The Goodnight Kiss Read online

  After parking the truck, I dart through the rain, pausing under the cover of the front porch to scan the trees. Nothing out of the ordinary. I know he’s out there. Maybe as a man, more likely as the wolf. I can feel those green eyes on me, observing, taking in my every move. Turning my back on a predator of his caliber is one of the most challenging things I have ever done, but somehow, I manage it.

  Once inside I lock the door, arm the security system, then hurry into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I kick my damp clothes toward the hamper and shiver as I wait for the water to come up to temperature. The bathroom is newly remodeled, but Chloe insisted on keeping the old fixtures like the Reganomics era shower head that yields better water pressure than the newer eco-friendly sorts. The pummeling of water on my back eases some of the tension in my stiff shoulder muscles.

  I stand beneath the spray, my eyes closed, my thoughts in turmoil. My usual calm focus eludes me. I hunt for inner peace until the water turns tepid and forces me back to reality. With one fluffy blue towel swathing my wet hair and another circling my body, I pad barefoot into my bedroom. Extracting a set of Pilates pants, a tank, and hoodie, I add thick fluffy socks to the pile before dropping my towel.

  A flash of lightning followed by a howl cuts through the drumming of rain on the roof. I’d almost forgotten that Aiden is out there, bare-assed and most likely in wolf form. Heart hammering, I duck into a crouching position, gaze sliding toward the window, half expecting to see the glow of green eyes peering in at me. Nothing there but the storm raging against the house.

  Slowly, I stand until fully upright and then move toward the window. It’s impossible for anyone to sneak up on the house. Besides the telltale gravel drive, the tree line is several hundred yards beyond the structure. When enabled, the security system sounds if the code isn’t entered within thirty seconds of the motion detector being tripped, notifying all three of us via our phones that an unauthorized person is lurking on our property.

  Cataloging the safeguards helps, but even with the rain cutting visibility down to less than a foot, all the hairs on my arms stand on end. I play bait often enough to know when I am being watched.

  He’s out there. Naked as I am. And he knows my name.

  Though I have never experienced self-consciousness before, I wrap one arm over my bare breasts and use the other to snap the blinds shut before turning to dress.

  Dressed, I move from my room into the kitchen where I rinse the quinoa, set a pot of water on to boil and extract lettuce, spinach, green onion and cucumber from the refrigerator. The familiar ritual of preparing dinner helps ground me. My body falls into the rhythm and my mind follows suit until I experience some of my usual detachment.

  With the salad made and the quinoa cooling so I can work with it once the aunts arrive, I prowl through the house looking for something to occupy my thoughts and keep my hard-won calm. The spring chill still lingers so I build a fire in the hearth, glad someone—probably Addy—had the foresight to haul some logs in from the woodpile.

  I strike a long-handled match and watch as the flame catches the newspaper that I’ve stuffed in around the small teepee of kindling. Of course, the flame reminds me of the one thing—person—I’m trying not to think about. My mental discipline has vanished since Aiden’s arrival.

  Giving in to the inevitable, I consider telling the aunts about Aiden and what I’ve seen him do. The problem is I’m not sure what to say. He’s new at school, yet I’m the only one who realizes it. I’ve seen him put out a fire and heal a burn with nothing more than his bare hand. He can transform into a wolf and knows my full name, a name no one else has ever spoken aloud and claims he met me centuries ago. And I’m pretty sure he was watching me dress. So that makes him an ancient, peeping, fire wielding werewolf?

  And one more fact, I am oddly… drawn to him.

  The problem is, I already know what Addy and Chloe will say. If he could appear without causing a stir, then he could vanish the same way. And if he’s lurking in the woods outside my bedroom window watching me dress, there is a wood chipper with his name on it.

  It’s not attraction, my preoccupation with Aiden isn’t rooted in hormones. I have never felt sexual desire for another person. Only the urge to hunt, to track, to kill the guilty who would prey on the weak. My fascination must be because he is so different, an unknown quantity in my typical sphere of operation. Other people are predictable. My victims, the townspeople, even the aunts. I say X, Chloe responds with Y, while Addy looks on in disapproval. All very clear cut. Aiden is a curiosity, the volatile variable introduced into a controlled experiment, nothing more.

  My cell rings, freaking Hamster Dance blaring once again. I answer before my eye begins twitching. “What’s up, Chloe?”

  “Emergency came in about thirty minutes ago, a dog hit by a car. Addy’s prepping for surgery now so we probably won’t be back for dinner anytime soon. Go ahead and eat my M&M’s.”

  A mental image of Aiden pops into my mind, long tanned throat working as he downs the candy. “Way ahead of you.”

  “You okay, sweets? You sound kind of off.”

  I physically shake myself and search for a plausible reason to be distracted. “I haven’t heard from Sarah since she left.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine.” In the background, there’s a crash and an accompanying string of oaths. “I’ve got to go, Nic. All hell’s breaking loose. See you later.”

  I tap the end call button and check for texts from Sarah. Nothing. She might have left her phone on the car charger. She does that sometimes, especially when she’s distracted by issues at home. I shoot her a quick message, inviting her over for a movie night, and then tap the phone against my leg.

  Nicneven.

  Slowly I raise my gaze upwards, to the loft where Addy and Chloe sleep. Before I am aware of deciding, I am up the stairs and standing in the aunt’s spacious loft bedroom. The ceiling is vaulted to the apex of the roof, making the small space seem larger than it is. The twin beds are hand-carved from logs and are made up with matching green and red striped flannel comforters. At the end of each bed sits a heavy cedar trunk. Chloe’s is strewn with discarded clothes and magazines, while Addy’s stands bare. It is to Addy’s side of the room that my willful feet take me, to the trunk where I know she keeps all her important documents and a few mementos.

  After kneeling on the floor in front of the trunk, I lift the lid. The scent of pine and leather fills my senses. Some people might have experienced guilt or uncertainty about invading a family member’s personal space. That’s the upside of being a sixteen-year-old judge, jury, and executioner—no point in sweating the misdemeanors.

  Even if Chloe hadn’t left half her wardrobe strewn over her trunk I would know the neat piles and jigsaw-like fit of the items inside belong to Addy. The entire trunk is organized for maximum efficiency. Some of the items I recognize. A small hunk of concrete with the imprint of my much smaller hand that I don’t remember making is wrapped in a thick yellow blanket that reeks of mothballs. That must have been made soon after they adopted me, maybe second grade.

  I set the oversized paperweight back down, careful that it is swathed in the blanket the same way Addy had it situated and move on to the leather-bound book. At first blush, Addy doesn’t come across as the sort of person who would keep a scrapbook. She’s not nostalgic and doesn’t talk about the past at all, unlike Chloe who likes to drink and reminisce about the days when they had real power to affect people’s lives and shape the future.

  The aged leather spine cracks a bit when I open it. The first page is somewhat sinister. There’s no name, no personal information. Just a white page with a taut black line bisecting it. A quick glance might lead one to believe the line is drawn with ink or some other medium. But on closer inspection, it reveals itself to be a thread. The ends are taped down to the back of the page to keep the line perfectly straight. I’m not sure how much the Greeks got right about the sister Fates, but the thread tells me that at leas
t some of the myth was based on fact.

  In Greek mythology, the Moirai were the three sisters known to control the threads of fate. Clotho—Chloe as I know her—spins the threads of life for both mortals and gods. Lachesis is supposed to be the appointer, she who sets out the span of each life by measuring the length of the thread. And of course, Atropos—aka Addy—who cuts the thread, ending the life at its predetermined time.

  I run one finger over the thread and feel it thrum with something. Power maybe, but definitely life. No indication what the thread means or, if the stories are to be believed, whose life it represents. If the life is over or has yet to begin. Unless I ask Addy, there is no way to know for certain. And even though I’m poking about in her private scrapbook, I don’t have a death wish.

  The next page contains a yellowed bit of parchment with odd symbols. Not Greek, I looked via Google and the symbols don’t match any known characters in the Greek alphabet. It’s an oddity, but not my main purpose for pawing through the book.

  The third page holds the target of my hunt. The newspaper article is yellowed, the ink not as crisp as it once was, but still legible. I study my black and white image captured eleven years ago. My dirty six-year-old self stands frozen before a stone cottage. It’s not one of the pretty picturesque ones being built as weekend homes by pretentious people. No, the cottage in the picture is an ancient ruin, the roof half caved in. I’d been clad in a ripped and dirty nightgown that had once been white, feet bare and every bit of visible skin is covered in filth.

  I drink it in before turning my attention to the headline. It’s in German, the entire article was clipped from a German paper, but the translation is clear in my mind.

  Raised by wolves? Wild girl discovered living alone in the Black Forest. One hiker suffered a heart attack at the shock of her discovery.

  I close my eyes and dredge up the memory...

  My eyes open at the sound of their voices. Men, two of them on the approach to my hidden home. They are talking, laughing. I rise from the blanket on the floor and move to the window to get a better look. The sills are high, and I am short. No glass covering the openings, just crumbling shutters. I must stand on my tiptoes to see through them.

  One wears an orange knit cap. The color is vivid against the moss and lichen-covered woods, the tree trunks black, giving the forest its name. The hat’s color is obscene against the natural setting. It’s the cap I spy first, like a bobbing fireball heading my way. The other one, his hat a more subdued but still an unnatural shade of blue looks my way. I duck low, heart pounding. Deep in my bones I know I’ve been seen.

  They speak more quickly now, louder in German. I hear one phrase.

  Hast du das gesehen. Did you see that?

  Wo? Where?

  Dort drüben im fenster. Over there in the window.

  Their footfalls are soft on the forest floor. Not as soft as when I venture out in search of food or water from the nearby stream, but my feet are bare. They are wearing heavy-soled boots that trample the ferns beneath their tread.

  They enter the cottage without bothering to knock. I watch as they squint, needing a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dim interior. They look like great misshapen beasts, large silhouettes weighed down with heavy packs. My heart pounds at the sight of them, two big dark shapes invading my space.

  “Hallo?” The one with the fireball hat spies me first and offered the greeting.

  “Hallo?” I repeat. My voice sounds odd, rusty from disuse. I can’t recall if I’ve ever spoken to anyone before. My memories before the last few days at the cottage are nonexistent.

  The one wearing the blue hat crouches down to my level. Ist hier jemand mit Ihnen?

  Slowly I shake my head from side to side to indicate that I am alone. Have always been alone. Will always be alone….

  The man with the blue hat shrugs out of his pack and removes a metal container from one side. He tries to hand it to me, but I shrink back, refusing to take his offering.

  Es ist Wasser.

  I point to the bucket I collected from the stream that morning. Wasser.

  The one with the orange hat takes his pack off too and starts to dig through it. He moves forward. I press my back against the crumbling stone wall. Something about him smells…wrong. And, I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

  Bist du hungrig?

  His pronunciation is off, and I realize German isn’t his native language. I nod because it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten and my stomach growls. If he has food to trade, I’ll answer a few more questions.

  He holds his hand out to me, large thick fingers around something in a brightly colored wrapper, although not as bright as his fireball hat. Slowly, I reach out, ready to snatch my hand away in case they grab me and try to drag me from my corner.

  He doesn’t move, though his eyes follow my every breath, reptilian gaze sweeping from head to toe. I take the offering, enjoying the way the package crinkles under my touch. I have never seen anything like it. Was ist das?

  The one in the blue hat has large brown eyes like a deer. They grow even larger at my question. It’s as if he can’t believe I’ve never seen the thing before. After a moment of slack-jawed gaping, he answers, Schokoladentafel.

  Schokoladentafel. I repeat the word carefully, having never heard of a chocolate bar.

  They show me how to strip away the outer wrapping and demonstrate the way to break off a small piece of the dark interior. The one in the orange hat pops the piece he’s broken off into his mouth and then chews, flashing me a smile as though demonstrating this is the correct way to enjoy the exotic food.

  Dutifully, I copy his movements. The taste explodes on my tongue in a way that steals my breath. Sweet, so sweet. Sweeter than anything I’ve tasted before. No berry can compare with the melting sensation of sugar and cocoa coating my mouth. I grin at them and attack the rest of the bar.

  Once it is gone and I am busy licking the melted bits from my fingers, I realize they’ve been speaking while I ate. The tone of the conversation turns to one of an argument. Four words is all it takes to pop the chocolate bliss bubble surrounding me.

  Nimm sie bei uns. Take her with us.

  Nein! I screech the word and tear past them, out the door and dashing through the trees before either one of them makes a grab for me. I hear their shouts from behind me but don’t dare turn around to see if they are in pursuit. I cannot leave. Cannot, will not go with them. It is imperative that I stay at the cottage. That I wait.

  Just like my memories from before the cottage, I have no recollection of where I go, how long I hide. Certain parts of my memory are fuzzed-out, like a telescope that has been knocked over and no longer focuses properly. Some bits are clear, others barely register.

  Hours later, I creep through the door of the cottage, expecting to find the two men with their colorful hats long gone. I am half right. The one with the orange hat, the one with the chocolate and the reptilian eyes stayed behind. He is lying down on my pallet beneath the window.

  “Hey there.” His words are soft as though he doesn’t wish to spook me. And I notice he switches to his mother tongue. “Do you speak English?”

  I nod to indicate I could understand him, though my English is even rustier than my German.

  “My friend’s gone to get some help. So, I volunteered to hang out here and wait in case you came back. And here you are.”

  I bite my lip, unsure of what to do.

  “How about you come on over here and sit for a spell.” He gestures toward the bed, the pallet he occupies.

  I shake my head, turning back to the door. Though I am exhausted, I would rather sleep beneath a hedge than share the cottage with fireball hat.

  His words stop me. “Hey, I’ve got another chocolate bar. You know, Schokoladentafel?”

  I still at the word and his grin is one of triumph. “If you come over here I’ll share it with you.”

  I don’t trust him, not at all, but I really want more of
that rich decadent taste from before and my stomach is empty again. Soon the hunger pangs will start, and I will not be able to sleep. I approach him.

  “Come on and sit next to me.” He sits up, excitement visible on his face and pats the space next to him.

  Hesitantly, I lower myself down, feet beneath me so I can jump up at any moment. He rewards me with half the candy bar. I grab it, this time ripping through the package like a rabid thing to get at the delicious food.

  “Poor little mite, all alone here for who only knows how long.” He shakes his head and reaches forward to stroke a hand down my tangled hair. “I’ll make you a deal. How about I’ll be nice to you and you be nice to me. We’ll be friends.”

  “Friends?” I pause in my chocolate consumption, another foreign word. I have no Rosetta stone to help me translate.

  “That’s right, real good friends. You know what friends do?”

  I shake my head. With no frame of reference, I am utterly clueless.

  “Friends keep secrets. Like you want to stay here and pretend me and my buddy never stumbled across you, right?”

  Slowly I nod. Yes, that is exactly what I want.

  “Well, I can keep your secret. And maybe you and me can have one together.”

  I’m not paying attention to what he says, my eyes glued to the remaining half of the candy bar.

  “Don’t be greedy, sweet thang. You gotta work for it if you want more.”

  “Work?” I repeat, looking up into his face.

  “That’s right. But it won’t even be like work since we’re friends and all.”

  I watch him, trying to figure out what he means. His hand is moving from my hair until it strokes my cheek. I want to jerk my head away but don’t because that candy bar is still in my mind.

  “You ain’t real bright, are you sweet thang?” He drawls, his excitement building to a fever pitch. “That’s okay. Come here and I’ll show you what you need to do.”