Counting Wolves Read online

  COUNTING WOLVES

  By Michael F. Stewart

  Copyright 2017 Michael F. Stewart

  Cover Art by Martin Stiff

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form.

  www.michaelfstewart.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or virtual, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The wolf hunts.

  It prowls as I hurry down the hall past teenagers scavenging for pencils and kisses. Locker doors slam and laughter sprays like gunshots, but I ignore the jibes. I’ve bigger things to worry about. Like the wolf. Like the fire door. It’s a door in the middle of the hallway. For me, that door might as well be a bank of thorns. It might as well be a dragon’s hellish maw. But the wolf hunts, and through that door is my only escape.

  I start to count. This is the important part. I have to count right. Not too fast, nor too slow. All the way to one hundred. It must be spoken aloud, without interruption. Whispering is acceptable; the count keeps my wolf to the Dark Wood. It keeps me on safety’s slender path.

  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .

  Stephanie, a pert blonde whose butt I used to kick on the basketball court, leans against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow. “I love this next bit,” she says, pulling her phone out and holding it like a magic wand. “This is Steph Lattersby reporting from Hopedell High School. What you are about to witness is the magical thinking of fifteen-year-old Milly Malone, as she prepares to leap over whatever chasm she is presently hallucinating.”

  It’s no chasm. My mother told the story best.

  There once was a girl who was the wolf’s coveted meal. Every day she would wake to the wolf huffing and puffing at her door, and every night it would hunt the girl in her dreams. Then one day she learned a magic spell. If she counted to one hundred before going through doors, eating meals, and any speech, she could banish the wolf to the Dark Wood and survive in the world as long as she stayed on the clear path. But, each day, the wolf grew hungrier, waiting for her to step off the trail, and for her spell to break . . .

  That’s what I fear the most. That one day my magic count won’t work.

  My mouth dries as I whisper, and I struggle to keep the count slow and steady. Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four . . . but my wolf has crept behind me and bent its head low. Yellow eyes burrow into my spine. The gray wolf, mountainous, savage, and unrelenting.

  “This could take a while, folks,” Stephanie says in a deep, queenly voice. “You’ll have to wait like everyone else does here for this very special princess.”

  Sixty-six, sixty-seven . . . Other students stop to see what Stephanie records—scavengers after my bones. Some, having figured out that it’s me, roll their eyes and move on, but the rest—most of them—fold their arms and wait with Stephanie, lips lifted to show teeth, eyes as bright as the wolf’s.

  Hot breath blows rank and moist on hands I hold tight to my thighs.

  I can run, but that would be into the Dark Wood, and from its shadows I might never return.

  Seventy-seven, seventy-eight . . . I tense, ready for paws to clamp down on my shoulders, for claws to sink into my bony chest. It’s so strong. I can’t keep it back much longer.

  “I think she said eighty-nine. Get ready—here comes the magic.” Stephanie’s voice lifts. “This is going to be fabulous! Stupendous!”

  The students begin to clap with my counting, but they’re not on beat. Their poor timing makes it more difficult. Tears stream down my cheeks. If only they could hear me screaming inside, if they understood that I did this for them. The wood looms at the edges of my vision, branches entwining and bearing down, groping.

  Something swipes at my shoulder. I shout the remaining count. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!”

  I clench my hands and eyes, bend at the knee, and hop through the doors.

  The cheer is half cackle. “See, what did I tell you? Wasn’t that amazing?” Stephanie continues, but I don’t care. The woods have fallen away. I draw deep cleansing breaths. The hall shines with summery fluorescent light. My fingers probe my shoulder for the claw marks. Nothing. I beat the wolf back—for now. I wipe tears with the sleeve of my sweater. At least Billy wasn’t here for this one.

  The students drift off, headed for classes. While I gather myself, I avoid eye contact with those who remain and read the poster on the door.

  Dance, Dance, Dance! Have a monster ball! It’s for this Friday—Halloween. I want to go to the ball. For someone who has to count to speak or enter through doorways, a date limited to one room and virtually no talking is a Cinderella story.

  “Hey, what class you got next?” There’s Bill. I turn to him and wrap my arms around his thin waist, counting as fast as I can. “It’s okay, Mill. Can’t be that bad a class.”

  He’s smiling down at me, making the usual banter while he waits for me to finish my count. He checks over his shoulder where a retinue of other jocks linger. I count louder, so Bill knows how far along I am. “Seventy-two, seventy-three . . .” Then I go back to whispering, which is faster.

  His tennis partner sighs, but Billy shuts him up with a glare. “Hey, I don’t make fun of you for avoiding cracks.”

  His partner shrugs.

  . . . ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. I’m gripping Bill’s shoulders, staring up into brown eyes, tight curly hair, and a cut jaw. I’m done and I say in a rush, “Is there blood on my back?”

  “Blood?” He pulls me around. “No . . . are you all right?”

  Waving off what I’d asked as if I was kidding, I pull out my phone and tap out a note—I can’t speak again unless I count to a hundred once more.

  LOL, I have Phys Ed. I try to smile, but something hit me—the wolf got me. It’s never struck me before. It’s stronger. I rake my fingernails from my shoulder to the small of my back and then type. You’ve got Calculus, please let’s trade? It’s a joke, but the plea on my face suggests otherwise. I’d trade if I could, but he’s a grade older. I’d better get going.

  “Yeah, hop to it,” he says. It’s a cruel jab, but the accompanying wink takes away the sting.

  I head for the change room, three more doors, five if I change in a stall. My wolf knows I’m alone again. It watches. The halls have emptied of students, which helps with the next doorway, but I enter to a room filled with girls, most of whom are already geared up and punching through the two doors between the showers and the gym. I hate those doors. A double set that snare me for a hundred count between them. I count and then spin my locker combo, sagging against the cool steel when I get it right the first time.

  I pull my sweater over m
y head. And I ignore the glances. My ribs stick out more than I’d like, but I don’t have an eating disorder, I just don’t eat much. I have to count to take a bite and chew, so even if I could bear the stares, I wouldn’t be able to finish much of the lunches my stepmom packs me. Besides, the food is likely filled with slow-acting poisons.

  Before pulling on my gym clothes, I shuffle to the mirror. My green eyes are haunted, and when I search for claw marks it’s not only my ribs that stick out, but the wings of my shoulder blades. Four long welts trace down my back, not enough to break the skin. Almost like a warning. Gooseflesh bubbles up along my arms. My spell weakens. If it breaks, all the denizens of the Dark Wood will roam free. Everyone’s wolves.

  I sit back on the bench, forget what I was doing for a minute, and then realize that I’m not wearing any socks. Malnourishment does nothing good for my brain. I pull on a fresh pair, then my shoes, which takes longer than it should. By the time I’m done, the change room has cleared, which will mean push-ups from the coach. I turn toward the gym doors and shudder, trying to steel myself.

  The showerheads dribble; even the ceiling drips moisture as I shuffle beneath. The humid air cloys at me. I taste mold. Before the first door, I begin my count. My whispering echoes against the slick tiles, hissing back. My wolf hears. I lift my voice to cover the smacking of its jaws. Alone, in a change room, weaponless. I am prey.

  Forty-four, forty-five . . . The huffs from its throat are like laughter. I don’t want to look. It wants nothing more than to chew on me and gnaw the gristle from my bones.

  . . . one hundred. I straight-arm the door as I hop through, falling back against it, hearing the rasp of claws across the metal. But there’s no rest; I’m trapped. A door before me and a door behind me. I start the count again. The wolf can reach anywhere. There’s nowhere near enough room in here for us both. If the cavernous shower felt claustrophobic, this in-between place is a coffin.

  Eight, nine, ten . . . Claws sweep under the door. I leap from them, landing against the second door to the gym and tripping over a shoelace. The door swings. I fall across the threshold, staring up at the bright, silver lights blazing overhead. For a moment I keep counting, but it’s too late for that. My wolf roars. There’s no option left but the woods.

  “Milly?” the coach shouts, but I’ve missed my count. My heart struggles to clamber out between my ribs. Sweat erupts from my flesh. Night rushes in from the sides of my vision. Twigs snatch at my arms. Bark scrapes over me as I’m carried like I’m crowd-surfing the treetops, deeper and darker into my nightmare. Lost in the blackest of fairy tales.

  Chapter 2

  “Romila Malone, are you Romila Malone?” The nurse in blue scrubs spattered with something I really don’t want identified is waving me through from the far side of the emergency room doorway.

  “Hurry, Milly, she’s calling us,” says my stepmother, Adriana.

  But I’m rooted on this side of the door until I complete my count. A fresh wave of fear starts in my groin, swells in my stomach, and roars into my lungs. This place is a wolf den. A warren of doors and questions requiring answers.

  One, two, three . . . An ambulance brought me to the hospital, but from there Adriana took over.

  “She counts,” Adriana says to the nurse. “It’s something she does.”

  Yeah, it’s my thing.

  “You the mom?” the nurse asks.

  “Yes . . . stepmom. Sorry about all this.”

  I’ve warned my father about this woman. Adriana’s very clever. My real mom loved to use fables and fairy tales to teach me important lessons. You know, like don’t go off the path, Little Red Riding Hood, or the Big Bad Wolf will get you, and rape you, and devour you. Every night my mother read from a tome of them—my book of tales.

  Well, she warned me about the wolf that was chased away from a flock of sheep by watchful dogs until the wolf found a fleece. Being a smart wolf, she laid the fleece on her back and, pretending to be a sheep, faked out the dogs, leading the lambs into the Dark Wood where she tore them into bloody strips. That’s Adriana with her carefully applied makeup, her clothes that hide what she wants to hide and push up what she wants in your face. She’s an imposter. I just can’t trust her.

  “She has to count to a hundred before going through doorways,” Adriana explains to the nurse.

  Why is it always the damn stepmother? The evil stepmother who betrays me and Snow White and poor Gretel—and who won’t let me leave the ER. And all these doors.

  As I finish my count I know the wolf has darted ahead and I must follow. With my hand on Adriana’s shoulder, I close my eyes, tense, and hop through the doorway.

  “Right in here,” the nurse says. She directs me into a large ward and sits me on a too-hard bed. I reel from the scent of butchery. But Adriana only smiles, wipes a blue plastic chair down with a wet-wipe and then sits. We’re in an open area with maybe eight beds, but it’s tough to see exactly how many due to all the screens. Machines rustle and chitter like hidden animals. I whiff vomit too. Someone’s crying. This is the last place on earth anyone wants to be. A clock ticks on the wall. It’ll be dark soon.

  It’s been almost four hours since the ambulance brought me from the school. Most of that time was spent waiting in the emergency room. After the sirens, and lights, and blown-through intersections, I hit the ER, where the wolf attack didn’t rate as high as the chest pain, the knife wound, or the girl with the swollen tongue. So I waited with my stepmom. At least I beat out sniffles kid and broken-finger guy.

  Today was a bad day. I’d eaten my toast this morning. Drank my milk. Half a cup of it. More than enough for the day. More than enough to survive. It’s the wolf that’s growing stronger. Places like this are what it likes best. Everywhere trees. Everywhere traps.

  “I haven’t told your father yet,” Adriana says. I shake my head and point to my chest. “I’m fine with you calling him first, so long as there are no decisions to make.”

  I nod.

  Across from my bed a Goth kid hunkers in a shadowy cloak. He stares out through black-rimmed eyes as bleak and putrid as swamp water. Black hair cascades from a part in the middle of his forehead. He stares. At the jar of cotton swabs? The clock? No, it’s gotta be knife-wound guy, who is in the midst of getting a Frankenstein row of stitches across his bicep.

  “Hi, I’m Doctor Sachay, what seems to be the problem?” The doctor’s reading a chart as she asks the question. I shudder and don’t bother counting.

  “Milly collapsed during gym class,” Adriana says.

  The doctor sighs and looks up. “Uh-huh, pushing yourself, were you?” She reaches down, touches cool fingertips to my wrist and checks my pulse.

  Adriana’s breath hitches mid-sob. “No, you don’t understand. She’s not eating. Look how skinny she is. She needs a doctor. She won’t eat. At home it’s even worse, she won’t do anything—she can’t, because she has to count.”

  It’s not true. Home is my sanctuary; there I don’t have to speak or move between rooms like when I’m at school. It’s Adriana who makes it hell, prodding me from couch to kitchen, kitchen to desk, and desk to bed. Do this. Do that. You missed a spot in your sweeping. Once I caught her moving the furniture to prove herself right.

  Blood pressure is next. “When was your last meal, Milly?” the doctor asks. “What did you have?”

  Air hisses from the blood pressure cuff.

  “I think she’s throwing out her lunches,” Adriana says. “Doesn’t like counting in front of her friends, but she won’t tell me. I pack a healthy lunch.”

  Adriana’s right about tossing out the lunch, but poison is hardly healthy.

  “How old is she?”

  I’m officially not in the conversation.

  “Nearly sixteen. Sixteen this Friday.”

  “A Halloween baby.” The doctor smiles at me, and I stare through her. “And has she ever been evaluated by a psychiatrist?”

  “She’s had appointments, but won’t say anythin
g to the doctors. If she does it’s only to explain how it’s my fault.” Adriana rubs her hands over her eyes and sobs again.

  The doctor’s gaze drifts to my lips. Then she writes something on the chart. “I’m going to send you to psychiatry for an assessment, just to be sure we’re not missing something,” she says. “A nurse will come by when it’s arranged and explain where to go.”

  “Are they going to keep her?” Adriana asks.

  I glance up. Keep me?

  “I don’t know for sure but, yes, they’ll probably admit her,” the doctor replies.

  I start counting as fast as I can, shaking my head. They can’t just leave me in here. Not in the Dark Wood. How will I find my way? This is just what the wolf wants. What Adriana wants. I pound the pillow with my fist. I fumble for my phone, but the doctor disappears. Adriana’s crying again, but now it sounds like with relief. She’s the stepmother in Snow White, having ordered the huntsman to take me into the woods and return with only my liver and lungs. He didn’t. No, he left me for the wolf.

  I keep counting. Once started, I can’t stop. Why didn’t the doctor wait for me to finish?

  The Goth boy stares at me, and I give him a what-are-you-looking-at stare right back.

  “I’m dead,” he says in a dull monotone.

  “Pardon me?” Adriana asks, but he keeps staring at me.

  “You’re dead, too. Look at your veins. They’re blue.” He points at my forearms where dark veins run their lengths. “You’re rotting like me.”

  I glance to Adriana, hands clasped and praying that she won’t leave me here.

  Adriana’s stopped crying now and squints at the boy before standing to pull closed the curtain that rings my cot. “Crazy,” she says with an uncertain smile. “You’re not rotting.”

  . . . ninety-nine, one hundred. “No,” I reply. “But I will if you leave me here.”

  Chapter 3

  I cling to my stepmother’s wrist, hating myself for having to use Adriana for support. Her gold watch digs into my palm.