4
GRIFFITH
As a werewolf,I’m familiar with the smell of wet fur. But that doesn’t mean I want the cab of my truck to reek of it. Still, just as I’m regretting not making Clementine drive herself, I glance over to find her passed out cold in the passenger seat.
“You awake?”
In other circumstances, I’d let her sleep, assuming she’s worn out from the long drive—or maybe not so long because, honestly, I have no fucking idea where she lives nowadays. Either way, normal tiredness wouldn’t concern me.
But what if she’s not asleep? What if she’s unconscious from the pain of her wound?
The gash on her side looked horrific. All jagged edges and seeping blood.
Why isn’t it healing?
“Clementine.” I say her name louder, and the furry monstrosity between us lifts his head to glance my way.
Shrimp. A ridiculous name.
Shrimp whines.
As I steer my truck down the road that’ll lead us into witch territory, I reach over to nudge her shoulder.
She grunts, then nuzzles her head against the window, and I let out a sigh of relief. Not fully unconscious then.
Which leaves me mental space to think about other things. Like how my best friend is going to have a panic attack when he realizes his sister is injured. I mutter curses under my breath at the thought.
I grew up with Carl, though we didn’t become true friends until middle school. I’d just hit puberty, and my werewolf lineage gave me an intense growth spurt. Once the runt of the pack, I put on height and muscle like it was no problem. Carl, meanwhile, was a short, skinny, nerdy merman with parents who didn’t give a shit about him. Other kids sniffed out his weakness, and I stumbled on a pair of dragons trying to wedge the poor guy into a locker. I knew just how humiliating and demoralizing being pushed around by bigger guys was, and I refused to let it happen. After bloodying both their noses, I made Carl my friend, looking after him until he gained the confidence to stand up for himself.
Everything was looking better in my buddy’s life, until he turned eighteen and his parents chose to join some kind of hippie-mermaid commune in Oregon and didn’t take Clementine with them. He was left raising his adolescent sister, who was the dictionary definition of ahandful.
During what was supposed to be the years of him beginning to build his life, instead, Carl was constantly looking after Clementine, rescuing her from messes she had made herself.
Like the time she stole the principal’s pontoon, painted it pink, and raced it against her buddies until the engine gave out.
Or the time she showed up at Tipsy Howls, already drunk, and Carl had to drag her down from the bar, where she had been dancing while holding a tip jar.
Then there was the incident where she tried to ride Mr. Deepcave’s bull and broke at least six bones when she was thrown off and stomped on. Supernatural healing is tricky with broken bones that aren’t set properly. I still remember Carl’s bloodless face after having to listen to her scream in agony while they re-broke the bones because they’d grown back wrong.
You’d think that would’ve been a painful enough lesson to get her head on straight, but three weeks later, she was suspended from school for breaking into a teacher’s desk to steal the answer key for one of her midterms.
I thanked all the gods the day Clementine turned eighteen, packed up her belongings, and hightailed it out of town. Though I kept my elation to myself, knowing that despite all the trouble she had caused him, Carl still loved Clementine and was sad that she had chosen to leave him behind.
Good riddance, I said.
But now, she’s back, bleeding and definitely expecting her protective brother to fix whatever this new catastrophe is.
And she brought a smelly dog.
Just as I’m parking in Madeline’s driveway, I catch sight of flashing lights on the road. Five seconds later, Carl pulls in behind me and barely finishes parking before he’s out and jogging toward us, worry digging deep lines into his face.
“Where is she?”
I toss my thumb toward the passenger’s side, and Carl heads there, only to pause when the door opens before he can reach for it.
“Hey.” Her annoyingly husky voice drifts from the cab. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I grit my teeth at the guilt that swamps Carl’s eyes.
