Sometimes By Moonlight (9 page)

The hare’s nose twitched a few times, and then he dashed away into the brush.

My head pounding, I moved slowly through the trees, back toward what I thought was the direction of the trail. I could hear the voices of the other girls in the distance, so I was pretty sure I was headed the right way. But more than that, I could
smell
them. Perfume, sweat, sunscreen, shampoo. The scents radiated out to me like a beacon. My wolfy senses were fully engaged.

By the time I got to the edge of the path, tears were welling in my eyes. Austin was telling the truth. It was just a matter of time before I was a slave to the moon. Before I wouldn’t let that alpine hare live to hop another trail.

Marie-Rose slid up next to my abandoned skis as I emerged from the trees. “Oh, Shelby. Don’t cry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not you. It’s… nothing.” I wiped at my eyes.

At that moment I knew, more than ever, I was alone with my secret. Alone until my werewolf boyfriend came to the rescue. I really hated the thought of counting on anyone to save me. I was used to getting myself out of sticky situations, taking care of myself. But I couldn’t ignore the facts:

The moon’s pull would strengthen.

My hunger would grow.

And then everyone, even Marie-Rose, would be at risk.

***

I forced down the watery chicken soup and dumplings they force-fed us for lunch that day, my mind reeling with worry. What was going to happen to me? What if Austin didn’t get me out of there? How much time did I actually have left before I was a full-on werewolf?

I was still hungry after the lame meal, of course, so I hid in a bathroom stall and scarfed down the last gingersnap from my hoodie’s pocket. For the moment, the sweet, spicy taste took my mind off the horrible feelings I was having and lifted my mood. I had almost stopped feeling sorry for myself by the time I took my seat in Mrs. Lemmon’s European history class, my least favorite hour of the day.

Marie-Rose slid a sharpened pencil across my desk and gave me a smile. She obviously thought all my angst was because of our earlier fight. Though I had plenty of my own, I accepted the pencil with a smile and opened my notebook, ready for the upcoming torture. I wished I’d thought to save half the cookie for Marie-Rose. It wasn’t her fault that she was terrified of getting in trouble. And if she knew what trouble I was in for, she’d freak for sure. It was better for us to make up and for me to pretend everything was normal, even though it was
so
not.

Mrs. Lemmon swept in a full minute after the bell and slammed her bag down on the table at the front of the room. “Ladies!” she snarled. “I am very disappointed in your theme papers.”

Her sharp blue eyes flashed from behind deep folds and her eyebrows pulled together as if on a drawstring. Since Honeybun had come into my life, I kind of hated plastic surgery, even if it had been the source of my dad’s fortune. That said, Dad’s wonder drug, Re-Gen, would have worked wonders on old Mrs. Lemmon’s wrinkles.

The old bat seemed to guess I was studying her. She poked a shriveled finger in my direction. “Shall I start with you, Miss Locke?”

I shrugged and Marie-Rose elbowed me in the gut. “Um, sure?”

Mrs. Lemmon stooped over my desk, her gray wool skirt touching my rashy hand. “I think you would have done a much better job on Napoleon Bonaparte if you’d actually
opened
the text book. He died an exile on the isle of St. Helena.” She released my paper, which floated down to my desk. No one in class needed binoculars to see the red ink glaring from the top page.

“Er, thanks.”

She retrieved another paper from her desk. “And Miss Genereau,” she said, maneuvering herself in front of Marie-Rose’s. “In a treatise on the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand, you might have mentioned that his death sparked World War I.”

Marie-Rose slumped in her chair. I could tell she was hoping that Mrs. Lemmon wasn’t going to let
Maman
know of her failure.

“There is but one triumphant effort in the entire stack.” Mrs. Lemmon took a seat on the edge of her desk and held up a paper with a bright red “A” marked on it. “It belongs to Miss Patricia Sherman.”

The whole class turned to stare at the slight, curly haired girl at the back of the class.  The daughter of a Chicago stockyard tycoon, Patricia didn’t say much in class, but you got the feeling she was always listening. On hearing her name mentioned, she turned a rosy shade and pretended to doodle in the notebook on her desk.

Mrs. Lemmon began to read aloud:

“Johanas Steinfelder, distant cousin of Sigismund of Habsburg, founded Steinfelder castle in 1440, during the Old Zurich War and before Sigismund was excommunicated by the ruling pope. His riches were acquired by his battles in nearby lands. Included in his conquest were parts of Bulgaria, the river valley in the Carpathian Mountains, and the small country of Muldania. His battle insignia, the steed rearing in attack, is well known throughout Europe as a sign of an ancient brotherhood and can be found on many artifacts throughout Steinfelder castle.”

Muldania
. My brain sorted through all the history texts I’d read in Lemmon’s class, trying to come up with where I’d heard that country mentioned before.

Mrs. Lemmon droned on, oblivious to Patricia’s reddening face and the bored yawns of the rest of the class. “The chateau, fortified with stone and iron battlements, was considered impervious to attack, but the duke was ever vigilant, fearing retribution from the forces he’d decimated in Muldania. The duke died here in 1494, an old man lost in visions of evil creatures who were out to exact revenge.” The old lady set down the paper on Patricia’s desk and moved to the map on the wall. “The only question unanswered is why the Duke had set out to conquer such far away lands. And that, so far, has remained unrecorded in history books.”

She pointed at the border between Romania and Yugoslavia and it suddenly hit me.
Muldania
.
Austin’s homeland where he said his dad had just purchased the ancestral castle. The duke had had some part in driving the werewolves out. Of driving
us
out.

Wait a second. Why exactly was I here at Steinfelder? I wracked my brain for how Honeybun had found out about this school.  It suddenly seemed too great a coincidence that the duke had tried to eradicate werewolves and that I’d ended up at his chateau. What had Austin said about there being forces working to expose the werewolves? What if someone at the school was doing just that? Maybe this whole time they had been using me to bait Austin and would kill him here, continuing the work of the duke.

Even if whoever the spy was didn’t know my wolfy secret yet, I felt like both Austin and I were in big danger if I didn’t get out soon.

Chapter Seven

Every night after dinner, while all of us girls gathered in the main hall before the giant fireplace to study or play board games, Mrs. Lemmon took a bath. The old bat soaked for at least an hour, using all our hot water, and then emerged, looking even more prune-like, in time to call us all upstairs for lights out. If you were unlucky enough to have waited to take your shower before bed, it was ice cube city.

But that night, I wasn’t complaining. Citing a stomachache, I excused myself from the game of Scrabble Marie-Rose and Patricia had roped me into and went upstairs. If I was going to have a chance to contact Austin, now was the time. Mrs. Lemmon’s laptop was the only easy portal to the outside world, and while she scrubbed her ancient hide, I’d make my move. I wanted Austin to know what I’d found out about the duke. And though we’d discussed a way for him to let me know when to meet him, we hadn’t devised any signaling method on my end. I didn’t think this kind of information could wait, so the laptop it was.

I poked my head into Lemmon’s room and was rewarded with the sound of rushing water coming from behind the closed door of the en suite bathroom. I also heard her cackling, so I figured she was probably chatting on her cell phone with Massimo, her long-distance paramour. That was great news, because he wouldn’t be online waiting for her when I logged on. With a last glance over my shoulder to make sure the hall was empty, I pulled Lemmon’s door closed, but not all the way.

Her desk was covered with papers, like she’d been using it to grade earlier. I was careful not to move anything as I sat down in the chair. When I powered up the Mac, a security screen popped up, requesting a password, so I scanned the room for clues.

On the wall above the desk a small bulletin board held photos of gardens someplace, England, maybe, and photographs of three little blond girls, whom I assumed might be her grandchildren. Taped near the bottom of the board was a business card for a local bakery. Behind me stood a perfectly made bed, covered with a knitted afghan. A small vase of silk hydrangeas and a hand mirror decorated the simple dresser. A rocking chair waited near the window.  No clues there.

Mrs. Lemmon’s crusty laugh sounded again.

“Okay, how about Massimo,” I said, typing it into the computer, which rejected it. “Harriet+Massimo,” I muttered. Nope. I wondered how good she was at remembering passwords, being that she was about a million years old and was probably new to computer stuff anyway. And, on that thought, I picked up the keyboard and found a Post-it taped underneath.

I smiled, typing in “Lemmon_0907972!#@” a password probably created by the administrator of Steinfelder’s secure network. “Sucker,” I whispered, as her computer came to life.

I headed right over to the video call program and typed in Austin’s name, looking for his profile. Nothing. He wasn’t set up on the site, which wasn’t a huge surprise, since he was hiding from paparazzi and the public half the time. I quit that site quickly, and headed over to my e-mail program. I heard the water turn off in the other room. Lemmon was done filling her tub. There wasn’t much time so I hammered out a quick e-mail:

A -

Check out the ownership of Steinfelder. Can you please meet me tomorrow night? Urgent.

xo,

S.

After I hit send, I deleted the browsing history, hoping that would be enough to head Lemmon and anyone else who might have been watching the web activity off the trail. At least for a little while. I logged off and powered down.

As I got up from the desk, I heard movement in the hall. I dropped down to the floor and crawled over to peek out the crack of the door. Marie-Rose’s worn ballet flats were heading toward Lemmon’s room. Someone was right behind her. I backed away from the door and slid under the bed.

“I’m not sure where she is, but she couldn’t have gone far.” I heard Marie-Rose’s small voice pleading as she entered Lemmon’s room.

Whoever she was addressing stayed out in the hallway not saying a word.

Meanwhile, Marie-Rose’s foot inched toward my hand, nearly crushing my fingers. I clamped a hand over my mouth, hoping I wasn’t breathing too loudly. If Marie-Rose noticed me under the bed, she might tell this teacher and I’d be toast.

“She’s not in here either,” Marie-Rose said, swiveling back toward the doorway. “Shelby said she had a stomach ache and was going up to bed. That’s all I know.”

“This is unacceptable,” the person in the hall growled, a phrase so common here at Steinfelder, this teacher could have been anyone, well, except for Lemmon, who was in the bathtub.