I cup his cheek, my hand still half-shifted. “Is that why you’re crying?”
He shakes his head, spilling more blood in the water, breaking my heart with this unnamed sadness.
“Then why you cry, cher?” I ask, my voice oddly low and rough.
His eyes flick to the shoreline, to the broken body of Miss Lillian.
Oh, sweet Mary.
I race to her side and a guttural wail forces its way out of my lungs. Remy is there with me on the ground in an instant, pulling me back from her as he puts his arms around me. I shift and bury my face in his neck. Memories nearly drown me, and the tears may never stop for the woman who was like a mother to me, who took me in—all of us, really—when we had no place else to go.
Somewhere in the crying, I make a sound like a stuttering howl. I pull back, and Remy’s eyes widen. He takes my hand, kissing it, and I realize that my hands aren’t temporarily in some half-shifted state. They’re neither wolf nor human. Not really.
I scramble to my feet, not comprehending my ability to stand at all. I’ve never stood on two feet as a wolf.
I look at Toulouse; this horrified reality not computing.
“Did you change me?” I growl on broken vocal cords, advancing on him.
He holds up his hands, his own voice low and French. “No, Lazare. I would never. Damian bit you in his werewolf form.”
I only now remember my mother's lesson about werewolves and how it was possible to change a shifter. Weres never turned shifters or other weres because they could very well be creating an enemy with double the power. Fontenot only bit me because he was sure he would win.
I look down at the body on the shore, not sure where to place my grief.
“I'm a were now?”
Toulouse reaches for my shoulder, and I pull away as though burned. “Breathe, buddy,” he says. “Deep and slow.”
I comply, seeing my reflection in his eyes more clearly than in the murky lake water.
“I can't make you any more of a werewolf than you already are. Promise. But yes. You are a werewolfanda wolf shifter.”
The words are harder to come by, my canines now sharpened to deadly points. “Lillian?” I croak out. “Why?”
Remy steps in front of me and puts his hands on my face, the coolness reassuring. “I'm so sorry. Knowing him the way I do, he killed her to hurt us. Once she threw me the knife, he knew he was done for, so he took his pound of flesh before he went. I tried to revive her, tried to turn her, but it was too late.”
A glow catches my attention, and it's Jameson, kneeling at his wife's body. We watch as her body disappears in a slow dissolve, grief-struck at the loss. Jameson meets my eyes, the pain louder than any words he could ever say.
Another glow appears. Lillian, in her ghostly form. I’m briefly reminded of Star Wars, a reference she would’ve enjoyed. She looks up at Jameson, and they embrace, ghostly tears like diamonds in the moonlight.
As these multiple realities begin to land, a small and ancient Suzuki hatchback the color of a dragonfly’s wing drives across the rickety walking bridge. I recognize it from the café. Bobbie and Becky emerge, eyes red and puffy. We make our way over to them, and despite my godawful hairy wetness, they wrap me in hugs.
“Lillian…” I grunt, knowing that the loss of their beloved sister will affect them even more. I have more to say, but I’m losing my words faster than I can think them. “Fonte…not. Damian.”
Bobbie nods with a brief look at the shore, then back up at me with her big blue eyes. “We felt her wards give way. And thank you for the name.”
Becky’s jaw tightens, the lightning already at her fingertips. “There's no time. The house is no longer shielded, and we need to get to work. We’ll figure out how to mourn later.”
They huddle to consult about magic, and Toulouse’s lumbering form, shadowed by the moonlight, stops them. Glaring up at the huge were, Bobbie holds up her hand, freezing his forward progress.
He lowers his head. “I mean no harm. Her ward around the park was particularly useful. If you are able to put that up after you are finished with the house, I'd appreciate it very much.”
They nod and get to work, magic in their fingertips as they re-create the spider's web of protection around us. Bobbie wards the perimeter of the house before stretching up and shielding in an arc high above the roof, a work of art. Becky’s ward of the park seems higher and denser, palatial even.
They startle when Lillian appears between them, but as in life, they stand close, whispering instructions to one another. The three of them crack up, and I immediately miss the sound of Lillian’s laugh.
“That lets through more light,” I say, marveling at the moonlight on the rooftop.
