“That’s for their protection,” Noah said carefully.
“Whose protection? Theirs or ours?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“My friend’s cousin tried to drive through once,” I rambled, fever loosening my tongue. “Came back three days later with no memory of where he’d been. Had claw marks all over his truck. Said he just remembered wanting to leave really badly but couldn’t explain why.”
“Propaganda,” Noah muttered, but he was driving faster now.
“Is it though? What about the hikers who disappeared? The photographer who went to document the town and came back with blank memory cards and a broken camera? The delivery driver who-”
“People who venture too close sometimes choose to stay,” Noah interrupted. “Or they’re encouraged to never mention what they’ve seen. It’s for everyone’s protection.”
“But I don’t know what I’m protecting them from!” I snapped, frustration breaking through the fever fog. “Nobody ever told me the truth about anything!”
Noah’s head whipped toward me so fast I thought he might crash. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” The word came out as half sob, half snarl. “He didn’t tell me a damn thing. Just showed up bleeding, fuc-” I stopped myself, “Hugged me senseless, and vanished. Everything I’ve figured out has been my own deductions, my own guesses based on my kids doing impossible things and this town’s paranoia about beasts.”
“That son of a...” Noah cut himself off, glancing at the kids. “I’m going to kick his ass.”
“Get in line,” I muttered.
A weathered sign appeared through the trees: “Ravenshollow - Population 5,000 - Visitors Not Welcome.” Someone had added graffiti underneath that said “This Means You” with what looked disturbingly like claw marks through the metal.
“Friendly place,” I muttered.
“They have reasons,” Noah said defensively.
The trees thinned and suddenly we were driving through what looked almost like a normal town. Pretty houses with well-maintained yards. A main street with shops and cafes. People walking dogs and pushing strollers. It could have been any small American town except for the details that made my fevered brain scream wrong, wrong, wrong.
A child in a yard jumped to catch a frisbee, leaping at least eight feet in the air. A man loading a truck hefted boxes that should have required a forklift. Two women chatting on a corner turned to watch our car pass, and their eyes reflected the light in a way human eyes definitely shouldn’t.
“A town full of werewolves,” I said faintly. “I’ve brought my children to a town full of actual werewolves.”
The truth I’d been dancing around, making excuses for, explaining away with increasingly ridiculous theories, stared me in the face. My kids weren’t weird. They were part wolf. Because their father was a werewolf who’d knocked me up and vanished.
“Most of them,” Noah confirmed. “Ravenshollow is a sanctuary. Has been for over two centuries.”
“Mama, look!” Thea pointed excitedly. “That man is so strong! And that lady is running super fast!”
“They’re special like us,” Rowan said with quiet satisfaction.
“Are there puppies?” Thea asked hopefully.
Noah glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and I caught his careful expression. “Something like that, kid.”
We pulled up to a modest two-story house on a sequestered property, far from other homes. The isolation made sense now - werewolves probably needed space for their wolfy activities or whatever.
“Your house?” I asked as Noah came around to help me out.
“Yeah. Safer than taking you straight to the pack house.”
Noah carried me inside despite my weak protests that I could walk. The interior was as normal as the exterior, all comfortable furniture and family photos. If this was a werewolf’s house, they’d really committed to the suburban disguise.
“You have a nice house,” Thea announced, already touching everything within reach. “It smells like trees!”
“Thanks, kid,” Noah said, settling me on the couch with surprising gentleness. “Make yourselves at home.”
