Page 117 of Such Sharp Teeth

The call goes on for longer than it should, neither side knowing how or when to end a holiday FaceTime.

We eat dinner late. Scarlett cooks two of the steaks I got during my meat spree.

“Sorry I didn’t put up any decorations this year,” she says, licking some A.1. off her bottom lip. “Didn’t have the energy.”

“You should be sorry. I for one am outraged at the lack of holiday decor. Not one Rudolph. Not one friendly snowman. And not one little baby Jesus. A travesty. Are you listening to me?”

She’s distracted by her phone. “Sorry. Ash is just wondering if we’re going over tomorrow for dessert.”

“Of course. It’s tradition.”

“She also wants to know if you’re mad at her. She says you haven’t responded to any of her texts.”

“Did you tell her it’s because I broke my phone?”

“I told her. When are you planning on getting a new one?”

“Are you going to finish that?” I ask, pointing to her half-eaten steak.

She pushes the plate across the table toward me. “You can’t avoid life forever, Rory. You can’t avoid Ian forever.”

I pick up the steak with my fingers and shove it in my mouth. I smile at her, cheeks fat with meat.

“What’s it like?” she asks. “Being a werewolf?”

I swallow. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“The bite was excruciating. And after, it leaked this silvery goo. My new blood, I guess. It was weird and gross, but honestly, it was also kind of fascinating that my body was doing this weird, gross thing.”

“Relate,” she says.

“I did feel different, but not so different that the reality had fully set in. When I went to the distillery that first time, I still had hope I’d walk out of there in a few hours relieved. But then the moon came out. It’s like being torn open. Turned inside out. I want to die during the transformation. To never feel anything again. Then there’s this switch. When I’m in that form, I’m there, but it’s like I’m a whisper. I’m separate from my body. In that sense, I’m powerless. But I can feel and experience what the body is like. As the wolf, I have so much power. I feel invincible. It’s a rush. I can’t really remember the things I do or what happens. Just brief moments, a second here and there. Then I wake up and feel like shit. Like the worst hangover you’ve ever had. And . . .” I look over at her. She’s biting her nails. “Hey. You asked, sis.”

“I’m scared, Rory.”

“Of me?”

“No, for you.”

“I’m dealing with it,” I say.

A lie. I haven’t exactly been proactive in my search of lycanthropy tips and treatments since my visit to the occult shop, other than essentially going into a silver coma, if that counts. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my human problems.

“Don’t worry about me. You’re having a baby in . . . what? Two weeks? Worry about that.”

“If I’m worried about you, I don’t have to be worried about me. And giving birth.”

“You’re welcome, then,” I say. “Totally worth it.”

She sighs.

“We should go to bed,” I say. “We need to be asleep, or Santa won’t come.”

We say our good nights.

I put myself to bed, but sleep eludes me. I let hours pass before I give up and kick off the covers. I go downstairs and out to the back patio. It’s flurrying. I cross the patio and step out onto the frosty grass. I lower myself down. I look up at the night sky. It’s starless. The moon is somewhere, I know, in a gentle phase. Letting me be. All I can see are the flurries tumbling down, down, down, down. Wet and soft and, suddenly, nothing.