She inserts my order into her tablet and smiles at John. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“I’m good, thanks,” John says, waiting for the server to leave until he speaks again. “She was from a small town in the mountains called Devil’s Creek. Her family lived deep in the woods in a closed community. When I started to ask around town about them, everyone acted strangely, and no one wanted to speak to me. I even got thrown out of a few places. When I almost gave up, I passed this house, and an old woman sitting on the porch called out to me. She told me some weird shit about the people living in that closed community.”
Leaning forward in my seat, I wait with bated breath for his next words. Maybe I will finally get an explanation for the weird things happening to me. And the vivid dreams. “Like what?”
“She said the people living there belong to some sort of a weird cult that performs satanic rituals while wearing the skin of wolves. She even said her late father saw one of them transform into a wolf when he was just a child playing in the woods.”
Ice fills my veins. It must be some sort of a weird coincidence, right? That woman was probably crazy…right? It’s just a fluke that I’ve dreamed about transforming into a wolf and running through the woods with my amber-eyed companion almost every night since I woke up in the hospital after the surgery. I take a few deep breaths in an attempt to stop the panic crawling in the back of my throat.
John smiles halfway. “I wouldn’t believe the ramblings of an old woman, though. You know how these small-town folk are. They get so bored living their lives, they start spinning lies and weird tales.”
I try to reciprocate his smile, but it probably looks more likea grimace. What John’s saying is logical, and his words should erase this feeling of uncertainty bubbling inside me. But the more I think about the old woman’s story, the more I feel my heart racing in my chest, like it’s trying to sayYes, exactly. My palms turn clammy, and my fingers tremble in my lap. “Anything else?” I ask.
“No, that’s everything I could find,” he responds, standing and slapping a five-dollar bill on the table for the coffee. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have to meet another client in about twenty minutes.” He puts his jacket on and takes the leather satchel from the chair.
“Thanks, John. I’ll wire you the rest of the money,” I say, still sitting. I don’t want to be rude, but honestly, I don’t think I can stand. My legs feel weak and disjointed.
He leaves hastily with a goodbye thrown over his shoulder, and I remain seated in an almost catatonic state as I stare at Hope’s picture with equal amounts of sadness and gratefulness for her saving my life. My eyes silently beg her to tell me what’s going on.
I wish you didn’t have to die for me to still be here, Hope. I promise I won’t waste your precious gift.
8
Ava
The sun makes its lazy descent into the horizon, painting the sky and the four-story Victorian-style buildings in vibrant orange hues as I get out of the art studio in the northern part of Ashville. I’ve just finished attending an hour-long pottery class, and let’s just say it was a bit of a disaster. I have clay stuck in places no one should. I’m looking forward, though, to the other classes, especially the watercolor painting one, since I always loved to paint as a kid, but my mother said it’s nonsense, and I shouldn’t even bother with it because becoming an artist is not a real job that will earn me money, so she threw out all my art supplies.
After I woke up from the heart transplant surgery, I wanted to start exploring things I’ve never done before because I was nevergiven the opportunity. Even if pottery is going to be a failure, I’m not easily deterred. I will find something I’m good at, and if I can’t make money from it, I will at least enjoy it as a hobby.
Crossing the street, I make my way to where I parked my car and get inside. The traffic is a bitch, moving at a snail’s pace, and by the time I park the car on the side street next to my apartment building, dusk is settling around me on the short walk to the front door of the building. I punch in the code and take the elevator to the seventh floor.
As soon as I close the front door of my apartment, I make a beeline for the bathroom and turn on the water in the shower. I peel off the sweaty, clay-splattered clothes and step into the hot spray, letting it pound on my sore muscles. Who knew throwing pottery is a freakin’ workout?
I made some pasta for dinner, and now I’m seated cross-legged on the couch with the hot plate in my lap, surfing through the TV channels for something to watch as I eat. I stop on the news and turn the volume up. The news anchor’s voice echoes off my apartment walls as she announces a woman has been killed in a horrible animal attack in the national park.
She looks like she has been mauled to death by a lion. What kind of animal does that? A horrible feeling of dread churns in my gut. I wanted to take a walk in the national park today, but I changed my mind at the last minute. That could have easily been me.
After I finish eating, I do my makeup, carefully accentuating my eyes with a sexy brown smokey eye. I then get dressed in a leather skirt with black tights underneath, a cute satiny red top with a deep V-neck, and my leather jacket. I pair the look with my over-the-knee boots that have short high heels, and even take the time to style my hair in voluminous curls.
I’ve been trying to find a job these past few days, but after scouring the internet for hours, I always come out empty. Todaythough, I remembered the sign I saw in the window of the dive bar in the Raven district. I’m going to stop by and ask if I can speak with someone about the job. I don’t think I will get it since I have no experience working in a bar, but I can at least try. It’s better than nothing.
I exit my apartment building and start walking in the direction of the Raven district. The city’s sounds and smells travel through the air, assaulting my senses. I haven’t been here at night before, especially not on a Saturday night, and it looks like an entirely different neighborhood. People are crowding the streets in groups while stumbling in and out of bars, their speech slurred and loud. As I walk by a dark, dingy alley, the pungent smell of alcohol and vomit makes my stomach roil, and I crinkle my nose, trying to breathe through my mouth for a few seconds.
My mood sours when I see I have to pass a group of drunken men standing and smoking in front of the Shabby Shotglass. All of them look like douchey frat boys. They make disgusting remarks at every woman who passes their group, and their boisterous laughs are like nails on a chalkboard as I approach them.
Inevitably, one of them spots me. His leering gaze travels the length of my body, and I shudder in disgust. “Nice tits,” he says, and they all snicker, turning around to look at me.
My jaw ticks, and I curl my fingers into fists at my sides, leaving behind crescent indentations. Exhaling loudly through my nose, I ignore them and reach for the bar’s door. But as soon as I turn my back to them, a hand grabs my ass beneath my skirt and squeezes hard.
My blood boils over with rage. Before I can think my actions through, I turn around and swing my arm, punching the blondpendejothat grabbed my ass. Don’t get me wrong, I know how to throw a good punch: torque your hips to use your body weight, not just your arm strength. At least my mother’s boyfriend didone thing right; he taught me how to defend myself against sleazycabrones como este. But even so, I don’t expect to send him flying backward. He would have skidded on the asphalt a few feet back if it wasn’t for one of his friends stopping his momentum.
WHOA!
I look at my fist, my brows furrowing in confusion. My knuckles don’t even hurt. The old Ava would have just clamped her mouth shut and kept going. I think I like this new Ava that doesn’t take shit from anyone. Pretending like I’m a badass bitch, I smirk. “Nice face,” I retort. “Maybe next time you’ll use your brain, if you even have any, before putting your hands on a woman.”
“You bitch,” one of the other pricks spews and staggers toward me.
“If I were you, I would be mindful of the next words that leave your mouth before I decide to rearrange your face,” a deep, gravelly voice booms from behind me. The asswipe stops in his tracks, face ashen. Then they collectively scurry away like their asses are on fire, stepping all over each other as they cross the street.
