Page 4 of Mongrel
We pass through the far gate, me leaping over it and Bowie carefully unlatching the rickety wooden door, then swinging it shut behind him. Ava’s flock of hens rushes to greet me. They spot Bowie and avoid getting too close to him. If his musical chuckle is anything to go by, he’s not lost to the irony of a dozen chickens running straight toward the muzzle of a hungry wolf. But I’d never harm them. Ava derives great joy from their care, and they lay enough eggs for half the pack’s supply.
Ava’s little stone cottage stands alone among towering evergreens. It’s dark now, but even in daylight, a pleasant shade hugs the home. Somehow, despite the hour, the house is cheery. Perhaps it’s the glow of the fireplace through the oval windows or the flowers that cover the sills, but even without those signs of warmth, the cottage would be welcoming because Ava is welcoming.
As if anticipating our arrival, her age-bent form appears from the opening door. A friendly smile beckons, and curiosity gleams in her golden-brown eyes.
“Andras, is that you?” she calls.
Bowie shoots a triumphant glance my way. He points to me and mouths the name “Andras.” then he smiles, teeth gleaming. I shake my head and snuffle at the ground before breaking into a trot, assuming he’ll follow.
At the threshold, I gently rub my flank along Ava’s thigh in greeting. Her hand finds my forehead and scratches behind my right ear, my favorite spot. My weakest spot. With no small amount of horror on my part, my leg begins to twitch against my will as if possessed by some demon of phantom itches. I growl in protest, but Ava only chuckles. Glancing backward, I see that to my utter embarrassment, Bowie has noticed this exchange. His rose petal-pink lips have curled into a delighted grin, and mirth sparkles in his gaze.
“Oh, lovely trick,” says Bowie to Ava. “Will he do that for anyone, or am I right that you’re someone special?”
Ava extends her hand. “More than one person can be special.”
Bowie takes her fingers in his and ever so gracefully plants a kiss on her knuckles. “Enchanted, my dear. Since Andras here is in no shape to make the introductions, I shall stumble forth myself. Bowie of Varad, at your service.”
“Handsomeandcharming? I see you’re a double threat.”
I can hear Ava’s smile in her voice as she reclaims her hand. Of course she likes him—he’s well dressed, polite, and not-so-subtly captivating. Ava and I stand no chance in this exchange.
“You may call me Ava.”
“It will be my pleasure, Ava, as it is to make your acquaintance,” Bowie croons. “And what a beautiful home you have. So lovely.”
He isn’t wrong, though he’s laying it on thick. We’ve taken good care of the old cottage over the years, but it’s modest at best. The stones are clean of moss and grime, the porch is swept tidy, and the surrounding plants are carefully tended and groomed.
“Thank you. Come along and see the inside.” Ava steps back to make room for him to enter. “I’d offer you tea, but I have a feeling you’d decline.”
How does she know? Granted, I smelled the blood on him, but even then, I wasn’t sure, and her senses have dulled with age. Yet somehow she’d pegged him for the vampire he is. Ava never ceases to amaze me. And here I thought she’d taught me everything she knew, but our talk of vampires was limited to the human folktales in several of her many books.
“You’re right. I cannot drink tea,” says Bowie, his tone tinged with regret. “But I do enjoy the scent and the warmth of holding the mug.”
“I’ll put on my kettle.” She leads Bowie inside and asks casually, “What are your intentions with my Andras?”
Far too mortified to stick around, I take her question as my cue to exit. I leave Ava to her interrogation and Bowie to conjure his defense as I slip past the bookshelves to my room. Bumping the door closed with a hip, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and ease into my two-legged form to dress. Farkas might have demanded I keep to the animal, but I’ll need to communicate with Bowie from time to time, and I don’t fancy being naked while I do.
I resist the temptation to listen in on their conversation as I choose a sturdy pair of gray woolen pants and a cream linen shirt to put on. I shove a second shirt, a lighter pair of pants, and the hat that best hides my ears into a leather satchel. Should I take anything else? Seeing as I’ll have to ask Bowie to carry my pack whenever I’m in wolf form, I should keep it light, and I need to leave space for what I’m wearing. I’ll be sad to leave my books behind, but even bringing only one would be weight I don’t need.
My gaze land on a prized possession from my childhood: a rag doll made from the scraps of Ava’s sewing projects. I named her Marta, after my mother, and kept her even after the other boys taunted me for having a doll. Her black button eyes stare back at me, and though I know I’m being stupid and sentimental, I can’t leave her.
Into the bag she goes, crammed under the clothes. “Sorry, Marta.”
I shut the satchel, throw it over my shoulder, and sit to fasten my soft leather shoes. I’d like to at least begin this trip on two feet. I have questions for Bowie before I shift back to wolf form, and he seems the talkative type. Whatever he knows about the missing girls, I need to know too, anything that might make them easier to track. I’m also curious why he’s involved at all. I mean, I like humans, but most of my pack doesn’t. Wouldn’t a vampire think of them as…food? I shudder. Bowie doesn’t look like a killer, but he must be. That’s what vampires do, right?
I listen for the sound of their voices and hear laughter. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me they’ve charmed one another. With a deep breath, I say goodbye to my room and head to the kitchen What have they been discussing? Hopefully nothing too embarrassing. Ava knows all my secrets.
Bowie sits casually at our little round dining table, leaning forward on his elbow, one leg crossed over the other. For all appearances, he’s deeply engaged in Ava’s story. She’s in the chair across from him, her back as straight as it goes these days, proper as rain, though the story flowing from her lips is not.
“Well, you should have seen little Farkas that day.” Ava shakes her head, looking every bit the disapproving pack grandmother. “Running through the middle of the village, naked as the day he was born, and hollering like a banshee in heat!”
Oh, that story. We aren’t too fond of Farkas in this household.
Bowie’s glittering eyes are wide, and so is his grin. “Well, what happened?”
Farkas snatched a bear cub that day. Still a cub himself, he was no match for the mother bear and should have known better.
“Our old alpha, Vuk, rest his soul—now that was a good man, I tell you. He came flying out of his house, shifted in midair, and kept the mother bear from killing Farkas. ‘Let loose the cub!’ he ordered, but Farkas has always had a stubborn streak.” Ava’s gaze shifts downward. “He killed that baby bear. I’ll never forget the sound of the mother bear’s wail. Vuk had to kill her too.”
