I’m sick.

That is, according to Mom and Dad.

I stare out the taxi window, tracing the path of a raindrop as it gets bigger and bigger,

until... splat! It drips to the bottom, losing its shape. As the driver swerves around a rocky bend, the process begins all over again.

I feel a headache burning at my temples, and squeeze my eyes shut before the dizziness sets in.

When my parents told me that we’d be spending the summer in rural Maine, I was less than thrilled. I’d had all the time in the world with my best friend. Besides, I had SAT prep ahead. If I want to get into my top choices- UCLA, UC-Berkeley (and maybe Dartmouth, my family’s school)- it’s not going to happen by itself. Naturally, Mom and Dad reasoned that I could bring the a testing book with me, and, according to them, the “cure” for my problems can be found in Maine.

Fresh air’s abundant, sure, but the cell-service is nonexistent. I’d already tried to call Emily to tell her that, no, I wouldn’t be with her all summer, relaxing somewhere along Malibu Beach. Instead, I’d be spending my time in Blakesley. All I know about the town is that the population is 500, that number keeps dropping inexplicably, and my mom’s bizarre family lives there. I haven’t seen Uncle Lowell, Aunt Diane, and my cousins, Mora and Caleb, for about ten years. However, what I do remember is that they stuck out like sore thumbs against the manicured lawns of our neighborhood. Weirdly superstitious… and an utter nuisances to the neighbors. My cousins had a tendency to stay up until far, far later than any children should have, and ran through the streets, forcing cars to swerve around them and just acting like little monsters.

We pull up to the house, and it’s exactly what I’d expected.

First off, it’s in the middle of nowhere. I mean, it took us six hours to get to Portland International Airport, and then another three in a smaller jet; then, a four hours’ drive, and another thirty minutes through the town to get to the house itself. Secondly, it’s this rickety old Victorian, perched at the base of the mountains. The once-bright yellow paint faded long ago, and a few of the windows are so covered with dirt that the rain landing on them leaves stark stripes.

“Geez, you’re staying with the Gévaudans?” the cab-driver asks. He peers up at the house, and shakes his head. “Man, they’re… well, no offense. They’re a bit freakish.”

The car comes to a stop, and Mom gets out abruptly. Dad hastily hands the driver his fare.

The driver’s expression becomes timid, and I realize Mom has been giving him her death-stare. With wild graying hair and intensely-focused amber eyes, Mom’s sharp look is more than a little intimidating. It’s not only threatening; you get the sense that she’s boring into your soul with those eyes. I’d inherited Dad’s ice-blue gaze instead.

“Don’t disrespect my family,” she says, voice steady but stare withholding.

The driver averts his eyes; as soon as he helps us with our luggage, he speeds away as fast as humanly possible. Mom continues to glare after him until the cab winds down the long driveway and out of sight.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

As soon as he disappears, she relaxes.

“Come on. Let’s bring our stuff inside!” she says cheerfully, as though nothing happened.

She drags her suitcase up to the front door. Shrugging, Dad and I follow suit. I knew that Mom and Uncle Lowell- her brother- got along during childhood, but I’ve never seen her so protective of my cousins. Hell, even she complained when they stayed with us.

I guess they are letting us stay with them for the summer, I think. There’s a chance they’ve grown up since they visited us, too.

Mom rings the doorbell. Nothing happens; it takes four presses for a faint sound to resonate from the porch. A wind blows hollowly through the front steps, making two rocking chairs creak in eerie unison. The trees sway, and through their whooshing needles, I have the odd sensation that something is watching us.

Finally, the door opens, revealing Aunt Diane.

“Come in, come in!” Distractedly, she pulls up her thick gray hair into a ponytail. She motions for us to follow her, so I drag my suitcase into the house.

Wallpaper peels off the walls; most of the furniture transcends antique, and goes straight to rotting. Portraits of past Gévaudans hang above the coat-rack; generations of tawny-eyed children and parents leer down at me, malicious smirks abound. Unaware, Diane and Mom ramble about the weather, Mom’s law firm, and all things in between.

Diane addresses me, though she’s focused on cleaning her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses against a crimson apron. “So, how are you, Celine? Feeling better?”

I shrug. “The insomnia’s bad. But school’s out, so things should be better.”

“You know how it is,” Mom supplies. “The low energy levels, the headaches… after all, it’s what happens around this time of the month.”

“Mom!” I say defensively.

“No worries,” Diane says, a twinkle in her deep grey eyes. “We all get what you’re going through.”

She spies Dad at the end of the hall, surrounded by suitcases, as he stares at the ominous ancestral paintings.

“Oh, Randy! Let me help you with those.” She takes our blue suitcase and lifts it easily over one shoulder, as though it weighed the same as a feather. In reality, I know it’s filled with the heft of three laptops, several chargers, and a stack of books. It’s strange; I definitely wouldn’t have pegged Diane for the weight-lifting type.

After lining the rest of the suitcases along the stairs, she hops down to the landing, causing a large cloud of dust to swirl around her. She wipes off her glasses again, already covered in grime from the mustiness of the house.

Smiling sweetly, she looks up at us again.

“Alright. Who’s ready for dinner?”

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

“Well, dig in, everyone!”

I’m seated at the head of a ridiculously long ebony table, in a dining room that would have made Mary Shelley proud. A red gingham napkin lies beside each plate, trying, yet failing, to lighten the macabre vibe of the place. Mom is to my left;  Mora paws through a magazine to my right, thick chestnut hair spilling over her face. Caleb is further down the table, entranced by some stupid cat video on his phone. As it turns out, there is cell-service; however, Uncle Lowell decided to be ridiculously paranoid whilst creating the password. It took me eight tries to spell “Aw0O#176TsBG0Fr” correctly.

Speaking of Uncle Lowell, he’s at the other end of the gargantuan table.  An empty bag of beef jerky sits crumpled next to him, but his hand still occasionally reaches into the bag, searching impulsively for a phantom snack.

“Celine, honey?” Diane says. “What would you like?”

I snap back to reality, and, lo and behold, dinner’s been served. The thing is, though… I didn’t remember the Gévaudans having such an aversion to vegetables. They’re serving meat… only meat. Between meatloaf, steak, buffalo wings, and spaghetti bolognese, the only plant-based food is a bottle of ketchup, with which Caleb eagerly drowns a slice of meatloaf.

In a small voice, I respond. “I’ve been trying to go vegetarian. I mean, my friends and I want to. Is there a chance that you have a salad, or some plain pasta left over?”

Four pairs of hazel eyes stare back at me, demanding and unblinking. I take some steak.

“It’s not right, Phoebe,” Lowell grunts, “you shouldn’t let your daughter live like that.”

Mom sighs. “You know how it is, though. When in Rome-”

“You leave those damn twins Romulus and Remus alone, so they don’t start a society on you!” Lowell growls.  “Besides. It’s California.”

“What’s wrong with California?” I ask.

He ignores my question, and sniffs. “ ‘s not right, Phoebe. A Gévaudan, who’s a vegetarian? And you let her hang out with these ‘friends’ of hers?”

“What’s California like?” Mora’s put down her book, and now stares at me intently. Her head tilts to one side, and rests on crimson-tipped nails.

“Um… sunny?” I offer. “We have a lot more avocado. We haven’t been to the beach since you guys visited, not really, but it was pretty warm out for May.”

“Explains why you’re so tan.” She takes my arm and inspects my bracelet. It’s covered in charms, from past summers spent with Emily: a glitzed-up clamshell, a half-heart, and a purple rhinestone, for my birthday.

“Silver bracelet, huh? You’re brave. I’m not allowed to; after all...”

“Morrigan,” Diane says, sweet eyes narrowed dangerously.

“... it doesn’t go well with my complexion,” Mora finishes lamely.

After a moment, she returns her mother’s glare. The two of them stare fixedly at each other, pale-brown irises reflecting steel-grey ones. I get the distinct sense that I’m missing something.

“It’s made of brass,” I say, trying awkwardly to diffuse the tension.

For a minute, the room is silent, save for the the occasional clink of utensils against plates or the sip of a drink. Caleb goes back for seconds, thirds, fourths; surprisingly, so does Diane. Mora hums some indistinct tune, tapping her fingers against the table.

Finally, Uncle Lowell speaks up. “Why were you living on the West Coast, again?” he gripes.

“Why not?” Mom replies. “The weather’s nicer than it is here.”

“Not for Gévaudans,” he grouses. “Gévaudans need the woods. Besides, there’s the matter of the sky. ‘S not the right stellar pattern for…” he gestures wildly. “You know. Us.”

“We also wanted Celine to have a normal childhood,” Dad explains. “We figured that we’d start visiting when it came on, so that she could get used to her adult life, and being around adults like her.”

“Adult life?” I echo. I’d realized that my sickness was hereditary. But… it’s chronic, too?

“See, all the more reason to get her here earlier! So that she can get adjusted to our lifestyle!” Lowell argues.

“We figured that high school was a fine time. And, after Dartmouth, we’ll help her stay nearby…”

“Wait. Wait a minute!” I call, surprising even myself. Mora stops her humming, and Caleb looks up from his platter of meatloaf. Even Lowell’s paying attention. “What about UCLA? And UC-Berkeley?”

Mom and Dad look down at their plates, avoiding my gaze. Too late, I realize what their intentions are.

“I have to live here? In the hinterlands? All because of an illness?” Without waiting for an answer, I stand up, pushing in my chair sharply. “And Dartmouth. It’s only the “family school” because it’s so close to Blakesley, right? The schools I wanted never stood a chance.” The details start to fall into place. Why Mom made me pack winter coats in my luggage. Why Dad wouldn’t let a doctor diagnose the cause of my sickness. Why we’re staying in Blakesley to begin with.

I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

But, at least I can leave the dining room.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Tears threatening to spill over, I lie down on my bed. Compared to the rest of the rooms, it’s actually kind of modern. The walls have been freshly painted a cheerful blue, and it’s clear that the sheets and mattress were bought recently.

They’re just for me, when I’m forced to stay here, I realize miserably. So long, Emily! Not only does is this WiFi just shoddy enough to stop me from ever calling, but I’ll probably never see you again. Or California. Or anyplace outside of New England.  

Honestly, I’m still unsure why it’s all happened. I mean, I know the cause- the numbing headaches and fainting that started a few months ago. Each was more intense and painful than the one before. But why leave California? They knew how much I loved my life there. And Emily… no more Emily, either. Mom and Dad loved Emily; enough to let the two of us sleep over at least once a month, during every one of their business trips. We’d talk for hours into the night, giggling and taking dumb quizzes online. And when I had one of my headaches at school, Emily was always the first one there for me. I doubt the Gévaudans can replicate that.

I rummage through my suitcase, trying to find anything comforting. I’d already lost my snacks- a few minutes ago, Caleb asked if I had any food. Long story short, my trail mix and pringles are history. In fact, with my clothes put away (permanently, I think with a wince), the only thing left is my SAT studying book.

It might be a distraction… who knows- maybe if I do well enough, some of the California schools will ask me to go back on a scholarship! After all, the Gévaudans can’t say no to a full-ride scholarship, can they?

Despite the impossibility of it all, and the dull throb of an oncoming headache, the thought cheers me up a little bit. Even if I do end up at Dartmouth, there’s a chance an alumni from California will give me a job offer.

I flip through; last time, I’d left off at the LU- words. I pick up where I left off.

“Luminous- shedding bright lights,” I recite aloud. “Lurid- incredibly vibrant, especially in color.” “Lycanthropy-”

The bedroom door slams open. I yelp in surprise, sitting straight up. My testing book falls onto the floor, “lycanthropy” at the top of the page. Heart beating, I look up to find Mora and Caleb, with mirrored Gévaudan smiles and thick coats.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. “It’s just you guys.” Hastily, I pick up the testing book from the floor. The pages rejoin; it’ll take a bit of searching to re-find the meaning of “lycanthropy”.

“Are you ready?” Mora asks. She inspects the room, stopping to peer out the window. Looking Fup at the cloudless sunset, she nods her head in satisfaction. Meanwhile, Caleb absentmindedly scratches at an ear.

“Ready for what?” I question defensively. What more do the Gévaudans have planned for this best

of vacations?  Is there a torture chamber in the basement, to go along with the creepy-as-hell décor? Or, are we going to go into Blakesley and terrorize the citizens, like they did a decade ago?

Mora looks at me in shock. She reaches into my closet, and before I can object, she pulls out a heavy sweatshirt, long-sleeved shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a hat I’d knitted at summer camp four years ago.

“They didn’t tell you? Well, put these layers on- those shoes are fine-, and find us downstairs.”  With that, she flounces out of the room and leaves.

Caleb smirks crookedly, raises his arms above his head and shouts, “It’s gonna be epic!”

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Even though I’m bundled up in multiple layers, the cold bites at my hands and face. It’s the beginning of summer, yet it’s in the forties at sunset. A breeze rips through the trees, creating a sound similar to the chattering of my own teeth. The malachite leaves have dimmed to black, a silhouette in the darkening sky. The house’s windows reflect the sky; that is, the patches not covered by grime.

“Explain why we’re out here, again?” I demand as acerbically as possible. In order to avoid making eye contact with anyone, I fumble with my flashlight in my gloved hands. It clicks alive, creating an elliptical arc of light on the ground. Uncle Lowell roughly takes it out of my hand, and chucks it onto the porch.

“Hey!” I rub my hand gingerly.

“Leave it. Let’s go.” With that, the Gévaudans begin to walk around the house.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I mumble, but I’m drowned out by the wind. I wrap my arms around myself, watching my breath condense in the chilly air.

The leaves crunch beside me, and Dad kneels down next to me.

“Honey. I know you’re upset.” I refuse to look at Dad. “But you’re the great Celine! You have the advantage of being one of the most mature kids I know. Really. I’m not just saying that as your dad. I mean, look at Caleb!” I crack the faintest hint of a smile.

Dad pivots, so that he’s right in front of me. This time, though, I meet his pale eyes. “Come on. We know this is a big change, and we’re incredibly sorry for putting you through all this without your knowledge. But the Gévaudan clan really will help you! You just have to trust us a little while longer, and you’ll get why we want you to stay here. We promise.”

I look between Mom and Dad. Both are resolute in their decision, but I can see small cracks in the façade. Mom’s lips are pursed too tightly; the bags under Dad’s eyes show how little sleep he’s gotten. At the end of the summer, I’m not just losing my life in California. They’ll also be losing me.

I hug both of them tightly.

“Celine, you know we’re not leaving for another two months, right?” Mom says teasingly. Nevertheless, I strengthen my hold on my parents, and for a minute, it’s just the three of us at peace in the world.

“Hey, Auntie Phoebe?” Mora calls from somewhere behind the house. “You guys only have a few minutes!”

“Are you ready?” Mom asks, gently, her arm still around my shoulder.

I take a deep breath, count to three. Look at the swaying trees. Come to think of it, their fluid motion’s more peaceful than the melancholy I’d sensed before.

“Sure.”

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

“Where are you guys?” Caleb calls from above. We’re huffing and puffing our way up a steep hiking trail at the back of the Gévaudan property. Well, I am, anyway. In retrospect, I probably should have taken Dad up on those tennis lessons a few years ago.

The sky is nearly pitch-black, but, strangely enough, I can see without my flashlight. Lowell was right- when you focus closely, you can make out each pine-needle in your path. So far, I haven’t bumped into any trees yet, which I’m considering a major plus.

Finally, we round the crest of the hill, and the view takes away what little breath I have left. The dense copse of trees has disappeared, replaced by a wide vista. Below, the forest shifts upon rolling hills, its shimmering foliage sighing in a tranquil rhythm. The faintest hint of a stream trickles between the base of our hill and that of the main forest, stretching all the way to the horizon.

I stand on the right of my cousins.

“So,” I pant, still short of breath, “is there a telescope up here or something? Are we stargazing?”

Mora grins, the wildest and most terrifyingly beautiful of the Gévaudan smiles. “Just wait.”

As we stand there on a hill, the sky deepens to a deep hue of midnight. As the sun’s last rays die, the moon rises in the sky.

“There it is!” Caleb says, giddy with glee.

The rest of the family seems as entranced as he is. I have to say, the moon looks much bigger here than it does back home. With all the light pollution gone, it’s just us, the endless sea of hills, and the ocean of sky. At its center is that moon, almost golden, the one island in the infinite expanse of space.

As I continue to look at it, however, the moon becomes farther away. Or, rather, I think I’m closer to the ground. The cold seems to have faded, too; though the breeze swishes just as loudly in the forest, I feel impervious to the chill.

I reach to take the gloves off my hands. Except, there aren’t hands anymore. Not in the same sense. Letting out a yip of surprise, I turn to my family in shock... only to find them in a similar state. Six pairs of eyes stare at me; however, the sinister hazel isn’t as menacing as before. After all, those pale eyes were never intended to be set in human faces.

I let out a laugh. Dad nods at me, as if to say I told you so. Caleb picks up a wild romp, and, snorting, Mora runs after him. I look to Mom and Dad, but only for a split-second. With a Gévaudan smile of my own, I run off toward my cousins.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Racing through the Maine brush, I’ve never felt more alive. Gone are the inexplicable headaches; I can sense it. I spy Caleb and Mora, and with a pounce, join in on their fun. We carry on for hours; when we meet back up with the adults, it’s likely two or three in the morning.

The family gets into a circle, and I follow suit. Sitting close to Mom’s thick, shaggy coat, I realize, with a start, that the woods of Blakesley already feels like home.

Lowell lifts his nose skyward, amber eyes challenging the looming moon.

He solemnly lets out a deep howl.

Diane, Caleb, Mora, Mom, Dad…  and I- the werewolves of the Gévaudan pack- join in.