Howl (Witches & Warlocks Book 4), page 1
Howl
R. M. Webb
Copyright © 2015 by R. M. Webb
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design Copyright © 2015 by R. M. Webb
Printed in the United States of America.
First Printing, 2015
For Bill.
Thank you for teaching me to speak.
Thank you for making me comfortable being me.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
The whole damn world is built on lies. Lies stacked on deceit stacked on fabrication of facts. Like right now, the casket Becca’s lying in is a lie. Her carefully arranged hands are a lie. Her closed eyes are a lie.
The stillness of her heart.
The quiet in her lungs.
The pallor on her skin.
Well, her alabaster skin is a whole different kind of lie. Or maybe it’s a truth. I’m not really sure.
And me? The words I speak for her are lies. I tell the story of best friends and skinned knees growing into roommates and drinks after work. I tell the story of a shy girl and a seeing-eye dog. I tell the story of laughter and support and of a vibrant girl with an honest to goodness twinkle in her eye. I omit the fact that she was witch hiding behind spells and not really a seeing-eye dog at all. That she kept me trapped in my own head, hidden from my own kind.
I omit the part where she’s not really dead. Where Lucy and Barnabe used her as part of their scheme to take over the supernatural world and is now both a witch and a vampire. I omit the part where the people here, paying their last respects to the sweet girl cut down in her prime really shouldn’t cry because she’s not really dead. Because she’s just leveraging their pain to transition into her new life.
The tears I shed for her are lies.
The catch in my throat is a lie.
The hitch in my chest is a lie.
This whole funeral is a lie.
But it’s a necessary lie. One told to give Becca’s friends and family closure. To keep the secret of witches and vampires and werewolves, oh my! from the world’s mortal inhabitants. I stand up here at my podium — surrounded by flowers and the sounds of sadness, eyes shining with tears, one of the few who know the deepest secrets of this moment — and I can’t help but feel powerful with my knowledge. And the fact that I feel powerful makes me feel ashamed. But in this instance, I’m one of the elite. Outside the boundaries of normal human life. Operating to keep these people safe in their ignorance.
What would they do if they knew even one of my truths?
I stare out over the sea of people gathered to honor the girl who was my best friend and captor for most of my life. My parents sitting next to her parents in the front row. Becca’s dad sandwiched between his ex-wife and his new girlfriend, their animosity overshadowed by the weight of their grief. Noah looking handsome in his suit next to my dad. So many people choking on sadness for this girl who is nothing like they think she is and never will be again.
I recognize most of them. I lived my life at Becca’s side and I don’t think there are many people in her life that I didn’t know at least a little. Of course, I believed that was true back when she showed up with Luke and Carter, too. And I sure didn’t know them.
My breath catches, thinking about Luke. Just yesterday, with little fanfare, he was cremated. His ashes taken back to Windsor Manor. There was no one to cry for him. No one to celebrate his life. No one to care that he’d died. For me. The man died for me and I’ve yet to shed a tear for him and here I sit, wiping them from my cheek for Becca. I can’t process that. Haven’t been able to process that. Probably won’t be able to process that for a while still. How do I ever feel anything but some kind of numb, shock-filled gratitude? Debt? Guilt?
I choke on my last words for Becca while thinking about Luke. I make my way back to my seat without glancing down at her, just keep my eyes out over those gathered to mourn her passing. A few people offer me a supportive smile, while others blot their eyes with balled up tissues. A face I don’t know catches my attention. There, standing in the back of the funeral parlor, arms crossed, leaning against a wall. He’s younger. Dark hair a little too long. A little too mussed. Five o’clock shadow just a little too pronounced. He sees me looking. Nods. A strange feral gleam dancing in his eyes. Probably a werewolf. See? Yet another someone Becca had in her life and kept from me.
So many lies.
I squeeze in next to Noah and hold his hand. Accept the tissue my mother hands me. Smile when Dad leans over and drops a reassuring pat on my knee.
The rest of the service passes in a string of kind words and sad faces. Of condolences and heartfelt hugs. And then we’re ushered into our cars, while my dad and Becca’s dad carry Becca’s casket to the hearse with the other pallbearers.
We’re all riding to the gravesite together in the limo the funeral home provided the family. Me, Mom, Dad, Noah, and Becca’s parents. The Howards invited us because Becca and I were so close. It’s not at all awkward, climbing into that seat, Becca’s dad sitting between his ex-wife and the woman he left her for, holding both of their hands. My parents trying to make me feel better when I really don’t feel that bad at all.
After riding a few miles in silence punctuated by Becca’s mom’s sniffles, my mom finally succumbs to her need to fill every quiet moment with conversation. “So, Noah,” she says with a smile, as if that makes up for the fact that she’s going to make small talk over Mrs. Howard’s grief. “Are you from around here?”
I almost chide her for being so inconsiderate, but the look on Mrs. Howard’s face changes my mind. Maybe a little distraction will be good for her.
“I grew up a few miles from here,” he says. Of course, he’s talking about the ranch. While my mom’s busy imagining a sweet little boy with skinned knees and a penchant for football, she couldn’t be further from the truth. That little boy has lived through more trials and tribulations than my sweet mother could ever imagine.
“Are you an only child, or do you have brothers and sisters?”
Speaking of trials and tribulations…
Noah’s face clouds over. “I had a sister, but she passed away when I was nine.”
The smile on my mother’s face dissolves into something almost hideous as she tries to think of the next thing to say. “Your parents must have been devastated.” Becca’s mom sobs into her tissue and Mom’s got panic tightening her eyes.
“My parents died when we were very young.” He kind of shrugs and looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him.
Becca’s father pats his ex-wife on the knee and gives me a weak smile. “Just like your birth parents, huh Zoe? You and Noah really do have a lot in common, don’t you?” I know Mr. Howard is trying to make me feel better, but I’m having a bit of a hard time digesting what he just said.
I didn’t know that Becca’s parents ever knew that I was adopted. I shoot a look at my parents and they look distraught. Shocked. Scared to death. My dad kind of opens his mouth and lifts his hands from his lap like he’s going to try and explain.
I shake my head, try to get him to see that now’s not the time. That I already knew. That I didn’t just find out I was adopted at my best friend’s funeral.
I smile at Mr. Howard. “Ya. We really, really do have a lot in common.”
I thread my fingers into Noah’s and there’s that zing of energy that is his magic greeting my magic. It’s a little more intense than usual because I’m sure he’s aware that my thoughts are going about a million miles an hour right now trying to figure out just how Becca’s dad knows that the people who raised me aren’t my birth parents. And if Mr. Howard knows, then what do Mom and Dad know? Have they been telling their own set of lies this whole time, too?
With the atmosphere being so tense, and with all this grief being somewhat unfounded given the fact that Becca’s totally alive and will be for centuries, I weave a little spell. Whisper the incantation under my breath and send my magic out to fill the limo with calming energy. I watch it sparkle in the corners, and there’s a collective sigh of relief.
We shift into a numb silence and the thrum of the tires against the pavement lulls me deeper into my thoughts. Through the condensation gathering on the window, I watch the edge of the road. The chunks of gray snow collecting on the shoulder, dirtied by traffic. The gray sky and the gray pavement. A gray world for a gray day. It’s only a few days before Christmas, but right here, right now? Well, let’s just say there’s not a lot of celebrating going on.
It’s so weird to know that in the hearse ahead of us, Becca’s climbing out of the casket and into the front seat. That the driver is a warlock and he’s putting a spell on the now empty coffin so that it feels decidedly not empty
So, I guess if I know all of that is happening while the people around me are busy trying to manage Becca sized holes in their hearts, I guess I can forgive the fact that Mr. Howard knows that the Tates aren’t my birth parents. We all have our lies, don’t we?
Bitterness twists in my stomach. Sure, I can forgive Mr. Howard knowing that I was adopted. But if Mom and Dad were in on everything...
You know what?
I’m not really OK with that.
I’ve spent all my life not knowing enough about what’s going on around me. I’m tired of all the questions. Of bumbling along, only given a fraction of the information I need. I don’t want to be kept safe through ignorance any longer. Knowledge is power and it’s time I took a little power for myself.
I choke back a laugh. Despite all my self-righteous indignation, I can’t quite see myself starting up that particular conversation with Mom and Dad. So, uh, about that whole adoption thing. Did you know I was a witch being hidden in so I could be raised in such a way that my powers would let me fight vampires? Ya. That’s not gonna happen.
The service at the gravesite is quick. There are more tears. More sobs. People losing control of their sadness and crying as they shiver against the biting wind. Noah has my hand and I guess I’ve run out of tears for this particular lie. My mom keeps trying to catch my eye. Keeps trying to take my other hand. To get my attention and start a discussion about why I had to find out I was adopted at my best friend’s funeral. I understand why she thinks it’s such a big deal, but since I already knew, it’s really not. I take her hand and give it a squeeze. Hope she understands that I’m OK and that we’ll talk later.
People pass by the coffin, say their last goodbye, pull roses from the flower arrangements to take home with them. This whole deception thing is starting to wear on me. I turn on my heel and walk away, trailing Noah and my mother behind. She catches up, a sputtering mess of apologies and explanations.
I hold up my hand and smile. “Mom. I knew. Don’t worry. I’m OK. You don’t need to explain.” I don’t want to get into it with her. Not here.
Not anywhere really.
But as she smiles and tries to get one last apology out, I realize that’s not true either. I most definitely am going to want her to explain. I want to know how much she knows about my birth parents. How much she knows about what I am. What Noah is.
I mean, does my mom know that I’m a witch? That my birth parents were witches? Did she know that Becca’s a witch? Dear God, did she know about all the spells Becca had on me to keep me silent?
Suddenly, I’m not so OK anymore. Suddenly, I’m a little mad. A little upset. Here I thought I was the one keeping the truth from my parents, that finally, after a lifetime of not knowing, of not understanding what I am, that I finally was the one with all the information. Turns out, once again, everyone seems to know more than me.
As we climb back into the limo, my mind is going a million miles an hour. How do I find out what my mom and dad know without coming right out and telling them what I know?
Well, for one, I’ll start by letting them apologize to me about the bomb they think Mr. Howard dropped in the limo. I’ll listen instead of talk. I’ll try to hear all the things they don’t say. See if I can piece together what they know and what they don’t.
But then what?
I think there’s a lot of genealogy books in the library at Windsor Manor. A lot of books on the history of witches. Hell, I think there’s a wealth of information there on all the supernatural species. I think, rather than try and have an awkward confrontation with my parents, the people who raised me, the people who gave me the happiest childhood of anyone I’ve ever known, I think I’ll just go to the library and do a little research.
I’m supposed to an all-powerful, badass witch, right? And if knowledge is power and I’m lacking knowledge, then I’m not really doing a very good job at the whole ‘all-powerful’ part, now am I?
The limo pulls into the parking lot of the funeral home and we all climb out, share a few more hugs, a few kind words. My mom looks deep into my eyes, so much fear in her own. I smile and hug her twice.
“It’s OK, mom,” I say, my words a whisper moving in her hair. “I knew. And I don’t care.” I say it because it’s mostly true and she squeezes me tight.
“You are our little girl. Always have been, always will be.”
I search her eyes when we pull apart, looking to see how much she really knows despite having just said I don’t care. All I see is pride. And tears. My dad pulls me in for a hug, wraps his bearish arms around both me and my mom, speaks words of love and comfort and family and togetherness. His scent makes me think of a million different bear hugs stretched out over the years and reasons.
Tired of the facade of grief, I turn down their offer of a late lunch and make them promise to call when they get back home. “I love you guys,” I say as they squeeze me extra tight and I mean it.
But as they walk towards their car, hand in hand, her head leaning into his shoulder, I can’t help but think about all the lies that have brought us to this point. And for the first time since I found out I was adopted, I find myself wondering about Tara and Malichi - the light witch and dark warlock whose love was powerful enough to cross the boundaries of their magic and make me.
Chapter Two
Noah and I climb into his shiny new car and head back to my shiny new house. After I discovered that Barnabe Withers — the witch king — was actually working with the vampire queen to breed vampire/witch hybrids with the sole intention of taking over the world, and then managing to kill both of them, something that should have been waaayyy above my pay grade, the witches decided that Noah and I deserved a reward of sorts. So, we both receive a monthly stipend that not only pays our bills, but allows us to actually buy things we want. You know, spend money without worrying about spending money. What a strange concept!
And so, we each got new cars and new places to live. An apartment for Noah and a house near the woods for me. We’re supposed to be busy figuring out what we want to do with our life. How we want to blend in with human society.
I think it’s safe to say that I don’t have a single clue what I want to do or how I’m going to blend in. How do you go back to normal after spending weeks as a trained assassin? A witch deployed to kill vampires? How do you go back to normal when nothing about the last few months even slightly registers on the normalcy scale?
I mean, I’m on my third living arrangement in not quite as many months and two of my three roommates have ended up dead. Or undead, as the case may be.
Noah pulls his shiny new car into the driveway next to my shiny new car and kills the ignition. “You gonna be OK?” he asks.
I nod and smile even though I’m not really sure if I believe it. That space between Noah’s eyes softens, it’s the look he gets when he’s reading all the things I’m not saying. “But really, Zoe. Are you gonna be OK?”
“I’m feeling a little numb is all. That was harder than I thought.”
Noah nods. “I can’t imagine.” Now he’s the one not saying everything he’s thinking. I know he wants to ask how I’m feeling about the little bomb Mr. Howard dropped.
“I don’t know what it means that Becca’s parents know I’m adopted,” I say before he can ask. “Maybe my parents told them when I was little and there’s nothing behind it. You know, just like two sets of parents keeping each other in the loop about their kids. Or, maybe Becca told them I was adopted and there’s all kinds of something behind it.” I sigh. “It’s just getting really tiresome not knowing who to trust. And now, maybe, I can’t even trust the people who raised me. The only people in my life I thought were outside of all this supernatural stuff…” I sigh again, really not ready to think too much about this.
“You can trust me,” Noah says, hope all over his handsome face.
