso tone, "I want you to know that I would never, ever let anything happen to you."

She pulled her hand free of his. "Luke, what are you—" but she never finished what she was saying.

Luke swallowed her words with a kiss.

She stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath and put her hands on his chest, ready to push him away. She didn't. He gripped the edge of her seat, his hands to either side of her hips. There was a hesitant eagerness to the kiss. He could feel his desired matched in her lips, but her the kiss grew no deeper, nor swifter.

He kissed her again and again until she exhaled and her lips parted for him. She made a small sound that wasn't quite pleasure but wasn't quite fear as he pushed his tongue into the heat of her mouth. He leaned harder into the kiss, and he heard her breath quicken, but their kiss deepened only slowly; maddeningly soft, torturously sweet.

For a moment she relaxed into him, and he thought he might drown in the scent of flowers, in the tender heat of her hands on his chest, in the taste of her mouth.

I don't want to lose her, he thought desperately.

He tried to press her even further, but she made another little noise and broke away. She looked up at him, her face red, her eyes misted. She exhaled a long, slow breath. "Luke I..." her voice quivered, breathless, "I...I have to go."

She stood suddenly, almost overturning her chair, and made for the door. Luke opened his mouth to say something but she was already gone, leaving the smell of flowers in her wake.

Zoë

On Monday morning Zoë got up and dressed herself through half-lidded eyes. In the end she found herself in the same old jeans that seemed to have a perpetual home on the floor, a Thundercats tanktop, and her red hoodie, which had been hanging on the swivel chair beside her desk.

It may have been Monday, but Zoë wasn't going to class.

She text Riley to say that she wasn't feeling well and that she wouldn't be going to class today, then set an alarm for a time she knew her father would be getting up to go into work, and went back to sleep. When she awoke the second time it was almost noon. She checked her phone but Riley hadn't gotten back to her yet; still, she must have headed on to school because Zoë should be in second period by now.

She headed downstairs to find her father leaning against the island with a large mug of coffee in his hand. He looked confused and angry as he saw her walking down the stairs, "Zoë what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in class."

"I know," she said, "but there's something I need you to do. It can't wait."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Zoë pulled a folded up piece of paper from her back pocket, unfolded it, and slammed it on the island before he got past, "Zoë what are you—"

"I need these symbols inked into me," she told him, "They'll stop my dream from happening."

I hope, she didn't say.

Jon set his coffee down and picked up the piece of paper to look it over, his brows meeting in consternation. "What are these?" he asked.

"They'll help me," she answered his shortly, not bothering to go into details her father wouldn't understand.

Jon gave her a stern look, "And you want me to let you stay out of class just so I can slap some ink on you? Give me one reason why I shouldn't drive you to school right now and march you into the principal's office myself."

Zoë met her father's eyes. "You promised you'd help me," she said in an even tone, "You told me you'd fix it. This is how."

Jon faltered. His mouth grew tight, his brow heavy, and he looked at her with an odd expression. She could see the guilt in his eyes, but he held his shoulders tight and squared in crisp anger. He had cause to be mad, but Zoë wasn't about to back down. Not with so much on the line. Finally he gave a long, drawn out sigh and nodded, "All right," he said quietly, "Get in the car."

Zoë sat in the passenger's side of Stein, the family's mix-and-match station wagon, as her father drove them down the road to Ink Me.

They rode in silence. Zoë knew her father had only ever tried to protect her, but as much as she told herself not to be angry, she was. If she had known the truth about her dream sooner, maybe she would have been able to do something about it. Now it felt like she was running out of time somehow. She didn't know when her dream would come to pass, but she didn't want to risk that it would be soon rather than later.

Jon kept his eyes firmly on the road as he finally broke the silence with his soft, deep voice, "I know you're angry at me," he said as though sensing her thoughts, "But at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. When I was little I didn't have anyone telling me what to do, or helping me understand what I could do, why I could see those freaks. People thought I was crazy for a long time, but when I was still really young I learned that I could ignore them, and when I ignored them it was like they couldn't see me either. I managed to go through the world with blinders on, and pretend I was normal. For the most part I've had a normal life. I just wanted to give you the same thing. I didn't want you to have to flounder the way I had for so long."

Zoë closed her eyes, wishing she had a cigarette.

She opened them again, staring at the dash, and said, "I know you meant well, daddy. I guess I just wasn't as lucky as you..."

They pulled into the parking lot of Ink Me a few minutes later and hopped out. Jon didn't bother to lock the car behind him. Most people had to worry about their cars possibly being broken into while in Tower, but the Marshes had learned through experience that no one wanted anything to do with Stein. It had been broken into before, and the only thing missing had been an ashtray full of pennies. Even the stereo wasn't worthy of theft.

The melodies of Metallica rushed to meet them as they stepped into the parlor, the cool smell of antiseptic and metal light on the air. Zoë relaxed a little.

"Hey Spider," Zoë greeted the owner—who was hard at work on a client—as they passed and made their way to the back.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" Spider asked without looking up.

"She's with me," Jon said as he started prepping his station.

Spider either didn't care or didn't deign to respond and continued working.

Wordlessly, Zoë handed Jon the paper with the glyphs so he could start processing them. He gave her a look of disquiet as he looked back and forth between her and the paper, "You know I don't want you getting any more tattoos until you're eighteen," he said.

Zoë bit her bottom lip, "My birthday is only a few weeks away," she said without inflection, "you could call it an early present."

The anxiety didn't disappear from Jon's features as he sighed, but he nodded all the same. "All right, Babydoll, if you think this is gonna help you, I'll do it."

"Thanks daddy," she said quietly. Jon walked away to process the images and Zoë sat down on the operating table, sitting on her hands and letting her feet dangle. It didn't take long for her father to return with seven slips of paper, each one containing a different glyph. "Where should we put these?" he asked.

Zoë shrugged, "I dunno. Probably somewhere I can hide easily. My back?"

Jon nodded and Zoë turned around. She zipped up her hoodie, pulled her arms inside the sleeves of both her hoodie and tank top, then pulled the tank off from under the confines of her red hoodie. She left the tank top on her lap and unhooked her bra and awkwardly turned her hoodie around so the zipper was in the back. Jon gave a small chuckle as Zoë put her arms through the sleeves of her hoodie and brought her arms into her chest to keep her bra and hoodie in place over her breasts.

"Where'd you learn that little trick?"

"Mom showed it to me for gym."

Jon sat in one of the Neptune chairs of the parlor and started prepping the ink. "What color?" he asked.

"Black."

She folded her legs under her as her father took a few moments to prep his station, the two of them sitting in silence. What is there to say? Zoë wondered. Her father had left her in the dark for far too long. In the end, she'd had to protect herself. They say ignorance is bliss, she thought distantly. Some small part of her understood that Jon had just been trying to protect her the only way he knew how. He'd never tried to be malicious, never tried to hurt her—he'd tried to shield her. But I don't want a shield, she thought with determination, I want a sword.

When he was ready, Jon bisected Zoë's hair across her neck and started dabbing at her skin with the cold antiseptic swab, cleaning the flesh. Zoë closed her eyes, letting the chemicals and her father work.

All in all, she couldn't say she hated the idea of missing class to get tattoos.

"Hey daddy," she said quietly as he pressed a piece of paper to her back to transfer the outline for the first circle, "do you know why we can see those freaks? Why we're not like everyone else?"

There was a slight hesitation behind her and she heard the whirl of the gun as it began to gather up the ink, then Jon answered, "I don't know, Babydoll. Maybe someone decided one day that the freaks didn't deserve to walk around and torment people without getting caught. I can't say for sure, and I don't know anyone who does."

Sweet pinpricks of pain awakened and died on her skin as her father began the first circle, the gun leaving a burning numbness in its wake.

"Don't you think we should use it to protect people?" she asked softly, "Warn them? Defend them?"

Jon didn't answer at first, then said, "I think it would be the right thing to do. With great power comes great responsibility, and all."

Zoë smiled softly to herself, "You're not Spiderman, daddy."

"It's not nice to tell lies, Babydoll," he jested. She could hear his smile in his voice. Then he said, "I think it would be good if there were people out there that could stop those things, but that takes a certain kind of person..."

Zoë wanted to tell her dad that she was using her power to help people; by being a hunter, by defying everything he ever told her, but she just kept her mouth shut and enjoyed the dark melodies of Metallica as the gun eased the tension from her shoulders.

The first circle took around fifteen minutes to complete. When it was done, they waited for five minutes for the skin to calm and started on the next glyph. The gun sent tingles up her spine as it pierced flesh, and imbrued her with dark ink.

"I wish we could find someone else like us," Zoë said quietly, "Maybe they could help us find more answers..."

"I think there are lots of things in this world that don't make sense, or that can't be explained," Jon responded, "Maybe there are some answers we already have but don't understand yet. There are people who search all their life for answers they never find, and they waste so much time searching that they forget to look around them and live life in the present.

"After all, Babydoll, that's all you can really do. No matter how you plan for the future, it's still going to be a mystery. There's nothing you can do about the past, so why worry about it? All you can do is live in the here and now and live it to the fullest."

Zoë made a small, pained sound as the gun moved close to her spine. As it passed she released a small breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and asked, "Is that how you feel about the seer's dream?"

Jon hesitated, the gun hovering above her skin. "Yes," he said quietly.

"How did you know about it?"

"My granddad," he said. Zoë almost flipped around to face him, but forced herself to stay still. "What?" she asked.

"When I was little, my granddad had a seer's dream. I never knew what it was, he died when I was young and they never told me how it happened...but he told me about them. I remember I cried when he told me. I was so afraid I was going to be like him, but I never got my dream. I hoped you'd be lucky, like I was."

Zoë didn't say anything as the gun continued to whirl and the ink continued to prick her skin. She closed her eyes.

I'm not going to end up like those other seers...

All together, it took about two hours to complete the entire set of glyphs. When it was done, Jon gave her a small hand mirror, and Zoë stood with her back to the full length mirror in the corner to see. Each one was about the size of a fifty-cent piece and stood out in thin black lines against her skin traveling from the top of her spine to the base.

Afterwards, Jon applied a cooling balm to the ink and stuck a sheet of plastic wrap over her back before heading to pay Spider for the ink. Zoë turned her hoodie back around and left her bra unclasped and stuffed her tank into the pocket of her hoodie as she zipped it up over her chest, leaving the skin of her back to heal without agitation.

They left, and bought some fast food that they took home to Pahua who was already deeply enthralled with one of her real crime shows. She narrowed her eyes at her husband over her burger, "I know she was scared, but I don't think we needed to keep her out of school just because she had a nightmare," she said, agitated, but didn't press the matter.

Later that day, Zoë was up in her room, lying on her stomach with her naked back exposed to the fresh air that came in through the window. She text Luke to let him know what she had done and set her phone aside in favor of her sketch book. Her pencil hovered over the page, but nothing else. She glanced at her phone with disquiet. She sighed, remembering the previous day.

Why would he do something like that? she thought, a finger brushing her lips where she thought she could still feel Luke's mouth moving against hers.

Suddenly, there came a knock on her bedroom door, and Riley stepped in holding some papers and a book. Zoë rolled onto her side and smiled, "Hey!" she said excitedly.

Riley gave her a cold look, "Well, you certainly don't look sick," she said bitterly.

Zoë raised a brow. "Yeah, I've been in bed all day and had, like, five bowls of soup. All better."

Riley was wearing a frown that didn't suit her. "Nice tattoos," she said flatly.

"Yeah..." Zoë said, trying to deflect, "it's a long story."

Riley didn't press her as she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. Zoë climbed into a sitting position that didn't aggravate her back and grabbed her hoodie from the floor to pull over her naked front.

"I got your message the other night," Riley said, not looking at her.

"Oh, yeah sorry to have text so late, I—wait you got my message? Why didn't you call me, I really needed you!"

Riley snapped her head around to face Zoë, her hair flaying about like a wave of fire, "I'm sorry, I thought ignoring each other was our new thing," she spat.

Zoë blinked, her jaw going slack, "Riley, what the hell—"

"Dammit, Zoë! What the is wrong with you?" she cut her off. Lines of worry cut through the anger on her face and she said in a voice that was meant to be much harsher, "You're my best friend, we do everything together. You always tell me everything, even when it's bad or embarrassing, but lately you've been so distant and now you're skipping class to get tattoos without saying a word to me...what is going on?"

Tears were misting up her glasses as she sat there, shaking with anger of maybe fear, Zoë couldn't tell which. She skin around her cheeks and eyes were blotchy and red with emotion and she sniffled, bottom lip trembling. "I want the truth," Riley demanded.

Zoë lowered her gaze. I can't believe I've been such an idiot, she thought with a sudden pang of realization. It hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut, and she gave a long, pained sigh. She'd been so caught up in hunting that she hadn't noticed how little of Riley she was really seeing, and—worst of all—how worried Riley might have been about her. Zoë felt like a piece of shit, but the truth?

If anything, Riley deserved the truth. But Zoë didn't think there was anything she could say to make Riley believe it.

I can't just lose her, Zoë thought in dismay. But what could she say? She inhaled a deep breath and held it for a moment, battling within herself which answer was the right one, then, finally, the words came out in a rush as she exhaled, "The truth is I've been hanging out with a new crowd. They're good guys, really. I'm sorry I didn't notice how much I was leaving you out."

Riley stared at her, anger obvious in her expression. "That's it?" she asked, "You just made some new friends and all of a sudden you don't need me anymore?"

"What?" Zoë shrieked, "No! Riley I'll always need you. You're my girl, you know that. I just got swept up in some stuff."

"What stuff, Zoë?" Riley cried, "Jeez, its like I don't know you anymore."

Zoë winced. This was turning into a nightmare fast. She clenched her jaw, frustrated, and swore to herself. He looked at Riley for a long time, the other girl wearing a mask of anger as they sat there, silent on the bed.

Finally, Zoë closed her eyes and sighed. She opened them again and turned towards Riley. "All right, look," she said, "we need to talk, and I need you to keep an open mind..."

It wasn't easy, but Zoë explained everything.

About her sight, her dream, Luke, Keenan, hunting—everything. Through it all, Riley sat very still, interrupting only every once in a while to ask a very seemingly arbitrary question. Zoë couldn't tell if Riley believed her, thought she was crazy, or was playing some kind of game. When she was done, she leaned back and watched Riley watching her. Zoë bit her lip. "So," she said, "do you believe me?"

Riley just stared at her for a moment, jade eyes searching her face for the truth. She wasn't sure how long they sat like that, silent and tense. Finally, Riley released a long sigh and hung her head. She shook her head and looked back up at Zoë, her expression one of quiet frustration. After a moment Riley asked in a calm, soft voice, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Zoë hesitated before answering, "I thought you'd call me a freak. Or tell someone else and I'd get shut in an asylum somewhere. I've lived with this shit my whole life and even I think it's crazy."

"I'd never do that!" Riley said quickly.

"Yeah, well...what are you going to do?" Zoë turned to her friend and looked at her, at the fading traces of tears in her green eyes, "Do you believe me?"

"I don't know," Riley said, "it's a lot to try and believe."

Zoë scoffed, "You're telling me."

Riley shook her head. "Look, Zoë...I don't know what to believe just yet, but you're my best friend, so maybe...maybe I can believe this if you ask me to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Zoë smiled and threw her arms around Riley, hugging her tightly in a moment of unrequited relief. Riley was stiff against her, the distrust making the lines of her body sharp and cold.

"Thank you," Zoë whispered and hugged her tighter, "I was so afraid you'd hate me if I told you."

Riley softened then, and put her arms around Zoë, matching the strength of her hug, "I'd never hate you," she assured her. Zoë winced as Riley's arms pressed hard against the still tender flesh of her tattoos, but smiled. When at last they broke apart they avoided each other's gaze as they wiped their eyes and cleared their throats, embarrassed.

"So...hunting demons," Riley said at length, nodding to assure herself that, yes, those words did just leave her mouth. She caught Zoë's gaze and asked, "It's pretty dangerous, huh?"

Zoë thought back to the veritable armory in Luke's basement, the vacuum of energy that nearly suffocated her as they exorcised the house in Tulare, and the impending doom of her dream. She shrugged, "Not as much as you'd think."

"Okay then," Riley said in a rush, "just...be careful, okay?"

Zoë gave Riley a reassuring smile, "Always."

"So...need some help on your homework?" Riley asked.

Zoë smiled "How about some lunch first?" Zoë offered as the girls fell back into their normal routine.

Luke

The bleach-white light of the computer screen illuminated the gloomy living room with its ghostly glow as Luke sat in the dark. His eyes were tired from staring at the light of the screen for so long, but he couldn't stop reading.

On Friday night, a hit had appeared on one of the faux paranormal investigation websites Switch helped him run, and no matter how many times Luke read over the accounts, he couldn't seem to find the hole that broke the whole thing apart. Most of the people who posted on these sights were paranoid or seeing things that weren't really there, but once in a great while they found a case that was real. Luke believed this was one of those cases.

"I think we might have a real one," he said as Switch came around the corner holding a cup of steaming coffee for each of them. Switch set one next to Luke on the desk and drank from the second as he perched on a nearby stool, "What makes you say that?"

Normally Luke let Switch deal with these sorts of things. Luke didn't much care for computers, and Switch was keen enough to weed out the real cases from the fake ones, but this had been a tricky one. Luke drank his coffee and turned the screen so that Switch would be able to see.

"No matter how many ways I think about it, this doesn't sound normal," Luke told him.

"So what are you thinking?" he asked in a dull voice, the light of the computer screen filling his glasses with light so that it looked like his eyes were covered by two white blocks.

Luke narrowed his eyes looking back at the screen, his eyes tracing over the words he'd already read a dozen times, "I'm not sure..." he said, bemused.

There was a moment of silence where Luke continued to reread the article. He could feel Switch watching him, but paid it no mind. Finally Switch said, "This seems like something we should talk to Zoë about. She can check it out and see if she can...well, see anything, I guess."

"You might be right..." Luke said quietly, consumed by his own thoughts, "I'll call her in the morning."

The next day Luke woke up, shaved, dressed, and headed out to his car. He wore a white cotton T-shirt and dark jeans over his heavy boots. The March air already hinted at the heat summer promised. Even in the early hours of the day, before the sun brought to life the smells of the scrap yard, he could feel the warmth of the day to come.

The engine roared as he turned it over and shifted into gear. As he did every morning, he made the drive to The Daily Grind and parked three stalls from the front door. The vibrations of the engine left his skin tingling as he got out of his Camaro, smirking at the car alarms that his engine had set off.

As he did every morning, he went inside and grabbed a newspaper from beside the front door and got in line. He was glad to see Zoë at the register; he knew he would to run into her here. When he got to the front of the line, she turned and began to fill his order without him needing to say anything. She turned back with a mug and a scone and started to ring him up without a word.

"I need to talk to you," he told her quietly. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "What's up?" she asked.

"A case," Luke said quietly, "It's not something we can really pin down. We need your help."

"All right," she said, "I'm off in a few hours."

Luke nodded, paid, and took up his usual seat in the corner.

Hours later, Luke stood outside, leaning against his car and finishing off a cigarette as he waited for Zoë. His stomach gave a little rumble of hunger and he groaned. It was getting to be around lunch time, which is usually how long his morning coffee and scone lasted him, and now he was getting hungry.

Finally, he saw Zoë walk out, her hair down and a bag slung over her shoulder, holding a cup of something warm. He exhaled smoke and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gutter. She stood before him, looking expectant. She was wearing a plain, white T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of heavy looking black shoes.

"So," she said, "what's this case?"

"Are you hungry?" he asked her by way of answer. She blinked at him with a furrowed brow, "Um, sure I guess. Why?"

"I'm starving," he told her, "Hop in. I'll fill you in on the details over burgers."

Zoë gave him a little smirk and walked around to the passenger side of the Camaro. Luke got in and they made small talk as they made the short journey to the Peach Pit, a very delicious local restaurant in Tower. They ordered some food and found a table in the corner.

"So, what's going on?" Zoë asked again as she stuffed a handful of fries into her mouth.

Luke took a drink of his soda before answering. "One of Switch's websites came up with something in town that looks interesting," he pulled a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. He had printed out the message from the website to show her.

"Apparently a couple of kids were hanging out at the Mountain View cemetery thinking they could get some evidence of a haunting. Personally, I never put much stock in amateurs who think they're the Ghostbusters just because they have a camera and a tape recorder, but they posted some interesting photos on our site. A lot of them are bugs that they thought were orbs, but there's a few things in there I couldn't explain. And believe me I tried, I was up all night cross-referencing a few of them with images from past cases or debunking sites. I couldn't find a thing."

He watched Zoë's eyes scan the page, the eyes roaming the photos and trailing across the print. She bit her lip, "I can't tell just by looking at the pictures," she looked up at him over the page, "but I'm betting you knew that." She set the pictures on the table and picked up her burger. "So you want to go there and see if any of these pictures are legit?" she asked before taking a large bite.

"That's the plan," Luke said.

Zoë continued looking over the pictures as she chewed, "Well...at first glance it looks like bullshit," she said around her food. She swallowed and went on. "But I guess anything's worth looking into. Plus it'll get me out of the house for a while."

Luke smirked. "When can you be ready?"

Zoë & Keenan

After lunch Luke took Zoë home. She spent the rest of the day finishing up some homework, doodling in front of the TV, and shooting the breeze with Riley on their phones.

When night finally fell and her parents went to sleep, Zoë waited an hour before texting Luke. She got dressed, locked Eddie in his cage, and climbed out her window, moving with a careful grace and stealth that can only be honed by years of practice. With light steps she walked across the roof and climbed down the drain pipe to the ground bellow.

Luke was waiting for her a block away so the rumble of his car wouldn't wake her parents. Zoë was glad to see Farrell sitting in the front seat as she slid into the back. She hadn't been alone with Luke very often since he'd kissed her a week ago and she wasn't sure what would happen if they didn't have company.

"Where are Switch and Damien?" she asked as she buckled in.

"Couldn't make it," Luke explained as he pulled away from the curb, "Besides, we don't expect this to be a very big deal."

Zoë nodded. They rode in silence for a time, the only sound the rumble of the Camaro's engine. "So Zoë," Farrell began when they were about half way there, "your birthday is coming up, right?"

Zoë blinked. "Um, yes it's the week after next, how did you know?"

"We have our ways," he assured her, "We all talked about it, and we'd like to throw you a party in a few days, do you think you'd be able to come?"

Zoë found herself smiling wide. "Wow, really?"

"Yeah," Luke said, catching her eye in the rear-view mirror, "My place next weekend?"

"S-sure!" Zoë said, too excited to keep her words straight. Zoë was an only child and didn't have many friends, so her birthday parties had always been very small, but the idea of having a party with so many people excited her, washing away the anxiety of the mission ahead. She smiled all the way to the graveyard.

Mountain View Cemetery was one of the last cemeteries in the city that still had above ground tombstones. It was old. Really old. It had been filled up a few years ago, so no one could be buried there without removing previous tenants.

The haunting aura of the cemetery made the hairs on the back of Zoë's neck stand on end, and even though the night was comfortably warm, Zoë felt cold. Somehow it just felt wrong to be there; like she was walking in on something she wasn't supposed to know, or intruding on something private.

As they piled out of Luke's car, Zoë looked around. The kids from the website thought they'd seen some kind of spirits here, but somehow Zoë didn't find that odd. It was a place for the dead—the final resting place.

"See anything?" Luke asked beside her. Zoë looked up too fast, and a sharp pain struck the side of her neck followed by a hot wave as she pinched a nerve.

"Not yet," she said, rubbing her neck, "Let's walk around a bit before we call it quits though, this place is really big."

Luke nodded and Farrell fell into step with them, the three of the walking abreast down the isles of graves with Zoë in the middle.

Keenan stood in the darkness of the cemetery, two long-stemmed roses held tenuously in his right hand as he stared at the names on the stone:

In Loving Memory of

Silas and Katrina Pierce.

1972-7007 1978-2007

If our love could build a bridge, our memories a lane, we would build a path to Heaven, just to be with you again.

It had been four years since his parents' ashes had been buried side by side in this plot. Every year he came late at night to pay his respects; alone, with the healing light of the moon on his back like a soothing blanket. Each year he came to say he was sorry, and to try and convince himself that it wasn't his fault.

And yet looking at the tombstone, at the surname written there, it was hard not to dwell on the past.

Keenan's real last name was Pierce, like his uncle, but after his parent's had been killed and he had become Eric and Elipsy's legal guardian he'd changed it to Valentine and moved them someplace close to family where he thought they'd all be safe. Little had he known that the hunters would soon settle there too.

Since then he'd been working three jobs and gave up school to support his brother and sister and had been trying to save up enough money to find a new place to live after they graduated. There were days when that plan seemed more and more like a daydream.

Keenan knelt and placed the roses at the foot of the stone and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He would never—could never—admit it, but sometimes he felt the pressure was too much to handle. Watching after the twins, leading and protecting the pack, working three jobs just to provide for his family; sometimes he felt he might collapse under the weight of it all. He'd given up so much to take care of his family, and every year that passed he felt his own dreams slip further and further away.

He sniffled, holding back tears, and caught the distinct aroma of smoke, coffee and cinnamon buried beneath the choking miasma of perfumed flowers. His eyes widened and his breath came to a shuddering halt on his lips.

Zoë...?

Keenan fell back from his knees into a crouch so he was balanced on the balls of his feet. He sniffed at the air again and there was no mistaking it this time: she was here, but she wasn't alone. There was another smell on the wind—silver, stale beer, and blood—that scent could only belong to one man.

Keeping low to the ground, he moved between the tombstones, tasting the air. A myriad of aromas drifted in from as many sides, each one telling him the same thing: he was outnumbered.

Dammit, he thought, biting his tongue to keep from swearing aloud and risk getting caught. His mind worked quickly as he tried to move into a better hiding position—he had one of two options: fight or flight.

Keenan did not have to look to know that the gibbous moon was already high in the night sky. He could feel the lunar pull like an ocean wave. The constant push and tug of the moon reminded him daily of his other half—the beast within.

A silent snarl began to split his lips. It was not quite full, but the strength of the moon was with him that night. He could feel it coursing through him. With each beat of his heart a pulse of heat spread out from his chest and into his extremities leaving a rush of strength in its wake. His blood coursed with the heat and energy of the moon's light, with the power of the wolf within.

And soon there would be blood, and bone, and marrow. Soon there would be muscle, and flesh, and tendon. His mouth began to water as he allowed himself to slip into the change.

"You!" a sudden cry caught his attention. He whipped around and saw the Indian man that ran with Luke—Farrell, he though his name was.

Instinct left no room for second thoughts in his mind, and Keenan pounced, taking Farrell to the ground. He tried to scream, but the impact stole the breath from his lungs, and he made a pained, grunting sound.

Blood... his wolf-mind howled, Kill!

Zoë made her way through the cemetery, her hands in her pockets. She, Luke, and Farrell had split up a ways back, figuring they'd cover more ground. Luke and Farrell both had what they called "EMF detectors" that Switch had made. EMF stood for Electro-Magnetic Fields, which creatures from the beyond were supposed to disrupt. Even if Zoë hadn't been beside them, they'd be able to pick up on whether or not something interesting was happening.

Zoë wondered if they were having more luck than she was.

She'd been wandering around absently, keeping an eye out for anything that looked like it was from the other side, but so far she hadn't noticed anything.

As she walked along, a small prickle of goosebumps began to crawl up her arms and legs, a chill settling in her stomach. It was the same discomfort that came with the shadows and other beings of darkness. She stopped and looked around but couldn't see anything. Her eyes narrowed as they tracked through the darkness, but found nothing.

Suddenly a voice rang out in the night, "You!"

Farrell?

There was a muffled scream and then something hitting the ground. Zoë looked around trying to find the source but it was too far away, the noise bouncing off several of the tombstones nearby. It could have come from anywhere. There was a growl and a sharp, short barking sound and Zoë felt the hair of the back of her neck stand on end.

She spun in a circle, trying to think of where to go.

Dammit, she thought angrily and picked a direction and took off. She rounded a series of large tombstones like a thick fence of granite and came to a skidding halt on the well-kempt grass of the graveyard. She gasped as her heart leapt into her throat.

Farrell was on the ground a little ways away, unconscious but seemingly unhurt. It took her a moment to recognize the figure kneeling over him as Keenan. His hands had elongated into claws, the ridge of his brows had become more pronounced, both his top and bottom canines of his teeth had grown into dangerous fangs, and his ears had grown slightly and become pointed, his hair shaggier than she remembered.

He growled a warning at her, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl.

Zoë never understood why she did what she did that night, how she had summoned the courage to run at Keenan and barrel into him with her shoulder, or how she found the strength to knock him off Farrell. But she did.

Her legs pumped without her telling them to, propelling her across the cemetery. She leapt and knocked Keenan away from Farrell, barreling her shoulder into his chest. She stumbled to the ground at Farrell's feet and nearly fell. She managed to keep her feet under her and regain her balance before Keenan got up.

Shit, Zoë swore internally, suddenly realizing what she had just done. Spikes of pain screamed in her shoulder, waves of agony flushed through her arm. Is it dislocated? she wondered arbitrarily, wincing at the pain. She had to bite her lip to stop from screaming. She could taste the copper of the blood pooling on her lip as she ripped the skin with her teeth.

"What do you think you're doing?" she screamed at Keenan, spraying blood and spittle.

His brows met as he growled, a deep throaty sound like gravel and thunder. "ZOË, STAY OUT OF THIS," he said, his voice other-worldly and teeming with malice.

Keenan glared at her with those monstrous yellow eyes, and as he stepped forward Zoë knew that he meant to kill. His lips peeled back from his teeth and he released what sounded like a roar of anger and hatred at Zoë.

There was the sound of crunching bones as Keenan collapsed onto all fours. The ridge of his spine began to pop and jerk as it transformed under his shirt. His shirt and pants tore along the seams as his new form became too much for the fabric of his clothes.

Bones snapped and slurched as they moved beneath skin and muscle. It was as though parts of his insides were fighting to be on the outside. Limbs didn't move on Keenan the way they were meant to on other humans; sounds meant for a human mouth were not the ones coming from his throat and bleeding lips.

Flesh tore from his face and arms as his body became something else. A thick, black fur began to grow from every pore across Keenan's flesh as bones and muscle continued to shift beneath his skin. His body had become an avatar of chaos.

All other sound seemed to die, and there was nothing but those terrible screams and the snapping of bones.

Zoë thought she was going to be sick.

His chest expanded so violently it looked as though his heart had exploded, the silhouette of his agony emphasized by the arch of his back. His shoulders grew, the ridge on his back looked almost like spikes. He tossed his head back and he released a howl of ecstasy and pain as he called to the moon like a lover, chords of blood and spittle threaded between the sharp teeth of his new maw.

And so Keenan stood before her as his true self. Thick black fur covered his entire body. His ears were flattened against the side of his head, his face was contorted into a snarl as he bared his teeth at her. Blood dripped from his claws where nails had once been, his hands now massive distortions of his human appendages. Beneath the fur it was obvious that chorded muscles waited to pump and run, tear and kill. A bushy tail stood on end behind him—an involuntary motion as he poised to strike.

Zoë's scream died in her mouth.

He was terrifying, he was every nightmare she had ever had, and watching him become this thing made her sick. She collapsed to her knees as the bile exploded from her mouth like a bottle of soda that someone shook too hard.

This is how I'm going to die, she couldn't help but think, in a graveyard with the taste of vomit in my mouth.

"Run!" someone shouted, and Zoë looked up to see Luke standing before her, stooped into a fighting position with his back to her, a huge Rambo knife at the ready.

Where did that come from?

"Luke..." Zoë said. He was here, standing between Zoë, Farrell, and the monster that was her friend.

"Go!" he shouted at them, never taking his eyes off Keenan.

"SO," said that otherworldly voice, a voice that was thunder and darkness and animal and chaos, "IT COMES TO THIS..."

"Leave my friends out of this, monster," Luke warned.

Keenan snarled, but Luke dodged forward under Keenan's guard and stabbed him in the side. Keenan roared in pain—more akin to a bear than a wolf—but as the knife came back out, Zoë watched as the wound sealed itself back up, skin and fur stitching back together so that all that remained was a blood stain.

He's...immortal...?

"Run! Now!" Luke shouted at her and Farrell, and then turned and dashed away; Keenan following as though it were some kind of sick game.

Farrell was on his feet by then, his breathing labored. "Z-Zoë...?" he stammered.

Zoë watched as Keenan chased Luke through the graveyard, moving with a strength and speed that mortal men could not match. He'd catch up in no time; he'd shred Luke to pieces. Zoë stood up, her shoulder screaming as she did so, she grimaced against the pain.

"No..." she said through gritted teeth as her resolve pounded through the pain and shock. "I won't let it happen. I won't let anyone die tonight!"

She was scared, terrified, but she couldn't let it end this way. She couldn't lose someone to the darkness, even if that piece of darkness was also her friend.

She looked at Farrell over her shoulder. "Stay here," she said, the pain in her arm intensifying.

Farrell's expression was one of utter surprise. He reached for words he couldn't find, and Zoë started chasing after Keenan and Luke before Farrell could stop her.

"T-That's my line!" he finally called after her, but Zoë was already gone.

Kill, his wolf-mind screamed, Kill!

And he wanted to. Here he was, at long last, the man who had killed his parents; the man who had taken everything away. The man who had ruined his life.

And on this, the anniversary of his parents' death, he would see that man die.

Shouts came from other ends of the cemetery as he gave chase. The hunt was on—the wolf and the hunter. But Keenan had no illusions of who would be dying that night. Tonight was a night for death, for blood, for vengeance.

Luke ducked behind a tree like a frightened rabbit. Keenan's momentum propelled him past the ancient elm, but he leapt and turned in the air. As he came back down he dug the claws of his hands and feet into the soft earth to slow his momentum, and kicked off from the earth propelling himself at Luke. Luke jumped out of the way as Keenan's claw lashed out, talons digging into brittle bark, leaving four long, deep gouges in the meat of the trunk.

Suddenly, Luke jumped on his back, and a heavy knife slid into his shoulder. His back arched and he roared, but Luke held on tight. The knife, while large, was not silver. There was pain, but Keenan's bloodlust took that pain and used it to fuel itself—a hunger that could never be quelled; thirst that could never be sated.

Reaching up he snatched at the man, grabbing a fistful of jacket, and threw him. He watched Luke cartwheel through the air, flailing helplessly until he fell atop a tombstone and went limp.

Keenan allowed himself a chuckle—a deep, throaty sound like gravel grinding into itself.

The knife was still stuck in his shoulder. He reached up with his opposite claw and plucked it out with a grunt of irritation. His flesh itched where the wound began to close beneath the healing light of the moon.

Suddenly, something hard—a stone—collided with the side of his face, sending a sharp pain through his skull. He shook his head to stop the ringing and looked around for his assailant.

"I'm not done yet, you animal!" Luke shouted, his words slurring with agony, and threw another rock which found its mark above his left eye. Bells rang as the rock shattered against his skull and he whipped around to face the taunting murderer. Luke was standing there in a readied stance. Keenan roared his hatred and lunged, but the hunter was faster and his claw cut only air. He turned again, searching for his prey.

"YOU CAN'T RUN FOREVER!" he bellowed.

"Who's running?" a voice called back, "I'm here to make sure you don't take any more lives tonight!" Luke snarled behind him and Keenan whirled to face his enemy. The man was in a readied stance. He'd recovered his Rambo knife, and had it poised and at the ready. "I'll make sure of it..." he threatened as his gunmetal-grey eyes narrowed.

"THE ONLY BLOOD I WANT..." Keenan said as his claw dashed out too fast for Luke to follow. He caught Luke somewhere on his torso, smacking him hard enough to send him careening into another tombstone. He heard Luke scream and he smashed into the stone with a night piercing crash of bone and granite, "IS YOURS!"

Luke cried out in pain as he fell to the green grass below. Keenan approached with thundering steps as Luke tried to recover, but he was too slow. Keenan gathered the front of Luke's shirt in his claw and lifted him off the ground so that his feet dangled uselessly.

Luke wouldn't go down without a fight. Injured as he was, the hunter managed to slash his knife across Keenan's cheek with a white hot flash of pain that turned Keenan's head.

He kept a firm hold of Luke's shirt as he looked back to the man, the wound already healing, but not before a stem of blood washed over the side of the wolf's face, dampening his blue-black fur. Keenan growled, low and menacing, baring teeth in a sound like distant thunder.

Keenan could see the fear in the man's eyes, but to his credit he did not balk. In a desperate move, Luke stabbed his knife deep into Keenan's forearm. Pain dug deep into his muscle, but the knife was not silver and could not harm him. The moon was with him that night. Keenan didn't so much as cry out, much less relent his hold of the man who murdered his parents.

Desperate, Luke twisted the knife inside the muscle of Keenan's arm with a grunt, and Keenan's muscle gave way under the damage. Luke dropped to the ground, but Keenan kept his grip on his shirt, even as it began to shred beneath his claws.

Keenan reached over and plucked the knife from his arm and threw it away. The moon may not have been full, but it filled him with power, and rage, and hunger.

Kill!

Keenan's smile was the thing of nightmares as he lifted a massive claw, poised to strike.

"AND NOW...YOU DIE. MONSTER!"

"Stop!" came a sudden cry, and Zoë was there. She threw herself across Luke, shielding him with herself. Her eyes were shut tightly and the remnant of tears sat in the creases her skin made. He could feel her trembling as her hands wrapped around his massive claw, hear her heart beating so fast it was liable to explode. He could smell the sweat and fear that clung to her, drowning out the miasma of flowers.

Keenan faltered, but caught himself. He could not let this girl stand in his way. "MOVE!" he growled.

She flinched, but did not move. "I won't!" she shouted, shutting her eyes tightly even as she raised her voice, "I won't let anyone die tonight!"

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HE'S DONE?" Keenan demanded in a low growl.

Zoë shook her head. "I don't care!" She opened her eyes then, those big brown eyes, and looked up at him. In the light of the moon he could see the tears that glistened at the edges of her eyes but would not fall. "Please Keenan," she all but whispered, "I'm begging you. Please..."

Keenan was so close. He could kill her too—swat her away like a bug and kill Luke, be done with it once and for all. He'd be safe, his family would be safe, his parents would have justice. It would be so easy.

But he stayed his hand. As much as he wanted Luke dead, he couldn't hurt Zoë to do it.

He strained against his wolf-mind that told him to bite, to kill, the side of his mind that was filled with a primal, animalistic rage that called for carnage, and let go of Luke's shirt. He stepped back, his massive claw falling out of Zoë's suddenly tiny mahogany hands.

"FOR YOU, THEN..." he heard himself say.

Zoë looked up at him as he backed away. He watched her quiver, watched her hold back the frightened tears that still struggled at the edges of her eyes. For all her faults, Zoë Marsh was nothing if not brave.

Keenan lowered his gaze as the fire of his rage began to dim. He started away, feeling the change in him beginning to ebb.

Luke would not let things end. "No..." he grimaced, not ready to give up the fight. Keenan turned back and roared in his face—a warning to stay down. He had spared Luke's life that night, and he should be grateful.

Zoë wrapped her arms around Luke's neck, but kept her eyes on Keenan. It seemed all that needed to be said was in those eyes.

So, this is where you stand... he thought bitterly. Keenan gave a final snort of derision, turned, and ran into the night.

Luke

"I think you need to go to the emergency room," Zoë said as, broken and bloodied, everyone began to make their way back to the Camaro.

"No hospitals," Luke groaned, supported by Farrell. One eye was swollen painfully shut. A gash in his head had just barely stopped bleeding, but the throbbing ache of it made him dizzy. He clutched one hand around his ribs, certain they were either bruised or broken, the other slung around Farrell's shoulders, and he was limping, bad, his ankle screaming whenever he put pressure on it.

He was hurt, but his pride had taken more of a beating than his body. That wolf would have taken his head if it hadn't have been for Zoë.

Why didn't he just kill her too? he kept asking himself all the long...long...long walk back to the car. Zoë gave him a look as she cradled her dislocated shoulder. "You can't even walk!" she chastised.

Luke and Farrell stopped and exchanged looks. Farrell said nothing, and Luke gave a curt nod. Farrell disentangled himself from Luke, who inhaled a sharp breath and winced as he rose to his full height. The pain wracked his body, but he wouldn't allow himself to show weakness. He looked at Zoë, "Trust me," he assured her as he started to limp to the car. "Hospitals ask questions, and that's the last thing we need right now."

Zoë's brows furrowed as she slowed her pace to match his. "But you're hurt!" she protested. Luke couldn't help but give a wry smile, even though it made his jaw ache. "I'll be fine," he promised. "Let's just get back to the house and get that shoulder relocated."

Zoë looked down at her arm, and nodded silently.

The drive home was as speedy as possible, groans erupting through the car whenever even the smallest bump was hit. Under the cover of night, the hunters staggered into the house with their figurative tails tucked between their legs. Farrell and Zoë had managed to make it out with a few scratches and bruises, but Luke had been thrashed.

When they arrived back at the scrapyard they were surprised to see Damien was there in his police uniform. He rushed to Farrell when they came in, looking concerned, "What happened?" he demanded.

Zoë shrugged her good shoulder, "Long story," she said, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to pick Farrell up," he said, "I didn't think you guys would end up like this. Was there something at the graveyard after all?"

"No," Luke told him with an air of finality as he sunk into the warm embrace of his crappy sofa. Damien didn't press further.

Farrell limped over to the sink where he pulled out the first aid kit—a huge black duffle bag of, mostly disorganized, meatball surgery equipment—and a half-empty bottle of spiced whisky from the liquor cabinet. Luke sighed as he fell further into the couch. He felt like hell. Farrell limped over to Luke as Damien set to properly setting Zoë's shoulder.

Farrell grunted against the pain in his leg as she sat on the edge of the trunk that served as a coffee table and faced Luke. "Let me see," he said motioning with his hands for him to lift his shirt. Luke smirked, "At least buy me dinner first."

Farrell rolled his eyes. "I'm out of your league, old man. Now, off."

A flaring pain in his ribs made it difficult to pull it off himself, and much to his chagrin, Farrell had to help him. The younger man examined Luke's rib carefully, pressing gently against them, and Luke winced as the pain stabbed at him.

"Looks like they're just bruised," Farrell told him, "It's hard to tell with out the right equipment, but they don't feel broken. Still, you really need to be careful for a while. If I'm wrong it could be fatal."

"So don't be wrong," Luke grumbled.

Farrell gave him a jaded glare, "You really should go to a hospital."

"Hospitals—"

"Ask questions, I know. All right...just hold still and try not to scream, okay?" Farrell said as he pressed the bottle of whisky into Luke's palm.

Some time later Luke sat on the edge of the couch as Farrell bandaged his head. He smirked, "It's amazing what I can do with a surgeon's needle and some fishing line. I'm the god of meatball medicine."

"Yes you are, baby," Damien said, placating, as he gave Farrell a passing kiss on the brow. "How's your leg?"

"I just hyper-extended it," he explained as he taped the edge of the bandage down around Luke's head, "I'll be fine."

Which was more than could be said of Luke.

Farrell had sewn up a gash on his head, wrapped his bruised ribs to keep him from moving too much and aggravating them, braced a hyper-extended knee, a twisted ankle, and a torn ligament in his wrist, and cleaned out over a dozen abrasions with antibacterial cloths and salves. Luke was, in a word, benched.

He leaned back into the couch, his ribs complaining, and closed his eyes against the pain.

He still wasn't quite sure how it all pieced together. Keenan had had him...he'd had him. If it hadn't been for Zoë, Luke would be dead right now.

The way it happened... he thought, they just stared at each other. He could have easily killed her to get to me. But why didn't he? What stopped him from knocking her aside?

He opened one eye and looked over to where Farrell was examining Zoë's shoulder to see if Damien had set it right, She's hiding something...

Luke knew Keenan would go to almost any lengths to kill him, but he'd stopped because of her. He swallowed his anger and released an anxious breath through his nostrils.

When Farrell was finally done with Zoë's shoulder, he turned back into the living room. Luke could not help but realize how very tired he looked, even as the young man looked down at him with fists on his hips, "All right, old man, take it easy. I'll be back to check on you tomorrow. You might have a concussion, so don't fall asleep for a few hours, at least."

Luke gave a half-hearted smile, "Thank you, nurse," he said. Farrell gave a tired half-smile and headed for the door. Damien looked to Zoë. "C'mon, I'll give you a lift," he said.

"Sure," she said and started to grab her hoodie.

"Actually," Luke stopped her, "there was something I wanted to talk to you about, Zoë." He looked at Farrell. "I'll give her a lift after."

Farrell gave him a look. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're pretty banged up. And I think drunk."

Luke shrugged one shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant, but he had to suppress a groan. The whisky had worked nicely to dull the pain, but he could still feel the ache beneath his own bravado, and it was hard to catch a full breath while his ribs were trying to mend themselves. Farrell saw it, but Damien was yawning and giving him a death glare that said I-want-to-go-home-now.

Besides, Luke could tell he was too tired to really argue the point. Zoë looked at them, "I can walk home later," she assured them, "It isn't too far. I'll make sure he doesn't fall asleep too soon, as well."

Farrell threw his hands in the air, defeated, and bid them good-bye. As the men left Zoë plopped down on the couch with a tired sigh. "What's up?" she asked, giving Luke a sidelong glance. Wordlessly, Luke passed her the whiskey "Want a drink?" he asked.

She seemed to hesitate, but in the end she took the bottle from him. "Sure," she said and took a swig. She sighed and leaned back into the couch with him, curling her legs up under her. She kept the bottle. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked taking another drink.

Luke chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, wondering how to word it. "What happened earlier, when that wolf almost had me," Luke began slowly, "how did you do that?"

"Do what?" Zoë asked as she took another swig of whisky.

"How did you convince him to stop?"

Zoë didn't say anything for a long time, just looked down at the bottle in her hands, "It's...complicated," she said and took another drink. Luke narrowed his eyes, "Complicated how?"

"Look, I have no idea why he let us go," she said hurriedly, "The whole time I just kept thinking that he was going to kill us. I was so sure I was going to die. I don't know what made him stop...I'm just glad he did."

Luke looked at her for a long time as she cradled the bottle, just to have something to do with her hands, then took another drink.

"Maybe you should slow down on that," he said.

"Maybe you should mind your own business," she spat back and took another long draw. She coughed as she took the bottle from her lips, and Luke pulled the bottle from her hands before she could recover. He winced as he leaned forward to set the bottle on the floor, since he couldn't make it to the table. Zoë sighed and ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it, but said nothing. They were silent for a long time, and Luke just looked at her.

She was shaking a little, but the house was too warm for it to be from cold. That whelp of a wolf had frightened her. And despite that fear, she had saved him and Farrell. If she hadn't been there, they both could very well have died that night.

And I'm questioning her like she did something wrong, he thought with a small pang of guilt.

Sitting beside her on the couch he could smell the light scent of the perfume he'd given her for Valentines day—a drop of flowers in the sea of blood that he reeked of. He leaned forward, his whole body complaining in different ways, and took Zoë's hand in his own. She looked up at him. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said, "You saved my life tonight. You saved both of us. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't stepped in... Thank you." He kissed the palm of her hand.

Zoë blushed furiously and her voice quivered when she said, "Ah, well...y'know it was nothing."

Luke found himself smiling. He kissed her palm again, looking up at her to study her reaction. She looked nervous but didn't say anything.

He looked down at the leather bands that always covered her wrists. Gently, he moved to take one of the leather bands off. Zoë tried to jerk her hand away. "Don't!" she gasped.

Luke held her gaze as his hand enveloped hers, and slowly, very slowly, he removed one cuff, and then the other. He looked down at her wrists. There were soft tan lines where her bracelets usually sat, and a pair of thick, garish scars that traveled the width of each wrist. Each scar was about the width and length of his forefinger. It was as though she had tried to carve her hands off to get to the arteries.

They say people that cut themselves horizontally across the wrist don't really mean it when they say they want to die, that only the ones who cut vertically along the forearm and wrist really mean business. But looking down at Zoë's scars it was hard to imagine anyone who had ever wanted to die more.

He looked up at her, tears that would not fall glistening in her eyes as she shook like a leaf.

"When?" he asked, absently stroking the soft flesh of the scar with one thumb.

"I..." she choked, "I was eleven. I didn't understand how to avoid the freaks I saw. They..." she stopped and trailed off for a moment, "I was scared, but that was a long time ago. I'm not that person anymore. I haven't been for a long time...but the scars are still there."

Poor creature, he thought as she looked away, ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he told her.

She forced a smile, and even with tears in her eyes it was sweet, somehow innocent, "Hey, we all have our skeletons, right?" Zoë pulled her hands away from his and reached for the leather bands she hid behind, but Luke caught her hand, and she looked up at him.

He pulled her closer. She made a surprised sound, but made no move to stop him. Slowly, he tipped her head up to his and leaned down over her. She whispered his name in a halting manner before he possessed her lips. Her lips tasted of whisky and sugar and blood as she quivered beneath him.

Her eyes went wide for a moment, and then slowly she closed them, letting out a soft, eager moan. Her lips were warm against his, and despite all the cuts and bruises, felt good. His bruised fingers tangled themselves in her hair and slowly her hands moved up and found his shoulders. Their tongues met as he dragged her closer, writhing together in a dizzying dance. Luke heard himself moaning as he leaned back and into the couch, pulling her atop him so that she straddled him with those thick, beautiful legs. The pain in his ribs and back flared to life as her weight settled on his lap and he winced, biting his tongue to stifle a cry of pain.

She froze and pulled away to look down at him. "Are you all right?" she asked, swooning a little as the whisky hit her all at once.

"Never better," he smiled, "So, is this what you had in mind when you said you'd keep me awake?"

Zoë smiled languidly, drunk. He tucked a strand of hair behind

her ear and she blushed beautifully, eyes glassy and dark.

She placed her hands on the back of the couch and leaned back down to kiss him. She was trying not to put any undue pressure on his ribs, but it was the sweet pain of it all that took his breath away. He ran his hands over her thighs and hips, resting his hands in the small of her back and she ground her pelvis into his, stirring him.

A quaking of need and desire pounded through his pain and fatigue, and he pulled her closer, drawing out another gasp from her soft lips. For a while he lost himself in her, in her smell, in her taste, in the sensation of her body against his. His hands traveled the length of her, her form and curves. He could have stayed like that for hours, just kissing her—even with the pain. But then she was pulling away.

No, he thought, Don't go.

"Wait, Luke...I—I can't do this," she said, her breath heavy, goosebumps pimpling the skin on her arms.

"Why not?" He looked up at her, his hands on her hips, silently begging her to come closer.

Zoë licked her lips, blushing furiously as she refused to meet his gaze, "I just—I mean I did, for a long time—but, I just..." she trailed off, searching for the right words, and Luke smirked.

He began kissing her again, trying to keep her mind from finding a reason to tell him no. He kissed her mouth, nibbled her ears, and kissed her throat, all the while his hands roamed her body like she was something he had never known before. With each kiss, he felt Zoë's resolve chipping away. He kissed her all over until she was breathless and shivering.

"This is just a one night thing though," she whispered against his lips, breathless.

He smiled and kissed her throat, tasting her skin. She arched her back and called out his name as his hands slipped beneath her shirt.

Keenan

In his human form, Keenan snuck in the backdoor of his house, his shredded clothes hanging loosely over him. He'd hid in the mausoleum at the graveyard until the hunters had gone. Then, tired and thirsty, he made his way back to his truck and drove home.

He came in through the back door, quiet as he could so as not to wake his brother or sister. Being shoeless helped that a lot, but walking right into his sister who was sitting up in her hot pink bathrobe with a tub of ice-cream and a sour expression did not.

She'd left the lights off, but the curtains were parted from the small kitchen window, letting a strong glow of moonlight pool on the floor and over the counter tops. A single lamp was alight in the living room, giving the room a dull orange glow that leaked into the small moonlit kitchen.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" she asked him as she set the spoon down into the tub and stood up. Keenan hated how short Elipsy wore all of her skirts and shorts but especially that damn bathrobe.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" he grumbled as he walked inside. "And cover up, would you?"

Elipsy made a rude sound and as she jammed her hands onto her hips. She looked him up and down, and then her eyes went wide, her expression stretched with worry. "What happened to you?"

Keenan didn't answer. He grabbed a cup out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap, drank from it heavily until it was drained, then filled it and drained it again. He set the cup down in the sink and sighed, tired. He felt Elipsy's hand on his shoulder, but he didn't look at her.

"Keenan..." she said, worry making her voice shudder.

"It's nothing," he lied, but she knew. She made him look at her, and he made a rude sound and looked away again. He hesitated a moment, closing his aching eyes. "I was at the cemetery," he said, "visiting mom and dad."

"Why are your clothes in shreds? Wait...Keenan whose blood is that?"

"Mine," he grumbled tersely.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded shrilly.

Keenan hesitated again. "Hunters..." he said simply, letting the word out in a growl.

"Keenan!" Elipsy hissed.

"I'm fine," he assured her, looking her in the eyes. "I left."

She punched him in the arm. "Don't you dare lie to me! If you bolted then why do you look like you've been dancing with a lawn mower?"

Keenan turned and leaned against the sink, folding his arms over his chest. "He was there," he admitted.

Elipsy's lavender eyes went wide. He could see all the hope and fear of the world in those eyes, "And...?"

Keenan fought to keep the anger from his face, but it only made it all the more obvious. His teeth hurt when he spoke through them, his hands balling into fists. "I had him," he growled, looking down at the hand that had grasped Luke's shirt. "I had him right there in the palm of my hand..."

An image of Zoë flashed through his mind, and his shoulders slumped as the anger coiled inside his chest and fell into his stomach. He dropped his hand to his side with an exasperated sigh and hung his head. "And I let him go."

"What?" Elipsy exclaimed, her brows knitting together. "How could you...why would you do that?" she demanded, her hands tense claws before her, her expression dismayed.

Keenan's eyes found a corner of the room and locked there for no particular reason. It was an excuse to look at anything but his sister just then. He had always promised he would be truthful to his pack, and that included his sister. "Because she asked me to," he whispered.

Elipsy made a sound that wasn't quite confusion, and wasn't quite anger. Keenan still wouldn't look at her, but Elipsy's voice was flat when she said, "You mean the Marsh girl, don't you? Zoë."

"Yes," Keenan said. For the first time he realized how very tired he was, how much his eyes hurt, how heavy everything felt.

Elipsy moved to stand before him, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Oh you big dummy," she said, her hand on his cheek. "Don't you see what's happening?"

He stepped away from her. "It's not like that," he scoffed, heading for his room, agitated. "Go to bed, it's late."

"Then why'd you let him go?" Elipsy demanded, still standing in the kitchen. Keenan stopped, but did not turn to regard his sister. A pang went through his heart. The anger boiled up inside him all over again, and his hands tightened into fists. He didn't look at her though. He couldn't. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't handle the judgment of her gaze.

Because she asked me to, was all the answer he knew. He looked down at his hand again. I let him slip through my fingers...

"Go to bed," he told her with finality, and headed to his room.

Luke

"What's this?" Zoë asked as she opened another present. Her birthday wasn't for a few more days, but Luke and the others were throwing her a birthday party anyway. There wasn't much of chance any of them would manage to fit in at her real birthday party, so this was a little something from the hunters. There was cake, and music, and ice cream, and soda, and presents, and all the things a birthday needed. Luke's grandmother had always made a big deal out of birthdays. She said when you live as dangerously as they did, it was important to celebrate life, and remember all the good things he had done, all the people he had saved. He wanted Zoë to have a hunter's birthday.

It had been a little over a week since the graveyard, and Luke was still pretty banged up, which made having the party at his house somewhat of a convenience since he was still out of commission. And it was a great excuse for him to eat more cake.

"I figured you could use a new sketch book," Farrell said as Zoë tore away the green wrapping and blue bow. "I noticed your other one was full."

Zoë smiled wide. "Thank you Farrell, I love it!"

"Open this one next!" Damien said as he handed her Luke's present.

The two of them hadn't told anyone about the night they spent together. After all, for the time being Zoë was still underage, not to mention that if the others knew things could get awkward quickly. Besides, Luke was having fun keeping this little secret. It had been a long time since he'd been with anyone in any capacity, and being with Zoë had made him very happy. He wanted to keep that to himself for as long as he could.

Zoë took the gift Damien handed her. "Who's this one from?" she asked.

"Me," Luke said in a velvety basso. The wrapping was of a dark purple with intricate and beautiful Celtic knotwork in lavender.

"Ooh, Luke's it's so pretty!" she squealed.

He was leaning against the wall with a cup in his hand and a goofy party hat on, one hand in the pocket of his jeans. He lifted his cup to her and winked. She smiled and slowly started to slowly, carefully, peel away the paper, trying not to rip it.

"Tear the damn thing already!" Luke called and everyone laughed. Zoë snickered and tore at the present like a rat at cheese. She let the wrapping fall to the floor and removed the lid of the white shoe box beneath.

Zoë gasped and pulled the dreamcatcher out of its box.

It had two openings between the weaving, which twisted into two rings. The rings were wrapped in teal leather with pale white weaves, lengths of russet leather dangled from the teal rings adorned with beige feathers, and turquoise and silver beads.

"It's beautiful..." she breathed. She looked up at Luke. "Luke, thank you."

Luke gave her a knowing smile and took a drink of his rum and soda. Damien handed Zoë another present, from Switch which turned out to be a set of lime green, noise-canceling headphones; and finally Damien's present of a set of graphite art pencils to compliment her new sketch book.

After presents, they cut the cake and sat around laughing at jokes or funny stories until sunset. As the party wound down everyone began cleaning up the little bits of trash here or there and put the cake in the fridge. Zoë put her gifts into her school bag so she could sneak them into her house without her parents noticing and turned to the four of them.

"Guys this really means a lot to me," she said, "Really, you didn't have to do any of this."

Farrell gave a warm smile, "Don't be silly kiddo," he said.

"You may not have been here long," Damien continued for him, "but we all kinda think of you as a little sister now."

Zoë gave a half smile and gave them all a look of gratitude. They said their good-byes then and started heading out—Switch on his motorcycle, Damien and Farrell in their van, and Zoë on her bike.

"Hang on," Luke said as Zoë started to leave. She turned around, looking expectant. "What's up?"

Luke smiled. "I forgot to give you something."

He closed the gap between them with a single, long stride and leaned down and kissed her. She made a small surprised sound as he pressed his lips to hers and wrapped his arms around her. She let him linger there for a moment before she broke away and gently pushed him back. "Luke, what are you doing?" she asked with a nervous laugh.

Luke blinked, confused, "I thought we...after last week—"

"Luke," Zoë cut him off in a gentle but firm tone. She took a step away from him and hugged herself. "I like you...a lot, and I care about you, but I told you, that was a one-night thing. We're not together. It...it was just sex."

Luke frowned, feeling his cheeks flush and grow red, much to his chagrin.

"Oh," he said, deflated, "I see."

"I'm sorry," she said, "But...I just can't be that for you. I can't be that for anyone, really. I'm not good at it."

"I understand," he told her mildly, giving her his warmest smile, but he had a feeling that she saw right through him. Luke stood there a moment longer as an awkward silence began to fill the air. She looked away from him, and he scratched his brow, then nodded, "I'll see you later then," he told her.

Zoë nodded, wordlessly, and left.

Zoë

A few days later, it was Zoë's real birthday and the party was spectacular.

Riley had made her put on a silly plastic tiara with pink sequins, and had thrown a handful of confetti in her face the moment she walked in with her parents. Zoë had forgotten how much she had missed Riley. She felt like she hadn't seen her best friend in ages. They danced and hugged and giggled like they'd been apart for years and sashayed over to the couch. Of course, they had still seen each other at school, but any free time Zoë had had gone to hunting, and that meant Riley had been on her own.

Riley bumped her with her hip playfully. "So how long are you planning on ditching me for this new crowd?" she asked, too quiet for either of their parents to hear.

Zoë gave her an apologetic look. "I know, sorry."

Riley made a face. "Well, promise we can go out soon?"

Zoë gave a weak smile and interlaced her pinky finger with Riley's. "Hey, I'll always make time for my girl."

Riley smiled, "You'd better. I—" she stopped suddenly, looking around and then leaned in even further and whispered in Zoë's ear, "I figured out what I want to get for my tattoo, but I want you to get it with me."

"Of course!" Zoë said under her breath, keeping the conversation private even as excitement tingled in her finger tips.

"No, I mean, I want you to get one too."

Zoë made a face. She'd just had a lot of ink put on recently, she wasn't sure if she wanted another one so soon. But, she really owed Riley, and she knew nothing would make her friend happier. "What is it?" she asked.

Riley pulled back and smiled wide and gave a little wink, "A four-leafed clover. For luck."

Zoë cackled and the girls hugged. Jon and Pahua were setting out the first of many of the board games the night was to have. This was how Zoë's birthdays always were: close, intimate, but fun, and even though the party Luke and the others had thrown for her had been great, she had been looking forward to this party for a while now.

Zoë laughed as she opened her gifts, and of course since she was eighteen now, they were all gag-gifts. Her dad had bought her a pack of cigarettes, her mom a lotto scratcher—which she won three dollars off of—and Riley gave her a condom. After the laughs, Zoë's real presents came, and she smiled as she unwrapped a collection of anime from Riley, more art supplies from Riley's parents, and the new Succubus album and some new T-shirts from her mom. Zoë and Jon had agreed a long time ago that the glyphs down Zoë's back had been her present from him.

The gifts were spectacular and she had screamed after opening each and every one of them.

After gifts, it was time for cake and games. Pahua had really gone all out, and recreated the cake from one of Zoë's favorite videogames—dual layer devil's food cake with chocolate sprinkle frosting and topped with Maraschino cherries and a single candle. They were playing Trivial Pursuit as they ate cake when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Zoë offered and got up.

She opened the front door, but there was no one there. She stepped out, looking around, but the street was empty. Her bare foot brushed something, and she looked down. There, sitting on her doorstep, was a small silver parcel with a golden bow and a tag with her name on it. She didn't recognize the writing.

She stooped and picked it up, turning it over. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it...

She pulled the bow open and tore away the wrapping. Inside was a small black box. Biting her lip, she opened the box and her jaw fell open. "Oh my God..."

There before her sat the most beautiful necklace Zoë had ever seen. A silver crescent moon curved like a wicked sickle at the end of a long silver chain. It was simple yet deadly and somehow breathtaking.

There was a small piece of paper folded up beneath the necklace. She pulled it out and unfolded it.

No hard feelings

Keenan...

They hadn't spoken since what happened at the graveyard. After everything that had happened Zoë wasn't sure she could contact him without blowing her cover. When she asked Elipsy at school, she of course said he was fine, but that hadn't stopped Zoë from worrying.

She looked up from her necklace and looked around again, even going as far as to run out to the driveway to look for him. He was nowhere. Gone. She smiled softly and told herself she'd call him later. She pulled the necklace out and pulled it easily over her head, the cool metal leaving tingles on her skin.

"Zoë!" her mom called from the doorway. Zoë spun around. "What are you doing menyuam?" she asked.

Zoë gave one more look around, then shook her head. He was gone. "Nothing niam," she said and headed back inside, tucking the necklace under her tank top.

Later that night as the light of the full moon filtered in through her window, Zoë sat on her bed and looked at the necklace. The silver of the necklace caught the rays of the moon and shimmered like the surface of water.

She'd thought about calling Keenan, but the moon was full. He'd probably be out somewhere she didn't want to think of, so she'd settled for texting him a thank-you. He must have dropped her gift off of his way out of town.

She smiled as she flopped back on her bed and looked up at the dreamcatcher Luke had given her, hiding the water stains of the ceiling.

With a sigh, she rolled over and fell asleep, and for once the moon brought no dreams, and she slept peacefully the whole night through with the dreamcatcher standing vigil above her bed.

On Wednesday afternoon Zoë and Riley drove to the pet store and purchased a pair of fancy mice before heading to Ink Me for their appointment. As they sat in the lobby, Zoë pulled out her new sketch book and flipped to the page she'd been dying to show Riley.

"So, you remember how you asked me to design you a tattoo?" she asked, passing the book to Riley. She watched Riley's face light up as she looked at the design. It was a four-leafed clover with a spiraling stem that twisted into a tribal design. Zoë had told her dad her plan a few days ago before she started designing it, and they had agreed to keep the whole thing a surprise until that day. Riley had come to Ink Me thinking she would be getting a small, common four-leaf clover, but Zoë had wanted to surprise her.

"It's beautiful," Riley breathed.

Zoë laughed. "I don't know if I would go that far, but I'm glad you like it. Now, it has to be somewhere neither of your parents is going to find it."

Riley was nodding excitedly, "I know, I know. I want us to get it in the same spot, though. Oh Zoë, I'm so happy you're doing this with me!"

"Why did you want me to do this with you?" Zoë asked, "I mean, I just got inked a few weeks ago."

Surprisingly, Riley blushed. "It's just that, I've been really worried about you for a while now," she said quietly, "I know the reason you're hanging out with a new crowd is because we're going to be going to different schools after the summer. I'm going to miss you, but I don't want us to grow apart before we leave. So, I wanted to give you some of my luck."

Zoë felt a rush of emotions move through her—guilt, joy, sadness, laughter, gratitude. She could only imagine what her expression must have been when she said, "I thought you hated that rumor," he voice cracking embarrassingly.

Riley shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance, "Yeah, well...it has its advantages."

Zoë chuckled, "Where are you thinking?" she asked, trying to move the conversation along. Riley pursed her lips in thought. "I was thinking behind my ear," she said, "I always wear my hair down, so its easy to hide."

"What about when it starts to broil outside?"

"I'm eighteen. Legally I can do with my body what I want. Besides, in a few months I'll be heading to a university. Once I don't have to worry about their wrath I can show it off all I want."

Spider appeared in the lobby then, chewing her bubble gum with a bored expression. "You guys ready?" she asked and Riley practically jumped up. The girls were led to two tables laid out side by side and perched themselves on the operating tables. Zoë glanced over at Riley as the two of them started to tie and pin their hair up and away from the inking area. She was shaking a little, and she looked nervous all of a sudden. Zoë cocked her head to the side, "What's wrong?"

Riley looked at her with wild eyes, "This...this isn't going to hurt, is it?"

Zoë tried not to laugh, but the more she tried to keep a straight face, the more she could feel her lips twitching into an awkward smile, "No," she said in a voice that did nothing to hide her laughter.

Riley pouted angrily, "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you were so dead-set on getting this thing, and now you're scared it's gonna hurt," Zoë laughed outright then, filled with an ironic mirth that found its way to Riley and she began to giggle. The cool tingle of isopropyl on their feet stilled their laughing and Zoë gave Riley a smile, "It won't hurt," she assured her. The sounds of the needles being primed were already whirling between them, and Zoë watched her friend tense a little.

Riley's hand clamped down on Zoë's suddenly. Zoë gave her a wry look. Riley blushed furiously and closed her eyes tight. "Just shut up and hold my hand!" she snipped. Zoë smiled and closed her hand around Riley's.

The first pinprick of the needle gave her a small jolt of pain, and then there was only the hum of the needle and the cool ink across her skin. Zoë kept an eye on Riley as the needle bit into her flesh, more painful than the tattoos on her back or the one on her hip had been. But this tattoo was closer to the bone, in a sensitive part of her body. Riley squeezed her eyes shut through the whole thing and mouthed along to the music that was blasting through the parlor. Zoë couldn't help but feel a strong connection to Riley then as the emerald ink branded them with the luck Riley was sharing with her.

I don't ever want to lose her, Zoë thought, this person who has given me so much...

The process took about an hour for all of the lines and color. When it was done, the girls compared ink. A not-too-big-not-too-small bright green four-leafed clover stood resplendent on the flesh of their skulls just behind their ears, the tribal stem following their hairline. Accents of gold and crimson made the color stand out against her mahogany skin. She smiled and looked over at Riley's head where the cartoony clover stood out in even greater relief.

"How do you like it?" Zoë asked.

Riley was beaming, "I love it!" she cried and hugged her. Afterwards, Spider sold them some balm to rub into the tattoos and rung them up for the ink. Zoë smiled.

For once, things were looking up...

Zoë sat on the windowsill in Luke's house, drawing in her new sketchbook that Farrell had given her for her birthday. She had her new headphones on, listening to music as Farrell reclined on the couch with a book in his lap.

She had sat down with the intension of drawing something fun, but the more she worked, the more and more it started to look like the beast she had seen in the cemetery.

Keenan...

She had never imagined that Keenan's true form could be so...agonizing. Even just standing before him she thought she could feel the pain of his transformation. She found her fingers tracing the silver chain that hung around her neck, the pendant of the necklace Keenan had given her hidden beneath her shirt. She chewed her lower lip, pondering things that had no answers.

Suddenly Luke burst through the door with Switch on his tail. Farrell jumped up from the couch, "What's going on?"

"Gear up," Luke said as he made for the basement. "We just got a call from Damien; Eden's gang is moving early."

Zoë and Farrell jumped up and followed the other men towards the back of the house. Zoë didn't know who Eden was, but this sounded serious.

"How?" Farrell was saying as they moved as fast as they could down the narrow staircase and onto the lower level. "They're not supposed to make the drop for another week!"

"Tell them that," Luke said as he practically ripped off his white over shirt in his hurry, to reveal a black form-fitting sleeveless shirt beneath. Things began happening very loudly and very fast then. Luke kicked open a wood and iron chest against the wall and started tossing everyone a Kevlar vest. Everyone but Zoë.

He was slipping weapons into holsters under his shoulders and onto his upper thighs when Zoë stepped over. "Where's mine?" she asked as everyone around her started hurrying to get into gear.

Luke gave her a cold look, "You don't get one."

"What?" Zoë raged.

"This one's too dangerous, you're staying put." He pulled some guns off the wall and started double-checking them before shoving them into the holsters at his shoulders and thighs.

"But that's not fair, I helped last time."

"That was different. This is going to be dangerous." He pulled a bandolier of shot gun shells packed with rock salt off the wall and slipped it over his head.

"It's always going to be dangerous," she protested, but her voice lost it's tenacity as she eyed the bullets.

"You're not ready for this kind of dangerous," he said in a voice that told Zoë the argument was finished. "We need to move guys!" he shouted to Farrell and Switch. Zoë grabbed his arm as he turned away from her and he spun around to regard her.

"Luke, if this is because of that night—" she began but he stooped and took her chin in his hand. He tilted her head up towards his and kissed her mouth, hard. When he broke away he told her. "I care too much about you to let you get hurt on something like this. We barely made it out last time, and this is going to be very different." His gun-metal grey eyes bore into her as he spoke, and Zoë felt like she'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut.

She looked around. Everyone was loading themselves up with protective gear and weapons. This was a lot more than she had expected.

I'm an idiot.

She looked back to Luke. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" she asked warily.

Luke put a hand on her shoulder and suddenly she felt very small, like a child. "Go home. Stay safe. If something happened to you..." he trailed off and the apple in his throat jumped as he swallowed.

Wordlessly, Zoë nodded and stepped away, watching as they all finished equipping themselves and left even faster than they had come, Luke shouting orders to them all the while.

And then they were gone, and Zoë was alone.

She watched the door for a long time, unmoving, unthinking, just watching and waiting. Eventually she made her way back upstairs.

The buses had already stopped running, Riley was out of town for the weekend, she didn't have her bike, and her parents were at a bar where Succubus was playing, and wouldn't be back until much later if at all and Zoë knew they'd be too drunk to notice she wasn't in bed; so, even though Luke had told her to go home, she was stuck until the others got back.

If they come back, she thought with a shudder, remembering the vest Luke had strapped over his shirt. She didn't know who they were going out to face, but they had to be dangerous to warrant so much gear.

Zoë sat down on the couch thinking she might just watch some television, but Luke only had basic cable and there was nothing good on. So she stretched out on the couch to take a well deserved and much overdue nap, but as she lay there she realized she was too restless to sleep. She got up and rummaged in the kitchen for something to eat, but she didn't feel hungry for anything Luke's kitchen had to offer.

Absently, she fingered the silver sickle at her neck. She hadn't spoken to Keenan since the incident at the graveyard, but even after having left her the necklace, Zoë was uncertain about Keenan's feelings. His note had said there were 'no hard feelings' but did he mean it? She chewed her lip, wondering.

She dug inside her pocket and pulled out her phone. It sat in the palm of her mahogany hand as she contemplated it. She almost put it away a dozen times, but something made her flip it open and hit the speed dial for Keenan's phone.

He answered on the fifth ring.

"Zoë?" he said by way of greeting. His tone was amiable, but she could hear a crispness in the way he finished her name that made her think twice. "Do you know anyone named Eden?" she asked without preamble.

"No, why?"

Zoë sighed her relief, "Luke and the others just left to take care of something involving someone named Eden. I didn't want to risk that they were a family member of yours."

"Oh...thanks," he said and she could hear the warmth in his voice. Her mouth twitched oddly at the sound of it. She swallowed. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you. Can we meet?"

There was a slight hesitation on the other end. "Where are you?" Keenan asked.

"Trapped alone at Luke's," she sighed, agitated, "Wanna come get me? I can wait for you away from the property and—"

"Hang on, I've got a better idea," he said cutting her off, "If you're alone, maybe you should do some poking around. If there's any thing there that can help him find us, any of us, destroy it. I've been saving up some money so that I can move my brother and sister out of town, and if he has anything there that can track us it's not going to matter. Can you do that?"

Zoë chewed her bottom lip as she looked around. "Well," she said, "I can give it a try, but this place is pretty cluttered."

"If anyone can do it, it'd be you," he said in a velvety basso and Zoë found herself blushing.

"D-Don't talk to me like that, you sound like a jerk!" she cried. Keenan was laughing on the other end, and she hung up on him, shoving her phone back into her pocket with a huff of derision.

Keenan was right though. She had agreed to help him, and right then she was alone in Luke's house. There was no telling when he would be back; no better time to do some snooping than the present. She started roaming about the living room, looking at the books, running her hands lightly over the leather and smelling the old parchment within.

The books were old, really old, that much was obvious just by looking at them. She found herself wondering how Luke had gained such a collection. After all, only so many books can be passed down through generations before they end up lost or destroyed. This collection was vast and, from what she knew, covered a number of subjects. Zoë knew Luke's books had once belonged to his grandmother, but how did he afford all of the equipment in the basement—or anything? As far as Zoë knew he didn't have a job, and even if he did it would have to pay really well to be able to maintain the supplies the team went through. Even the fees he charged for his CVPI services couldn't be enough to cover the bills, or that expensive perfume he'd bought her for Valentine's day.

He sure does have a lot of secrets, she thought with a twitch of the nose.

All in all, Zoë really didn't know much about Luke. He was a very private person, and it wasn't as though they had a lot of personal time to get to know one another without the others.

Except for that one time, she thought with a floating feeling. She still wasn't sure if she regretted being with Luke that night. Back when he had just been a customer she had entertained the idea that he would be good in bed, and he had, but ever since that night she'd wondered if she'd done the wrong thing. Keenan and Elipsy were her friends, in an odd sort of way, but the wolves and hunters were enemies. She may have been caught in the middle, but shouldn't she know whose side she was supposed to be on?

Before she could lose her nerve, Zoë started going through the books in the living room and kitchen. She flipped through a number of them to glimpse the words within, but they were all the same manuals and guides they had always been. She guessed if there was anything that would hold the information Keenan was talking about, it would have to be some kind of journal. If that were the case, Luke would probably have it in his room to keep it private, keep it safe.

Zoë bit her lip and tip-toed into Luke's bedroom. The room was surprisingly spartan: white walls devoid of photos or décor, dark red comforter on the bed, soft carpet, a single dresser, bedside table, small bathroom, and an accordion door on the closet.

There's gotta be something around here, she thought.

She started rummaging as carefully as she could so that when Luke got back with the others she could pretend that she hadn't been in the back at all. She searched the closet, the bathroom, the dresser, the bedside table, and even under the bed, but there was nothing. No boxes, no false bottoms or backs, no secret doors, no notebooks, nothing. The room was practically barren, more for show than use. She sighed, frustrated. It had been nearly an hour that she had been searching, and the most incriminating thing she had found was dust. She sat down on the edge of the bed and put her chin in her hand.

Maybe he doesn't have anything, she thought.

If that were the case, Keenan could move his family out of the city and go as far as he wanted. He'd be able to escape Luke and the hunters and settle down someplace comfortable and safe. And he'd be gone. Idly she fiddled with the pendant of her necklace. A warm shudder ran through her as she realized that she would miss him, and Elipsy, even Eric. But there was nothing to stop them from leaving, and she knew there was no reason for her to ask him to stay.

She sighed and flopped down, resting her head on a pillow. She figured Luke wouldn't fault her for using his bed when suddenly she felt something hard beneath her head.

"What the—?" she murmured. She sat up and moved the pillow aside.

It wasn't unusual for someone like Luke to keep a knife under his pillow, it was expected even.

But not this type of knife.

She jumped to her feet and backed away, fear chilling her to the bone. The silver of the knife gleamed in the lamplight like amber, the jewels glittered like multicolored stars. There was no mistaking that knife. She had seen it a hundred-thousand times, over and over. It was the one from her dream.

Cool sweat made her hands clammy. Her chest was tight as her breath escaped her, and her head spun dizzily.

"He said he didn't know," she whispered desperately, trying to reason this all away. She covered her mouth with her hand and started shaking her head. She had thought to find some kind of journal or legal documents, but not this. Not this!

There had to be an explanation. Luke had saved her life, there was no way he could be the one from her dream.

"It's impossible..." she breathed.

"What are you doing in here?" came a voice from behind. Zoë jumped and might have screamed had it not been for the knot in her throat. She spun around. Luke stood there in the doorway, his left arm covered in blood—his or someone else's it was hard to say. All of his guns were still in place, but his Kevlar vest had been scratched to shreds as though by some massive claw. She couldn't believe she hadn't heard him come in.

"L-Luke!" was all her panicky voice could muster.

"This is my bedroom," he said, his voice growing stern with anger, "What are you doing in here?" He took a step forward. Zoë swallowed hard. It took nearly every ounce of bravery she had to rise to her full height and fix Luke with a convincing glare.

"You fucking asshole! You lied to me!" she snarled.

Luke faltered, surprised at her words, but the anger in his eyes quickly returned. "What are you talking about?" he rebuked.

Zoë turned and picked up the dagger and shoved it in Luke's face the same way one would shove a dog's face in a puddle of their own mess to teach them not to do it again.

"This!" she hissed. "I told you about my dream and you said you had no idea what it meant! This is the exact knife I described. I drew a God-damned picture! How could you do this to me, Luke? I thought you cared about me!" she stepped away from him, "Or was that a lie too?"

Zoë felt as through she had been betrayed, violated. She had trusted him. She felt foolish for ever allowing herself to believe this man could help her, that he cared for her.

White hot tears began to tug at the edges of her eyes, and her knees threatened to give out beneath her, but she held firm.

Luke's features softened slightly, but the anger in his eyes did not fully diminish. "That, I can explain," he started as he took the dagger from her white-knuckled hands and set it down on the bedside table. He turned away from her. "This knife was my grandmother's, the one she forgot on the night she was killed," he paused, "Its part of a very rare set. It's been blessed by as many holy men from as many religions as I could manage; the guard is steel, and the blade is made from the purest silver. It can kill almost anything, that's why I keep it close to me."

Zoë refused to back down first, "If it's all so innocent, then why didn't you tell me?" she demanded through gritted teeth. "Why did you pretend not to know that your knife was the one in my dream?"

"I didn't know—"

"Luke!" she screamed.

His face became tight and drawn. "I needed to gain your trust. If you knew that I had the knife you were so afraid of, you would have run out of the house and never come back."

There was a heavy sinking feeling in Zoë's stomach. "I knew it," she whispered as the tears finally fell down her cheeks like lines of fire. "Everything you ever said was a lie. I had sex with you, dammit!"

"That wasn't—"

"Don't you lie!" she spat. "Don't you dare lie! You knew I was scared and you tricked me..."

"Zoë..." Luke's features softened and he reached out a hand, but Zoë slapped it aside, "Don't touch me!" she barked. She looked up into his eyes and could not keep the acid from her voice as she said, "Don't ever touch me again."

She stormed past him and ran out of the bedroom, ran out of the house, ran out the scrapyard, ran down the street, and just ran, ran, ran, ran.

She ran until her lungs were on fire, until the tears on her face streaked into her hair. She ran until her muscles burned and her blood pumped ice. She ran until her legs gave out beneath her and she collapsed onto the cement sidewalk and clutched at a lamp post just to keep herself upright.

The light of the streetlamp fell upon her in the darkness like a shield, and she wept as only one can weep when their heart is broken.

Keenan

It was a Saturday, and Keenan didn't have to work until nine that night. For once he didn't need to be up at the crack of dawn, didn't need to worry about how much gas was in the truck, and didn't need to wear that stupid janitor's jump-suit. All he had to do was sleep in, and listen to the light pitter-patter of summer rain on the roof of the house.

He stretched lazily and was contemplating breakfast when his phone rang on the bedside table.

I swear to God, if that's work I'm going to kill someone, he thought darkly, and reached over. "Hello?" he said hoarsely, hoping that if it was work he could get out of it by pretending he was sick.

"You okay?" came Zoë's voice on the other end, "You sound like shit."

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were work," Keenan said in a clear voice, "I finally have a day off from two of the three nightmares. What's up?"

It was odd for her to be calling this early—or he supposed at all. Sometimes they would text before Keenan passed out at night, but they rarely had time to have a real conversation. Still, he had to admit to himself that it was nice to hear from her. She hadn't called him back after she'd snooped around Luke's house a few days ago.

"Uh, not much," Zoë said on the other end, "I was just wondering if you wanted to grab some lunch."

Keenan blinked. Something in the tone of her voice seemed off. "Sure," he told her warily, "How about Peach Pit in an hour?"

"Sounds good," she agreed. They exchanged brief goodbyes and then disconnected. Keenan frowned, thinking.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Zoë had sounded distant, sad. That wasn't like her. Still, that didn't stop him from getting up, brushing his teeth, dressing in a pair of jeans, grey T-shirt, a blue flannel, and his old and beaten leather jacket. He slipped on his work boots and tied his hair back before heading out into the living room where he found Elipsy reading one of her silly romance novels in her pajamas and eating a bowl of ramen.

"You're up early," he said.

"So are you," she said, slurping her noodles loudly.

"I'm always up this early."

Elipsy looked him up and down as she swallowed her bite of food, "Where are you off to, I thought you had the day off."

"Meeting Zoë for brunch," he said briefly, crossing over to the door.

"Hhm, you haven't had a chance to hang out with her for a long time now, huh?"

Keenan made a sound of acquiescence and was almost out the door when Elipsy added, "You know what this means, don't you?"

He turned back into the room, looking at his little sister who looked so very young sitting with her legs drawn up, a bowl of noodles in her lap as she curled around the book in her hands. She gave him a look that spoke of knowledge reserved for people much older than her and said, "If she's able to reach out to you like this, that can only mean that she left the hunters. She doesn't have to worry about Luke finding out you guys are friends. Otherwise she'd be somewhere else with someone else."

Keenan's eyes went wide for a moment. Elipsy could be right. It made sense, at least, but why would Zoë decide to abandon her cover all of a sudden? Something must have happened, he thought scrupulously. He nodded to his sister without a word and opened to door. The smell of rain, wet grass, mud, and damp macadam met his senses as he made his way to his truck, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Keenan leaned against his truck in the parking lot of the Peach Pit as he waited for Zoë. The hot aromas of burgers, fries, mushrooms, and deep fryers wafted out of the restaurant to mingle with the smell of a coming rain as the sun hid behind light clouds, giving the day a stark overcast glare.

He kept trying to come up with possibilities of what it was Zoë wanted to talk about. None of them seemed very likely the more he thought about it, and the whole thing was beginning to make him feel anxious.

It couldn't be a trap, he thought, She wouldn't do that.

A sound near the entrance made him turn and he saw Zoë climbing down off her bike. He called to her and she turned. She was wearing the same ragged and torn pants she always did with a white tank top and red hoodie zipped up half way, the cowl of her jacket resting on her choppy back hair. He waved. She kicked out the stand of her bike and walked over, shoving her hands into her pockets, "Normally people eat inside," she said by way of greeting.

"I wanted to talk to you first," he explained as she came up beside him. She chewed her bottom lip and shifted her weight between her feet, looking uncomfortable. Something really was wrong. Every time she came close to meeting his eyes she looked away, and she was standing away from him, her hands in her pockets, and her shoulders taught.

She's afraid of me, he realized with a pang of sadness. He licked his lips. "Look, Zoë," he began softly, "what happened at the cemetery...I never wanted you to see me like that."

Zoë seemed to hesitate. "Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

A faint, distant pain made his fingers itch. He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded, "A lot. But...that is what I am. It's not something I can change."

"I'm sorry," she said, lowering her gaze. Keenan looked away too, feeling suddenly very out of place. "Me too," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you, or hurt you. I was there visiting my parent's grave, I didn't realize you'd be there."

"It's okay," Zoë said softly. She indicated the long silver necklace around her throat, the crescent pendant hanging low to brush the crux of her breasts. "No hard feelings, right?" she asked.

"Right," Keenan said softly, his mouth suddenly very dry.

They stood there in silence for a moment before Keenan finally said, "I figured you wouldn't be calling me unless something happened with you and those hunters."

Zoë opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed, "Yeah," she admitted, "Yeah, I left."

Keenan had been waiting to hear this news for what felt like ages now, but Zoë's face was stretched with dread, looking sick.

She didn't need to say anything for Keenan to be able to tell something was bothering her. He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "What happened?" he asked her.

Zoë folded her arms under her breasts and put her back against the bed of the truck, looking out over the modest amount of traffic that passed just outside the parking lot. Her voice dripped venom when she told him, "Luke has the knife. The one from my dream."

Keenan could not contain his surprise, "Bullshit!"

Zoë shook her head, pursing her lips. He made a sound of astonishment as he shifted his weight, running his hand through his hair. Despite everything, somehow Keenan didn't have a hard time believing what she was saying. "Fuck...I'm sorry," he told her, unsure of what else there was to say.

Zoë just nodded, "He had it the whole damn time," she hissed more to herself than to him, "I know you wanted me to be there so I could warn you guys if they caught on to you, but I just..." she trailed off, looking distraught, and shivered.

"It's all right," he told her gently, "I understand."

Zoë closed her eyes, biting her lower lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.

"Zoë?" he prompted but she didn't say anything. She was still for a moment, distant thoughts playing behind her eyes. Her expression was hard—her jaw clenched, her brow slightly knotted. Something was wrong. She wasn't just angry. Keenan hadn't known Zoë for very long, but it didn't take a genius to read body language like that.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned towards him suddenly and blurted, "Keenan I—" but the words seemed to catch in her throat. She closed her eyes and she swallowed, and opened them again as she went on, "Luke and I we...we had sex."

Her words hit Keenan like a sledgehammer to the gut and he thought for a moment he might be sick. He took an involuntary step away from her, as though the momentum of the words had driven him back. He gawked at her, his mouth trying to form words and awkwardly failing.

His friend—the girl that was supposed to fix everything—had been to bed with the man who had killed his parents. Betrayed didn't seem a strong enough word for how he felt, and the more he tried to define it the more it seemed to escape him. His surprise turned into anger, and his limbs hummed with energy born of rage. He wanted to hit something—anything. He wanted to scream and make something bleed.

Zoë's face stretched with worry as she reached for him, but stopped short of touching him. "I'm sorry," she said meekly.

"Sorry?" Keenan echoed, not sure if he had really heard her right, "Sorry?" he said again, unable to keep the acid from his voice, "Zoë why...how...what were you thinking?" he stammered, too angry to speak.

Zoë didn't say anything, just stood there, accepting his rage.

"Do you have any idea what that man has done to my family?" Keenan went on, "And you—you slept with him!" he stammered some more. His hand turned into a fist at his side and flew out at the door of his truck. The metal dented with the loud sound of bending metal, and he could feel the sting where the skin of his knuckles had split. He didn't care.

Zoë jumped and made a little frightened sound, but didn't back away.

He fixed her with an icy glare, "Tell me why," he demanded in a calm, cool voice, that betrayed his true emotion.

She stood her ground, "I didn't plan it," she tried to explain, "It just kind of happened one night. It was an accident. A mistake."

"When?" he asked in that same calm voice that was at ends with the rage that filled him. She didn't answer. "When?" he asked again, his voice hard.

Zoë lowered her gaze then, shame burning her cheeks with blush. "The night we ran into each other at the cemetery," she admitted in a small voice.

Keenan faltered. He could practically hear Luke laughing in his ear, laughing about how he'd destroyed his family, and how on the very anniversary of his parent's murder, fucked his best friend.

"I don't believe you," he said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice, "I thought we were friends, Zoë. How could you do this to me? Why would you do this?"

Zoë fixed him with an icy glare, "Hey, I said I was sorry, what more do you want from me? I've felt like shit about this ever since it happened."

Keenan glared at her, "If you were so sorry then why did you do it?"

Zoë made a frustrated, angry sound, "It was a mistake, dammit! We had some booze and stuff just happened. Look, I didn't have to tell you, but I did because you're my friend, and I thought you had a right to know. I was trying to be honest!"

Keenan scoffed and rolled his eyes in disgust, "If you're trying to say that it was some kind of accident and you both tripped and his di—"

The stinging pain of her slap took him by surprise, spitting his words back into his mouth. It took a moment for his mind to process what had happened—to realize that she had slapped him, and recognize the hot sting on his cheek as pain.

He turned back to her. She was shaking with anger he could smell, tears welling in her eyes as she glowered at him, cheeks flushed with a fiery blush. "I'm not here to explain myself to you," she snarled, "My sex life is none of your business. I told you because you're my friend, and I felt bad about hurting you. I already told you that I was sorry, I already told you it was a mistake. I don't know what more you want from me!"

Keenan stared at her in disbelief for a time. In that moment he didn't care that she was sorry, he didn't care that she was trying to come clean. All he cared about was that he was hurt, and angry, and he didn't want to see her anymore.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," he snarled. He frowned as he pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened his door, climbing into his truck as he growled, "And you with him!"

Zoë stood there, pretending that she wasn't crying, as he turned the engine over and shifted into reverse with the loud grinding of gears.

"Dammit Keenan!" she screamed as she had to jump back so he wouldn't run over her foot as he peeled out of the parking stall. He slammed on the gas and drove as fast and as hard as he could until Zoë was far, far behind him.

April

Red Moon
Zoë

"Is that that guy again?" Riley asked as Zoë deleted her overflowing mailbox, grumbling.

"Yeah," she said with a pinch of ire, "He just can't take a hint."

It had been weeks since Zoë had left the hunters, but Luke hadn't seemed to be ready to leave her. She'd changed her availability at work so that she could only work nights, leaving her to sleep in and avoid Luke all at the same time.

That didn't stop him from calling.

It started off as only once, maybe twice a day, but by the end of the week he was calling up to seven times a day. Even after Zoë programmed his number to go straight to voicemail, she would check her phone every so often to find that she had over a dozen messages from him. She deleted them all without listening to them and went about her life as though Luke McAvoy did not exist.

Without hunting and with a lighter work schedule Zoë had a lot more free time to hang out with Riley. The girls fell easily into old habits—studying (or pretending to), hanging out at Ink Me after school, sneaking into The Warehouse on the weekends, watching movies starring mostly naked, overly muscled men with shrill fervor.

Zoë looked down at her phone as she and Riley made their way towards Charlie in the student parking lot and considered trying to talk to Keenan again. They hadn't spoken since she'd told him about her and Luke. She'd caught his eye at The Warehouse, but he'd always turned away, a sad and angry look on his face that made her frown. Every time she thought about it she felt a surge of self-loathing. She'd felt sick about hurting Keenan, but she doubted he would hear an apology, even if she knew how to say it.

Suddenly something hard hit her shoulder, jostling her from her

thoughts. "Hey, watch it!" she snapped, spinning to see who had hit her. Elipsy and Eric Valentine stood there, Eric looking angsty as ever and Elipsy with a sharp glare on her soft features.

Zoë sighed, her stomach sinking.

Things had, in a way, gone back to normal as far as the Twins were concerned. When she was spying on the hunters for them, Elipsy had been really nice, and Zoë was beginning to think they were even becoming friends, but ever since she had spoken to Keenan, they had both become colder than ever. Elipsy had started sitting at other tables in art, sometimes not showing up at all, and Eric had been leaving nasty messages in her locker, calling her a slut, a whore.

He sneered at her then, "What, bitch?" he growled, trying to provoke her. They'd been itching for a fight that Zoë refused to give them. She wouldn't let today be any different.

"Nothing," she said, and turned away from them. Riley gave the twins the stink-eye as they started walking again.

"What's with those two?" she asked.

"I dunno," Zoë lied nonchalantly, and shrugged the whole thing off.

Suddenly someone was calling her name. She stopped, and looked every which direction, trying to find the source. "Zoë," it called again, and she turned. Luke stood there, leaning against a stone pillar, his hand in the pockets of his jeans and a dark shirt on. He looked clean-shaven and his hair looked wet, as though he'd showered just recently, but his eyes were sunken and tired. Zoë swore under her breath.

Riley turned. "Is that—"

"Get the car," Zoë hissed and Riley walked off without another word, trying to look casual. Zoë turned to regard Luke. "You look like shit," she spat by way of greeting.

Luke seemed to take it with a grain of salt, "I've been out of town for the past couple of days on a case. We could have used your help. It was—"

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, cutting him off. She didn't want to hear anything to do with him or hunting.

Luke sighed as he walked over, "Look, I know this looks bad, but you wouldn't answer my calls, and I figured if I could find to you here it would be better than at the café or your house. I just want to talk."

Zoë crossed her arms under her breasts and shifted her weight to one foot as she cocked her hip out to one side and met his gaze icily, "About what?"

"I wanted to apologize," he said, "After that night, well, you never really gave me a chance to explain my side."

"I think I know all I need to."

"No, Zoë, you don't," he said with surprising gentleness, and Zoë pursed her lips in agitation. He ran his hand through his hair as he sighed, "At first I didn't think it could be the same knife. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it had to be. But I didn't tell you because I knew the team needed you, and...I liked you. I have for a long time now," he added almost in a whisper. He met her eyes and said, "I know what I did was selfish, and I know I've been weird about trying to get a hold of you—"

"Try stalker-esque," Zoë interrupted. He wasn't saying anything she hadn't already figured out for herself, or that hadn't already been said. She narrowed her eyes, thinking of how she was going to ditch him.

To his credit, Luke had the decency to look ashamed, "Yeah..." he said, "But I just needed to talk to you, to clear the air, to—wait, is that..." he trailed off as his eyes wandered away from hers to the crowd beyond. Zoë spun to see what he was talking about.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The Twins had decided to turn around and confront her after all. Eric and Elipsy stood there looking surprised, unmoving.

"Oh no..." Zoë breathed.

If Luke follows them, or does something brash now, it's all over!

Zoë didn't know why she did what she did then, but in the moment she gave the action little credence and even less thought. She spun back around, leading with her fist, and drove it hard into Luke's stomach, taking the man by surprise. He doubled over, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. Zoë took the time to spin back around and wave madly at the twins to run away, mouthing the words, "Get lost," silently.

They didn't need a second warning. They flew off down the block, knocking over a freshman carrying some flyers. Orange paper flew into the air, drifting down like autumn leaves as the young girl shouted obscenities at them.

Zoë turned back to Luke as he looked up at her, confused.

"Luke," she said sternly, "I told you I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it. Take the hint, buddy, you've been dumped. Don't ever show up here again, understand? And stop calling me!"

As though on cue, Charlie pulled up beside the curb at that precise moment and Zoë climbed into the cherry-red bus without another word. She watched in the rear-view mirror as Luke picked himself up, and watched them leave. His shoulders slumped, and he ran his hands through his hair. He turned and headed, presumably, back to his car.

Zoë released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding as she sunk back into the seat and closed her eyes. "That was close," she whispered.

"Jesus, Zoë," Riley cried, "What the hell was that all about?"

Zoë opened her eyes, watching the road with a dull ache somewhere inside. "Aftermath."

Keenan

Keenan was sitting in his truck in the student loading and unloading zone where he usually met his brother and sister, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the classic rock music that was pouring through his speakers.

They were taking longer than usual, but he wasn't worried. Sometimes they got caught up talking to friends after class and it took them a moment to remember that he was there.

He sighed as he caught sight of his phone sitting on the dash. He picked it up, telling himself that he was checking the time, but really he was considering trying to talk to Zoë again. They hadn't spoken since she'd told him about her and Luke, though he had thought about trying to call her a few times. He'd caught her eye at The Warehouse, a few times, but he'd always turned away before she had a chance to come talk to him. He was still angry, but every time he thought about it he felt a surge of self-loathing. If he thought about it, he knew it wasn't his place to tell her who she could and could not sleep with, but somehow in the moment he'd felt justified in his anger; even now he didn't think he could stand to hear her try to apologize for what she'd done. But as the days and weeks dragged on, he found himself thinking more and more that he wished they could put it behind them, forget it had ever happened, and go back to the way things had been.

Suddenly the passenger side burst open and Eric and Elipsy piled in, frantically shouting, "Drive! Drive!"

"What the hell is going on?" Keenan demanded.

Elipsy fumbled with her seatbelt clumsily as she screamed, "Talk later, drive now!"

Without needing further incentive, Keenan shifted into gear and pulled away from the school and into the flow of the street.

"Don't go home just yet," Eric advised, "Drive around a bit, or stop somewhere else."

"What happened?" Keenan demanded again, "You guys look like you've seen—"

"Hunters," Elipsy breathed, her voice coming out in a strained, panicked wisp. Keenan's eyes went wide as a chill ran up his spine, turning him rigid and tense.

"What were hunters doing at the school?" he growled.

"Not all of them," Eric clarified, "just Luke. I think he was there to talk to your dumb girlfriend."

"She's not my—" Keenan began loudly, but stopped himself and took a calming breath, "Tell me what happened."

Elipsy was trying not to hyperventilate as Eric wrapped his arms around her protectively. His crimson eyes glinted with something Keenan couldn't read as he tried to watch the road. "We bumped into her on our way to meet you," Eric explained, "We thought she would start a fight, but she didn't. She just walked away. So, we decided to start one for her. When we caught up to her, she was talking to Luke. At first we didn't realize it was him, but then he saw us, or, we think he did. The second it happened Zoë punched him in the gut and we bolted."

"She did that?" Keenan breathed.

He felt Eric's eyes on him as he continued driving. Zoë had told Keenan that she wasn't with the hunters anymore, but his anger about the night she spent with Luke had blinded him to the other possibilities on the table.

Zoë was still on their side.

After everything that had happened, Keenan expected Zoë to run, forget about him and his family, and everyone else that was involved in this quiet war, but she hadn't. Even without opening admitting it, and even after all those things Keenan had said to her a few weeks ago, Zoë was still helping him. He'd saved his brother and sister that day, there was no doubt in his mind.

Even after everything, she was still a friend.

"Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?" Eric growled, stealing Keenan from his thoughts, "She's still talking to them! They know where we go to school now, everything is ruined!"

"No," Keenan said lightheartedly, a smirk twisting his lips, "everything is just fine. Now, who wants pizza?"

Zoë

Work was going by at a snail's pace.

They were busy—oh, so very busy—but time was crawling by as though it had a personal vendetta against Zoë and her aching back and feet. This wasn't even her shift. She'd been called in right after school because someone had a family crisis and they needed an emergency cover. She was stuck at the front register taking orders, ringing up customers, and making coffee.

Not only was she tired, and sore, it sounded like they were going to ask her to stay late.

Gotta make that paper, she told herself.

She looked up as another customer stepped up to the register. Zoë smiled as a flash of vibrant red hair and golden frames stopped before her. "Riley! What are you doing here?" she exclaimed.

"Need caffeine," she said, pretending to beg, "I have to babysit the Cooper's creeper brat tonight. Man, I hate that kid!"

Zoë laughed. "You poor sorry sap," Zoë said, "Wanna hang out afterwards?"

"Sure," Riley smiled, "You can explain to me all the weird stuff that happened earlier."

Zoë winced. She had hoped that Riley would forget all of that. After they drove away, Riley had dropped Zoë off at home because she needed to head to work right away, and Riley had been late to tutor some freshman that was paying her to help him in math. Zoë was having enough trouble dealing with Luke, Keenan, and all the bullshit in-between. She didn't want to have to sit down and explain it all to Riley.

She looked Zoë up and down. "Long day?"

"I've been here less than three hours," she said, her shoulders slumped, "and I'm already about ready to destroy something."

"Stay strong," Riley told her. "You've got, what? An hour left?"

Zoë shook her head. "I get off around nine..."

"Ouch," Riley winced.

"I keep telling myself that the overtime is worth it..."

"Is it?"

"Hell no!"

Riley hid her smile, "You need a vacation."

"I need a bullet in the head," Zoë groaned. Riley ordered a coffee and Zoë punched in her discount code. She got the coffee as Riley pulled out her money and they traded.

"Have I ever told you that you're the best?" Riley said as she sipped her coffee.

"Honey, you don't have to," Zoë said, winking as Riley sauntered out.

The rest of the day didn't go by any faster, and none of the customers got any nicer. Minutes felt like hours, and everyone seemed to be feeling it. With summer broiling the valley by day and freezing over by night, they were working their fingers to the bone.

By the time Zoë's shift was over it was well past dark. Her whole body ached so badly she just sat in the back room for a minute to rest after clocking off.

She pulled out her phone and flipped it open to text Riley:

I just got off work! R u still babysitting?

She didn't expect an answer right away, so she pulled out her MP player and headphones and ducked out from behind the bar, wishing her co-workers a good close, and stepped out into the cool April air. It was good to feel the cold after being trapped in the warm store for so long. She took a breath, filling her lungs, and pedaled home.

By the next day, there had been no answer from Riley.

She was probably tired and went to bed, Zoë decided, figuring she'd hear from her friend later in the day. She put Eddie back in his cage before heading to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, trying to wake herself up.

She'd been jolted from sleep over and over again last night, awoken by the same dream: Riley was calling for her help but Zoë couldn't find her. She ran in circles over and over in a world of darkness that had no walls, no sky, no ground, trying to find her, but she was always someplace else. Her friend was screaming in agony, in terror and Zoë could do nothing.

A few times in her dreams she had actually stumbled across Riley. Once she had been crawling into a dark hole, but every time Zoë came close to getting a hold of Riley, she would wake with a start, covered in cold sweat and out of breath.

She texted and called Riley after every fitful dream, but the girl never picked up.

She must have her phone on silent, Zoë thought at the time.

By the morning she was more exhausted than she had been before bed. She showered to scrape off the remnants of the sweat that had coated her flesh and slipped into a different pair of pajamas. It was Saturday, and, since Zoë was working the late shifts now, that meant cartoons and cereal with mom and dad. That was probably what Zoë loved most about her parents: at heart they were probably younger than she was.

"You okay menyuam?" Pahua asked as she stepped into the kitchen, her wet, violet hair pulled back with a clip. "You look tired..."

Zoë made a tired sound in response. "I didn't sleep well," she admitted as she pulled down some Cocoa Pebbles and started to pour herself a bowl.

"Why don't you go back to bed Babydoll?" her dad suggested from the couch. Spectacular Spider-Man was playing on the TV.

Zoë forced a smile. "Nah, I'll be all right," she assured them, and they left it at that.

They sat on the couch watching cartoons for a good two hours, and the distraction was making Zoë feel much better. Even Eddie sat poised on the coffee table staring at the screen. Riley would be all right. Zoë was simply tired.

As Avengers came back from commercial, the doorbell rang.

The three exchanged looks. "You expecting anyone?" Jon asked Pahua and she shook her head. Zoë stood and walked to the door. Opening it she saw Steve Finch, Riley's father, standing on her doorstep in his police uniform with a man in semi-casual clothes, and Damien, also in his police uniform. Steve's eyes were red around the edges and he looked like hell. Zoë's face fell into one of concern.

"What's going on?" she made herself ask, her voice already cracking.

There was no hiding the fact that Steve had been crying, but when he spoke his voice was hard and reserved. He stood at his full height, his face a mask of stone. "Riley's gone missing," he said.

Zoë's stomach fell to the floor.

For a moment, she didn't think she'd heard him right, and she just stood there, dumbfounded and slack-jawed.

"W-What...?" she breathed, unable to find her voice.

"Riley's gone missing," Steve said again, resolve rebounding in his tone.

The world shattered as his words came crashing down around her like bombshells. She took a step backwards and covered her mouth to keep from screaming. The dream. It had been a sign, a warning, and Zoë had missed it!

"Oh God..." she breathed. By then her mom and dad were beside her and her mom's hands had gone protectively around Zoë's shoulders.

"What's going on Steve?" Jon asked.

The semi-casual man answered. "I'm detective Nick Nightroad of the Fresno Missing Person's Unit. Riley Finch was reported missing last night around midnight, along with one Abigail Cooper. We recovered the girl's phone and it had a number of messages on it from your daughter. With your permission, I'd like to ask your daughter some questions."

Zoë nodded. "Anything!" she blurted.

Jon invited the police and detective in, and got Steve some water. As Jon and Pahua saw to consoling their friend, Zoë could overhear him telling them they were most likely going to take him off the case since Riley was his daughter and it could be seen as a conflict of interest.

She pulled Damien aside while the detective was distracted with her parents for a moment. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Working," he said shortly, then added softly, "I'm sorry about your friend. We're going to do everything we can to find her, Zoë. I promise."

"Thanks Damien..." she said, a lump already forming in her throat. She'd completely stopped talking to him and the other hunters for weeks, but he was still there to help her. He didn't offer any other condolences, though. Zoë knew that if it looked like they already knew each other, he could be taken off the case as well.

She wondered briefly why he didn't bring up what she had done to Luke yesterday. Either Damien was just trying to stay focused or, the more likely scenario, Luke hadn't told anyone what had happened. Somehow she found herself thankful for it.

Moments later she sat across from Detective Nightroad as he questioned her. She had agreed to let him record her questioning so he didn't have to take notes, so instead he just stared at her as he spoke. At first it was all menial stuff, for formality's sake: her name, age, where she went to school, where she worked. After a while though he started asking about Riley. How they'd met, a few other things that Zoë didn't really think were important. The fact that he wasn't asking about last night was starting to agitate her. What were any of these answers going to do, anyhow?

"Did Riley have any enemies? Anyone that might want to hurt her?" he asked.

"No, of course not," Zoë said immediately. "She was as goody-two-shoes as it got. She was nice to everyone."

Nightroad nodded and paused, as though thinking, then asked, "So, where were you last night?"

"I was working until nine thirty at The Daily Grind. Riley had come in and told me to text her when I got off. I did, but she never got back to me."

Nightroad nodded. "I see, and can you explain why each of your messages to her phone after that seemed to suggest something was the matter?"

Zoë sighed, her eyes falling to her hand in her lap. Her knuckles were white as ash, and she could practically feel the color draining from her face. She licked her lips and answered, "I...I had a dream that Riley was in trouble," she said, knowing how stupid it sounded, "When she didn't call me back, I got concerned. Riley always texts me back..."

Nightroad didn't answer for a moment, just sucked in his lips and looked at her. "So it's safe to say that you had a feeling something was not right?" he asked at last. "Riley wasn't behaving normally?"

"She was fine when I saw her at the café," Zoë said. "We just had plans to meet up after work is all."

"And you didn't think to report that she wasn't responding to your calls?"

Zoë felt a pang of anger at his words. "What, I should have called the cops and said, 'hey my friend isn't answering he phone'?" she snapped a little more harshly than she meant to. "Would they really have done anything? For all I knew her phone had died."

Nightroad didn't say anything, but everyone turned to look at her then, their faces stretched with concern or worry. Nightroad's eyes narrowed, but not suspiciously. His look was one Zoë couldn't read. Then he asked, "Can you verify your whereabouts after you left work?"

"She was home all night," Jon cut in, coming to stand defensively behind Zoë and placed a hand on her shoulder. While it was true, her parents had been out when she had gotten home, and hadn't come back until after Zoë had been in bed. She'd heard them come in, so there was no way Jon would have known that Zoë was there.

Zoë looked back at the detective. "I rode my bike back home from work and watched some TV before going to bed," she explained.

"Can anyone verify that?" Nightroad asked, looking up at her father.

"Yes," Pahua answered. "We were with her."

They were lying for her. Zoë looked back at the detective. "Are you saying I'm a suspect?" she hissed.

Nightroad gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. "Just exploring all of the evidence," he explained and then looked at Zoë with a seriousness she had rarely seen in other people. "The door was locked when the Coopers arrived back home from their date and found Riley's vehicle still parked in the front. However, Riley and Abigail were gone without a trace. There was no sign of forced entry, meaning whomever they left with was someone they knew. So I'll ask again: where were you last night between the hours of five and midnight?"

Zoë stood very suddenly, fuming.

Her voice was calm as could be, which belayed her true rage as much as if she had screamed and beaten the man. "I was at work until nine thirty, then I rode my bike home, and watched TV with my parents until around eleven when I finally decided to go to bed."

Steve Finch came over and looked at the detective. "I told you Nightroad, Zoë wouldn't hurt Riley. You're wasting your time."

Nightroad stood and grabbed his little recorder and shut it off. He gave a curt nod and apologized for having offended Zoë, and promised they would be in touch. He and the other uniforms left, but Steve lingered behind. "Mister Finch..." Zoë pleaded.

He grabbed her hand. "I'll let you know whatever we find out," he promised stiffly and left with the others.

Zoë could feel tears tugging at the edges of her eyes.

Riley...gone? How could this happen?

"Why her?" she found herself asking, and suddenly both of her parents were hugging her at the same time. She tried not to cry, but it happened all the same. She felt weak, helpless, raw, and angry. I knew something was wrong! she couldn't help but think as she tried to bite back the tears, I knew it and I didn't do a damn thing!

"It'll be okay baby girl," her dad soothed, "they'll find her."

Zoë wasn't so sure. In a rush she stood, breaking out of her parents' embrace and heading upstairs.

"Zoë?" her mom called after her, but Zoë didn't answer. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she closed the door to her room and hastily pulled on her clothes—ratty jeans, some old socks that could have used a wash, a white tank top, and her crimson hoodie. She turned and rushed to get to her photo album. She dropped to the floor and started flipping through pages until she found one of Riley that would work—the one of them at an anime convention Riley had dragged her off to last year. Riley hadn't worn any makeup, and you could see her face well, even though her hair was in a pair of goofy pigtails. She tucked it into her wallet and was tying on her cherry Chucks when there came a knock on her door and it swung open.

Zoë looked up and saw her parents standing there, their faces stretched with worry. "What are you doing, Babydoll?" her dad asked in a gentle voice. Zoë finished her knot and stood, "I'm not going to just sit here and do nothing," she said, "I can't. Riley's out there, I know it. I'm going to find her."

"Zoë, you can't—" her mom started, but Zoë wasn't listening, "I have to try," she cut her off. She grabbed her phone, wallet, and pocketknife, shoved them into her pockets and rolled up her sleeves before strapping on her leather bands. Without another word, she pushed past her parents and almost tripped over herself as she ran downstairs. It was overcast outside and smelt like rain as Zoë dashed to the side of the house and hopped on her bike.

She pedaled to Paradise Printing off one of the busier streets in town, and printed dozens of flyers with Riley's face on it, claiming her as missing and gave her own cell phone as the number to call if there was any information. She realized she was shaking as she paid the man who made the flyers.

"Hey," the guy said as she was headed out the door, "Let me put one of those in the window," he said kindly. Zoë tried to smile, but she was crying so hard it must have looked like a grimace as she handed over one of the flyers and thanked him. He just gave her a sympathetic nod and watched her leave.

Zoë stuffed the flyers into the basket on the back of her bike, a dozen paperclips ensuring they wouldn't fly away, and took off for the Tower District.

A fire born of determination and hope burned through the worry that churned her stomach and the fear that numbed her hands and tightened her shoulders. It coursed through her blood, making her sweat and pumping her legs faster and faster until she was sailing down the road. She skidded to a halt in front of the Peach Pit and grabbed one of the flyers out of the stack before letting her bike fall to the ground and dashing inside. The aroma of familiar and delicious foods wafted in the air, somehow calming, despite the stifling heat of the restaurant. Zoë cut to the front of the line drawing sounds of anger from some of the customers.

"I'm sorry, but you need to go to the end of the line," the young Hmong boy at the front desk said in a voice that was polite but firm.

"No," Zoë said quickly, "please, I'm not here for food, I just need to know if you've seen this girl?" she held up the flyer, "She's in here with me all the time, have you seen her recently?"

The boy shook his head, "No, I'm sorry," he said very apologetically. Zoë could hear the woman who ran the restaurant shouting at the boy from the back in Hmong to get to work.

"Thov pab kuv," Zoë called back in kind, "Kuv tus phooj ywg pawv lawv!"

The woman came up to the front and pulled Zoë a little off to the side so her son could continue working. In broken Hmong, Zoë explained that Riley had gone missing and that she was looking for her here.

"I no see her today," the woman told her equally broken English, "but we put up flyer."

Zoë thanked her graciously and declined a discount meal as she headed back to her bike and pedaled to Ink Me. Spider was at the front counter when she walked in flipping through a magazine with freshly manicured nails.

"Spider, have you seen Riley?" Zoë asked by way of greeting. Spider looked up at her with a bemused look. "No, why?" she asked.

"She's missing. The cops showed up at my house today, and were asking all these questions. I can't just sit around and do nothing; I have to try to find her."

Spider's usual sharp features softened and she made a small, sympathetic sound, "Oh...honey I haven't seen her."

Zoë nodded, her mouth running dry. Spider put up one of Riley's flyers, and Zoë was on her way once again. She tried the college and asked the guys the two of them normally bummed cigarettes from, but had no luck. They agreed to spread the word though, and tack up some of her flyers around school.

She tried the Starline, a comic book shop Riley frequented, the music shop where they bought CDs, Riley's bank, and even the bookstore but there was no sign of her anywhere. Everyone agreed to put flyers in the windows but that only got her so far. Of course, trying Riley's cell phone didn't work, but Zoë called it twice anyways just on the slim hope that it might work.

By the time she walked out of the bookstore the light of day was fading, but there was still one last place to try. It was a long shot, but she wasn't going to dismiss it.

Zoë got back onto her bike, and rode to The Warehouse. By the time she got there music was already pouring out of the open doors and a line a mile long had formed at the entrance. There was no way she was waiting in that line. She strode up to the front, drawing several angry shouts from some of the patrons near the front. She ignored them as she strode up to Moose, the bouncer, who was at the front doors, "Hey, Moose, look you gotta listen," she started, but he held up a hand to stop her, "You gotta go to the back of the line, honey," he told her. Zoë shook her head, "No, Moose, I'm not here to dance, I just wanna see if you can pass these out to the other guys. My friend went missing, the one I'm always here with."

Moose sighed, looking between her and the line of angry patrons waiting to get in, "Yeah—yeah okay, just give them here." Zoë smiled graciously and handed over a number of flyers which he folded in half and stuffed into his back pocket with his assurance that he would make sure the other bouncers got them.

Zoë turned and left, heading back to her bike.

She was exhausted. Her legs were wobbly, her lungs burned from riding, and her head was pounding from the entire day. She didn't know what she had expected to find, or what she had expected to accomplish, but she had needed to do something—try, at least.

I put the flyers up, she told herself, at least I helped spread the word...

Somehow it didn't seem to make a difference. Worry was beginning to churn her stomach again, and lazy heat flushed down her limbs, making her sick. Even in her exhaustion, she felt foolish.

She was walking across the parking lot towards the light post she'd chained her bike to when she heard someone making cat-calls. She looked over her shoulder at a pair of boys-pretending-to-be-men leaning against the bus stop. They were dressed in nice clothes, something you'd expect to see in North Fresno, not down in Tower, and it wasn't hard to see they'd had a few too many. Nothing better than rich boys taking a thrill ride down to the dirty part of town.

"Hey baby," one of them called, "where you headed?"

Zoë ignored them, pulling the key for her bike lock out of her pocket. They chuckled and stepped closer, "Hey, I'm talking to you sweetheart," the rich boy said. Still, Zoë ignored him. She wasn't in the mood to entertain morons. Rich-boy didn't seem to like that.

"What you just going to ignore me, bitch?" he said, raising his voice. Zoë didn't answer, and did just that—ignored him. She got her bike lock off and tucked it and her key into a pocket and started unlacing the chain from around her bike and the light pole when Rich-boy grabbed her arm tightly above the elbow and yanked her to her feet, "Don't you fucking ignore me, bitch!" he growled, the smell of alcohol winding it way out from between his perfect teeth.

Zoë's right hook caught him in his pretty little mouth and sent him stumbling backwards. Zoë righted her hoodie. "You picked the wrong day to mess with the wrong bitch, pal," she said, "Get lost," and went back to her bike chain. Just as she pulled it free Rich-boy grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backwards. "You little cunt!" Rich-boy screamed in her ear loud enough to make it ring painfully. Zoë swore, but she kept her chain in her hand as he wheeled her around to face him. He pulled her hair hard enough she thought he was going to scalp her. She swung at the side of his face with the chain, catching him in the eye with the end and opening a small cut on his cheekbone.

Shit, Zoë cursed herself. This far from the club, no one was going to see her, and the music was too loud for her to scream for help.

Rich-boy came at her again, and Zoë could tell by his swing he'd never been in a fight before. What business did this clown have being on her side of town?

Zoë managed to dodge his punch, but she'd forgotten to watch for his buddy. The second guy had moved behind her without her noticing and caught her off guard. He grabbed her around the middle and pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled against him, wiggling to try to break free, but he was a lot stronger than he had looked moments ago.

Rich-boy recovered, bleeding down his cheek and onto his shirt, and came at her, a scowl on his face. Zoë tried not to smirk as she brought her leg up and drove her foot into Rich-boy's crotch. He made a strange whimpering sound as his face turned purple and he grabbed himself, staggering backwards again. She took the chance to jam the back of her head into Strong-guy's nose, bloodying it. He swore and threw her, bodily, slamming her head into the light pole hard enough to make stars burst behind her eyes.

There was a metallic ringing in her ears as white hot pain made her head spin. She tried to stand, but the ground felt like it was moving beneath her. Zoë stumbled and her feet fell out from beneath her. On her hands and knees she wretched in the gutter, the acidic, sour taste of bile sliding over her tongue.

Suddenly, she was being yanked backwards by her hair again, and someone punched her in the face, her left cheek exploding in pain that made her head scream in agony.

By her hair, Strong-guy dragged her away from the streets and towards the dumpsters. She cried out, her scalp felt like it was on fire. Zoë kicked and screamed, but she couldn't get free.

Strong-guy threw her on the ground and sat so that her arms were pinned between his calves and thighs and her head was in his lap. She tried to worm her way free, but he was too heavy. She felt like her arms would rip in half as his weight settled on them. She screamed, cursing them.

Rich-boy walked up. Half his face was bruised or bloody and his nice clothes had been mussed, "You're going to pay for that you little bitch."

"Fuck you!" Zoë spat.

Rich-boy narrowed his eyes as a smile split his bloodied lips. His hands went to the expensive belt buckle at his waist, "Oh, trust me. That's exactly what you're going to do..."

Keenan

Keenan pulled his monster of a truck into the parking lot of The Warehouse. It had been a long day, but it wasn't over. Sometimes he wondered how he hadn't worked himself into an early grave already.

Yawning, he parked the hulking white beast into an empty stall and killed the engine. It rolled over with a grateful wheeze and fell silent. He was in his work clothes—black jeans, black shirt, black shoes. He pulled his hair into a ponytail and he climbed out of the truck. He turned to lock the door when a scream found its way to his ears. A woman's scream.

"What the—?" he muttered as he spun, searching for the source. "Who's there?" he called.

There came the scream again but it was cut short, turning to a grunt. "Shut up, bitch!" he heard someone shout distantly. He turned again, this time into his truck, and grabbed the baseball bat he kept behind the seats and slammed the door shut, loudly, trying to make as much noise as he could. There was a chance he could scare off who ever was hurting the screaming girl. He ran out from behind his truck and looked around.

"Come on," he hissed, "where are you?"

A muffled scream echoed from somewhere close to the dumpsters. Keenan dashed in that direction, rounding a brick wall that hid the dumpsters politely from the club-goers. A pair of legs kicked out violently from around a guy kneeling between them.

Keenan sped up and slammed his bat into one of the cans, sending a thunderous, rumbling echo across the parking lot. Two voices swore. He watched two men scramble to their feet, one of them struggling to pick his pants up from around his ankles.

"What are you doing, man?" one shouted.

"That's my line!" Keenan bellowed, his brows meeting with rage, "What are you guys, a couple of pervs?"

"N-no man, we just—that chick's with us," the first one stammered as he zipped up his expensive jeans. Keenan glanced at the girl by the dumpster, and then back at the two men, and then back at the girl. His heart stopped.

"Zoë?" he exclaimed.

The two men swore as they realized he knew her. "Let's get out of here!" one of them said and they took off at a run. Keenan considered going after them for a second, but Zoë wasn't moving. Keenan dropped to one knee next to her. Her lip was split on one side and she had a nasty bruise on the opposite cheek but she didn't look as though she were too badly hurt. As he looked her over, he noticed her jeans had been unbuttoned and unzipped enough to show a flash of green panties beneath. He bristled, anger rippling across his skin, but he didn't move from her side.

"Zoë?" he called her name, but she didn't answer. He picked her up and shook her, slapping her good cheek lightly to rouse her, and called her name again.

She made a small whimpering sound and her eyes fluttered open to find his. She looked confused for a moment. "Keenan?" she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I work here, genius," he couldn't help but laugh. For a moment he'd been truly worried. Anger and confusion flashed across her features, "No I meant—"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted gently. "Can you stand?"

"I think so..."

Keenan helped Zoë get shakily to her feet. She tried to walk, but swooned and nearly fell. Keenan caught her, the heat of her body pressing against his drunkenly. "Guess not," he said.

"Sorry," she mumbled, "I guess that guy hit me harder than I thought... Hey don't let me fall asleep, okay? I think I might have a concussion."

Keenan sighed, "I'm taking you to a hospital."

"No, I don't have insurance. I can't afford a hospital bill right now."

"What about your parents?"

"They'd be at work by now..."

"I'm sure they'd come home for this."

Zoë gave him a pleading look. "God, Keenan, please don't take me home. This is too embarrassing...if my parents found out about this I'd never see daylight again."

Keenan grumbled and picked her up, carrying her princess-style back across the parking lot towards his truck. Her head lolled into the crook of his neck and she made a small whimpering sound again. He jostled her. "Hey, don't fall asleep!" he said.

He deposited her into the passenger's seat and ran around to the driver's side as he pulled out his phone.

"Your bat..." Zoë mentioned.

"I'll get another," he assured her. He turned the car over and hit the speed dial to his third boss before shifting into gear and peeling out of the parking lot. His boss answered, sounding angry that he wasn't already behind the bar. "I'm literally driving a friend to the hospital as we speak," Keenan retorted, "I'm sorry, I just can't come in, I know it's really short notice."

His boss's sigh came in as static through the phone. He was off the hook for now, but there would be a Talk. The boss had said "talk" as though it deserved a capital T. Keenan disconnected with a wince, and set his phone on the seat. Zoë was holding her head, doubled over with her elbows on her knees. "I think I'm gonna be sick..." she moaned.

He glanced at her, and then put his eyes back on the road. "What happened back there?" he asked, "Did you know those guys?"

"No, they jumped me. I managed until one of them rammed my head into a pole. Urgh, it hurts..."

"Don't worry, everything's going to be fine. I've had a concussion before, we just need to keep you up all night and try to relax."

Keenan turned the corner and made for his place. It had been ages since they'd even spoken, and now to find her like this—he hated it. But he couldn't just leave her. She had been a friend, and to the children of the moon, she might as well be family.

Within moments they pulled into the cul-de-sac where he lived and he turned the car off. Zoë leaned on him heavily as he helped her inside and deposited her onto the couch.

"I'm going to get you something to drink," he said. He went into the kitchen briefly and started up the coffee pot. He pulled out his phone and called Elipsy. She answered on the third ring, "What's up?" He could hear music in the background.

"I need your help, where are you?"

"At Eric's concert. His band is playing the Starline, remember? Why?" she had to shout over the sound of the music. Keenan rolled his eyes, "Dammit!" he hissed, "Zoë's here and I don't know what to do."

"What? That bitch—"

"No, listen. She got attacked and I helped her out, but now she's here, and it's weird."

"What? What happened?" Elipsy asked. He could hear honest concern in her voice. He sighed. "I don't know. I pulled a couple of guys off her, and she thinks she has a concussion, and I can't just leave her alone. What do I do?"

There was a pause on the other end where all that came through was the sound of bad music, then Elipsy told him, "Look, we'll be there when the concert's over, okay? Just try to hold on until then."

Keenan sighed and hung up. By then the coffee was done and he poured two cups, black, and took them into the living room. Zoë curled her legs up beneath her on the seat facing Keenan and hugged herself. Her head lolled against the back of the couch as he sat down and looked at her. "How are you feeling?" he asked as he handed her a cup. She took it with a look of gratitude. "My head is killing me and I'm really tired."

"Don't fall asleep, you can't—"

"I know," she interrupted him in a gentle but firm voice. She took a sip of coffee. Keenan sighed, deflated, and rubbed his eyes. He must have sounded like some kind of fretting mother.

He relaxed—or tried to.

"What were you doing out there anyways?" he asked. If he could keep her talking that should be good enough.

"Passing out flyers. My..." she stopped suddenly, her face stretching with worry as he voice caught in her throat. She licked her lips and gave a strained sort of sigh before she spoke again. "Riley went missing today," she said, "I was trying to see if she was in any of the places we'd normally go, or if anyone had seen her. I made some flyers with her picture on it, they agreed to put them up but I don't know if it's going to do any good. I'm...I'm just really worried, y'know?"

Without second-guessing the gesture, Keenan reached over and gripped her forearm. "I'm so sorry," he said.

She lowered her gaze, and Keenan watched to make sure she didn't close her eyes. Her eyes misted over for a moment and she got a sour look on her face. "She's my best friend, and I've been blowing her off for this stupid hunting gig," she verily sobbed, "I just can't believe that I might not ever be able to see her again..."

Keenan felt a pang of understanding go through him. Part of him felt a guilty little joy at her suffering—a vile schadenfreude that maybe she knew a little of what he and his family had been suffering—but more than anything else he felt bad for her. He knew what it was like to worry, for every nerve to be so taught it felt like he could snap and fall to pieces.

"It's too early to assume the worst," Keenan told her, "You don't know that she won't turn up again soon. The police have to be working on the case."

She smiled wryly. "Both her parents are cops so, I bet they're raising hell," she said.

"See?" He tried to smile. She met his eyes for a moment, worry still misting them over. There was a tense moment of silence, and a thousand words passed between them without their lips ever moving. Keenan felt a lump form in his throat, choking whatever words he might have said. She looked away and wiped her eyes furiously to clear them of tears, her cheeks turning red.

Keenan took a sip of coffee and frowned. "Hey, look, tomorrow, I'll see if I can take a half day at the construction site—it's probably going to rain tomorrow anyways—and I'll help you put up some flyers, or something."

Zoë gave a half smile, "Thank you."

There was a long pause where they just sat there, silent, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, and doing everything in their power to avoid each other's eyes. Keenan wished he knew what to say, wished he could find a way to fix the bridge that had burnt between them, but every word he thought of died and turned to ash in his mouth.

Zoë licked her lips, "Keenan...I wanted to thank you for what you did. Not many people would have done that, not for someone they expected to be a stranger."

Keenan took another sip of coffee, "You were in trouble," he said as though it were enough.

Zoë met his eyes, "Still, thank you. I mean...if you hadn't been there..." she trailed off and Keenan watched the lines of her throat shift as she swallowed.

They sat there for another long moment, an awkward silence stretching between them where there had once been a comfortable understanding. There was no denying it: things had changed between them.

"Look, Keenan," Zoë said suddenly, shattering the silence, "I'm not very good with big words, or fancy apologies, but I wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened."

Keenan bit the inside of his cheek nervously but didn't say anything. He stared at a blank corner of the room as though it could save him. Zoë went on, "What happened between Luke and I shouldn't have."

Keenan didn't look at her. He wasn't certain he could just then. He just kept staring at the corner, his brows knitting in consternation. He felt like he was sitting on a bed of needles. The discomfort in the room was palpable.

He licked his lips. "Zoë..." he began, "what you did...I know it shouldn't matter. But it does. That man has done unspeakable things to my family in the name of an ideal that can't exist in this world. I...I wish we could start over, go back to before all of this started and work from there, but that isn't possible."

"I wish none of this had ever happened..." she said. Zoë shifted her weight uncomfortably, and when he glance at her she was running her hand through her hair. "I wish we could..." she started, but something seemed to catch in her throat and her words slowly died. He sighed and looked away again, licking his lips. "If you're asking me to trust you again...I don't know," he told her, "Trust isn't something that you can just give. But, Eric told me about what happened the other day—about you hitting Luke to protect him and Elipsy."

Zoë blushed and looked away, her expression almost sad. "I couldn't let him figure out that we went to school together," she said, "I know things have been weird between us, but I couldn't let him find you guys."

Keenan reached out and touched her forearm. She looked up at him with raised brows. He smiled warmly, "Thank you," he said.

"Friends?" she asked softly.

"Friends," he agreed.

They spent the rest of the night watching movies with the volume turned down so as to not aggravate Zoë's pounding migraine, and instead filling in the voices themselves. Keenan waited for Zoë outside the door to the bathroom when she was sick, but as many times as he suggested he take her to the hospital she was insistent that she didn't have medical insurance and that she couldn't afford the bill. So they settled for a few laughs, bad coffee, and mending bridges.

Keenan hadn't realized how much he had missed Zoë until then. He was glad they were able to spend time together without having to pretend they didn't know each other so they could fly under Luke's radar. In the back of his mind he lamented that he had to give up a night of work, pay, and tips, but in the long run it was worth it to see her smile. Despite everything, it was worth it to see her smile.

He hadn't realized they had fallen asleep until he heard Elipsy and Eric coming in. He looked at them blearily. Elipsy was wearing a mini-skirt, fishnet, CT's, and a small tank top with one of Eric's hoodies. Eric had his mohawk up and his hoodie zipped over his T-shirt, with torn jeans and combat boots. He sat up as Elipsy approached with exaggerated sneakiness. Eric hung back in the entryway with his guitar case slung over his shoulder. He had fallen asleep in the center of the couch while Zoë curled up at one end with the arm of the couch acting as a pillow.

Elipsy gave him a look, "What happened?" she whispered.

"What time is it?" Keenan asked by way of answer as he stood up. His back was stiff from falling asleep sitting up, and his neck felt like he had whiplash.

"Three," Elipsy said with a shrug and studied the sleeping Zoë. "She going to be okay?"

"I think so," Keenan said, "I thought you were coming home when the concert was over."

"We did," Eric grumbled. Keenan glanced at him briefly and stretched. "All right," he said, "I'm going to bed. Don't wake her up."

Elipsy nodded.

Keenan got a spare blanket from the hall closet and draped it over Zoë before heading to his room and flopping down onto the bed, back asleep before his head ever touched the pillow.

Zoë

The pitter-patter of rain fell lightly on the rooftop, gently waking Zoë from dreams of...what was it? As she lay there she tried to remember, but the harder she tried the faster she forgot until there was nothing left.

Even lying still she felt dizzy, and it was a long time before she trusted herself to move. Her limbs felt as though they had been replaced with iron. It felt like there were needles between her skull and her brain, and every movement sent a stab of pain through her head and eyes. As her senses awakened one by one she became aware of the gnawing hunger in her stomach and the parched dryness of her mouth.

Zoë couldn't remember ever feeling this bad before.

Where am I...? she wondered, opening her eyes.

She was on a brown suede couch, her back stiff from sleeping in an awkward position, and there was a blanket draped over, but she didn't remember by whom. The last thing she remembered was...was...

"Keenan?" she called softly.

"He's at work," someone called back.

Zoë sat up and immediately regretted it. She fell back onto the couch, her head spinning with pain as she fought to keep a stream of bile down. She groaned loudly. She heard someone chuckle. Elipsy came into view from around a corner and flashed a smile, "Hey there Misses Durden."

"Durden?" Zoë echoed, "Is that Fight Club?"

"Sure is."

"I don't get it."

Elipsy snickered, "That's okay. How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," she grumbled, "Am I in your house?"

"Sure are. Want some breakfast?"

As though in response Zoë's stomach grumbled loudly. She chuckled, sending a fresh pain cascading up her head. "I guess so," she said, putting a hand to her temple as though it would steady her.

Elipsy helped her to sit up, slowly, and into a chair in the kitchen. She fixed them both some bacon, eggs, and toast, each and every bit of food slathered in grease. "I know you're not hung over, but I kind of am, and I figure hang over food could work for a concussion too," the girl said, smiling.

Zoë made a soft sound of acquiescence, trying not to aggravate her migraine.

I hope this doesn't last much longer, she thought sourly.

Elipsy served up breakfast and Zoë took a tenuous sip of her coffee. Rather than brew a fresh batch, Elipsy had reheated the coffee that had been sitting in the pot from last night. It was stale and bitter, but somehow still managed to taste like heaven. "This is what you eat when you're hung over?" Zoë asked skeptically.

"Normally it's greasier," Elipsy explained, and Zoë failed to see how that was possible, "but since I'm sharing I didn't want to over do it. Why? What do you eat?"

"Soda and saltine crackers."

The girls ate in silence for a while, nursing headaches and sour stomachs. Elipsy was half way through her first plate when she asked, "So, I saw a flyer for your friend at the show I was at... What happened?"

Zoë explained how the cops had shown up at her house and told her about Riley, and about the flyers Zoë had been putting up. She omitted the part about the two guys that had jumped her, and instead made it sound like she had lost control of her bike somehow and that Keenan had found her and helped her out. Elipsy gave her a skeptical look, but said nothing.

"Oh man," she said when Zoë was done, "that's awful. I liked Riley. I'll have some online friends spread the word with me, maybe something will turn up."

"Thanks," Zoë said graciously, "That would mean a lot to me."

"Least I can do after what you did," Elipsy said taking a drink of coffee.

"Huh?"

"With Luke. At the school," Elipsy said, waiting for a trigger word to catch in Zoë's mind and explain everything. It didn't. Elipsy rolled her eyes, "You hit him after he saw Eric and I and distracted him so we could get away."

"Oh," Zoë said, "that." Her head was still pounding and she felt confused, "It was nothing."

There came the sound of a door opening and keys jingling. A moment later Keenan walked into the kitchen wearing a hunter green one-piece jumpsuit and work boots under his leather jacket. His hair was beaded with raindrops, and there were dark stains on his shoulders where the rain had tried to soak through his jacket. He smiled at them, looking tired, "You two are up early," he commented.

Elipsy shoveled scrambled eggs into her mouth. "The stomach wants what the stomach wants," she said through a mouthful of food. Keenan chuckled and ruffled her hair as he crossed the kitchen to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "How was the concert?"

Zoë faded in and out of the conversation as Elipsy started going into detail about her night. Sitting there, Zoë realized just how easy it was to forget what Elipsy really was, or Keenan, or Eric. They all just seemed so normal, so human. Certainly Zoë had never dreamed that werewolves would attend concerts, get hangovers, and make breakfast with greasy eggs and bad coffee.

These guys are my friends...aren't they? Zoë realized with no small amount of guilt. She knew it had all been part of the plan, but she suddenly felt scummy for spending so much time with the hunters, when these people suddenly felt so much like family.

"What about you?" Keenan asked when Elipsy was done with her story, tearing Zoë away from her thoughts, "Feeling any better?"

"Yeah," Zoë lied. She didn't need the throw up anymore, but her head was still pounding. All she wanted to do was lie down in a dark room and sleep until nothing hurt anymore. Keenan nodded and sipped his coffee. By the time Zoë and Elipsy had finished eating the rain had stopped. Elipsy gave Zoë a couple of pain pills and Keenan took her home.

"Zoë," he called to her as she made her way across the lawn. She turned to regard him. His expression was somber as he told her,

"I'm trusting you again. Don't make me regret it."

He pulled away from the curb before she had a chance to respond. Zoë sighed, ran a hand through her hair, and went inside. Her parents looked up at her from their seats at the table where they sat eating cereal. They looked at her like they had seen a ghost, "Zoë, we thought you were in bed!" her dad cried as she entered the room making her head whine. Zoë shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, "I stayed the night at a friend's house," she explained, "We met while I was putting up flyers, and I fell asleep while we were hanging out."

"You should have called us," her mom chastised. Zoë frowned, "Yeah, I know. Sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Jon said sternly, "You know the rules. I know you're upset about Riley, but that doesn't mean you get to stay out all night without calling us, and waltz back in here like it's nothing."

"Hang on," Pahua said quickly, "Menyuam, what happened to your face?"

Zoë had completely forgotten about her lip and the bruise on her face. "I fell off my bike," she said a little too quickly. She hoped she looked innocent enough to pull off the lie. She didn't want her parents knowing what had happened, it was embarrassing enough that Keenan—and probably Elipsy—knew, she didn't want her parents to find out too. Not to mention if they knew the truth she'd be on Paranoid Level Protective Lockdown for at least a month. Her parent's wouldn't let her go five feet from the door without someone with her.

Jon gave her an incredulous look and Pahua looked almost irritated. Zoë could tell they knew she was lying. She licked her lips nervously and shifted her weight. They stood and folded their arms in almost perfect unison—they were going into Parent Mode.

"Zoë, we know you're upset, but sweetheart, this is unacceptable," Pahua said sternly. She only called her sweetheart when Zoë was really in trouble. Zoë winced.

"We know you're worried about Riley," Jon went on, "but your mother and I can't overlook your behavior lately. You've been sneaking out—yes we know—you haven't been acting like yourself. We know you've been lying to us. We wanted to give you some time but this is too much. You're grounded."

"Grounded?" Zoë cried, "You can't—"

"We can and we will," Jon said in a firm basso tone, "You're grounded for two weeks."

"Two weeks! That's not fair!" Zoë cried, her migraine spiking to levels of pain that almost made her swoon, but she held her ground.

"Life isn't fair," Pahua told her. She stepped forward and held out her hand, "Laptop and phone, now."

Zoë groaned, exasperated, and pulled her phone out of her pocket and handed it over.

May

Rose Moon

Zoë

A month later, Zoë was working the closing shift at The Daily Grind with Phill and Sabra. It was eleven o'clock at night when she started mopping up the bathroom floor. Phill was wiping down counter tops and stocking product, and Sabra was working the books in the back.

She'd been able to see a lot more of Keenan and Elipsy now that she'd severed ties with Luke. They went out to lunch, and hung out before Keenan had to head to his next job, and he'd message her on his breaks. With Riley still missing, Zoë was happy for the company. She'd drawn up more missing person flyers, and Elipsy had helped her to pin them up around town, but from what little information she could squeeze out of Riley's parents, there hadn't been any progress.

She tried not to think about it, tried not to worry, but she did. Zoë knew what kind of wicked things were out there in the world, she knew the type of horrors that could have abducted her friend and that little girl she was with. Even with the dreamcatcher standing vigil over her nights, Zoë had been finding it hard to sleep. She just lay there for hours waiting for exhaustion to take her, but it never did.

Keenan was good enough not to point out how the stress was affecting her weight, or how tired she looked all the time. Sometimes she would spend the night at his house and they would fall asleep watching television on the couch. It was rare, but those nights helped keep the nightmares away when she didn't have her dreamcatcher. Somehow being in that house, being in good company made her feel at ease. Peaceful.

Zoë was moving from the women's restroom to the men's when she heard a bell ringing, which meant a customer had come in.

I thought Sabra locked the doors... she thought. Then a warm, numb sensation traveled the length of her spine as her tattoos began to heat up. Something unnatural was in the café, something bad.

"Sorry, we're closed," she heard Phill's voice chime.

"Closed?" a deep man's voice said. "What kind of coffee joint closes this early?"

Zoë poked her head around the corner to see what was happening.

Phill stood on the other side of the counter, trying to stare down a man. There were three of them, and not a single one of them were human. Zoë could see past their glamours to their real faces: tiny beady eyes blinked out of large, sunken sockets. Stubbed, upturned noses like a vampire bat's, large mouths that stretched from ear to ear and nearly brushed their temples with large, bat-like ears and skin so pale it might have been marble. Wrinkles played across their features as though they were part sharpei, their hands long and bony with an extra knuckle and long claws.

Ghoules.

"Sorry buddy," Phill said defiantly, "Like I said, we're closed. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I don't think you understand, asshole," the lead ghoule said. Lightning fast he reached across the counter and snatched Phill up by the front of the shirt, pulling him half-way across the counter so their faces were almost touching. "We want some fucking coffee," the ghoule said, "Now! And if you don't give it to us, we'll take it out of your hide."

Phill gave the ghoule a smug look. "Hey asshole," he said indicating the security camera with his thumb. "Smile, you're on Candid Camera."

The ghoule's face tightened in anger and he released a hiss. Without warning he pulled Phill the rest of the way over the counter and slammed him into the ground. Zoë's breath caught as she watched Phill try to struggle. It was no use—the impact had left him breathless, and he was outnumbered. Phill was swearing and trying to fight back, but to no avail. The ghoules exchanged looks, then let loose a series of shrieks as their jaws unhinged, opening beyond the bounds of human flesh, and bit into his flesh. Phill screamed.

They were eating him alive!

Zoë thanked her lucky stars Sabra was smart enough to stay in the back and hopefully smart enough to have called the cops. Zoë knew she couldn't wait though, and she couldn't leave Phill like that. She had to do something before it was too late.

Thinking fast she grabbed the mop and unscrewed the head. She slammed the long wooden haft against the wall, snapping off the end into a splintered, but sharp tip.

Zoë may not have been a hunter very long, but she had learned a thing or two. A ghoule's skin was impervious, but they had a weak spot just over their hearts. Unless Zoë suddenly gained all the powers of Yen Sid, jamming her mop handle though those things chests was her best and only plan.

"What was that?" she heard one of them say. Quietly, she closed the door and readied herself.

"Go check it out," she heard the command under the sound of Phill's screams as the other two continued to feast loudly.

Zoë heard the heavy footsteps crossing the lobby towards the restrooms, echoing off the tile ominously.

Closer...closer...

Zoë could hear the blood rushing in her ears, her heart pounding loudly like a hammer on cloth. It was do or die, and Phill didn't have much time.

The door burst open and Zoë lunged forward, leading with the mop handle. The ghoule didn't have time to react as she jammed the sharpened end into his chest cavity, slipping through his rips and piercing his heart. His scream died on his lips as she bore him to the ground where he died.

Some small corner of her mind began to scream as it recognized the gravity of what she had done. She'd been with the hunters for long enough, seen monsters die before, and even after being attacked and defending herself from latent spirits, werewolves and perverts, she still couldn't fathom the idea that she had taken a life, however wicked.

Zoë closed the part of her mind that regretted it, that gibbered away incoherently with shock behind an iron door and forced herself into action. If she balked now it would all be over. They'd kill her and eat the flesh from her body, and not necessarily in that order.

With white hot tears tugging at the edges of her eyes, Zoë stood and braced her foot against the monster's chest, pulling up on the haft of her makeshift spear. It came out with a sick slurch sound, the business end coated in a viscous black blood.

Zoë dashed into the lobby and closed the gap between her and the second ghoule in two easy strides, but it was ready for her. Moving in a blur, it came up from a crouch, slamming a heavy fist into her gut and driving the air from her lungs. She gasped for a breath that wouldn't come as polka dots danced in her vision. She staggered backwards, trying to fight against the bile that was threatening to erupt. She coughed and swung wildly at the ghoule with the shaft of the mop, but it was faster than her and he caught it easily.

Instinct moved her body where her mind could not, and she kicked out wildly, bringing her heel into his crotch as hard as she could manage. The ghoule released a small sound of surprise and maybe even pain, but the distraction was enough for Zoë to wrench the mop from his hands and plunge it into his chest. She summoned all the power she could, adrenaline propelling her body to new feats of strength as she forced the ghoule back until he was up against the wall and her makeshift spear pierced his heart.

She tried not to watch as his face went slack, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. She tried to ignore the weight of his body as it began to slide down the wall, taking her mop handle with it. She heard herself make a small, fearful sound, but it seemed somehow distant, like the voice of someone else.

Not now, she told herself, there's no time to be afraid right now.

Zoë tried to recover her mop handle to face the third and final ghoule, but suddenly there he was, his elongated hand closing around her neck.

An odd choking sound escaped her mouth as he throttled her, lifting her up off the ground as though she weighed nothing.

"You," he said, his alabaster face imbrued with Phill's bright red blood. It seeped into the deep creases of his face and slowly dripped down his maw, thick droplets weeping onto the fabric of his shirt. "You killed my brothers..." he said, his voice a high-pitched, nasally hiss, "How does a little bitch like you get away with something like that?"

Little spots started to spark and die in Zoë's vision as he held her aloft. She tried to kick him, but he held her too far out, and her strength was fading fast. Blood sprayed from his lips like spittle as he spoke. "This really pisses me off!" he screamed, "I should eat you. After what you just pulled, I'm going to save you. I'm going to fuck you every night until you bleed, and then peel the flesh off your bones, strip by strip and make you watch as I eat it. I've never had dark meat before...I wonder if it's sweet..."

Zoë's head felt like it was in a fog. Her face hurt, and she thought she could actually feel herself turning purple. Her lungs were on fire. She scrunched up her face, trying to breathe. No, she thought with agony, this isn't how I'm supposed to die!

Her vision had all but gone black as she looked the ghoule dead in the eye, the edges of her vision a murky blur. "FUCK YOU!" she managed. He tightened his grip, scowling. Suddenly the room filled with a stark, white light, but her vision was too hazy to make out much else. Someone was shouting, but she couldn't tell what they were saying past the blood that was rushing in her ears. There were two loud pops and she felt the ghoule's arm shudder. His hand fell away and she fell to the ground in a heap, coughing and sputtering as she tried to gulp down the life giving air.

She looked up as her vision cleared. The ghoule lay there in a puddle of blood, two bullet holes in his chest. Right over his heart.

"Zoë!" she head a familiar voice. Damien fell to one knee beside her. "Are you all right?"

"D-Damien...?"

"Are you all right?" he asked again.

She nodded. "Phill?" she croaked, and Damien looked up. She watched his face fall, and she gasped. She looked over at Phill, gagging on his own blood as the shock took hold of him and he began to seize violently.

Zoë's scream turning into haggard coughing, and finally bile that split out across the tiled lobby floor. Another uniform ran over to her and called for an ambulance, but it was too late. There was too much blood.

Phill was dead.

Zoë sat in the back of the second ambulance as the paramedics looked her over. She hadn't been hurt too badly, but there were some pretty heavy bruises around her neck. They wanted her to breathe through an oxygen mask as they checked her blood pressure and reflexes to make certain she was all right. All in all, she would be fine and would go home that night.

Sabra managed to get out unscathed. She'd hid in the back and called the police the moment Phill had been pulled over the counter, but she was shaking, hard, and from the bits and pieces of conversation she caught, she was stuttering pretty badly past her cigarette.

Zoë couldn't move. She felt too cold to even shudder.

I killed them, she thought. It had barely happened, and yet somehow it felt like a far off memory, or a dream from last year. I killed two people, she told herself as though reaffirming it in her mind. Had she become a monster? Had she truly done the unforgivable act?

Her eyes drifted up as her mind tried to wrap itself around the whole thing, and watched Phill's body being loaded into another car. It was in a large black body bag, sealed away as though it were some kind of dirty secret, but she knew who it was.

No, one side of her mind whispered though the gibbering madness she was sinking into, Not people. Monsters.

Suddenly there was a warm, firm hand on her shoulder and Zoë was surprised that she didn't jump. Instead, she looked over at Damien who gave her worried look, "Are you all right?" he asked gently.

"Mostly," Zoë said hoarsely, "They were ghoules. Three of them. Got angry because we were closed." It hurt to speak. Somehow it felt like she had swallowed something large and heavy and talking past it made her throat burn and her mouth dry.

"And you took them on all by yourself?" Damien asked quietly to keep the conversation private. Zoë nodded. In as few words as she could, Zoë explained everything. He listened with tight-lipped silence, his brows meeting in consternation, his expression hard and unreadable. At the end, Damien put his hand on her shoulder again, gentle and warm even through the heavy blanket draped about Zoë's shoulders. "What you did tonight was amazing," he said softly, "There aren't a lot of people that could have taken on one ghoule, let alone three."

"I should have been faster," she said, her eyes stinging with hot tears, "If I hadn't been hiding in the bathroom I could have saved him. It's my fault he's dead."

"Zoë, no!" Damien snapped, "The only ones at fault are all dead. They paid for what they did thanks to you."

"It wasn't enough..." she whispered. "It wasn't enough to save him."

Much later, Jon and Pahua helped Zoë into the house.

The paramedics gave her some pills for the pain and told her that as long as she took it easy she'd be fine, but it would take a while for her bruises to dissipate. One of her eyes had hemorrhaged during the attack and the white of the eye had turned red as a result. Her face had turned a slight shade of purple, and the bruises around her neck were practically black. Looking in the mirror she didn't even recognize the girl looking back at her. She looked like a zombie.

"Are you all right menyuam?" her mom asked, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Zoë stared at the monster in the mirror. "Yeah..." she lied.

She washed her hands and face, but it didn't feel like enough. She turned on the shower and stepped in, letting the icy water pound on her back. She sat on the floor in the shower, tucking her knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs as she stared at the far end of the small tiled room.

She tried not to think of Phill, of the blood, but every time she closed her eyes she saw him lying there in a pool of red; saw the ghoule that had almost killed her, his face stained with blood.

I should have been faster...

She and Phill had only been co-workers, but he had been an innocent—someone whose fate had not been intertwined with the darkness the way hers had—and he had died all the same. He was the type of person the hunters had worked to protect, the type of person Luke still worked to protect, the type of person she should have done better to protect.

She sat in the shower until the icy water no longer felt cold, and she was numb all over. She toweled dry and went to her room where she sunk to the floor and sat for a long time, wrapped only in the towel.

Her mind felt like she was moving through a dense fog. Each thought seemed to fade just before it began to exist, and she sat there feeling heavy, sodden, and weak.

It was close to an hour before she had the strength to force herself into her pajamas, brush out her hair and crawl into bed. She took her pain killers, hoping they'd make her drowsy, and left the lights on as she lay there, waiting to drift off as unbound, glaring light filled her room from the shade-less lamp by her bedside.

For hours she lay there, watching the time on the clock click by as one neon green number shifted into the next on her clock.

I wish Riley were here, she thought with distant dismay. Sometime after three in the morning, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes.

Phill's funeral wasn't until several days later.

The coroner and mortician had done their best to make it look as though the attack had never happened, but in the end it was a closed casket ceremony. She stood with her other co-workers on the dark Tuesday as they lay Phill to rest in the earth. It wasn't raining, but black storm clouds loomed overhead, blotting out the sun and filling the air with a grey, cloying humidity.

Zoë stood there, one hand holding one of the white roses they were to place atop his casket, the other clamped tightly around Keenan's hand as he stood with her.

She was dressed in black, but she couldn't help feeling like the mistress in red.

Those around her might believe her to be another victim in what they were calling the "tragic accident that took Phill's life" but she knew better. He was dead because of her—because she wasn't good enough to save him.

Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as she let the priest's words wash over, not truly hearing any of them. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't her fault, not really. Those ghoules would have killed them all if Zoë hadn't been there to see them for what they truly were, but no matter how she tried to console herself she always came back to the same sickening feeling of guilt.

How long before this becomes mom's funeral? Or dad's? she thought darkly as Keenan wrapped a comforting arm around her. She followed the slow moving line of the bereaved, and knelt to place her rose upon his casket. She touched her brow to the cold, unfeeling wood and whispered, "I'm sorry."

She stood and walked away from the funeral, Keenan following shortly after, but never saying a word. She didn't think she could bear watching Phill's body be lowered into the earth.

In the truck, Keenan tried to offer words of consolation and promises of happier times ahead but she let him speak without really listening. Even when he held her close and told her he'd never let anything happen to her, she felt numb and distant.

Then and there she knew that those who would protect her would forever be in the crosshairs. It was too late for some, but she couldn't allow this to go on. She had to go back to the front line.

Keenan

Keenan released a weary breath as he stepped out of The Warehouse and into the smothering summer night. There was a sticky heat in the air that made his clothes cling to him in uncomfortable ways. After hours trapped in the crowded, musky club, he wanted nothing more than to go home and take a cooling shower before bed.

He walked across the dark, quiet parking lot towards his truck, fishing in his pockets for his keys. The patrons had long since been driven out of the club, and the staff had closed down and "cleaned" before the boss had shut the whole place down. The white-lights of the parking lot light posts cast harsh, jagged shadows as Keenan's boots clicked solitarily off the macadam.

The scent of coffee, smoke, and cinnamon drifted lazily toward him on the hot summer's night. He looked up and saw Zoë leaning against his truck wearing a tanktop and a ragged pair of jeans, her short hair had been bifurcated into a pair of pigtails. Her bike stood in the stall next to his truck, taking up the whole space as though it were a full-fledged motor vehicle.

He smiled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked with pleasant surprise as he came to stand before her. The discoloration of her face was all but gone, and the white of her eye had healed. The only signs of the ghoule attack from just a few weeks ago were the bruises around her neck. They were fading, but in the stark, garish white light of the fluorescent parking lot lamps, they were darker than ever. Still, she did nothing to hide them. The only thing around her neck was the necklace he'd given her for her birthday.

At first she smiled back at him, but then her smile faded and her expression soured, "I wanted to talk to you," she said with a grim tone.

Keenan's smile faded, "What's going on?"

She met his gaze, her large brown eyes almost black in the strange light. Her brows met as she set her jaw with determination, "I'm going to be a hunter again."

Keenan's stomach suddenly fell out from beneath him, and he felt very cold. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd heard her. He blinked several times, trying to clear his head, even as his hands became fists at his side. "Y-You're what?" he stammered, too taken aback to keep his words straight, "But what about the dagger and—"

"I'm not going back to Luke," she told him firmly. She shifted her weight so she was standing on her own power, not leaning against his truck, and squared her shoulders. "After what happened to Phill, I realized I can't just stand by and let innocent people get hurt. I won't go back to the liar, but I can't step away from this. I'm going it alone."

Anger boiled up inside him, churning his stomach. He bristled, and fought to keep his voice even as he said, "How can you say that? After everything that's happened?"

Slowly, Zoë reached up a hand and gently touched her palm to his chest in an oddly familiar gesture. Her hand was warm, even with the heat of the night all around them. His rage faltered. She looked up at him and said, "I know you and your family aren't killers, but there are freaks out there, like the ghoules, that need to be stopped."

Keenan scoffed. "Are you even listening to yourself? This is crazy! You can't go back to hunting, you..." he stopped, his voice trailing away and dying. Her eyes narrowed. "I'm what?" she pressed, but Keenan had no idea what he had been about to say. He just couldn't bare the idea of her being a hunter, a murderer like Luke. He released an exasperated breath, his jaw tightening with frustration.

Zoë turned from him, looking out into the night, into the darkness that held horrors only she could see. "I know it's going to be dangerous," she said softly, her voice humming with a quiet resolve, "but I'm a seer. If I can't use that to help people, why have it?"

Keenan reached out and grabbed Zoë by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him and gripped her tightly. If it hurt her, she didn't show it. "Dammit, Zoë, this isn't you! You're just upset about your co-worker. It isn't your responsibility. You shouldn't have to take on the world just because someone close to you is gone!"

Her expression turned almost sad as she looked up at him. "Y'know its funny...I barely knew the guy. We just worked together, but somehow...somehow I know that if I had just been faster I could have saved him. I knew those guys were trouble, and I just hid in the bathroom until it was too late."

He shook her, his anger getting the best of him, and almost screamed, "That wasn't your fault! You did what you had to in that situation; you can't blame yourself for his death! You don't have to—"

"Who then?" she cut in sharply and Keenan faltered. "Should we leave this sort of thing to people like Luke?" she demanded, "The only reason he wanted my help is because I can see freaks. He's as much a monster as what he hunts. But there are things out there that aren't like you. There are things out there that are evil, and I'm the only one that can see them. If I can stop them from hurting people, and stick up for the ones that just want to be left alone...I will."

"Zoë..." he choked, "You don't have to do this; it's not your responsibility. If this is some kind of stunt because you're scared and don't want to admit it, just stop. You don't need to be scared, I'll protect you—"

"I don't need someone to protect me, Keenan," she interrupted him with surprising gentleness, but there was an underlying firmness to her voice that told him she meant every word, "I'm going to do this one my own."

She was shaking. Even with as tightly as he was holding her shoulders, he could feel her shaking beneath his hands. And yet there was a resolve in her eyes that he had never seen before; a determination, and even clarity that made her eyes glitter. It was then that he knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind, nothing he could say to stop her from hurling herself into the darkness.

He lowered his gaze so that he was staring at their feet in dismay. His grip on her shoulders loosened, but he didn't let her go. He couldn't let go.

"Is this how it's always going to be?" he said, unaware that he'd given his thoughts voice until he felt the words tingling on his lips, "Whenever we get close you run where I can't follow?"

Her hands were on his temples then, warm and soft. He felt her lips press gently to the crown of his head and he closed his eyes, trying to still the swell of emotions that squalled beneath the surface.

"I'm not leaving you," she said quietly, "You're my only friend in the world right now. I've lost everyone else, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose you too. But this is something I have to do. This is something only I can do. There are people out there—"

"I don't care about other people," he growled pulling her into an embrace. He didn't know why, but he wanted to hold her, to keep her there, to keep her safe, keep her his own. She was a full head shorter than him, her brow fitting into the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her. She made small sound of surprise and stood rigid against him.

"You almost died that night," he growled, "You're my only friend too, Zoë. I can't just stand by and let you walk into danger. I won't lose you so easily."

Softly, she spoke his name and relaxed into his embrace. "You work so hard to hide what you are," she said, her voice hot against his chest, melting through the fabric of his shirt and spreading across his skin, "But I can't do that; I'm not that strong a person. I can't pretend I'm a normal human anymore. If I can see those freaks, it has to be for a reason."

"I won't let you put yourself in danger because you think you owe it to someone who isn't here anymore. Your life is more important than that."

Slowly, she detangled herself from him, pushing him away gently. He had to fight the urge to reach out to her again. She looked up at him with rheumy eyes that glistened in the harsh white light of the parking lot lamps. Her face was set in a hard expression of quiet sadness, but she said nothing.

"You can be so much more," Keenan found himself whispering in desperation.

She stepped away from him, and even in the heat of the night, he felt cold without her in his arms. "No. I'm not very smart, I don't have a lot of skills. This is all I know how to do. It's all I have left."

You have me, he didn't say. He wanted to scream it at her, to grab her and tell her all the things he'd wanted to say from the beginning, but he didn't. He just stood there, and like a fool he watched her get on her bike and ride away leaving a dull pain in her wake.

June

Thunder Moon

Zoë

Music pounded through the air without apology as Zoë sat on one of the worn and abused couches that lined the walls of The Warehouse. The beer she'd purchased was warm, and she debated about leaving it, unfinished, on the club floor.

In fact, she debated about leaving the club altogether.

She'd been searching for a place to relax, to unwind, but the claustrophobic heat of the dance floor and the musk of bodies made her feel drained and sticky. She wanted fresh air, a place to breathe. And being in a dance club, alone, was not as fun as she had hoped.

Zoë stood and wobbled a bit before she found her balance. She'd tossed back more beer than she had meant to, and her time on the couch had done little to save her from intoxication.

Slowly, she made her way through the crowd, trying to find the bar so she could say her goodbyes to Keenan before leaving. She staggered drunkenly, and nearly toppled over another girl as she made her way. Zoë stepped back, hands outstretched apologetically as the girl righted herself. "Whoa, sorry, I didn't..." Zoë began, but her words died in her mouth and she realized who the girl was. Scarlet locks curled around a freckled cherubim face, stylish clothes hung alluringly from a tall, willowy figure, and all Zoë could think was how much Riley's jade-colored eyes shone without her glasses on.

Zoë's heart was in her throat as she tried to form words, or even a thought. "R-Riley...?" she stammered. But the other girl looked at her coldly from beneath a layer of dark, smoky make-up.

This was not Riley.

As Zoë's eyes focused a little more, as the initial shock wore away, Zoë could see past the glamour the freak standing in front of her was using. Her eyes were sunken and hollow, her skin the sickly grey color of rotting flesh, her nose peeled back almost like a skeleton's, and her jaw was unhinged; rotting, nail-like teeth clinging to greying gums. Strings of flesh held her jaw onto the rest of her face in thin strips.

Zoë stumbled away from the creature as realization hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest. This thing was not Riley, but it was wearing her flesh, it was parading around in her body like it owned it. Even with all the missing person posters still hanging in windows and on telephone poles around the city, no one had called in to say they'd seen Riley, no one had thought to look. And this thing wasn't even trying to mask the person it was pretending to be. The blatant disregard for the sanctity of death, the exhibitionist's thrill of being made, and the wild hunger of the monster within all gleamed in the freak's eyes.

"No..." Zoë croaked.

The freak turned and delved into the crowd. Pure, unadulterated rage pounded through the shock and booze with sobering purpose. Zoë marched into the writhing bodies of the club, her snarl lost in the auto-tuned chorus of the music.

She shoved aside a patron in her pursuit of the freak. How could that thing be walking around in her friend's skin, how could it expect to get away with something like that? She snarled as another dancing fool got in her way and she pushed them too. someone was shouting at her but it was impossible to hear over the sounds of the music. Suddenly a heavy hand clamped down on her arm just above the elbow and she looked up to see Moose the bouncer, looking confused and disappointed. Her head whipped around, searching for the freak that had taken Riley, but it had escaped into the sea of bodies.

Zoë swore, grinding her teeth as she let Moose lead her out of the club and into the night. She didn't respond when Moose tried to ask her what was wrong or why she'd suddenly started acting hostile, and she didn't care when he abandoned his questioning and returned inside. She was shaking. Her hands were fists at her side, her nails digging painful crescents into her palm. The thing inside, the freak, had taken Riley away from her. Zoë didn't know how she knew, but she did—whatever was hiding inside the club had killed Riley, and now it was going to pay.

The summer air was sticky on her skin as Zoë tiptoed through the alley, her silver knife at the ready. It was the kind of humidity that stole your breath. Her worn shoes made almost no sound on the hot cement as she fell into position at the eastern door to the winery she'd tracked the freak to.

Sweat dripped down Zoë's brow and curved around her temple and cheek.

The starless sky was darker than black and offered no relief from the dry heat that always followed June, when the humidity of the rain was trapped in the valley; hot, suffocating, and sticky.

She had to be on her guard. The leanashe was one of the more dangerous things she had faced since becoming a hunter again. It was an ugly soul-sucker that posed as a beautiful woman to lure people away and drain their life force through their mouth. They called it the "hollow kiss" on the website she'd found, which Zoë guessed was less cliché than "kiss of death".

Even in the darkness of night, Zoë could see the heat waves rising from the ground in the eerie, yellow light of the street lamps. Her tank top was already sticking to her, her jeans starting to become uncomfortable. If the leanashe didn't get her, she figured the heat probably would.

She limited her breathing to calm, even breaths, trying to keep as quiet as she could.

The door to the winery was ajar when she came to it, a blood trail leading right through. The stench of hot iron and old wine filled her nostrils and she crinkled her nose. The iron weakened the fae—that's what the website said—and that's why she'd cornered the freak here.

There wasn't a lot known about this creature, and none of the websites she'd looked on had much to offer. As far as Zoë knew, this thing could hear her heartbeat. But she'd watched this thing at The Warehouse, watched it almost kill a man. The stupid bitch had gone back to the club, and it hadn't bothered picking up someone else's skin. It was still wearing Riley like a Christmas sweater. At the time Zoë had pretended to stumble into the pair, drunk, and grabbed the guy, though he'd been unconscious. In the crowded club, the leanashe didn't have much of a chance to retaliate, and had left.

But that had been three days ago. Ten since the first time Zoë had seen it at the club.

Zoë had never been very good at researching things—that had always been Riley's claim to fame—but she was able to determine that the leanashe possessed the body of a freshly dead woman in order to blend in. The only way to stop it was to pile stones atop the grave of the one the leanashe was possessing in order to trap it. There wasn't a whole lot on killing it though.

There was no telling where Riley's grave was, so, she'd geared up, and went after the damn thing.

The Rambo knife gleamed in her hand, golden in the yellow lamplight. She'd found it at a thrift shop for next to nothing. It was bigger than her pocketknife, and was easy to hide in the strap at her ankle. As she drew closer she noted the weight of the steel fire poker she'd slung through her belt loop. It had been part of a set at the same thrift shop she'd found her knife, the kind with the sharp point and a wicked hook. It was steel, but Zoë thought she remembered Riley mentioning in class once that steel was an iron alloy. Hopefully that was good enough to take on the leanashe.

Red-orange rust clung to the aging iron door of the winery as Zoë stepped through the portal. Inside it was dark, save for the strips of lamplight that fell through the slits in the boarded windows and onto the floor. The gloom was nearly impenetrable aside from those rays that cut through the darkness. She hoped the leanashe couldn't see in the dark, but she couldn't risk turning on her flashlight.

Tentatively, she stepped further into the winery.

The sheer size of the building was daunting. There were two levels in each of the three main buildings, but Zoë had tricked the freak into the rightmost building, and she didn't think a creature adverse to iron would be likely to climb the metal stairs to the second floor.

A noise above caught her attention and she looked up to see a sprinkling of dust falling from the rafters. Someone had to be on the roof, but it wasn't the monster she was hunting.

Shit, she thought with a grimace.

She slipped the Rambo knife into the holster at the ankle and pulled out the fire poker. She needed to make this quick. She looked back down to see if she could find the blood trail again, and came face to face with the leanashe.

Zoë's only hesitation was a startled gasp.

She swung at Riley—no, at the freak—with the fire poker, and caught her across the collarbone, opening up a gash that bled and smoked. The freak roared at Zoë, a deep bellow that sounded like a woman and an animal all at once. There wasn't a trace of Riley in that scream.

"There's more where that came from," Zoë said and swung again, but the leanashe sidestepped and lashed out. Zoë stumbled as the leanashe's nails bit into her left bicep. Hot blood trickled down her arm and curled around her elbow. The gashes were not deep, and with any luck wouldn't scar, but they were bleeding more than they should.

The leanashe came at her again and Zoë ran in the opposite direction. She needed a moment to get her bearings and get the upper hand. She dashed up the narrow stairs along one wall, her footfalls too quick to make much of an impact on the ancient wood.

"Wood?" Zoë thought aloud as the realization struck her. "Shit!" she cried as she spun around. The leanashe was on her tail, but her steps were practically smoke. It sneered up at her with Riley's kind features. The floor on the second landing was cracked and weak, and Zoë realized it was the roof of one of the old brewers, and that the underside was hollow. She had to watch her step.

She skirted the edge where the cement would still be the strongest and kept the fire poker at the ready. The leanashe came at her, moving across the landing with an arachnidan grace that had never been Riley's. The roof of the brewer cracked beneath her weight.

"Light bulb," Zoë murmured to herself with a mischievous smirk. She continued moving to the other side of the brewer, her feet working in a grapevine. The leanashe was too angry from its wounds to think clearly and came at her straight across the landing. The cement splintered and cracked with the sound of an earthquake. Zoë held on to the rusted iron railing as the floor gave way beneath the leanashe and she fell. Her scream was more like the shriek of a cat than a girl, but it rang out far louder than the crumbling cement and screeching iron that tumbled down alongside her.

The quiet that followed was so thick Zoë could almost taste it; though it may have been the asbestos.

Zoë coughed, the sour taste of the old winery coating her tongue, and looked over the edge of the splintered landing. She waved her hand in front of her face, trying to shoo away the dust that had sprang up like a mushroom cloud, coughing. As the dust cleared, Zoë looked down into the brewer. The leanashe was there, an iron spike through her chest, black blood leaking out like a geyser. She looked up at Zoë, reaching out a hand, as if asking—no begging—for help.

For a moment Zoë felt a swelling of emotion, and she fought the sudden urge to drop into the pit and save Riley. But the girl before her was not Riley. It wasn't even really a girl. It had killed her best friend and stolen her face, but even as Zoë stood there, watching as the life slowly ebbed from the freak bellow, she had to repeat that fact to herself like a mantra.

"Riley..." Zoë whispered, "I'm so sorry."

It may have only been her skin, but as the leanashe slowly died, it brought home the reality that somewhere out there the real Riley was also dead, that she was never coming home, and no matter how many monsters Zoë killed, no mater how many missing persons posters she put up, nothing was ever going to change that. Riley was gone, forever, just like Phill.

Somewhere she realized that she should feel something more than this, that Riley's death should mean more. She'd been so broken up over Phill's death that she couldn't stay for the whole of his funeral, and he'd been nothing but a co-worker to her. Riley had been her best friend, her sister, since they were small. And yet she stood there, numb, as cold tears trailed silently down her cheeks.

Zoë realized then that the leanashe had only confirmed what she had known all along—Riley had been dead for a very long time, and there had been no way to save her. Zoë thought she might be sick.

She watched her die—watched as the leanashe's jade eyes rolled into the back of her head, watched as she stopped struggling and released a final shaky breath. A death rattle.

And then it was over.

Zoë whipped away the tears that had cut clean lines through the dust on her face, and tenuously, made her way across the brewer, hanging onto the rail to make it safely. When she reached the first floor landing, her legs buckled and she fell to her hands and knees, and wept on the winery floor. Riley was dead. Gone. Forever. In a way, Zoë felt as though she had killed her. The leanashe hadn't been Riley, not really, but she had stood there and watched her die, watched as Riley's mouth tried to work the words to cry for help, watched as Riley's jade eyes rolled into the back of her head, watched as the iron spike stuck out of Riley's slender chest.

It hadn't been Riley, not really, but it a way it had still been her.

It felt so strange—like mourning the loss of a loved one, gone for many years, coupled with the shock of fresh pain. Zoë's whole body felt like an exposed nerve, raw and angry. Even as the grief formed a lump in her throat, and odd sense of righteousness coursed through her. She hadn't been able to save Riley, but she damn well made sure the thing that had killed her got what it deserved, and paid for what it had done in blood and pain.

She wasn't sure how long she knelt there, weeping, but eventually she reined in her emotions and stood. Now was not the time or place for the type of grieving she knew would come all too soon. She needed to get out of there, and get home.

She glanced back at the wooden stairs. Wood, she thought acidly, and spat.

Making sure her fire poker and knife were still in place, Zoë made for the exit when suddenly the door creaked open and a beam of light cut through the darkness like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds. Zoë lifted a hand to shield her eyes. "You're too late," she said hoarsely, "I already got her."

Before he even lowered the forearm-sized Mag Light flashlight, she knew it was Luke. She was the last person she'd wanted to see just then. All she wanted to do was go home, shower, and try to forget that night ever happened.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded stiffly as he stepped inside, Farrell, Damien, and Switch behind him. She gave him a superior look as she shifted her weight, "Doing your job, apparently."

"By yourself?" Damien questioned, shocked.

Zoë brushed some dust from her hair in answer. Luke's face turned hard, "You're hunting again? Why?"

She put her hands behind her heard and interlaced her fingers, trying to seem casual. She knew if she let her true emotions show then there'd be no bottling them back up. "Someone has to," she said, "After all, the only reason you needed my help was so you could find the freaks. I'm just taking what you all showed me and putting it to proper use."

"Why not just come back with us?" Farrell asked almost desperately.

"No dice," Zoë shifted her eyes to Luke's and said pointedly, "It's safer on my own."

Luke scoffed and looked around the winery, at the destruction her fight with the leanashe had wrought. His expression turned sour. "You call this safe?" he asked as he turned back to her. He pointed at her arm. "You're bleeding."

She'd just killed a monster that had been pretending to be her best friend, the one who had gone missing only two months ago. Zoë didn't think a few scratches were what she needed to be concerned about just then. She lowered her arm and verily pouted. "I'm fine," she snipped.

"You're not fine, you're hurt," he insisted, taking a step towards her, "You can't be doing this on your own Zoë, it's dangerous. Today's it's your arm, tomorrow it could be your head. Come back with us, we'll patch you up, we can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," she said coolly and started to walk past him.

"Would you just listen to me?" he hissed and grabbed her arm—her injured arm—just above the elbow and stopped her. Zoë spun to regard him with narrow eyes. "Let. Go," she said through gritted teeth. Luke's expression was hard, a stone mask. She could see all the things he wanted to say behind his gunmetal-grey eyes, but she didn't want to hear any of it. He'd used her, betrayed her. Lied to her.

She didn't want anything to do with him.

He didn't let go of her arm. Zoë narrowed her eyes further. "Now," she growled. He didn't let go, but he loosened his grip enough that she could wrench her arm free of his grasp. Luke gave an exasperated sigh and started out of the building, "Come on guys," he said in a wounded basso, "there's nothing to do here."

Zoë watched as Luke stepped between Damien and Farrell and out the door without looking back. The two men turned back to her with fleeting looks of sorrow, even longing. Zoë shook her head. They had always been kind to her, but she couldn't go with them. Not if it meant her life.

Farrell lowered his gaze, and Damien looked away briefly before they both turned and walked out the door. Zoë sighed and shook her head again. "Dammit," she said, "When did everything get so complicated?"

"You're certainly an interesting one, Zoë Marsh," said a voice behind her. Zoë jumped and spun around, her hand going for the fire poker in her belt, but it was only Switch. He'd been so quiet she'd forgotten he was there. He looked at her through those rose-colored glasses, one frame catching the small amount of light in the winery so that it was stark white, contrasting the rest of his face. He gave her a superior grin. "It'll be interesting to see what you do next."

"What are you talking about?" she scoffed, taking her hand off her knife and straightening.

"Only this," he said as he started for the door. He stopped as he stood beside her, facing away from her and towards the door, "If ever you should receive a message about the Huntsman, I hope you'll do the right thing."

Zoë stood there, suddenly feeling very cold. What was he talking about? She opened her mouth to ask, turning to regard him at the same time, but he was already walking out the door and into the night.

Keenan

The clock seemed to be flying as Keenan pushed his cart of cleaning supplies down the tiled isle of the Sierra Vista mall. He had his headphone plugged into his phone, streaming classic rock through a single speaker into his right ear so he could avoid the irritating pop music that played idly through every speaker the mall had to offer.

He was wearing his hunter green jumpsuit and his worn leather work boots, his hair tucked up into an old hat that he wore backwards. He walked up to a trash can outside a video game shop. Now that it was summer time and all the kids were out of school the mall had been incessantly busy. Keenan wanted to smack a number of the children that flooded the isles and shops upside the back of the head—none of the little monsters could throw away a piece of garbage if their lives depended on it.

Some people just aren't trained right, he thought not for the first time that day.

The trash can outside the game shop was overflowing with trash—receipts and empty bags mostly, but there was the occasional half-eaten hot dog, practically full soda, or left over cheese from nachos or pretzels. The whole thing smelt like day old mustard as he started removing the bag, and he wrinkled his nose at the stench.

"Keenan?" he heard someone call his name over the sound of his music.

He looked up, and there was Zoë walking out of the game store. They cocked their heads to the side in almost perfect unison as she came towards him. "I didn't know you worked here," she said. Keenan shrugged, surprised, "Yeah. What are you doing here?"

Zoë shrugged too, stuffing her hands into her pockets, "I was thinking about buying my dad that new racing game that came out. It's his birthday soon. But I can't afford it just yet."

She was wearing layered tank tops of black and dusky rose that showed off the white straps of her bra, her red hoodie tied around her waist over her worn and tattered jeans that showed scuffs on her knees. There was a bandage on her left bicep.

"What happened there?" he asked, pointing with his chin. Zoë looked sad for a moment but tried to laugh it off. He could hear the discomfort in her voice as she said, "Oh, it's nothing. Just a little scratch from a few days ago." She waved her hand in the air as though to wave away any lingering concern. She looked up at him almost shyly and asked, "How have you been?"

They'd stayed in contact since she'd started hunting several weeks ago. But only just. A text here, a phone call there. It almost felt like she was hunting with Luke again, but it was something. Keenan licked his lips. "Good," he said briefly.

"Oh," Zoë said, "That's...good."

"You?"

"Good...good."

"Good," Keenan said at length. An awkward silence stretched between them as they stood there. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, desperate to break the silence. "Any word on your friend?" he asked, "The one that went missing?"

Zoë went still for a moment, almost like a statue, and looked away. "Um...yeah," she said, though the words seemed to cause her a deal of pain, "She, uh...she's dead."

Keenan felt a pang of sympathy and guilt run through him. "Oh..." he said, "I'm...I'm so sorry."

Zoë shrugged one shoulder as she turned back to him. "Thanks," she said softly. There was a spark behind her eye as she told him, "I made sure the bitch that killed her paid for it."

Keenan shifted his weight uncomfortably. That gleam in Zoë's eye looked too much like a hunter's for his liking. He cleared his throat and changed the subject, trying to be nonchalant about it, but even he could hear the desperation in his voice. "So...you excited to walk next week?"

School was officially over, but Zoë, Elipsy, and Eric still had their graduation ceremony to look forward to next week. Elipsy hadn't been able to stop talking about it, and had even made herself a

whole new dress just for the occasion. Eric had been lucky that he was even walking, but he passed all of his classes, albeit barely.

Zoë nodded. "Yeah I uh...I passed all my classes this year. Flying colors even in some of my worst subjects," she met his eyes pointedly, "My parents and I were pretty surprised."

Keenan felt his face flush with embarrassment and turn red. "I asked my uncle to pull some strings. Our way of apologizing for ruining your grades earlier. He already does it for Eric and Elipsy, so..." he gave a shrug of finality.

Zoë gave him an interesting look then—one corner of her mouth came up into an amused smirk while the opposite brow shot up in skepticism. She chuckled and opened her mouth to say something when suddenly her phone began to ring and Keenan's began to beep. His brows met, confused as they both fished in their respective pockets for their phones. In almost perfect unison they pulled out their phones and Zoë flipped hers open while Keenan unlocked his screen.

Sitting in his message box was a text from a number he didn't recognize:

the huntsman is in the woods

Keenan's stomach dropped to the floor as dread pricked across his scalp and arms. He bristled as his eyes went wide, his hand almost shaking.

"What is this bullshit?" he heard Zoë say, but she seemed distant, almost far away.

"This isn't possible," he whispered. Zoë looked at his phone. "Whoa, I got the same text."

Keenan blinked several times to clear his head and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He didn't care that he was still clocked onto his shift, he didn't care that he was still in his uniform, he didn't even care that he'd left a bag of trash in the middle of a walkway next to his cart of cleaning supplies. Keenan strode down the isle and headed for the exit with a speedy gait.

"Keenan!" Zoë called after him, trotting to catch up and keep pace with his long strides, "What's going on? Do you know what this means?"

"It's a code," he said, his panic hardening into a shell of resolve, his legs pumping with hurried purpose. "It means that Luke's found us. He knows where we are, and he's coming for us."

"How do you know?"

"I don't have time to explain this to you," he said as they walked out of the mall and into the torrid summer heat, the sun beating down with an unrelenting glare. He started for his truck, "I have to get home, get my brother and sister, get out of dodge. If Luke finds us..." he let the sentence die in his mouth, too sickened to even think of the possibilities.

"I don't understand," Zoë said breathlessly as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, waves of heat rising from the macadam and blurring the horizon, "I saw you at the cemetery. Luke stabbed you and you were just...fine. Why are you running away from him?"

"Because tonight is the new moon," Keenan said, his hands balling into fists at his sides and he picked up his pace, "We lose all our strength, our speed, everything that makes us what we are at this time of the month. We're as vulnerable as normal humans, and we can't change. If we don't get to our safe house before dark, we're done for."

Suddenly Zoë's hand was wrapped around his forearm. He turned to regard her, bristling with impatience as she looked into his eyes. In that moment the sun caught her eyes, and they suddenly looked almost green. "I'm coming with you," she said.

Keenan's brows met. "Zoë I—"

"No butts," she snapped, "I refuse to lose any more friends." Her brows met in anger, her jaw set in determination. Keenan sighed, deflated, and nodded. Without another word, they turned and started for his truck again, Keenan pulling out his keys in the process. They climbed in and Keenan brought the beast to life. He slammed on the gas and peeled out of the mall parking lot, heading for home.

"You wanna be helpful?" he asked Zoë. She made a noise of acquiescence and she fumbled to get her seat belt on. Keenan hadn't bothered. He pulled out his phone and tossed it to her, "Call my brother and sister and see if they're all right and tell them to get home."

She nodded and did so, allowing Keenan to focus on driving.

How could Luke have found them? How could it all have gone so wrong? The fearful part of his mind began gibbering with panic as his heart began to race. Worry made his knuckles white on the steering wheel, made his foot fall harder on the gas. He sped down the street towards home, praying Eric and Elipsy had gotten the message and were on their way there too.

"Slow down you maniac, you just blew a red light!" Zoë screeched from the passenger seat, jarring him from his thoughts. Keenan glanced at his speedometer. He was going fifty-five in a thirty mile zone, but thankfully there weren't any sirens chasing them. He let off the gas and fell into the speed limit as his truck rumbled down the street.

He took a deep breath to calm himself and locked away the panicked part of his brain. He couldn't afford to be afraid or worried then. He needed to be ready.

"So?" Keenan prompted as he rounded a corner, "Where are they?"

"Got ahold of Elipsy," Zoë told him, "They both said they got the message and are headed home. They're together and close-by."

"Good," Keenan muttered as he turned again into the cul-de-sac where his house was. He pulled up onto the grass and killed the engine. "Help me pack," he said as he jumped out of the cab. Zoë didn't say anything as they rushed inside. Keenan pointed towards the kitchen and told her to pack up some food in the red cooler sitting in the corner.

"How much?" she asked.

"All of it," he said as he stalked down the hall towards his room. Hurriedly, he pulled out a duffle bag and began filling it with clothes—shirts, jeans, socks, underwear—enough for at least a week, not bothering to sort through what was clean and what was dirty. Lastly he grabbed his worn leather jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way back down the hall. As he passed by the kitchen and towards the front door and his truck he caught sight of Zoë stuffing ice alongside sandwich meats and various other foods in his peripheral vision. He tossed his jacket into the cab and the duffle into the bed just as Eric and Elipsy started running into the cul-de-sac from the other end, both of them red-faced and out of breath.

"Are you all right?" he asked them as they stopped to catch their breath. They both nodded and straightened one at a time, Elipsy mopping her brow with the back of her hand and Eric sniffling, "We ran all the way from Tower," he panted.

Keenan nodded, "Nice work. Get inside and pack some bags. Zoë's helping with food."

"Zoë?" Eric repeated, "Why the hell is she here?"

"We don't have time to argue, Eric, now go!"

"What if she's the one that tipped Luke off, did you ever think of that?" Eric shot back, a triangle of rage forming between his brows. Keenan reached out and grabbed Eric by the front of his shirt, "Look, I told you we don't have time to argue about this! She's on our side. Now, go!" he shoved Eric towards the house, and his brother gave him one last, sharp glare before heading inside, Elipsy on his tail with a jittery gait.

Keenan turned and went inside as well, gathering hygiene and electronic essentials in a separate bag the size of a lunch box, grabbed some blankets and pillows from the hall closet, and helped the others pack where he could. Within half an hour the bed of the truck was bursting and Eric was helping him tether everything down beneath a tarp.

Suddenly everyone's phone rang simultaneously and Elipsy cried, "We're out of time!"

Keenan cranked the last tether into place and jumped into the driver's seat, quickly followed by Eric, and Zoë who was being shoved onto the floorboard by Elipsy.

"What? I'm going too?" Zoë cried as Elipsy shut the passenger's side door and buckled in.

"There's no time to argue," Keenan told her as he coaxed his truck to life, "We'll figure it out later."

Zoë gulped audibly as Keenan peeled out of the driveway, turned the truck around, and sped away from the cul-de-sac.

Keenan made his way through the streets and Elipsy and Eric busied themselves with calling to warn other family members and explain their plan. He drove as fast as he dared through the city streets, all but running every red light he came across, until he pulled off onto the freeway. His heart didn't slow down, but the muscles in his shoulders relaxed enough that his back stopped hurting.

So far so good.

"Keenan, wait," Zoë protested from the floorboard, "I can't go with you. What the hell would I tell my parents?"

"Luke will know that you helped us whether to stay or not," Keenan said as he gripped the wheel with white knuckles, "If you stay there's no telling what he'll do to you. You'll be safer if you come with us."

"How the hell would he have known that?"

Elipsy put a hand on Zoë's shoulder, "It's too late, hon'," she said, trying to sound comforting. Zoë swore and scrambled to pull her phone out of her pocket without hitting the stick shift with her back. He didn't bother to listen to her side of the conversation as she tried to rationalize why she wasn't coming home to her parents. He just drove.

He drove and drove and drove, but no matter how far he got from the city, his heart never seemed to slow down. It felt like it was pounding in his throat rather than his chest, but he couldn't allow himself to appear afraid—not with his brother and sister in the truck. Not when he needed to be strong for them.

They were almost to the foothills when Elipsy told him, "Okay, everyone's got the message. Uncle Gabriel is staying in town with his family. Aunt Renee can't move too much with the baby, and he doesn't want to leave her."

"Aunt Reiya said she's staying in town too," Eric told him, "She said after Gavin..." he trailed off and the apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Keenan glanced at him and nodded. He didn't need to say anything more. Gavin had been Reiya's son before he had been killed by Luke and his men earlier that year.

"Let's just hope they stay off the hunter's radar," he said and kept driving.

The cab was eerily quiet as he took the fast route towards Bass Lake. Tension stretched like the strings of a violin, a single, drawn out note of anxiety and fading panic playing in the silent din. Somehow it felt too quiet. It was as though they were afraid to speak, as though it would somehow alert Luke to their presence if they were to so much as whisper.

Even with the shortcuts and head start, dark was falling by the time they arrived at the cabin.

His great-grandfather had built the family cabin in his youth—a spacious two story thing with a cool underground cellar and a wide porch that wrapped around the sides. It sat on the edge of the lake—the lake where he used to play as a kid, where Elipsy broke her arm, where Eric collected frogs, where their parents barbecued burgers and kissed in the shade of the trees.

Fatigued from the long drive, the four of them climbed out of the truck and stretched with a chorus of groans and popping joints. More than anything, he wanted to go up to his room and sleep before dealing with any more of this nonsense—he hadn't exactly had time to cool off from work—but first things were first. Despite how very, very tired he was, Keenan helped unload the bags from the bed and helped unpack the food Zoë packed.

When at last everything was put away—or as much as they were willing to bother with that night—he turned to Zoë. She looked more tense than tired. "You all right?" he asked.

She shot him a look, "Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm in? My parents are livid. I couldn't come up with a good reason why I was going out of town, so I told them we're going on an impromptu camping trip, but of course they didn't buy that. They want me home."

"We can't—"

"Well, what am I supposed to tell them?" she snapped under her breath.

"The truth," Keenan offered with a shrug. She looked at him like he was an idiot and rolled her eyes.

Eric came to stand next to Zoë then, his eyes narrowing with malice, "I still don't understand why you're here. How did you know that they were attacking tonight?" he asked her plainly.

Elipsy shot him a look. "Eric don't, she helped us, and that's all that matters."

"It's okay," Zoë told her before turning to look at Eric. "I didn't. I got a weird text message and took off with Keenan to help out," she looked back at Keenan, "I didn't plan on getting kidnapped and dragged to the mountains."

"See?" Elipsy went on, "If she got the text she's fine."

Eric scoffed, "Just because your boyfriend thinks she's safe doesn't mean she is. I'm not even sure we can trust that guy."

Elipsy narrowed her eyes at Eric, even took a step forward to demonstrate her conviction. "I'd trust him with my life," she said, baring teeth.

"I wouldn't," Eric replied with equaled vehemence.

"You don't trust anyone!"

"Enough!" Keenan raised his voice above them both. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the floor, trying to think.

"Switch," Zoë said suddenly and everyone turned to her. She stood with her arms folded under her breasts and looked at each of them, "Switch was the one who sent those texts, wasn't he?"

Elipsy nodded, "He's been helping us for a long time," she said evenly.

"But why?" Zoë asked, unfolding her arms. She turned to Keenan and spread her hands, "If he was already working with you, why did you need my help at all?"

Keenan pinched the bridge of his nose, as he frowned, "I wanted to tell you before but there wasn't a way to do it without breaking his cover. We needed your help in a different capacity." He sighed, feeling the weight of his fatigue settle upon him, "Look, today has been crazy. For now, we should get some sleep, but keep an ear out. If the hunters were any the wiser, we'd have seen them by now."

Too tired to argue much, the others nodded their assent and trotted upstairs. Keenan found his room and fell into bed as the adrenaline and tension left his body in a single, fluid rush, leaving behind nothing but fatigue.

He was asleep before his head ever touched the pillow.

Zoë

Zoë grumbled as she sat up in bed.

She'd barely slept the previous night. She was worried about her parents—about how worried and angry they had to be. She felt sick. She curled her legs up to he chest, wrapped her arms around her knees, and sighed.

What am I going to do? she thought, dismayed. She was trapped. Keenan and the others couldn't risk going back into town, and she couldn't call her parents with directions. Even if Stein could make the trip up the mountain—which Zoë was certain it couldn't—there was the very real possibility that Luke had figured out she was helping Keenan and someone was watching her house, watching her parents, waiting for them to lead the hunters to the safe house. If they came for her, they'd bring hell with them.

She knew Luke would never hurt them, they were human, but that didn't stop her from worrying. She had betrayed the hunters, helped a group of dangerous monsters escape, and was now in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere, where said monsters could kill her with no witnesses, and no one would be the wiser.

Except Switch, she thought.

That's right; Switch had been the one that told her to warn Keenan and the others. But why? What was his part in all of this? She racked her mind for answers, but she was restless from a lack of sleep, sore from the awkward drive up, and ravenous. She got out of the bed—more of a small, hard, twin-sized cot—and looked around for her clothes.

The room was small, only enough room for a small bed, a closet, a window, and a chair where she had left her clothes last night. She was wearing some pajamas that Elipsy had lent her—a green tanktop and paisley short-shorts.

It was a lot less than she was used to wearing, but they were more comfortable than the smelly clothes she'd rode in on. She looked around for those exact smelly clothes, but they were gone.

"What the...?" She got out of bed and looked around, but there was no sign of them.

In their place was a pair of jeans, socks, and an old punk T-shirt Zoë had a vague feeling was Eric's, but no bra. Zoë's cherry Chucks sat next to the chair, waiting for her. Seeing no other alternative, she slipped into the clothes—having to struggle with the jeans that were about half a size too small—and headed downstairs.

What am I going to do? she thought again, racking her brain for an idea, but her brain didn't like to work in the morning before she had coffee and a cigarette. She doubted she'd be getting either of those things here.

"So, she's awake," said a droll voice from the dining room. Zoë's arms suddenly flew up to cover her bare breasts as she froze. Eric was sitting at the table in a sleeveless black shirt that read Punk's not Dead, Punk's been Sleepin' Drunk with his jeans were tucked into a pair of combat boots. His mohawk was tied back, and he was eating a sandwich.

"Oh...uh...hi?" Zoë ventured. Eric didn't like her, which was fine since she didn't really like him, but since she was trapped up here with him for who-knows-how-long, she figured she should at least try to play nice.

He stood and walked over to her, his sharp red eyes looking down at her. "You don't belong here," he told her. "You're a hunter. We should have killed you the first chance we got."

Zoë narrowed her eyes as she rose to her full height and folded her arms so that she could look more confident while still hiding her bra-less breasts. "Hey buddy, I saved your life yesterday," she countered.

"That wasn't you," Eric reminded her, "That was Switch, and I'm still not convinced this isn't some kind of trap. You may have my brother wrapped, but you aren't fooling me."

Zoë glared up at him wordlessly, but his only response was to take another bite of his sandwich and head upstairs. Zoë allowed herself a frustrated sound. She guessed Eric wasn't as willing to play nice as she was.

She sighed as she looked around the cabin. She hadn't had much opportunity to look around. Three plaid maroon and olive green couches surrounded a coffee table that sat atop a sand-colored rug. A red brick hearth stood against the western wall with iron pokers and shovels off to the side.

Half a wall separated the living room from the kitchen where a small refrigerator powered by an outdoor generator sat beside a stove and small sink. A small dining room set stood in the corner ready to seat five. She was no architect, but by the looks of things Zoë thought a lot of it may have been carved out of solid oak.

It was impressive in its simplicity and antiquity.

"My great-grandfather built this place," said a voice coming down the stairs. Zoë turned around to see Keenan heading down the stairs in a T-shirt, jeans, and worn, tan work boots. He was tying his wet, dark hair back as he came down the steps looking like he'd just stepped out of the shower.

"It's beautiful," she told him.

Keenan gave a small nod and smile. "Thanks." He looked around, almost nostalgic as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I spent most of my childhood here. This cabin has been in my family for a long time."

Zoë nodded but didn't say anything. What was there to say? She was angry that he had dragged her away from the city, but she was even angrier because there wasn't anything she could do about it.

Almost as though sensing her thoughts—or perhaps he just knew her—Keenan said, "Look, I'm sorry about dragging you out here. It's just...after you helped us, I knew Luke would know that you had. I've seen him do things to people that the craziest horror film doesn't even touch upon. I didn't want him to hurt you."

Zoë rolled her eyes, "He wouldn't have done anything to me," she said but didn't say why.

"Yes, he would," Keenan said, his voice far off, as though his mind were somewhere else, "I told you, I've seen it. That man doesn't know where the line between good and evil is. He's crazy."

A cold, sinking feeling came over Zoë, as his words sunk in. She thought her heart might have skipped a beat as her imagination began to run away with her. "Oh God..." she thought, "Keenan, my parents! If Luke knows I'm helping you, then he'll go after them! We have to do something, we have to—"

"Zoë," Keenan said, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to look up into his golden eyes. "Calm down," he said, "If they don't know anything, they'll be fine."

"But you said—"

"I know. Luke is crazy, but I don't think he'd involve your parents. They don't even know you're a hunter, right?"

She nodded.

"Then they're safe. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, you can always call and check up on them."

"Won't the hunters be able to trace the call or something? Find us that way?"

Keenan gave her an incredulous look, "They're not the FBI, Zoë, they can't find us that way. Especially not without Switch. Luke might have someone watching the house, but you should be able to call your parents without getting caught."

Zoë sighed and stepped out of his reach. She crossed over to one of the couches and sunk into it with a sigh of exasperation. She put her head in her hands as she tried to wrap her mind around everything—she was trapped in the mountains with a group of werewolves, Luke was back in town, where her parents were, and there was the very real possibility that he could harm them in order to find her and the wolves. She felt helpless and angry. No matter how she tried to think of a way to salvage the situation, her mind drew a blank.

She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her borrowed jeans and flipped it open. No service.

"This is a disaster..." she groaned.

She felt Keenan's hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said again, but it didn't help. Everything felt backwards; upside down. She racked her brain, trying to find a solution, but she'd never been very good at that sort of thing.

Keenan squeezed her shoulder, "Come on."

She looked up at him with a dark, smoldering glare but he seemed unphased. "Let's go," he said. She stood and let him lead her outside and to his truck and climbed into the cab. Zoë brushed some pine needles off her shoulder as she turned to Keenan. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said as he turned the engine over, "Buckle up."

Half an hour of awkward silence and winding mountain roads later, Keenan pulled into the parking lot of a small diner in a town that could be better compared to a strip mall and killed the engine of his massive truck. Zoë turned to him again, "What are we doing here?"

"Getting a bite to eat, and you can call your parents," Keenan said simply and indicated the payphone outside of the diner. Zoë sighed and gave Keenan a half smile, "Thanks," she said without looking at him, "I guess yesterday just stressed me out a lot."

"You're worried about your family," she heard him shrug, "I can understand that more than anything." There was a rustle of clothing and Zoë turned to see Keenan pull a few coins out of his pocket and hold them out for her. She took them with a knowing smile, and they both climbed out of the cab. Keenan walked inside the small diner and Zoë stepped into the payphone booth and closed the door. She picked up the receiver, dropped the coins into the slot and dialed the number to her house.

The phone hardly had time to ring before her mother answered, "Hello?" she snapped into the receiver, her voice sounding strained and stressed.

"Hey niam...it's me," Zoë said meekly.

"Zoë!" her mom screamed so loudly Zoë had to pull the phone away from her ear for a moment. When she put the receiver back to her ear, her mother was screaming in Hmong so quickly Zoë had trouble catching most of the words.

"Mom!" she called, "Mom, hold on just let me talk!"

"Zoë, what the hell do you think you're doing? Your father and I are two seconds away from putting out a missing persons report on you! Where are you?"

Zoë sighed, "I'm safe," she said, "I promise. I'm with friends, like I said yesterday."

"Just because school is out and you are eighteen does not mean you can just leave without saying anything and go camping with your friends!"

"I'm fine!" Zoë snapped more harshly than she meant to. She groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose, frowning. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, it was kind of a surprise. But I'm okay, and I'll be home before grad night. Please, mom, just trust me. I know what I'm doing."

Her mother's exasperated sigh was static on the other end. "Zoë, what are we supposed to think? You take off without telling us you're leaving, and when you called yesterday all you could say was that you were going camping with some friends? What friends, Zoë? What aren't you telling us?"

Zoë bit her lower lip, wishing should could explain everything. But her mom wouldn't understand, she didn't know about Zoë's sight or the things that were really out there. Even if she had the time to explain everything, there was no guarantee her mom would believe her or understand.

No, she thought, Keenan said the less they know the better.

"I wish I could say more, niam, but I can't. I promise I'll call every day. Okay?"

There was a long pause on the other end, and she thought she heard her mom sucking on her teeth, the way she did when she got upset.

"Zoë, I am really angry about this," she said at last.

"I know..."

"You had better call me every day, understand?"

"Yes, niam..."

There was a pause on the other end, and then the sound of a phone hanging up. Zoë put the receiver back on the hook and groaned. She ran her hands through her hair and let her head fall back against the scratched and tagged glass of the phone booth. As she stared up at the dirty ceiling of the little booth she prayed that her parents would be as safe as Keenan said.

Frustrated and grumbling she ruffled her hair again and left the booth, headed inside the small diner. It was a small place, but somehow cozy. There were only a few tables, each covered with a different table cloth, a couple of booths with ragged green upholstery near the windows, and a long bar with red stools. Keenan was sitting at one of the stools, his back to the front door, his ponytail hanging down behind him. She walked over and slid into a seat next to him, putting her elbows on the counter in front of her and crossing her arms.

Keenan gave her a sidelong glance as he drank coffee from a ceramic mug. "How'd it go?" he asked at length.

Zoë gave a shrug, "All right, I guess," she said, "I spoke with my mom. I didn't tell her where I was or who I was with, but I told her I'd call every day to let her know I was okay."

Keenan got a concerned look on his face. "I think we might be able to manage that..." he said, not sounding very pleased. He addressed his coffee when he spoke.

Zoë guessed he must not have liked that she, in a way, volunteered him to drive her down the mountain every day, but if he was so determined to keep her there, he'd better get used to the idea. She felt it was the least he could do, all things considered.

An older woman in a yellow dress that looked like it belonged in the fifties, and wearing a very wrong shade of lipstick sashayed over holding a pot of coffee. "More Joe, sugar?" she asked Keenan, popping gum.

Keenan smiled warmly and held his mug out, "Sure Louise," he said, "How about a cup for my friend here and four of my usual, two to go."

"You got it, sugar," Louise said with a wink. She looked at Zoë and gave a wide smile, "Oh well aren't you the cutest little thing! Looks like I've got some competition, here," she winked at Keenan and then turned back to Zoë, "You want some coffee, sweetheart?"

"Please," Zoë said.

Louise smiled, winked again, and popped her gum some more as she sashayed away and started calling what sounded like nonsense over the counter to a pair of chefs. Zoë raised a brow at Keenan, "Sugar?" she mocked.

He gave her a half-smile, "Hey, I've been coming here since I was little. Louise is like an aunt."

Zoë chuckled as Louise came back with a warm mug and filled it with inky black coffee before heading away again to see to other customers. Zoë lifted the coffee to her mouth and drank heavily. It tasted burnt, old and watered down—Zoë almost spit it out. Keenan chuckled at her as she added as much cream and sugar as she could to make the coffee drinkable.

They sat there for a while, talking about everything and nothing until the food came—two slices of toast, two eggs over easy, two slices of bacon, a large hotlink, and a side of hash browns. Zoë was glad that what this place lacked in good coffee, they made up for in good food.

It was the kind of food someone needs after a long drive or a bad day—hearty, a little greasy, but filling and satisfying. The best kind of comfort food.

They ate in relative silence until their plates were barren and Zoë felt like she was going to burst. By then the to-go plates were ready. Keenan paid and they climbed back into the truck feeling fat, furry, and lazy.

Keenan

Keenan stood by the open window of his bedroom and leaned on the sill, polishing off a beer. Zoë had been MIA since they'd returned from breakfast, Eric was being his usual reclusive self, and Elipsy had been sunbathing by the lake most of the day, leaving Keenan to try and iron out all of the wrinkles in this God-forsaken plan, alone.

At the time leaving town had seemed like a good idea, but now he wasn't so sure. How long would they have to hide up here? What would they be facing when they returned home? He'd been trying to work the whole affair out in his head all day but had so far been unsuccessful.

There's not much I can do until Switch gets here, he'd decided at last and grabbed one of the beers Zoë had been good enough to pack from the fridge.

As he stood there the light aroma of smoke, cinnamon, and coffee began to stand apart from the pine and water and earth of the forest.

He looked around, smelling the air, trying to catch Zoë's scent. He looked down, but there was no sign of her, and the room she was staying in was on the other side of the house which left...

Keenan looked up.

He set his beer down on the desk in his room and grabbed his jacket from the bedpost, shrugging it on before he stepped out of his window and into the tree beside it. He scaled the tree with ease, his hands and feet finding the holds that had been there since he was a child, the ones he'd climbed time and time again. Within seconds muscle memory delivered him to the roof, and he shrugged a few eager pine needles off his shoulders and from his ponytail.

Zoë was sitting there, looking out over the lake. The starlight glinted off her ebony hair, making it look like ink as the breeze gathered it up. She was wearing one of Elipsy's summer dresses and her red hoodie, her knees drawn up to her chest. She shivered in the cool night air.

"There you are," he said as he walked over to her and she jumped. She turned around and watched as he approached and sat beside her. "How'd you get up here?" he asked, folding his legs under him.

"Pixie dust," she said shortly.

Keenan gave her a concerned look. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Zoë looked back out over the lake and didn't say anything for a moment. She shivered again.

"Here," Keenan said, stripping off his jacket and wrapping it around her. It was a heavy thing made of old leather that smelt like sweat and earth. He draped it across her shoulders. Wordlessly she pulled it closer around her.

They sat there for a long time in silence until goosebumps began to prickle along his arms and the back of his neck. He had the strangest sense of déjà vu.

Finally he said, "You know I practically grew up here," and broke the silence, "We used to come here every three weeks when I was a kid, and then spend the whole summer here too. There were days I wondered why we didn't just live up here instead of the city. There was no one to bother us, no one we could hurt, but in the city things were...complicated. My parents could never get the best jobs because they had to be able to leave at a moment's notice and be gone for lengths of time. It wasn't until they were gone that I realized that they were trying to give us all a normal life. I've been trying to make sure my brother and sister have that kind of life too."

Zoë wrapped her arms around her legs as she turned her head to regard him, resting her cheek on her knees. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "You have such a big family, I guess I keep forgetting your parents...How did they die?"

Keenan licked his lips, his eyes drifting over the glinting waters of the lake. The wounds still felt fresh sometimes, the nightmare of that night playing in his dreams every other night. For a moment he didn't want to tell her. It was too painful to drudge up, only a few years old.

Maybe then she'll understand, he thought.

He took a deep breath, and began, "I was nineteen. It was a new moon. During that time of the month we can't transform, even if we want to. It's also when we're at our weakest, like being sick. It was a Sunday, and we were sitting down to dinner. I had moved out by then, but I still came home for dinner every Sunday. My mom used to make..." he trailed off for a moment remembering the extravagance his mother would go through for a single dinner—like some kind of mini-Thanksgiving. He licked his lips, trying not to remember her smile, the softness of her touch, and then began again, "Anyway, as we were eating, there was a knock on the door. I got up to answer it, but my dad stopped me. He told me to take the twins and hide, that no matter what I had to protect them. They were only thirteen at the time.

"I took my little brother and sister and we hid in the basement. My mom made sure that we were completely hidden before my dad answered the door. I watched through the cracks in the floorboards as Luke barged in with his men. He had a very different team then. All big guys. Brash, violent. It wasn't even a contest. My parents were weak as wet kittens. They cut down my father, but my mother...they tortured her. The table was set for five, so they knew we had to be there somewhere. It didn't matter what they did, she never gave us up. For a long time after that night I thought maybe my dad had known that Luke was coming for them, that that's why they told us to hide, but I knew in my gut that my parents never would have abandoned us like that.

"More than once I wanted to help my mom, save her, but I kept thinking about what my dad had told me: that I had to protect Eric and Elipsy. If I had gone out there then, we'd all be dead right now." He turned and looked at her. "That night at the cemetery was the anniversary of their death. It's why I was there."

Keenan hadn't realized that he was crying until his vision misted over. He blinked away the moisture, catching the tears before they could fall. He looked away, hoping Zoë hadn't noticed.

"Oh god," she breathed, "Keenan...I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

He smiled wryly, but didn't trust himself to look at her just yet. "It's not your fault," he said distantly.

There was a long lull in the conversation where neither of them said anything. Keenan kept his eyes trained on the lake until he felt his eyes go dry again and the surge of emotions that rose within him subsided and he was calm once again.

Neither of them wanted to say what was on their minds: that one day Luke might have rubbed off on Zoë, that she could have become just like him if she had stayed a hunter. When Zoë had told him she was going to start hunting again Keenan had feared the worst; now he didn't know what to think.

"Everything just feels so upside down," she said softly. He turned to regard her. She held his jacket tightly around her shoulders, staring at her knees as though they had done something offensive. "I wanted to believe Luke over and over, even after I kept finding evidence that he was lying to me. I was an idiot. But at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. I had never been someone that helped people before. I wasn't the same person I am now. I was selfish. I used people. Sure, they were all strangers, but that doesn't make it any better. That doesn't make me any better. I thought hunting would be a way to make up for it all, and I'd finally stop being so afraid all the time..." Zoë's eye flitted up to the moonless night sky. "I wanted to believe that I was doing everything for the right reasons with the right people—that they were just as lost and afraid as I was, and that they were putting on as big a bravado as me. I'm sorry." she looked at him with misty eyes, blinking to prevent the tears from falling.

Keenan put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, "Hey, don't cry," he said gently. She sniffled and rested her head in the crook of his neck, her lips hovering so close to his throat he could feel the heat of her breath against his flesh.

"I'm worried about my parents," she said softly, the warmth of her words spreading across his skin. "After what happened to my co-worker, I went back because I didn't want anyone else to get hurt like that because of me, but then Riley—" she stopped suddenly. He felt her take a breath and stiffened at the sensation, his heart leaping into his throat. She moved so she could look into his eyes, the deep expanses of her dark irises seemed endless in the starlight. She licked her lips before saying, "Luke knows where I live, and he's probably figured out that I'm with you by now. What if he does something to them because of me? What if he kills them?"

"I thought you talked to your mom earlier," he said, "They're fine."

"For now," she said, "but ever since breakfast I've just been so worried..." She wasn't crying, but she was shaking, whether from fear, anger, or cold, Keenan wasn't sure. His arms went around her all the same, and she made a little sound of surprise. He held onto her tightly, as though he were worried she might float away.

"No one's going to hurt them," he assured her gently. "They'll be alright."

"But what if—" she started but Keenan pulled away enough to look at her and she stopped suddenly. She looked up at him. He could see the fear within her like storm clouds behind her eyes. The fear of losing someone you care about was a fear he knew too well. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a strangely familiar gesture. Zoë shivered at his touch.

"I refuse to let that man hurt anyone else I care about," Keenan said. "You have my word that if he harms a single hair on your parents' heads...I'll kill him."

Zoë

Zoë stumbled through the woods, her feet tripping clumsily over roots and thick beds of pine, her legs and chest burning. She leaned heavily on a tree as she tried to hurry, the choking smell of smoke and fumes chasing her, threatening to swallow her up. She fought against the dots that danced in her vision and took several steadying breaths. Setting her jaw with determination, she pushed off from the tree and started forward again. Her legs gave out beneath her and she fell to the ground, her head spinning as blood dripped into her eye.

She groaned and suppressed a sob as she got to her feet, the world spinning, spinning, spinning. A gun fired with the sound of a thunderclap from somewhere nearby and something—a wounded dog?—whimpered in pain.

"No..." she said with bruised lips, and turned. She had to go back, she had to—

And suddenly it was there, the familiar pain of the dagger. She looked down and watched as it slid slowly from her abdomen, slick with crimson blood. She looked up, waiting to see Luke's face, waiting to see the gunmetal-grey eyes of her murderer, but all she could see was the crescent moon hanging low in the dark sky surrounded by a sea of stars.

Distantly, someone was calling her name, but she couldn't see who. She was falling, the darkness rising to meet her and swallow her whole. Again she heard her name being called, and she screamed fro help, but there was nothing but the echo of her own name.

Zoë's eyes shot open.

She was lying in bed, covered in a cold, fitful sweat, the bedsheets tangled helplessly around her ankles. Keenan was standing over her with his hands on her shoulders and a look of concern on his face. He'd been trying to shake her awake.

"W-What..." she stammered as her voice died.

"You were screaming," Elipsy explained from the foot of the bed, her ashen face was stretched with worry. Zoë blinked and tried to work her mouth into a sentence but the words turned to ash in her throat. Keenan helped her sit up and turned to Eric who was standing in the doorway, "Can you get her a glass of water?"

Eric, looking irritated and groggy, turned with a huff and marched towards the bathroom.

Zoë didn't realize she was shivering until Keenan placed a hand on her shoulder. She took several breaths to try and calm herself.

I was screaming? she thought, astonished.

"What happened?" Elipsy asked quietly. Zoë gave her a brief look then turned away.

"N-Nothing," she stammered, trying to rein in her emotions, "I'm fine."

"No you're not," Keenan said with a stern, yet comforting voice, "You're shaking like a leaf. Tell us."

Zoë took several more deep breaths and closed her eyes as she tried to understand it herself. It had been her dream—it had to have been her dream—and yet it was somehow different.

How could it be different? she asked herself as a chill crawled up her spine, her scalp prickling, It's been the same for years, every night the same. How could it have changed?

She took a mental check of herself. The moon wasn't full, and she had finished her menses days before coming to the cabin. So why had it come?

"Oh God..." she whispered as a sudden realization came over her.

Eric was back by then, pressing a cup of water into her hand. She swallowed audibly, her mouth going dry and took a slow, shaky drink of water. "My dream..." she said at long last, her voice a wisp.

There was a chorus of, "What?" all around her. Keenan placed a hand on her shoulder, and she looked over at him. He was kneeling by the bedside, and she was barely taller than him. She steeled herself as she focused on the golden rods of his eyes, imagining that they could be the sun. Anything to distance her mind from the cold darkness of her nightmare.

"My dream," she repeated, her voice a little stronger as she steeled herself, "The one where I die? It's...different."

Keenan's brows met, "Different how?"

"The thing is..." she started in all confidence, but suddenly it was very hard to talk. She licked her lips, searching for the right words, "I have that stupid dream all the time," she started softly, "Sometimes I have it for up to two weeks a month, and each and every time it's the same. I mean, sure, sometimes they're more intense, sometimes I still wake up sweating and shaky," she shrugged, "but the dream is always the same. Tonight it was different—" she stopped suddenly, her voice cracking derisorily.

Keenan sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. She hadn't noticed until then that he was wearing it down, the dark strands flowing over his shoulders like a waterfall of midnight, "But why would it be different all of a sudden?"

Zoë swallowed audibly, "You remember how I told you that my dream is supposed to show how I die?" He nodded. "I think getting my tattoos, coming here, everything that I've done has somehow changed things," Zoë said, not realizing she was whispering until she felt its hiss across her lips, "My dream is still going to come true."

Keenan narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, then looked up at his brother and sister who were standing there, watching her with wide eyes and slack jaws. Zoë closed her eyes against the disbelief in their gazes.

"Go on back to bed," Keenan told them gently, and Zoë opened her eyes again. Elipsy and Eric silently exchanged looks. Eric shrugged and left, but Elipsy shot Zoë one final look of concern before following her twin out of the room and closing the door behind her.

"You don't need to do this," Zoë told him, shaking her head.

Keenan wasn't listening as he stood and perched himself in front of her on the bed, curling one leg beneath him. He didn't touch her, just looked at her with those eerie golden eyes and said in a husky basso, "It's all right. We're safe here. Luke doesn't know this place exists, he can't find you here."

She nodded, but couldn't seem to stop shaking.

"I-I—" she stammered as her teeth began to chatter, "I'm not sure what to do. Up until now I've always felt like the choices were all laid out for me, all I had to do was pick one and run with it, but now...I just—I just don't know how to deal with this, and it's freaking me out."

She was trying to down play how afraid she was, but she had a feeling Keenan could see it. In all the years she'd been having her nightmare it had always been the same—callous, static. Now, it had changed.

Keenan's golden eyes looked at her from under his heavy, dark brow and he touched her arm gently. "If it's changed, then you're just going to have to change it again," he told her, "Nothing is set in stone, remember?"

She gave him a weak smile as he quoted himself from several months ago and stared at the corner. "Yeah," she said meekly, "Maybe."

"Hey," he said and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. Zoë felt her face burning as he looked down at her, his golden eyes stern, focused. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Understand?"

She heard herself whisper his name and for a moment they just sat there, holding each others gaze and carrying on a silent conversation. In it, she laid all of her fear out for him to see, and he consoled her without words. Just having him there helped to still the eddy of emotions that swirled within her, and eventually she stopped shaking.

He gave her a brotherly smile, "Try to get some sleep, all right," he told her, "My room is just down the hall. I'm right here."

He started to stand, a cold spot blooming on her chin in the wake of his touch. Before she realized it was happening, her hand shot out and curled around his wrist. He turned, looking at her surprised. "Wait," she blurted. Zoë felt her face burning with blush. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need his help, that she could figure this out on her own, and that she was a big girl who could solve her own problems, but the words wouldn't come. As much as she hated it, as much as she wished it weren't true, she wanted him there, if only for a hand to hold as she walked through the torrid nightmares. "Would you—could you—that is, I mean..." she tried but the words didn't want to come out right, "I don't want to sleep alone tonight," she said, too embarrassed to admit she was afraid.

Keenan's cheeks flushed and he glanced away from her for a moment, "O-oh..." he said, looking uncomfortable. She bit her lip again, feeling foolish.

What am I? A three year-old? she chastised herself. She let go of his wrist and made a disgusted noise. What was she thinking? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to let the fear wash off of her. As she opened them again, she looked up at Keenan, ready to tell him she didn't really need him to stay there, that she could handle things herself. But as she opened her mouth to speak, he started talking.

"All right," Keenan said softly. She looked up at him, surprised as he sat back down on the bed, "I'll spend the night with you."

Zoë didn't say anything.

Keenan

The next morning Keenan awoke to the sound of screams and jolted awake.

At first he thought it was Zoë having a nightmare again, but as his mind began to comprehend the world around him he found Zoë waking in his arms with a cute little moan that stirred him. She was curled up next to him, her arms interlaced with his, her face buried in his chest, the heat of her breath making him shudder. Keenan heard himself make a quiet sound of alarm as he realized what was happening. Zoë's eyes grew wide, and her expression changed suddenly from one of pleasant lethargy to shock.

With a cry Zoë flew backwards and off the bed, taking half the bedsheets with her while Keenan sat bolt upright.

"W-What the hell are you doing?" she cried, her cheeks on fire.

"Its morning!" he countered, "What do you expect?"

"Not that!"

Suddenly there was another scream and Keenan took off like a bullet from a gun, jumping out of bed and making for the window.

He flung open the glass, ready to jump down and see what the matter was, but instead he saw Elipsy in her pajamas running up to Switch who was pushing his motorcycle toward the cabin through the morning mist. When he saw her, Switch kicked the stand of his bike out and opened his arms to receive her. Elipsy squealed and jumped into his embrace, kissing him and throwing her arms around his neck as he spun her.

Keenan breathed a sigh of relief. "Finally," he said.

"Oh!" Zoë said besides him, sounding shocked. He turned to regard her, but her eyes were trained on the scene bellow, "Well...that explains a lot," she said sounding surprised. Keenan chuckled as he leaned against the frame, "Yeah, they've been together for a few years now," he explained.

Zoë's face was priceless. "I...I never thought—I mean...wow!" she stammered.

"They're pretty good at keeping it secret. Switch has been spying on the hunters for us for a long time now. It's why we wanted you to work with us instead of just doing the same thing he was doing."

She nodded, and he could almost see the cogs in her head starting to turn again and she pieced the puzzle together. Eventually she gave one last wide-eyed look out the window and shook her head, "Okay then...now what?"

An hour later everyone was sitting around the table, eating pancakes as Switch filled them in. "I had to wait a little longer than I wanted to ditch the hunters," he said through a mouthful of food. "Once they stopped looking for clues, I managed to blow the computers in their cars before I went home. Packed up, took off and rode all night."

"How'd they find us?" Keenan asked as he dumped another pancake onto Eric's plate.

Switch swallowed, "I don't know. Luke wouldn't say. We're just lucky I found out before it was too late. I would have called, but I couldn't risk getting caught."

"Are you sure they didn't follow you?"

"Like I said, I killed all the computers in their cars; they couldn't have. I also cut out their cells, and blew up Luke's computer. They're running old school, and that's going to buy us a lot of time."

Zoë blinked. "Why'd you take out just their electronics? Why not steal their weapons or something?"

Switch smiled. "Because that's what I do," and he lowered his glasses. Behind the rose tinted lenses, his eyes were an impossible electric green. Golden rods that could have been circuitry ran through his irises, and in the very center of his pupils was a small golden dot. They were not the eyes of a human.

Zoë visibly jumped. "What are you?"

Switch held out his hand. An electric spark ran between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm a fulgur mancer," he said, "I can manipulate electrical currents, and sense where and when lightning will strike. I once heard of a fulgur mancer strong enough he could actually control lightning, but I just work with electronics—computers, televisions, lights—anything with circuitry."

Elipsy smirked. "Yeah, he's a real gadget freak."

"I prefer techno mage if it's all the same," Switch said pushing his glasses back up so that his eyes just looked brown again, "It sounds cooler."

Zoë was nodding, "So that's why you wear those glasses. Red and green are complimentary colors. The tinted glass makes your eyes look brown."

Switch raised a single brow, "Well, aren't you a smart cookie." He winked at her, "There aren't many of us though. We're one of a few abnormals that can pass for human, but hunters find us anyways. That's why I started helping these guys," he indicated to Keenan and the twins, then looked back at Zoë, "Glad to see you made the right decision," he said and became once again concerned with his pancakes.

Keenan finished cooking and passed around plates of short-stacks, butter, and syrup, then sat down and started eating. "So," he asked as he started spreading butter across his pancakes, "When can we go home?"

"They'll be ready for us," Switch said, "We can't just walk back into Fresno without expecting resistance."

"If they haven't burnt it all to the ground already," Eric grumbled.

"That's not their style," Switch explained rubbing his hands together, "If I know Luke, and I do, he won't have done anything that brash. They're probably staking out your houses though, waiting for us to get back.

"They've had a lot of time to go through things, get a bearing on us, and set up a trap. Our best bet is to meet them on neutral ground. Maybe even find somewhere we can spring a trap of our own."

"Won't they see that coming?" Elipsy countered.

Switch tapped the table with one fingernail, "Not if we're careful. I think if we use Zoë as bait, we can make it work."

"Me?" Zoë leaned back, looking confused and slightly offended. Switch nodded, "I think if we let Luke think that Zoë is in trouble, or that she's changed her mind about helping you, he'll come running."

"But why me?" Zoë demanded angrily.

"Don't make me spell it out for you girly," Switch said drolly, rolling his eyes. Zoë sat there fuming, her cheeks turning an intense shade of scarlet.

Keenan bristled and cleared his throat to bring them back to the discussion at hand, "Okay, so, Zoë's bait. Any ideas past that?"

"Luke won't stop chasing us as long as he lives," Eric growled, leaning forward, "We all know that. We're going to have to put an end to him, once and for all."

"You mean kill him?" Zoë said, narrowing her eyes. Eric turned to her. "It's them or us," he growled.

Zoë shook her head. "No, Eric, you don't understand," she said and looked out over all of them, looking each and every one of them in the eye as she spoke pointedly, "If you kill Luke he becomes a martyr, but more importantly, he becomes right. None of you have actually killed anyone, that's why Luke has no right to go after you, but if you kill him all that changes. If you take a human life you're free game."

There was a long pause of silence after that. Keenan lowered his gaze. He didn't want to think she was right, but she was. As much as he wanted to, the idea of being rid of Luke once and for all, of finally being able to avenge his parents to be a reality, he knew she was right.

Eric glowered at Zoë. "Do you have any idea what that man has done?" he snarled, "We'd be doing the world a favor by killing him. If it was up to me, I'd string Luke up by his entrails!"

"Eric!" Elipsy snapped.

"It's more than he deserves!"

"Enough!" Keenan bellowed and the others quieted in the face of his command. Keenan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he frowned. As much as he hated to admit it—and truly he did—Zoë was right. Killing Luke might free them of his pursuit, but ultimately it made them no better than him. A man might save his family by taking the life of another, but that does not justify the action. His frown deepened as he interlaced his fingers and rested his forearms on the table. "This is not a decision we can make lightly," he told them, "I don't especially like the idea of killing someone, even if it is Luke. There's gotta be another way."

"You fucking coward," Eric growled in a low voice. Keenan shot him a narrow-eyed glance. His brother was seething, brows met in barely-contained rage, "How can you sit there and talk about running away?"

"I never said we were running," Keenan shot back.

"That's what we did!" Eric protested loudly, "The moment you found out Luke was coming you tucked your tail between your legs and ran like a bitch!"

"It was the new moon, Eric," Keenan said, raising his voice but keeping his tone even, "Luke would have mopped the floor with us in an instant."

"We should have stayed and fought! But you wanted us to run and hide! You're a coward!"

"Eric!" Elipsy cried angrily, but he ignored her. He stood suddenly, squaring his shoulders and pushing his chest out as he looked down at Keenan. "You're not fit to lead this pack anymore. You've backed us into a corner when we should have fought. The way Dad fought."

"Dad is dead," Keenan growled in a low, angry voice.

Eric bristled, his hands becoming fists at his sides. A low, thick growl sounded in the back of the young man's throat as his lips peeled back from his teeth.

"Girls, girls," Switch said, trying to raise his voice above the tension that was filling the small kitchen, "You're both pretty—"

"Shut-up, Switch!" Eric and Keenan snapped in unison without breaking the hard gaze they'd locked themselves into. Keenan could feel the friction building, a flame of resentment and testosterone igniting between them. The others squirmed uncomfortably in his peripheral vision.

"I challenge you," Eric growled.

Keenan's jaw hurt as he clenched it, baring his teeth in a snarl, and stood. He was taller than Eric, and his brother had to look up at him to keep eye-contact. "Are you an idiot?" Keenan asked, "We've got hunters on our tail, we don't know when we're going to be able to go back home, or even if there's going to be a home to go back to, and you want to pick a fight?"

Eric released a feral growl, "That's the last time you call me an idiot!" He swung a fist at Keenan, but missed as Keenan's leaned away from the blow. At the same time he brought his own fist to bear and drove it into the boy's gut, driving the wind from him.

Elipsy and Zoë were screaming for them to stop, but it was too late.

Eric had issued a challenge, and if Keenan didn't do something, he would forfeit his right as the alpha. Keenan steadied his brother as he swayed, trying to catch his breath. Eric slapped Keenan's hands away and staged backwards before getting his feet under him.

"I—" he coughed, sounding winded, "I hate you...and I'm done listening to you. All you've ever done is tell me what I can't do, give me and the rest of this family—this pack—limitations. You're not the alpha Dad was. You never will be."

"Eric—"

"But I can be," he interrupted, "I can be a better leader than you, and I'll prove it! Tonight at sunset...we'll see who the real alpha is."

"Eric stop!" Elipsy shrieked, "This is stupid!"

"Listen to her," Zoë pleaded, "the last thing we need right now is a pissing contest between you two!"

"Fine," Keenan spat, ignoring both of them. He met Eric's glare as he took a step forward, "If you're so eager to prove you're better than me, then you can go ahead and try. But after I win tonight, I don't want to hear another word about this, understand?"

"Haven't you been listening?" Eric growled, "I'm not taking orders from you anymore..." he walked out of the cabin then, slamming the door behind him. Elipsy shot Keenan a glare, her eyes already misting over with anger, and followed her twin.

Keenan sighed, deflated, and sat back down.

"Dude, seriously?" Switch asked from across the table. Keenan glowered at him, "He asked for this. If this is the only thing that's going to get him to straighten out, so be it."

"As if we don't have enough problems, you two at each other's throats isn't exactly helping things," Zoë snipped.

"What else could I have done?" Keenan asked numbly.

Zoë huffed and sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest and offering no further argument.

"Go easy on him tonight, okay?" Switch said as he cut off a piece of pancake, "He's just mad. He doesn't mean any of it."

Keenan's thoughts trailed across the years of malcontent between he and his brother. Every argument, every challenge, everything had been boiling up to this moment. So when Eric told Keenan he hated him, he believed it.

Keenan shook his head, "No, he's not just mad," he said heavily,

"He means every word."

Dusk came before Keenan was ready.

Despite the decision he had made in Eric's favor, the challenge had been made and accepted. There was no backing down from this fight.

Keenan and Eric stood across from each other at the lake side. Nightfall was settling over the lake, the colors of sunset diminishing into the dull grey of twilight.

Switch and the girls gathered at a safe distance to watch. Keenan just hoped it was safe enough.

He saw Zoë and Elipsy holding each other's hands as Switch draped an arm over Elipsy's shoulders. The girls were white-knuckled and ashen-faced, their faces stretched with worry.

Keenan turned away from them and to his brother. Both were naked as they squared off in the growing gloom, the air humming with tension. The fight was about to start.

Keenan raised his voice up, "It's not too late for you to back out of this," he called to his brother, mist forming before his lips, goosebumps prickling on his skin.

"Scared?" Eric called, taunting, "Good. You should be!" Keenan watched as his brother hunched over, the transformation from man to beast already showing on his features. Keenan set his jaw and resigned himself to the change.

Heat surged like fire through his blood. His own cry of pain followed Eric's as the first ripple in his bones brought on a wave of agony. He tensed his abdomen and thighs, forcing the change, clutching desperately at the night air like a lover as fingers grew and nails lengthened. Bones snapped, then grew, then healed, and snapped again as his arms grew longer, his jaw extended, his shoulders grew broader, his chest expanded. Adrenaline pumped through him as muscles tore and grew. He screamed in anguish as organ after organ hemorrhaged and transformed to attune themselves to his new body. His true body.

Skin sizzled as he tore it from his body with long claws and threw it to the ground. Pain racked him at every joint, a thousand needles in every pore. When the change was done he straightened, roaring through the pain.

For a moment, his wolf mind threatened to consume him, as it always did, but Keenan fought against it. It was not the full moon, and he easily overpowered his other half, keeping the mind of a man.

Powerful muscles tensed under pitch black fur as he and Eric squared off once again. There could be no doubt then that Eric was Keenan's brother, then. It was there in the way they held themselves, the color of their fur, the determination in their eyes. Keenan held Eric's crimson gaze and growled a warning. Eric's ridge stood on end as he poised himself for attack.

He came at Keenan in a blur, but Keenan was faster. Eric was making the same mistake he always made: he was letting his anger lead his strikes instead of thinking them through. Keenan was bigger, stronger, and had a longer reach than Eric, but his brother was fast.

Keenan timed Eric's strike and leapt to the side raking his claws once across Eric's shoulder and opening up a series of deep gashes. The young wolf made an angry grunt of pain and struck again, catching Keenan across the chest. Keenan snarled, the deep gashes stinging white hot. Warm blood leaked down his torso and over his abdomen. Eric came at Keenan again but Keenan managed to sidestep it in time.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" Keenan snarled, "WHAT DID I DO TO MAKE YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?"

"YOU LET THEM DIE!" Eric snarled as he tried to strike Keenan again. There wasn't enough time to dodge, Eric was too fast, but Keenan managed to lift a heavy forearm to protect his face. Eric's sharp claws dug into flesh and fur, opening several fresh cuts across Keenan's arm. Keenan roared in pain and aggravation and swiped at Eric's face, catching his cheek with a strike that held more force than he meant, and leaving behind two long, ugly gashes.

Suddenly Eric leapt at Keenan, moving like a shadow, and bore Keenan to the ground as his jaw clamped tightly onto Keenan's haunch. Someone screamed. Keenan roared in pain as flesh split and muscle tore. He shoved his weight at Eric and rent them rolling into the icy waters of the lake with a tumble of limbs and fur. The water swallowed him, rushing in his ears and deafening him. The chill of the water sharply cut through the white hot pain of Keenan's injuries and made them numb for a brief moment before they came to life again with searing agony. His roar became a gurgle as Eric held him under. But Keenan couldn't allow Eric to win. The boy wasn't ready to lead.

Keenan reached up and grabbed Eric by the throat, forcing him off. He pushed Eric away, and got back to his feet, slashing at Eric's chest with a heavy claw, opening a fresh wound.

"THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO!" Keenan growled, "IF I HADN'T STAYED WITH YOU WE'D ALL BE DEAD. I WAS PROTECTING YOU!"

"YOU WERE BEING A COWARD! YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN A COWARD!"

Eric came at Keenan again, but Keenan swiped at Eric with the back of his claw and knocked him back into the water with a splash, "EVERYTHING I'VE EVER DONE HAS BEEN TO PROTECT YOU," Keenan snarled, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT MORE YOU WANT ME TO DO!"

"KILL THEM!" Eric cried, "EVER SINCE DAD DIED YOU'VE BEEN TRYING TO REPLACE HIM! BUT YOU'RE NOT HIM, KEENAN, AND YOU NEVER WILL BE! DAD WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN AFRAID TO FIGHT LUKE IF IT HAD BEEN ONE OF US THAT HAD BEEN KILLED!"

"DAD NEVER WANTED THAT LIFE FOR US," Keenan barked, "I JUST WANT TO KEEP YOU SAFE THE SAME WAY HE DID."

Eric wasn't listening. He lashed out angrily and missed. Keenan did not. Eric fell back into the water with a cry of pain, blood spilling from the fresh wound Keenan had dealt him. Keenan looked down at his brother. Eric shook with the force of heavy breathing, as he looked up at Keenan. A swelling of sadness took him and it quelled the fire of his anger as sure as the icy, sobering waters of the lake, and his shoulders drooped. He didn't want to fight Eric. He never did. All the same, he held his gaze as he told him in a stern growl, "IT'S DONE LITTLE BROTHER."

Keenan watched as the fire in his brother's eyes dimmed, and then blinked out as Eric averted his gaze, defeated. The transformation fell away from them like the dropping of a heavy blanket. Fur gave way to flesh as bone shifted and organ shrunk. The transformation back to the guise of a man was always a deal less painful, but Keenan had always found there was something lack-luster about it. When at last the transformation was done, Keenan stood there looking at his brother who sat with the water coming up around his chest, his mohawk hanging limply to one side, pressed hard against his face, almost hiding the deep cuts on his cheekbone where Keenan had struck him earlier.

Keenan's wet hair was a tangled mane of inky black that fell to his shoulders and covered his face, but he didn't bother pushing it out of the way. Goosebumps crawled up his naked flesh as the bloody water lapped at his knees. Keenan held out a hand to help Eric up. They were both covered in long, bleeding gashes. Blood flowed into the lake, the silver water drinking it in and turning a dark, murky red. Eric looked up at him with empty eyes, and said nothing.

"I'm not the enemy," Keenan said softly.

Eric regarded him, "You're not doing anything to stop them," he said hoarsely, "Hiding up here like scared kittens isn't going to solve anything. If you can't end it, I will. Maybe I can't defeat you now. But someday..."

Keenan lowered his hand. Eric was right. They weren't doing their cause any good by hiding, but that didn't mean Eric was ready. He set his jaw with determination, "You're right," he said, "Someday."

Suddenly Elipsy came splashing into the lake, "Eric!" she cried and plunged into the water at his side, throwing her arms around him. The force of her embrace nearly knocked him into the water. Keenan turned to step out of the lake when a loud wet slapping sound echoed across the surface. He turned to see Elipsy's hand poised from a strike, Eric's head turned away from her.

"You idiot!" she sobbed as he looked back at her, shocked, "What are you thinking picking a fight at a time like this?" and she embraced him once again, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

I can't let my family dissolve like this, he thought sadly.

Eric was right. It was time to put an end to the running, to the hiding. It was time to give in to the wolf and to defend what was theirs. It was time to do what should have been done long ago.

Even if I turn into a monster, he thought as he hands became fists at his side, if it means my family will be safe, I can live with that. I can bare that stigma...for them.

Keenan raised his voice for all to hear, "Listen up!" he barked. He felt everyone's eyes on him, but he kept his own firmly planted on the water at his knees, at the blood swirling within. "We're going to end this, once and for all" he told the others in a commanding, harsh voice, "When the moon is right, we'll lay the trap for the hunters, and we'll make them pay. They'll die. Every. Last. One."

Zoë

Night settled around the cabin like a heavy blanket, bringing with it a grave silence.

Zoë stood before Keenan's bedroom door, shifting her weight back and worth as she went over the conversation she'd been practicing in her head for the past hour, one last time. She couldn't let Keenan fight Luke. She may not have known much about their past, about the pain they had caused each other, but she couldn't allow it to come to blows.

Even if I have to stand between them to do it, she told herself as she squared her shoulders and set her jaw. She lifted a hand and knocked twice.

"Come in," came the irritated voice from the other side. She turned the knob and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. Keenan sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but a pair of jeans, a first aid kit open beside him. Little cottons balls damp with isopropyl and tinted pink with blood littered the ground at his bare feet. He was rubbing a balm onto his forearm while a bandage wrap waited idly by his leg. His shirt was off, and there was a thick bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder where he'd been hurt during his fight with Eric.

He'd combed his hair back, but hadn't tied it up, the damp locks curling around his bare, sinewy shoulders. He had the body of a laborer—thick sheets of muscle laying over the top of one another so that they didn't quite ripple the way you'd expect to see on a model or a celebrity, but there was no denying the thick chords of power running the length of his arms and chest. It was the body of someone accustomed to constant physical labor. Somehow she was surprised by the thick, dark, curling hair that matted his chest.

Starlight washed in from the outside, cutting his silhouette in silver, even as the glow of the small lamp at his bedside bathed the room in a gentle golden glow. The contrasting lights made the minor, unattended cuts and bruises from the fight stand out in greater relief, and for a moment Zoë's heart leapt into her throat with worry.

Idiot, she thought.

"What do you want?" he asked in a lifeless basso.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said at length. Silently, he closed his eyes, looking tired. Zoë took a step toward him as she inhaled deeply, and went into the veritable speech she'd prepared.

"Keenan, I know Luke has hurt you, hurt your family, but I meant what I said at breakfast. If you kill him you'd only be stooping to his level, and you'd be turning him into a martyr. I don't want that. And I know you don't either. There has to be another way to end this."

"I've made my decision," he said as he began wrapping his arm with the bandage, never bothering to look up at her. Zoë stomped her foot on the ground, angrily. "Well, unmake it," she huffed, "Because I'm not just going to stand by and let you do this! I don't care what it takes, I'll stop both of you."

Keenan finished wrapping his arm and stood, looking down at her with hard golden eyes. He took a step toward her so they were almost touching, his dark hair falling around his face like a cowl of midnight. "I don't like admitting it, but Eric was right: it's time we stop running and face the hunters," he said, "Enough is enough. I'm tired of running and hiding and being afraid. I'm going to make a stand." He looked down at her with disconcertment, "You know as well as I do that Luke isn't going to leave us alone just because we're not killers. This is the only way we can be free of him."

"Keenan, no! You can't!" Zoë blurted, all semblance of well-planned argument dissolving.

"And why not?" he took another step towards her, inside her guard. She took a step away, her back against the wall. He towered over her, his golden eyes smoldering as a shadow fell over his face, "Zoë, this man killed my parents in cold blood. He's been hunting my little brother and sister for years, everything I've ever done—every job, every risk, was to avoid this man. I let him go in the cemetery because you asked me to, but this...you can't ask me to do this again. I thought you of all people would understand the position I'm in."

The problem was: she did.

He was afraid, just like she had been in the beginning. Back then she didn't care who she hurt, or who got in her way. There was only the need to overcome the crippling fear that had slowly been trying to eat her away from the inside out. That fear had driven her to a rash decision, and she couldn't stand by and let Keenan make the same mistake. She searched his eyes, looking for something, anything she could use to change his mind, "Keenan, please, you have to understand—"

"Why are you defending him?" he said over her. His eyes flared with a heated anger, "Do you still have feelings for him?"

"What?" she practically screeched, "How could you even say that? I never had feelings for him! Just because we—"

"Then why are you protecting him?" he boomed. They were both screaming now. Keenan's face was beet red, and the blood was rushing so quickly in Zoë's ears she could hear it. She wanted to say something halting, something that would give her the upper hand and win the argument, but he was under her skin now, and she was furious.

"I'm not protecting him!" she insisted.

"Then who?"

"You, you idiot!" she screamed before she could stop herself, "He'll kill you, Keenan, and I—" she stopped, the words suddenly garbling in her mouth. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy, and she was suddenly cold all over. She searched his eyes, trying to find the right words, but couldn't. She just stood there sounding stupid. She huffed and lowered her gaze to hide the tears that stung her eyes. Why was she crying? She tried to blink the tears away, but they wouldn't. It was so stupid. She shouldn't be crying.

"You what?" Keenan prompted, still sounding angry.

"He'd kill you," she said unable to hide the wetness in her voice, "He'd kill you and I...I just don't know what I'd do without you, okay?" she tried to cover up the tears by sounding angry, but it just made her sound small and silly—like a silly little girl who didn't want to lose her best friend. She sniffled.

Stop crying, damnit! she screamed at herself, but it was no use.

"Oh..." she heard him say, the anger in his voice wavering. She sniffled as he placed a hand on her shoulder and called her name, but she didn't look up at him. She couldn't bare the thought of him seeing her crying.

"Zoë," he said again and tipped her face up to meet his. He had a serious look on his face she rarely saw, his golden eyes smoldering. She sniffled again. "I don't want to loose you," she whimpered.

"That's not going to happen," he said.

Suddenly his lips were on hers as he pressed her shoulders into the wall. His lips were chapped, but warm and agonizingly sweet. He cupped her face, as his teeth played with her bottom lip. His kiss was not gentle, it was not probing or apologetic. His kiss lit a fire in her belly. She had never been kissed like this before. This was the kiss that sang, this was the kiss that bit.

His lips crashed into hers with earnest desire, daring her to ask him to stop. She didn't.

Zoë threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back as the tears fell freely from her eyes. Her fingers tangled themselves in the thick mane of his hair. She shivered with desire as his hands traveled down her form to her hips and pulled them close to his.

He moaned into her mouth as their tongues met in a hot, slippery mess. She pulled him down, closer to her, anything to keep her mouth on his.

Keenan's hands traveled around her back and lifted her up by the rear. She wrapped her legs around him as he pressed her, hard, into the wall. It was a kiss born of primal need, a savage hunger that spread through her like a fever and coiled in her belly. Her head was in a haze as they tore at each others clothes, desperate to get them off until flesh touched flesh.

All the want, sadness, anger, and fear they'd both been bottling up, they poured into this kiss. It was a single, unadulterated moment of truth; the first moment they had shared where there was nothing that needed to be said, nothing that needed to be done. This was their moment, and Zoë prayed to God that it wouldn't have to end.

Keenan lifted her from the wall and turned without breaking their kiss and laid her down on the bed. He wiped her tears away and kept kissing her. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her ears, her throat. He kissed her all over until she was breathless and quivering with need for him. When his lips brushed her necklace he pulled away and found her eyes again. Her lips hummed in the wake of his kiss, her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.

Keenan's hair fell around his face, casting it in shadow. Zoë reached up and tucked it behind his ear so the lamplight caught his eyes like embers in a dying fire. She shivered as they roamed her form before finding her eyes once more. Her breath caught in her throat.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised breathlessly.

Keenan

Sunlight streamed through the small window, softened by the pale curtains, and alighted on Keenan's cheek, rousing him. As he slowly shifted into consciousness he felt Zoë beside him, their flesh pressed together as his hips curled around hers. Her head rested on his arm where her hand came up to touch the silver pentagram on his palm.

She smelt like sunlight, and sweat, and sex.

He smiled as his hand trailed up the curves of her body to cup her breast and he leaned down to nibble her ear. She made a small sound of pleasure and surprise as she woke and giggled.

"Good morning," she said dreamily as she rolled to face him.

"Good morning," he replied. He caught her lips and kissed her as he covered her with his weight. She moaned as he pulled away and kissed her throat. He felt the vibrations of her giggle against his lips while she ran her fingers through his hair. "Hey, didn't you get enough last night?" she laughed.

He made a sound of disagreement as he kept kissing her, licking the sweat from her skin. She shivered beneath him and made a wonderful sound before pushing him away and looking up at him with a sleepy smile, "Hey, how about some breakfast first?"

Keenan laughed, deflated and kissed her lips. "Sorry," he said, "it's just...I've wanted this for a long time."

"Oh?" she said, looking surprised. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't want last night to be a one time thing, Zoë," he said. The filter between his brain and his mouth didn't seem to be working properly, and he knew he sounded like a cheesy buffoon, but he didn't know how else to say it.

"Um...that is—" he went on, trying to find the right words to explain what he meant without sounding like an idiot. She touched his face and he looked back at her, at the soft lines of her face, at the big brown eyes that had ensnared him from that very first day he met her. He gave a single, nervous laugh. He couldn't seem to stop smiling.

"I'm not very good at this stuff, but...I don't know when it started, but the first time I realized I was worried about you was when you were hurt by that spirit right after you started hunting. And the first time I realized how much I would give up for you was at the cemetery when I let Luke go. But eventually I realized that I care about you...a lot. I don't want you to think that last night was just about sex."

Even as the last word escaped his mouth, he wished he could take it back and phrase it in a way that didn't sound so...dirty.

"Not that it wasn't good," he added quickly. "It was, wow...really it's been—"

She cleared her throat and he stopped himself short. "And I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"A little," she giggled, giving him a look that held both sympathy, and a smile. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but nothing was coming out right. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, not now, not after last night. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Zoë, you scare me," he said at length and she looked suddenly offended.

"I what?"

"Scare me," he said, "Terrify me, actually. I've never been with someone as talented or as funny as you. And I've never been with someone who wasn't...like me." He didn't know how else to put it. "And that scares me because I'm terrified that I might hurt you, or frighten you. But I'm even more terrified of not being with you..."

She whispered his name as her hand folded around his face.

He leaned down and kissed her briefly. "I know I'm not the sort of guy you're used to...not being strictly human and all."

She giggled. "You are literally the kind of boy my daddy always told me to stay away from."

He gave a throaty chuckle and kissed her again. "I would never do anything to hurt you," he told her, "But I can't be with you if all I have is running away and dodging bullets. I can't drag you in to that. I won't." She stiffened beneath him and closed her eyes for a moment as Keenan went on, "I hate that it has come to this. I don't want to kill Luke, I don't even want to fight him. But if it comes down to him or me, I'm going to choose me. I'll protect my family at all costs."

Zoë opened her eyes and looked at him, the sunlight catching her tears, making it look like she was weeping gold. "I know," she choked, "I know. It's just...promise me you'll walk away if you can, and if worse comes to worse...promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," he said and kissed her.

July

Blood Moon

Luke

The computers in all their cars had been fried except for Luke's. His Camaro was old, and didn't have a computer for Switch to ruin. Instead he'd cut the brake lines, stolen the battery, the coil wire, and broken both tail lights and both headlights.

Luke was not a man to let people touch his car. Ever.

That fact that Switch—that slithering bastard of a traitor—had done all this to his baby got under his skin in ways few things could.

It had taken a few weeks, but his car was back up and running, purring like a jungle cat once more. And now that he had his car again, it was time for some payback.

He didn't know how, or when, or why Zoë and Switch had decided to betray him, but he could only assume they had gone ahead to warn the wolves when he had discovered their location. Unless they were fools, they'd left town and were in the wind.

He sat on his couch, drinking a beer—his eighth beer—watching TV, and fuming, clutching tightly to the dagger his grandmother had left him, the one Zoë feared. He wasn't paying attention to whatever was happening on the screen. All he could think about was getting his hands on Switch and watching the life drain from his eyes as Luke sunk his knife into his heart.

All the years of teamwork, of hunting, everything had been a lie. A damn lie!

In a fit of rage he threw the beer bottle at the television. The glass shattered and tinkled to the floor alongside what little beer was left in the bottle. The crack in the television screen spider-webbed outward from where the beer had hit and blaring static filled the room.

Leaning forward he put his head in his hands and tried to quell his anger.

Nothing helped.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Zoë screaming, saw her in pain at the hands of those freaks. For weeks now he'd been torn between telling himself she deserved it for running off, and feeling like he needed to find her, save her. What if she was hurt? What if she was dying? There was no telling what depravity those monsters would sink to when left to their own devices.

His cell phone rang but it was not any of the rings assigned his team. Unknown caller. Luke never allowed telemarketers, solicitors, or anyone but his team to have this private number. Cautiously, he picked up the phone from the coffee table and looked at the number. Blocked.

He pressed the talk button. "Who is this?" he demanded angrily by way of greeting.

"You're looking for the girl, right?" said the voice on the other end. Young. Male. It was not one he recognized.

"Who is this?" he asked again.

"I know where she is," the voice said, obviously unwilling to tell Luke who he was. "Are you interested or not?"

Luke's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do I know this isn't a trap?" he ventured.

"You don't, but you also know this could be your only chance to find her."

That was something Luke could not deny. He'd made himself sick thinking about Zoë, about how he could find her, but there had been no leads. Until now. He gave a wry smile as he leaned back into his couch. "So what are you supposed to be? My Deep Throat?"

"Dude, that's gay," the voice said almost disgusted. "Now do you want the girl or not?"

"What's in this for you?" Luke asked. "I doubt you're helping me out of the kindness of your heart."

There was a hesitation on the other end, and for a moment Luke thought whoever was on the other end must have hung up. Then the voice returned, and told him, "Just keep her with you and don't ever let her out of your sight again, all right? For all I care, you can kill her, marry her, whatever. Just keep her away."

Luke pursed his lips. Something about this wasn't right. Common sense told him to hang up, but eight beers and a belly full of vengeance kept him on the line. "All right," he said, twirling his dagger, "tell me more."

"First you have to promise me something," the voice said.

Luke pinched his brows, frowning. "What is it?"

"No one else gets hurt. You come alone, unarmed, you take the girl, and you leave. Got it?"

A smile twisted Luke's lips, a wicked smile he could not contain as he put the pieces together. He tried to keep the smile from his voice as he spoke into the receiver, "You have my word."

Keenan

Keenan hooked the bungee chord onto the edge of the truck securing the luggage in the back. He looked up as Eric came out of the cabin wearing a ragged black hoodie, his faded jeans tucked into his combat boots, and his headphones already firmly placed in his ears. Eric looked up, caught his gaze, and quickly averted his eyes. Neither of them had spoken a word to each other since their fight a few days ago. He'd licked his wounds in silence and avoided eye contact. A stabbing anger still rose within him when Keenan thought about the things Eric had said before and during their fight, but he took a deep breath and put it from his mind. Even if, in the end, Keenan had agreed with his brother, Eric still resented him, still hated him. There were many things they needed to resolve, but they would have to wait until the hunters were gone.

Elipsy strode out of the cabin after him with Switch in tow. She wore a pair of shorts that were a little too small, a dark tank-top, and the knee-high boots she'd been wearing when they drove up the mountain. A helmet was tucked under her arm as she and Switch headed for his motorcycle.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked her. Elipsy flashed a smirk and winked, "We're scouting ahead," she gave a sort of giggle. Switch pulled his bike around and mounted it. He pulled his helmet on and kick started the bike to life. Elipsy followed suit. Switch nodded at Keenan and waited for Elipsy's arms to be firmly around his waist before he sped off ahead of the others.

Keenan sighed. There was another giggle from beside him and he looked down to see Zoë in her normal clothes once again—those same tattered jeans, a dusky rose-colored tank top, and her red hoodie with the sleeves pulled up. She looked up at him. His thoughts must have shown on his face because Zoë said, "Don't worry, she'll be fine. Ten bucks says they do it all the time."

Keenan grumbled, "I know she does."

Zoë laughed again and moved around to the other side of the truck and climbed in. Eric climbed in after her, buckling into the passenger's side as Zoë buckled herself into the middle. Keenan stole one last look at the cabin his great-grandfather built, at the trees and the soil...everything that had come to mean sanctuary—home. And he was walking away from it all for a slim chance at freedom and a life without fear.

I hope I know what I'm doing, he thought.

"Hey," he heard Eric call. He looked down into the truck, and he cocked his head to the side, "we going?"

Keenan bit his lip and nodded. He climbed into the truck beside Zoë and she gave him a look, "You okay?" she asked.

Keenan gave a curt nod, "Yeah," he lied, and she knew it. Zoë bit her lip but said nothing, and he was grateful for it. He turned the truck over and drove off.

They drove in silence for a while, Keenan keeping his eyes firmly on the road as the sounds of Eric's metal pounding through his headphones buzzed like flies over the sound of Keenan's radio.

Zoë stared out the window, a pout on her lips.

"What is it?" Keenan asked.

Zoë bit her lip before turning to him, "I just—" she said, but then stopped suddenly, and took a deep breath before starting again, "I have a really bad feeling about this."

Keenan shifted his gaze between her and the road, "Hey, don't worry about it," he said reaching for her hand, "everything is going to be okay."

She squeezed his hand, "I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

"I know," he said gently. They drove on for a while like that, holding hands in silence. He'd never thought it would be like this. He hated the idea of using her as bait for those damn hunters, he hated the idea of having to fight for what should already be his. He just wanted to go home, pull Zoë into bed, and hold her as he slept for a long, long time.

He took a deep breath, "Zoë, there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I—"

Suddenly there was the sound of thunder and lightning as the truck was forced to a sudden, harsh stop. Things began happening all at once then: Keenan was pitched forward, his seatbelt digging painfully into his collar bone and driving the air from his lungs. Eric, who hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, flew through the windshield, shattering it, and landed on the hood of the other car. Keenan's nose hit the steering wheel and he felt something crack loudly through his face. He barely had time to make a sound of pain before his airbag exploded, knocking him back. His head collided with the headrest, jarring his brain as it tumbled around helplessly in his skull.

Someone was screaming, but it sounded distant, quiet, like they were shouting from behind glass or under water. He tried to get a hold of the situation, but the world was too bright, and spinning like a top. Clumsily, he fumbled with the handle of his door and kicked at it to get it open. He stumbled out of the cab, dizzy and confused.

Keenan tried to stand, but his legs felt cold and numb beneath him. He turned, trying to keep up with the world, and suddenly Zoë was in front of him—when had she moved?—gripping him by the front of the shirt and screaming. He couldn't hear what she was saying. Her head was bleeding and there was a cut on her lip, a bruise already forming across her jaw.

She shook him, screaming, but he couldn't understand her.

Then it was suddenly as though someone had turned the volume up on the world. Sound returned with a gun blast, a roar of thunder that rocked him back onto his heels.

"Keenan its Luke!" Zoë screamed as she shook him again. The smoke of the wreckage veiled the world in a smothering haze of black and grey, but through the haze he could see the flash of gun fire, hear the shouts of screams of his family and enemies. "They found us, Keenan! Dammit, say something!" Zoë was shouting.

Keenan turned to her, shaking his head to try and clear it but it only sent a wave of pain through his head that shuddered down the length of his body. He grabbed her by the shoulders, partially to stop her from panicking, partly to steady himself. "Zoë, listen to me," he said through bruised lips, "get back to the cabin, hide in the cellar. I'll come for you when this is over."

"But—" she began, but he stole her words with a single, rough, close-mouthed kiss. When he pulled away he looked down at her disconcerted face and told her, "I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."

"Dammit, Keenan, I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself!" she stamped a foot on the ground for emphasis, "I'm not leaving you," she said with tears in her eyes.

"This isn't a game Zoë! If this is your dream..." his voice broke as he cupping her face, "You need to go. I'll find you. I promise."

Zoë looked up at him for a long moment, her eyes pleading silently, then gave an angry sigh. "Dammit," she said, "Don't you go die on me!" and grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt, pulling him down and smashing her lips into his for another brief kiss before she turned and ran.

Keenan didn't have the time to watch her leave as a gun barked behind him and a lash of fire made his arm explode in agony. Instinct made him clamp his hands down over the wound as he spun about to face his attacker. Through the miasma of smog, he saw one of the hunters, the Indian man with the glasses whose name Keenan thought was Farrell, pointing a pistol at him.

Keenan snarled and dashed forward, baring teeth. The man fired another shot and missed before Keenan drove his fist into Farrell's jaw, knocking him back onto his heels. To his credit, Farrell recovered quickly, but Keenan was too close for his gun to be much use. The other man shifted his weight and swung hard and wide with a right hook that caught Keenan across the cheek. The side of his face flashed in pain that made his head spin as his head whipped to the side leaving him open for Farrell's right hook. Keenan spun, his jaw throbbing with pain that pounded through his head, but he managed to get his feet under him before Farrell's uppercut caught him under his chin.

Keenan moved with the speed of his other half, ducking low to avoid Farrell's third blow and bringing his fist up into the other man's stomach, driving the wind from him. Farrell made a strange gasping sound and staggered backwards. He tried to bring his gun to bear, but Keenan was the faster. Keenan brought his arm up and knocked Farrell's hand into the air, the shot firing into the distant sky with a sharp sound like lightning crashing. Keenan brought his fist up and drove it deep into Farrell's stomach, drawing a grunt of pain fro the man and knocking his glasses askew. Keenan shifted his weight, putting both hands on the back of Farrell's head and jumped, bringing his knee up into the other man's face.

Farrell stumbled back as Keenan regained his footing and fired blindly, grazing Keenan's shoulder with a second lash of white hot pain. Keenan roared and came at Farrell again, driving his fist into his face once again. Farrell flailed and the gun went off again, this time right next to Keenan's ear. The blast was like a thunderclap beside Keenan's ear, and suddenly everything went static. There was a high pitched whine in his ear that drove out all other sound and Keenan instinctively jerked away. His hand flew up to his ringing ear, and he felt a distinct stinging that drew a cry from his lips, and his hand came back bloodied.

But Keenan had no time for pain. Rage flared inside him and he dashed forward. Farrell brought his gun to bear once again, but Keenan kicked the gun out of his hand. It went off with a loud pop as he sent it flying, and before Farrell could get his bearings, Keenan snatched him up by the front of his shirt with his good arm and delivered three consecutive punches to Farrell's temple in rapid succession.

The other man went limp in Keenan's grasp and Keenan let him fall to the dirt road like a rag doll. He stared down at the other man for a moment and kicked him onto his side so he would not drown in his own blood.

It was more than he deserved.

A sudden scream made him turn. Keenan only had a second to take in the situation, but the human mind can be a scary thing at times, and in an instant Keenan took in everything with crisp detail: Luke's cobalt blue Camaro was crunched against the front of Keenan's truck, and there was a smearing of blood where Eric had crashed into the hood and windshield of Luke's car.

Elipsy was swinging a bat covered in nails at the blonde hunter—Damien, Keenan thought his name was—and dodging the swings of the massive axe he was trying to lodge into her. He had height and reach on her, but Elipsy was faster, stronger, and doing well to hold her own.

Switch was lying on the ground at the feet of his broken bike which flamed and sparked behind him. He was gripping his knee and screaming in agony, his leg twisting in a way that was just wrong. Farrell lay at Keenan's feet, wheezing helplessly, his gun several feet away.

Luke and Eric were no where to be found.

Keenan bristled angrily. If that man hurt his brother, there would be no mercy.

Elipsy screamed as Damien knocked the bat out of her hand with a powerful swing of his axe. Elipsy's eyes flared with the change, but suddenly Damien reversed the momentum of his swing and dug the blade of the axe deep into the flesh of her arm between her radius and ulna. Elipsy screamed again, louder this time, and Keenan bellowed, "NO!"

He made to help his sister, but suddenly Switch was yelling from where he lay at the foot of his bike, "DAMIEN!"

The man's eyes flickered over to where the fulgur mancer lay and Switch's face scrunched up with rage. "You bastard!" Switch bellowed as his hand began to glow as though by an inner light. Sparks of light began to swarm around his fist in a build up of energy and electricity. There was a surge of light as Switch made one hand into a gun, pain plastered across his face, and wiggled his thumb like the hammer of a pistol. A bolt of electricity shot from his forefinger and caught Damien square in the chest. He screamed in pain, his back arching impossibly as electricity surged through him. Seconds later the discharges surrounding him blinked out and he crumbled to a heap on the side of the road.

And just like that, it was over.

Keenan hadn't realized his breathing had become so ragged until suddenly it was all he could hear, coupled with his pounding heart. He rushed toward Elipsy who was rolling on the ground with her injured arm in the crux of the other and screaming, "My arm! My arm!"

"It's all right," Keenan tried to tell her, though he knew it wasn't the truth, "Everything is going to be all right."

"Is she okay?" Switch asked as he tried to crawl towards them. Keenan grabbed his sister and tried to hold her still, but the pain left her screaming in agony. He tried calling to her, his voice sounding odd and distant through the ringing static in his right ear. Nothing helped, until eventually Keenan raised a hand. "I'm sorry," he said, and slapped her.

With the clap of flesh on flesh, Elipsy's cries simmered into a pained whine as she fought to keep herself under control. She looked up at him, her eyes flooded with tears, face covered in blood, and hair spilling out across the smoking macadam. She shuddered with the force of her pain. Keenan's face pinched with worry and he rushed to shed his flannel over shirt and ripped off a sleeve, the old, worn material tearing easily, and tied it roughly around her arm to try and stem the bleeding.

He helped her into a sitting position as she wept silently and put her arm back into the crux of her other arm. "You'll be all right," he promised her and she nodded wordlessly. Whether she believed him or not, Keenan could not tell.

He turned to help Switch who had tried to crawl towards them, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Keenan helped him to his feet, allowing Switch to lean heavily on him as they limped toward Elipsy, and he set him down on the ground beside her.

"What happened?" he asked no one in particular.

"We have a rat," Switch growled as Keenan tried to do something for his leg, but all he managed to do was bloody his hands. Switch looked at Keenan, "They knew exactly what road to take to get here, and they came prepared. This was no accident."

Keenan released a single, wordless sound of frustration as he looked around, "I can't believe this! Who would do something like that?"

As he glanced around the world was brilliant with the colors of the setting sun. How had the day disappeared so suddenly? He ripped off the other sleeve of his flannel and tied it around Switch's knee like a tourniquet, but little more. Elipsy would be fine in a few hours as the moon rose and filled her with its healing energy, but Switch...

That bastard did this, he thought with a rising anger that made the pain racking his body seem superficial. "Where's Luke?" he growled.

"Bastard shot me in the leg right before we crashed," Switch said, "They were headed for the cabin."

Keenan bristled and stood, his hands becoming fists at his side. "I'm going after him," he told the others, "Stay here and try to keep out of sight. Call an ambulance."

"Keenan wait," Switch said as Keenan turned towards the stands of tree. He turned back to the fulgur mancer as he struggled to pull out his cell phone, "there's something else you need to know..."

Zoë

Zoë ran through the forest. Roots sprang up to trip her, branches stretched out to tear at her clothes and flesh. Her legs and chest were on fire as she stopped to catch her breath, her legs feeling like jelly. She leaned heavily on a tree as she fought against the dots that danced in her vision and took several steadying breaths. Her head was pounding where the dash had cut into her forehead. Blood dripped into her eyes, stinging, and she whipped it away with the back of her sleeve, gritting her teeth against the bite of pain from her cut. Her lungs were on fire, her legs felt like jelly, and her whole body ached. She didn't know how long she'd been running, how far she'd gotten, but the cabin was still a long ways off. She shook with the force of her sobs as blood trickled down her face. How could all of this have gone so horribly wrong?

Dammit, she thought, How did they find us?

Zoë closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. She had to get to the cabin. Keenan had told her to hide in the cellar, but maybe there was a radio, or a way for her to get some kind of cell reception so she could call for help.

Setting her jaw, she pushed off from the tree and started forward again, but her legs gave out beneath her and she fell to the ground, her head spinning as blood dripped into her eye again. She groaned and suppressed a sob as she got to her feet, the world spinning, spinning, spinning.

A gun fired with the sound of a thunderclap from somewhere nearby. Panicked, she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her, but no one was there. Darkness was settling over the forest, and with it came the baying of wolves and a wind that tugged at her clothes and hair.

She froze.

It can't be... she thought.

This was her dream.

A cold numbness came over her, and she couldn't seem to move or even breathe. She sat there on all fours, staring up at sky as the crescent moon cut through the blood-red sunset. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as the hairs on her arms stood on end as her flesh pimpled with gooseflesh.

So, this was fear.

She forced herself to take in a shuddering breath, her stomach lurching up into her chest.

"No," she heard herself whisper, "This can't be it..."

Nothing is set in stone, a small voice inside her whispered, Your dream doesn't have to be real, if you don't let it. You can take your life into your own hands and fight for it. Fight for every breath, until there's no fight left in you, but don't ever give up and let some dream run your life.

Zoë swallowed, her mouth gone dry. She remembered Keenan telling her that a long time ago, remembered how he had been there when her dream had changed to hold her hand. Another gunshot made her jump and the next thing she knew she was on her feet. She dug her nails into her palms and bit her lip to stop herself from shivering.

Keenan was back down the road, fighting Luke to protect his family while she ran away. She looked back up at the moon, a silver sickle in a sea of red that was slowly fading into the grey of dusk. She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm not afraid of you," she spat, her voice quaking, "You can't control me. I make my own fate."

She set her jaw with determination. She wasn't about the stand there and let Luke come for her. She was going to fight tooth and nail. Zoë spat on the ground and turned on her heel—and there he was, red-faced and glossy-eyed.

"E...Eric...?" she breathed.

At first there wasn't any pain, but she knew something was wrong. She looked down. Slowly, he slid the knife out, crimson blood coating the silver jeweled dagger so thick it seemed almost surreal. A dull throb began to emanate from her stomach and she staggered backwards. The pain began to grow and grow, starting at the wound and spreading outwards until it consumed her, swallowing her whole.

She leaned against a tree just to stay upright, her body trembling violently. She had the distant thought that she may be going into shock, but it was the thought of a different mind, a different person.

Zoë slid to the forest floor as her legs gave out beneath her, feeling like they were covered in ants. She tried to speak, to scream, but her words died in her throat, and she made an odd choking sound. The taste of blood was in her mouth.

She pressed her hands tightly over her stomach, trying to keep pressure on it, but it was no use.

Zoë looked up at Eric through a veil of tears. She tried to talk again, but all that came out was a whimper. She reached out a hand to him, whether in accusation or as a plea for help she didn't know. Perhaps both. Her mind felt like someone had pulled the plug.

Eric took a step back, horrified, as he let the dagger fall to the forest floor. He was speaking, but she couldn't hear him over the blood rushing in her ears. She coughed, felt the warm blood curl around her maw and down her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she wanted to be her last thought, her last vision, but it was all in vain.

Tears stung her eyes as she leaned her head back against the tree.

The last thing Zoë saw was the blood red moon hanging low in the night sky.

Keenan & Luke

"Zoë!" Keenan cried as he crashed through the underbrush, "Eric!"

If he's hurt either of them... Keenan thought in a wash of rage. He didn't bother finishing the thought. Luke would pay for hurting his family.

The ringing in his ear had begun to subside as his hearing slowly returned, but the rest of his body ached with a dull pain that stiffened his limbs and slowed him down. He groaned as he had to force himself into movement. It didn't matter if his body was sore, it didn't matter if he was broken. He had to find Eric and Zoë and get them and the others out of here.

A sudden chill ran through him and he stopped mid-stride, his momentum almost carrying him forward and he fought to keep his balance as his legs threatened to give out. The scent hung heavy in the air, copper and tang and salt.

Blood.

Panic gripped him. "Zoë!" he called out more desperately, "Eric!" he screamed as he crashed through the brush. The rational side of his mind told him to slow down, to avoid giving away his position, but fear and rage threatened to overwhelm him. He needed to find them, he needed to find them now.

He rounded a bend, crashing through the brush like a fool, calling out with still no answer. And then he saw her.

In the clearing, she was slumped against a thick tree one hand over her wounded belly, the other outstretched. The scent of blood was choking as he staggered forward.

He felt as though he had been plunged into a tub of ice, so cold he couldn't move, not even to go to her. All there was was the cold shock. She lay there, unmoving, unbreathing, reeking of blood. He hadn't realized he was crying until he felt the tears start streaking down his cheeks.

He breathed her name as he staggered forward and fell to his knees beside her. He started to reach out to her, but hesitated, suddenly afraid of moving her. He licked his lips with a tongue like sandpaper, his mouth gone dry as he reached down and touched her face.

She shivered and moaned softly as her eyes fluttered open. "Zoë!" he breathed as he watched her struggle to meet his eyes, her almond brown eyes rheumy and out of focus.

"You're here..." she whispered.

"It's all right," he told her as he shifted his weight so he could pick her up, "We're gonna get out of here."

"K-Keenan..." It wasn't until he said his voice that Keenan even noticed Eric was there. He turned his gaze, moonlight glinting off something on the forest floor. There, sitting on a bed of needles was a silver knife encrusted with jewels and coated in fresh blood. Zoë's blood. His eyes shot back up to his brother.

"No..." he croaked, his throat tight. Eric was trembling, moving backwards with his tail between his legs. Keenan stepped forward, "Eric, what did you do?"

Eric didn't answer. Just stared, his mouth gaping as he trembled.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Keenan bellowed, a fire starting in his belly burning through the chill that stayed his hands.

"I had to," his voice cracked with the sound of tears and youth, "She was going to take everything away from us."

Suddenly Keenan had Eric by the front of his shirt. He didn't remember crossing over to him, didn't remember reaching out or grabbing him. All he knew was that his world had gone blurry with the white hot tears that stung his eyes. "We had a plan you idiot!" he snarled, "We were going to end it once and for all, and you stabbed her!"

"I didn't have a choice—"

"There is always a choice! And you chose this." He shoved Eric away, disgusted. "You're no better than a hunter."

True pain flashed in Eric's scarlet eyes. Keenan's brows knitted together as he beheld his brother. "You told them where we were, didn't you?"

Eric didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Keenan closed his eyes tightly against the tears that flooded his eyes but refused to fall any longer. "Go," he growled shoving him away.

"What...?"

"You betrayed us, Eric. You betrayed all of us. You are no longer a member of this family."

Eric's face paled. He took a step back. "Keenan," he said, his voice wet with tears, "You don't mean that. We're family. I'm your brother."

"You're no brother of mine," he growled through gritted teeth.

Suddenly there was the blast of gunfire that echoed through the woods. The side of Eric's head exploded, brains, blood, bone shooting out like fireworks. The force of the bullet sent him falling...falling...falling.

His eyes were wide open as he hit the forest floor with a muffled thud, staring up at Keenan.

Keenan was breathless stone as he beheld his brother. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, all he could do was stare into Eric's lifeless eyes as the stench of blood and sulfur overwhelmed the clearing. His stomach turned to water as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. All the strength suddenly evaporated from his body, leaving him feeling weak and weightless. Disbelief shook him to his core.

This wasn't real. This was someone else's life, someone else's nightmare.

The click of the hammer brought him back to stark reality. He felt like he was moving through tar as he turned his head. Luke stood there pointing a revolver at Keenan, his grey eyes as cold as the steel in his hand.

"Oops," he scoffed.

Keenan's world shattered and his vision turned red.

Luke fired two shots into the beast's shoulder as he began to change.

Three, he kept a mental note as he began to circle the creature. He wanted this one alive, he wanted to string him up and cut him slow. He wanted to punish him for what he and his kind had done.

The wolf howled in pain as he doubled over, transforming into the grotesque hybrid of man and animal that was his true form. Keenan looked up, golden eyes blazing with rage as he came at Luke, roaring.

Four, Luke thought as he fired one into the beast's gut, but it did nothing to slow him. He swiped with a massive and powerful claw. Luke tried to move out of his reach but there was no time.

Keenan's claws bit into Luke's arm, tearing the dark sleeve of his shirt and the flesh beneath it, knocking the gun from his hand as another shot fired uselessly into the trees. Luke spun, trying to get his feet back under him and drawing a Rambo knife gilded with silver from a holster on his belt. With his undamaged arm, he brought it to bear as he fell into a defensive stance.

The beast swiped at him again, but Luke was ready this time. He dodged Keenan's lunge, and brought his knife up under his arm, the blade tasting blood. The wolf howled in pain and swiped at Luke again, but Luke twisted and jumped away before it was too late.

He tightened the grip on his knife, narrowing his eyes. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," he told the beast, "Can you even understand me you dumb animal?" he scoffed, "Did you really think she really wanted something like you, when she had someone like me?"

Rage rushed up to quell the pain of his injuries as Keenan leapt forward. He bore his full weight down upon the hunter, bringing him to the ground. He roared, mouth foaming, and clamped his jaw down onto Luke's shoulder. Hot blood filled his mouth as teeth tore through flesh and muscle. Luke screamed and it wasn't until it plunged into the flesh of his own shoulder that Keenan saw the flash of silver from Luke's knife.

Keenan howled as agony flared to life through his neck and shoulders. He released Luke and rocked back onto his feet, staggering away as the knife went flying. His vision began to darken as he fought against the poison coursing through his veins.

The silver...there's too much silver.

It ate at the holes in his flesh, at his insides where it had touched him. It was a poison that clouded his mind and made him weak.

The next thing he knew, there was the impact of a heavy boot against the side of his head and he released a whimper of pain as he fell to the ground on all fours, his muscles failing him. He hadn't noticed when Luke got back to his feet, hadn't seen him retrieve his gun, hadn't seen him even move.

The silver was killing him.

"Get up!" Luke roared as he cocked the hammer of his gun. He was barely able to stand, but he kept his gun trained on Keenan, "I said get up!"

"YOU..." Keenan growled, blood and saliva dripping from his maw, "YOU KILLED HER!"

"No!" Luke spat. "Your stupid little shit of a brother did that! She was supposed to be mine and you took her from me!"

With a frenzied snarl, Keenan forced his body to obey and leapt and lashed out with his claw again, trying to knock the gun from Luke's hand, but he missed. The gun went off and Keenan felt his side explode in pain as the bullet passed through his flesh just above his hip. The wave of agony brought him back to his knees as he struggled against the spasms of his body, against the poison that threatened to overwhelm and destroy him.

No! he thought, It can't end this way!

Five, Luke thought, as he leveled his pistol at Keenan, one shot left...

He narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger with a heart stopping click. He pulled the trigger again, and again, but the gun just clicked uselessly in his hand. He'd miscounted.

Scowling, Luke slipped the gun back into its holster. The wolf was still on his knees as Luke took a step back and looked around. "Fine," he said, "I'll just have to find another way to get rid of you."

His eyes fell on the dagger he'd handed the boy, Eric. The jewels glittered in the starlight, the silver blade coated in thick red blood. He picked it up and glanced briefly at Zoë who leaned against a tree, her hands covering her stomach. He turned away, narrowing his eyes at Keenan who was still struggling to get to his feet again.

"This is for her," Luke said softly and raised the blade.

Keenan looked up in time to see Luke, ready to plunge a silver dagger into his heart. He reached up and caught Luke by the arm, surprising them both, and growling, low and threatening. Luke gritted his teeth as he glowered up at Keenan, defiant all the way. Keenan roared in his face so close Luke could feel the heat of his breath, the spittle that dripped from his hungry maw fell onto his face. Of all things, Luke roared back.

Enraged, Keenan raked with his claws across Luke's face and chest, tearing flesh and thickening the air with blood. Luke cried out as blood sprayed from the wounds.

"YOU KILLED MY PARENTS," Keenan snarled as he grabbed Luke by the throat and lifted him up off the ground so that his feet dangled above it, "YOU HUNTED MY FRIENDS," he smashed him against a tree, and then again, and again until he could see blood on the tree where his head had been split in the back.

"YOU HURT MY FAMILY," he tossed Luke across the field, "YOU HURT MY GIRLFRIEND," he trudged over to Luke. Bloodied, he rolled onto his hands and knees and tried to get up, fumbling for a third knife in his boot. Keenan grabbed Luke by the face and lifted him into the air with one massive claw that enveloped his visage. Luke struggled feebly but there was nothing he could do. Keenan squeezed his head in his paw, claws digging into soft flesh.

"YOU KILLED MY BROTHER! ALL OF THIS...BUT NOW IT'S YOUR TURN!"

He began to squeeze harder. He was going to squish Luke's head like a grape. Luke fought to the bitter end, futilely reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Keenan bared his teeth in a smile that looked more like a grimace across his muzzle.

This was it. This was the end. He was going to kill him! This monster was finally going to pay for everything he had done!

"K-Keenan..." a voice called through the blood rushing in his ears. It was small, distant, but weak as it was it found its way through his rage. His breath caught and his head whipped around. Zoë was still leaning against the tree, her eyes were half lidded, brows knit together. Her face was ashen with blood loss, and sweaty. But her eyes were open. They were open and she was breathing. She was alive.

He whimpered her name.

"Keenan..." she said again, this time a little stronger. "Don't do this...don't be like him. You're better than that..."

He growled and looked back at Luke. He was unrecognizable—a bulbous mass of blood and flesh with no face, his breaths short and wet. He didn't look like the man that had killed his parents anymore. He didn't even look human.

I did that? Keenan thought with a touch of horror.

Slowly, the anger ebbed, replaced by a dull ache that pooled out from his shoulders like a heavy blanket, smothering him. He lowered Luke to the ground, the strength leaving his limbs as he whimpered.

Keenan's back arched almost impossibly as he released a howl, low and long. The howl became a sob as his wolf form melted away, and he was left standing there in the flesh of a man, bleeding into shredded clothes. He looked to the night sky, breathing mist into the chill mountain air and feeling like he could float away into the dark caress of the night sky and sleep for a hundred years. He looked back down at Luke who lay in the dirt, blood slowly beginning to pool around him as he struggled to stay conscious.

"It's...over..." Keenan breathed hoarsely, his mind going fuzzy. He collapsed to his knees feeling raw. A surge of emotions threatened to overwhelm him: relief, anger, grief, joy, and sadness choked him, and he found it hard to breathe as tears cut clean pathways through the blood that covered his face.

He looked at Zoë, his heart aching. She swallowed and nodded once to let him know that she would be all right.

Keenan tried to crawl towards her, but it was just too much. The silver had done its trick.

He collapsed onto the forest floor, the smell of dirt and pine and animal and blood rushed up to meet him as he lay there, fighting to breathe.

So, this is how I die, he thought as pain racked his form, his muscles contracting so that he was forced into a ball. The last thing I want to see...is the sky.

With a great deal of effort, Keenan pushed himself onto his back and released a cry of anguish. Weeping, he looked up into the sky, at the deep blackness dotted by pinpricks of light, and the sickle moon, washing her healing and loving light over him.

He felt tears slipping into his ears as a last fit of pain made him convulse, and then he lay still. His vision began to grow dark, until the moon and stars were little more than blurry beads of light.

He closed his eyes.

Keenan

When Keenan woke up, everything was white—blaring, overpowering, stark. The world smelt like sick and rubbing alcohol. And then there was the pain. In his shoulder, his chest, his abdomen, his neck—everywhere.

He groaned involuntarily and sat up. He lay in an uncomfortable bed with stale sheets as machines beeped annoyingly by the bedside, and there was a needle in his arm and hand leading to tubes and bags that hung from a silver coat rack beside him. Little sticky pads were on his chest, wires tethered him to the machines that were beeping louder now.

In a haze he pulled at the sticky pads and they popped off his skin with little pricks of pain. He pulled the needles out of his arm and hand, grunting as pain shot through his arm.

People in blue and white suits came running in as the machines started to scream at him.

"Doctor!" someone called, "He's awake; we're going to need some help in here!"

Someone—a woman in blue—ran up to him and placed her hand on his chest. "Sir, you need to lie down. You're in a hospital. You've been hurt."

"I need to see my brother," Keenan managed to say, his throat raw. He pushed past the woman as he tried to get to his feet. "Sir, you need to lie down," a man insisted. "You were in surgery, you need to stop or you'll tear your stitches out!"

"Where is he?" Keenan demanded, grabbing the man by the front of his sea-foam green shift.

Everyone started screaming all at once, but Keenan paid them no mind. He forced his way through the five of them, each of them screaming and calling for him to stop, to lie down, to rest, but none

of those things mattered just then. Eric was somewhere out there, and he needed to find his brother.

They grabbed him, trying to wrestle him back into the bed, but Keenan wrenched one arm free, and then another. He pushed them away, but they just kept coming.

Then someone stabbed a needle into him, his whole body went limp, and he fell back into darkness.

When Keenan awoke next, it was with a scream.

"Eric!" he called out to his brother. Where was he? Something was wrong, he knew something was wrong, but—

"Keenan, Keenan," a voice soothed. He looked over and saw Elipsy, sitting there with her arm in a sling, a bandage on her cheek, and wearing a hospital gown.

"Elle..." he croaked. His throat was painfully dry.

She gave him a sympathetic smirk and grabbed a cup of water with a straw from the bedside and held it out to him. "Here," she said. He tried to move his hand to take the cup, but he found himself in restraints—three across each arm, one each at his ankles, and one across his chest.

"Yeah," Elipsy said before he could ask. "After that little stunt you pulled two days ago, they decided it was better this way."

"I've been asleep for two days?"

Elipsy nodded and held the cup out to him. He bit down on the straw and gulped down the cool, life-giving water until there was nothing left. "Whoa, easy, slow down," she said, pulling the cup away. Keenan took a deep breath. There was an IV in his arm, pumping something clear into his veins. "What is that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Morphine," Elipsy explained, "For the pain. And to keep you quiet. If the paramedics hadn't arrived when they did, you could have died. Luke nearly killed you. They pulled three silver bullets out of you. God, Keenan you're lucky to be alive. If anyone else had been shot like that...It's a damn miracle you weren't killed."

Keenan looked down at himself. He felt...out of place, as though he was seeing this through someone else's eyes. Sighing, he laid his head back down. "How's your arm?" he asked.

Elipsy looked down at her arm. "It hurts like hell," she admitted, "but the closer we get to the full moon, the better it gets. The doctors said that two bones in my arms splintered, but they were able to set them, and since I'm young—and cute—I'll be better in no time."

"What about Switch?"

She sighed, "Well, the docs say his knee will never work again. His insurance doesn't cover a replacement, so he'll have to be in a wheelchair now. Lucky for me Luke's aim was low," she giggled.

Keenan rolled his eyes. "Knowing Switch he'll find a way to get enough money to cover the operation." He licked his lips, hesitating. "And...Zoë?" he asked softly.

Elipsy didn't meet his gaze as she spoke, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "In the ICU. She was in surgery for five hours. She lost a lot of blood and they had to remove eight feet of her small intestine. Since she's young they think she should make a full recovery, but there hasn't been any signs of improvement..."

Keenan closed his eyes slowly, the weight of everything sinking in on him. How could he have let this happen? It was his duty to protect his family, and he failed. How could he have been so foolish?

Elipsy's hand was on his shoulder. "It's not your fault," she cooed gently, as though reading his mind. He stared at the ceiling as he clenched his jaw, feeling the apple of his throat bob up and down as he tried to force his lips into the words he wanted to say. He licked his lips and took a breath to steel himself, bristling. "And E-Eric?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"Keenan he..." she began but the words died in her mouth. He turned to her, and saw the tears rimming her eyes as she looked away, unable to speak the words. She didn't need to. Even through the haze of drugs, the memory was there, scratching at the door he'd locked it behind in his mind. The nightmare.

Eric was gone—dead.

Keenan opened his hand and moved it towards his sister as best he could. She took it and squeezed, forcing a smile, but through the veil of tears it was more like a grimace. She sniffled and wiped her eyes then, trying to compose herself, "The paramedics didn't find Luke, but Farrell and Damien were discharged days ago with minor injuries," she told him. She licked her lips a little nervously, "Do you think we'll ever see them again?"

"Let's hope not," Keenan growled.

If it were up to him, he'd torture Luke from dawn to dusk until he got up the nerve to finally kill that bastard once and for all. But there was nothing that could ever make up for the loss of Eric. Even with as angry as Keenan had been in the clearing he couldn't kill Luke. That just wasn't the kind of man he was.

"I miss him so much," Elipsy said in a small, wet voice, "I can't believe Eric..." she couldn't even finish the sentence, the pain was too fresh.

"The..." he started to say but his voice failed him for a moment as the guilt rolled over him. "The last thing I said to him—"

"Shh!" Elipsy hushed him. She shook her head. "Don't think about that."

Tears began to sting his eyes as his vision blurred, but Elipsy gripped his hand. He looked to her, and she leaned over and rested her head on his chest, and for a long time they both lay there, tears streaming silently down their cheeks. They wept in silence, for there was nothing to say, nothing that could ease the hurt, no words to fill the loss.

The next day the nurses took the restraints off, and he was allowed to feed himself. He requested they stop the morphine drip; he hated how it made him feel—lethargic and hazy, always sleeping and missing gaps in his memory. The doctors said that with the injuries he'd suffered they didn't recommend it, but he insisted. The pain was nothing less than he deserved.

Three days later, he discharged himself from the hospital.

His injuries had become superficial, the scars fading as though aged by years, not days, and he was beginning to feel like his old self again. Elipsy's arm was still in a cast and wouldn't be removed for several more weeks, but Keenan suspected by the next full moon she'd break out of it herself.

The next day he returned.

The ICU was on the floor above, but Zoë's room was still hard to find. He couldn't trace her smell, there was too much sick and chemicals in the air to find her. In the end he had to ask the woman at the front desk where she was.

"What's your relation to the patient?" she asked.

Keenan chewed his lower lip. "I'm her boyfriend," he said, the word feeling alien on his tongue.

It was good enough for the nurse, and she gave him the information he needed. The dismal darkness of the room itself made him uneasy as he stepped in. The smell of death was everywhere in this room, so thick in the air Keenan thought he might choke. He wanted to run out of that room the moment he stepped foot inside, but he forced himself to gulp the air down in an attempt to adapt, and started looking for Zoë.

He found her two beds in behind a thin sea-foam blue curtain. As he stood at the foot of her bed his heart sank. She was breathing on her own, but there was an oxygen mask over her ashen face, a cool sweat beading on her pinched brow. She was pale, too pale, and looked so very weak.

Underneath the hospital gown and bedsheets he could tell that she had lost a significant amount of weight in the short amount of time she had been here. Machines beeped weakly by her bedside, and two bags hung by her, pumping her full of vitamins, and drugs to stay the pain.

To anyone else she might have been asleep, but to Keenan she could have been dead.

He sat in the chair at her bedside and took one of her hands in his. It was frozen as though she'd been sitting in a tub of ice. How could she be so cold?

"Oh Zoë..." he sighed. He massaged her hand until it warmed, "I'm so sorry," he told her, his throat suddenly very tight. "I wish I could fix this, I wish I could bring them all back and make everything sane again. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," he looked at her, stroking her face, "Please wake up..." he whispered to her as tears began to fill his eyes all over again, "Please, Zoë, I'm so afraid without you."

He tried to bite the tears back, but they wouldn't stop. He didn't know if it was the lack of morphine, the emptiness that was consuming him, the worry, the exhaustion, the stress, or any of the other millions of things he could count that were going wrong. He laid his head down on the edge of her bed and buried his face in his arm as he held onto her hand, his final anchor, and allowed himself to cry.

"Hey!" came a voice from behind, startling him, "Who are you?"

Zoë

Zoë felt as though her mind were surrounded by a thick, dense fog. She kept trying to think, to remember, but the harder she fought to stay awake, the more she was pulled down into dark, dreamless sleep.

She tried to move but her limbs had suddenly turned to lead.

Keenan. She had to find Keenan.

She tried to call out for him, but she couldn't hear herself in the mist, and her voice was lost. Distantly, she was aware of a dull ache resonating from her abdomen. What had happened to her? Where was she?

Then, a single ray of light pierced through the dimness, gentle at first, then growing, and growing until soon the fog all about her glimmered like tangible sunlight, warmth ebbed into her extremities and worked its way to her core. The fog was lifting...lifting...

Slowly, Zoë opened her eyes, her lids so very heavy and tried to look around. The world was a blur of color without shape or form. She blinked to clear her vision, and little by little life came into focus.

She wasn't in her room, or any room she recognized. The walls were little more than pale blue curtains and everything smelt like chemicals. A hospital?

Zoë tried to move and felt a pinch in her arm. She looked over to see a series of bags dripping liquids into her arm—yellow, clear, and red.

"What the...?" she moaned weakly. She looked like something out of a science fiction movie.

"Zoë?"

She looked over to see her mom sitting there, her eyes puffy from weeping, face devoid of make-up, and her violet hair hadn't been washed in a few days. She smiled when she looked at Zoë, or at least she tried to. She was crying so hard it was hard to tell.

"Mom!" Zoë cried before she could contain herself, and the next thing either of them knew they were hugging and crying—as best they could with Zoë's arm filled with needles, that is.

Suddenly the curtains that surrounded them opened up and her dad walked in holding two styrofoam cups of coffee. When he walked in Pahua looked up at him and wept, "She's awake!" Jon hurriedly set down the two cups and ran around to embrace his daughter from the other side, and soon all three of them were laughing and crying, and holding each other as tightly as they could, even though it hurt.

Zoë had never been so relieved in her life. Her parents were alive, and unhurt, and they were there. She knew she'd missed them during her time up at the cabin, but she never realized just how much until that moment. She never wanted to leave them again. She wanted to go home and sit on the couch and do nothing but watch cartoons and eat ice cream with her parents for a whole week!

"Oh Babydoll, we were so worried about you!" her dad said as he kissed her forehead.

"I know," Zoë tried to smile, but she was crying too hard, "I missed you guys so much!"

"They told us you were stabbed!" he mother said, turning her head so Zoë was facing her, "Menyuam, what happened?"

Zoë shook her head, "It doesn't matter," she said, "I'm home."

It was good enough for now. She knew there was a time when she would have to explain things to them, and apologize for running off without a word, but for now all any of them wanted was to be together.

Less than an hour later, one of the blue curtains surrounding them pulled aside and in stepped a round woman wearing flattering purple and blue scrubs under a starch lab coat. "All righty then," she said, "how are we doing here?" she looked over at Zoë, "Oh, look who's finally woke up!" she said cheerily. The nurse checked a set of bags attached to Zoë's other arm. The nurse started pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Do you know where you are, sweetie?" she asked.

"A hospital."

The doctor nodded, smiling. "That's right you're at Fresno Community Hospital. Now, can you tell me your name?"

"Zoë Marsh."

"And how old are you Zoë?"

"Eighteen."

"All right, now can you follow my finger with just your eyes?" she said and moved her finger back and forth across Zoë's line of sight. When she was satisfied with that she shined a light in Zoë's eyes, checked her pulse and temperature all before finally asking "How are you feeling?" as she adjusted the bed so Zoë was sitting up more.

"A little hungry," Zoë admitted hoarsely.

The doctor smiled, "Well that's good! Unfortunately you're going to be on a liquid diet for a while until your intestines heal up. We had to cut out about eight feet. Do you remember anything about what happened to you?"

Zoë closed her eyes, remembering what had happened. She remembered the pain, the fear, the helplessness. But most of all she remembered the look in Eric's eyes. She put a hand over her stomach, and felt the thick gauze and padding there. "No," she lied, looking back to the doctor. "How long have I been here?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"A little over a week now, dear."

A week?

The nurse started scribbling something on a clipboard, "You're lucky you know," she was saying, "You have such a rare blood type. Your body rejected two pints of O-neg blood we had before we found out your boyfriend here could give you some of his. You're a very lucky girl to have someone like that."

Zoë didn't say anything, just bit her lip and smiled.

Keenan... she thought warmly.

"In any case," the nurse said, "it looks like you're doing well. I'll be back later to check on you."

"Thank you," Pahua said, tucking a few strands of hair behind Zoë's head lovingly. Jon had his hand on his daughter's shoulder. She looked up at him and gave a soft smile, "I did it daddy," she told him quietly, "I made it through the dream."

Jon smiled down at her with a fond expression, "I'm proud of you, Babydoll."

Zoë was still smiling up at her dad when she heard someone pull back the curtains and said, "Oh...hey..."

She looked over, and there stood Keenan—flannel button-down and all—holding a bouquet of roses and looking very tired. He gave her a familiar smile, and she felt herself beaming. She didn't notice as Pahua and Jon exchanged looks and her mom stood, "We're going to get some coffee," she said gently and winked at Zoë. "He's cute!" she mouthed to her silently as she ducked out of the room. Jon Marsh stopped and stood in front of Keenan, looking into his eyes with a hard expression. He held out his hand. Keenan took it, and they shook with a firm silence. Jon stole one last glance back at Zoë and ducked out from behind the curtains.

Keenan smiled and came to sit beside her, "Hey," he said gently.

"Hey," she replied just as softly, "How are you doing?"

Keenan allowed himself a chuckle, "That's my line." He held the flowers out to her. "I know it's cliché, but..." he let his flowers do the talking for him. She took them, smiling. She'd never thought she could smell something so sweet, so fragrant again, "They're beautiful," she said, holding them in her lap. Absently, she stroked one of the soft, velvety petals. She wasn't sure why it wasn't until that moment that it really hit her, but it was. She was alive. Alive!

I could have died, she thought, feeling suddenly heavy. They say that when you die, you're supposed to see something, a light at the end of a tunnel or something like that, but Zoë didn't remember anything like that. There had been nothing but darkness, cold, and black.

Before she'd been filled with a numb apathy, but now...now she couldn't imagine not being able to feel rose petals against her skin again, not being able to intake their fragrant sweetness, not being able to taste coffee, to see a sunset.

They say a near death experience can change you, Zoë thought with an odd smile, I wonder if that's true...

"How do you feel?" Keenan asked her, bringing her focus back to reality. She looked at him and gave a half-hearted smile, "A little achy..." she admitted. Keenan reached for one of her hands, his calluses gliding across her palm, "I'm just glad you're all right."

"I hear I have you to thank for that."

Keenan gave a single chuckle, soft, almost embarrassed, "Yeah uh...the doctors said you were AB negative, and when the blood packs they tried to hook up to you made you sick I told them I was B negative. They did some tests, said I was a match, shot me up with some stuff, and started the transfusion about twenty minutes afterward."

"This doesn't mean I'm a..." she trailed off.

"Nope, still human," Keenan assured her. They both allowed themselves a small laugh, but it was short lived. Zoë didn't know what to say. To go as far as to give her his own blood...? She thought maybe that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her. She didn't know if a simple "thank you" was enough. She squeezed his hand, and he nodded. He understood. He always had.

"What happened while I was out?" she asked.

Keenan lowered his gaze. "Eric's gone..." he said. His face hung in shadow, but she could hear the crack of emotion in his voice, "Switch is in a wheelchair, and Elle's arm is broken, but they'll be all right."

Zoë nodded, sighing. This was—she didn't know if there were words for it really. But it felt heavy, like a cloud was hanging over them. She squeezed his hand, trying to be reassuring, and he gave her a weak, almost deflated smile.

She almost felt bad about asking, but she had to know: "What about Luke and the others?"

Keenan looked at her as though he had been expecting this. He stared at their hands when he said, "No one knows. Elle says that no one ever found Luke, but Damien and Farrell got patched up. No one knows where they went, or what they're doing. All I know is that so far, we haven't seen hide nor hair of them, and that's enough for me."

Zoë sighed, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. It was over. It was all over. The score board wasn't looking too good, but there was nothing she could do about that. All she could do was be there for Keenan. She reached up and touched his cheek. He looked up at her. "I'm glad you're all right," she told him.

"I was worried I'd lost you," he admitted, "I was so scared I'd never see you again."

"Hey, I promised you, didn't I?" she said, and he smiled, sort of. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her hand, speaking into the knuckles, "I just wish I knew what to do. I'm always the one with the plan, but it's so hard to even think right now. Everything feels backwards..."

She squeezed his hand, holding him tightly. Zoë wasn't sure how she found the hope to say it, but she did. "We keep going," she told him gently, and he looked up at her with dim, golden eyes.

"How?" he asked, "How do we keep going when..." his voice broke and he stopped, looking away before tears could surface in his eyes. Zoë reached out and touched her hand to his cheek, his flesh feverish under the stubble of a growing beard. He looked back at her. Zoë tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke, "Don't be afraid. I'll protect you."

They shared a chuckle, and even though it felt hollow and faux, it helped. As their false laughter died away their eyes met. Keenan held her gaze for a moment, and then wordlessly leaned in to kiss her. His lips were chapped and dry, and he was cold, but he opened up his lips to her and she found herself kissing him back. For a moment they locked themselves in a kiss that allowed them to forget. For just the briefest moment everything was all right because no one had died, no one had been hurt—there was only the two of them, and their kiss.

When Keenan finally pulled away, silent tears were streaming from both of their eyes. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, "I love you," he whispered.

She touched her brow to his and whispered back, "I love you too."

Epilogue

The radio droned on about the wave of heat that was passing over the Valley, and to expect a series of rolling brown outs for the next week or so, and blah, blah, blah. It wasn't anything new, not for Fresno.

Luke wasn't much paying attention to it anyway.

With methodical care, his rough hands tended the fire and steel of his baby. The frame was a pretzel, the engine was ruined, and the axel was toast, but it didn't matter. As long as there was even one salvageable part, there was hope. There was hope for renewal. There was hope for revenge.

"Are you sure you should be out here?" Farrell called over the sound of the radio. Luke stopped and turned to him. There was no use hiding the ruddy bloodstains where he had torn his stitches open beneath the bandages. He was covered in them—face, arms, chest, hands. He had no illusions that if Zoë had not stepped in, he would have died.

Somehow that made the pain worse. No matter how he tried to drown the pain in drink after drink, it only grew.

He looked at Farrell as he stood in the broiling heat of the scrapyard, parts of his face still swollen from the battle. He stepped forward, "You should be resting. Not fixing a car that will never run again."

Luke lowered his gaze and turned back to what was left of the Camaro. "It will," he said, his voice garbled and gravely. He could practically feel Farrell's hesitation, his anxiety, but he had lost all patience for unsurity, "What is it?" he snapped.

"Damien and I are leaving," he told him, "We're not sure this is right anymore, Luke. There's a better life out there than this."

Luke stopped and leaned on the wreckage of his car. He didn't look at Farrell when he spoke, but his words carried a note of undeniable finality, "No," he said, "Once a hunter, always a hunter. It's not something you walk out on. Not the way she did. Ever." He turned and met his eyes with his, gunmetal-grey eyes glinting maliciously between bloodied bandages, "Once this car is back up and running, we're going to make them all pay. Every. Last. One."
