Chapter Four

I was in my office down on the first floor. Soraya had just left, on her way back to the guest house to work in her own office. The door opened, a light knocking, assuming that it was Soraya, I didn’t look up.

“Yes?”

“Um, I was wondering if I might speak with you.” I looked up to see Jennifer standing hesitantly at the door to my office.

“Certainly. Um. Is Mary alone?”

“She’s napping. She’s having a hard day.” My heart sunk. I was exhausted, having been up the entire night before, creating the havoc that had obviously terrified my niece in addition to the local community. My self-hatred reared its ugly head.

“Come in,” I said, gesturing toward the chair across from my desk. This was the office where I received visitors. My real office, covered in files and research on werewolves and other paranormal records and sightings, was tucked away behind high-tech locked doors. I looked at Jennifer, her brow furrowed in a way that made her look unbearably attractive. “How have your first few days been here?”

“It’s a wonderful place. And Mary is an extremely bright and kind young girl.” I could hear the “but” coming.

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s grieving. And she’s so isolated here. I even feel isolated, and I’ve only been here for a couple of days.” She had a point, and I nodded my agreement.

“What are you asking?”

“Could I just take her into town every couple of days or so? She would benefit from being with other children her age…it would help her to heal.”

“What activities were you thinking of?”

“Well, I did some research, and while Ashford’s website is a bit sparse, I found a playground and a church on Google Maps…”

“Mary’s parents were active in their church,” I admitted. “I’m not. But maybe that would be good for her…grounding, familiar.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jennifer was smiling, although her eyes looked sad and concerned. “Is there any way that I could use the town car?”

“Would you prefer to drive yourself so that you wouldn’t have to call the service?”

“That would be wonderful,” she replied gratefully. I stood up, smoothing my oxford shirt.

“Come with me,” I said, leading the way to the garage, which was out in the back of the house, behind my office. “I should have shown this to you before. It just didn’t occur to me that you would need anything.” I opened the door, turning on the fluorescent overhead lights to reveal my prized collection of luxury vehicles.

“Impressive,” she said, her eyebrows raised.

“You can take any one you like,” I said.

“I don’t think that I have the balls to drive a Porsche into town,” she said. I laughed, and she looked at me, surprised.

“At least sit in it,” I said. “It’s quite comfortable.”

“Very well,” she said, opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. The top on the cherry red convertible was down. I leaned on the passenger’s side door.

“Now, imagine speeding over the country roads, the top down, the wind in your hair, the sun on your skin—”

“You make it sound poetic,” she said.

“The right car is pure poetry,” I replied. I gestured toward my Chevrolet Corvette. “See that one?”

“Yes. The Corvette,” she said. “Pretty standard luxury car, don’t you think?”

“But the power of it…the classic American manufacturing…it’s everything.” I stood beside it, and she followed me over, shutting the door to the Porsche with a slam.

“You talk like my uncle. He’s a mechanic.”

“What are you doing with the Firebird?” she asked me, motioning to the body of the ’67 Pontiac Firebird that I was restoring in my spare time. I was impressed that she knew her cars.

“It’s an original ’67 Firebird,” I said. “My dad had one when he was a kid, and he spent my entire childhood raving about it.”

“So you got rich and bought him one?”

“Well, he died of cancer when I was fifteen, so it’s more like I feel close to him when I work on it.”

“You’re doing the work yourself?”

“Yeah. You seem surprised.”

“Don’t rich people hire other people to do things for them?”

“I’m self-made. All I do is work.”

“I see.” She ran a finger over the car. I imagined driving the Firebird through the Nevada desert, Jennifer sitting beside me, laughing with the wind and the sun in her face. She looked over at me, her face unguarded for a second. I found myself placing a hand on her face, and then, kissing her. She was kissing me back. I ran my hands over her curvy hips, and along her spine. She began to pant lightly in response, grabbing at the collar of my shirt.

This was wrong. I was a monster. I pulled away suddenly, and Jennifer looked at me strangely, as though I’d slapped her.

“Take any car that you want. The keys are hanging on the back wall.” I began to back away, heading toward the door, and gesturing. “Over there. There are emergency company credit cards in the kitchen.”

As I walked into the house, I could feel it—the sun was sinking lower in the sky. It was late afternoon, the time when I usually locked myself into my suite. I walked quickly up the stairs, heading straight for my chambers. I locked the large, mahogany double-doors behind me. I then walked across the room, with its large, four poster bed with its messy tangle of sheets and comforter. I cleaned this room myself, never letting anyone enter it.

I opened the massive walk-in closet that contained the large, rebar cage. The door occasionally broke, as I had constructed it myself. I had no one that I could bring in to do it for me—no one that I trusted. The night before, it had broken and I had gotten out, feasting on a herd of cattle at a nearby farm, the carnage both delicious and horrifying at the same time. Feeling a sense of dep exhaustion, I stepped inside of the cage, activating the lock and sitting down. I sat, thinking of Jennifer, and the smell of her hair for hours as the sun sank beneath the horizon and I shifted into a large, black-furred beast that was equal parts man and wolf.