The Night Sun Read online

  I held my breath and stopped kicking the rocks of the gravel drive. It hadn’t been her words or the naked emotion of the last few minutes that made me pause, it was the fucking wolf standing at the incline of the narrow road leading to the cabin. There was a distinct moment of surprise that I’d even noticed it in the shadows of the quickly darkening underbrush. I congratulated myself before remembering I knew fuck-all concerning wolves and wildlife, yet I was certain this wasn’t right. The wolf was alone, its muzzle closed, amber eyes glowing against the pitch black of its fur.

  And staring dead at me.

  “I’m serious—”

  “I know you are,” I whispered, eyes still trained on the wolf, “but I need you to—”

  “He’s nearly killed you twice—” Soft and charitable Kaya fluttered away just as quickly as she’d showed. Back to older-sister-by-fourteen-minutes Kaya, perfect Kaya. The Kaya who knew how pretty she was “for a Black girl,” the one who was thinner, taller, lighter, the one who tried to teach me how to use the frame Mom gave me to disastrous results.

  Because I could never be like Kaya.

  “It was once, and it was two broken ribs—”

  “One punctured your fucking lung—”

  “What do you know about wolves?”

  “And you—wait, what?”

  “There’s a fucking wolf staring at me right now. How did you find this cabin again?”

  “It’s Granpa’s.”

  “Who?!” Both of our grandfathers had died long before we were born. We were the miracle babies for our parents, the ones they’d given up trying for naturally. The ones who surprised the fuck out of them after a night of spiked hot cocoa and a lucky boner.

  The Wonder Twins: the Black version, at least.

  “Look, it’s kind of a long story—”

  “I got time, bitch.”

  “The fuck you do, get yourself back in the cabin and post something against the door.”

  “Wait, wait, Kaya, what the f—?”

  But I choked. The wolf had advanced while I was distracted, and now stood within ten feet of me instead of the fifty safe yards at which I’d initially seen it. Its mouth hung open, pink tongue wagging, yo-yo threads of drool dipping, retracting, dipping, and then pattering below as its eyes stayed on mine.

  “Fuck.”

  Somewhere in the distance, Kaya was calling my name, but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything, not the birds, not the wind rustling through the trees, only the thrum of blood in my ears.

  And the steady breathing of the wolf in front of me.

  “Shut up, Kaya, just shut the fuck up for a second.”

  I could feel the heft of her pause in that moment and I knew I’d fucked up. “You know what, Avery? I’mma leave you to your new canine friend and I hope Jonas keeps fucking you into oblivion so at least you’ll go out cumming.” The line went dead.

  I didn’t bother locking the screen. Hell, I didn’t even want to move the phone from my ear. But habit kicked in and I was sliding it into my jeans’ back pocket where it met some resistance. Pulling the phone back out, I fingered around in the pocket, eyes still on the wolf, and pulled out the sheriff’s card. I glanced at the number, crumpled the card, and dialed.

  The wolf leapt before the line connected.

  * * *

  I want to see it. I want to go to it.

  But I can’t.

  * * *

  My neck didn’t hurt.

  First thought was I’d transitioned to the other side, as my family would call it. I thought I’d fucking died.

  But then murmurs of a restrained, heated exchange filtered through and all of the pain came crashing in. Parts I hadn’t even realized I’d hurt were throbbing with an intensity that made me cry out. I tried to shift but was met with a resistance I couldn’t quite place.

  The wolf.

  I couldn’t open my eyes. One flutter and I realized they were swollen shut. I was lying on the couch, wrapped tight under a sheet that was tucked under the cushions. I groaned again and wiggled my arms, but the flannel sheet wouldn’t budge. I swallowed air, my tongue coated in paste, the skin of my lips cracked and reedy.

  The argument grew louder.

  “I’m simply responding to a call that came from this area, sir, and I don’t know if you noticed, but you ain’t got many neighbors around here.”

  “And I’m telling you that’s impossible. My wife went outside to call her sister and she must’ve just … passed out or something.” My husband was riled, uncomfortable. I was surprised he let the sarcastic address go.

  He’s nervous. I can taste it.

  “Passed out butt-nekkid with blood on her neck, so you dragged her in here?”

  “What else was I supposed to do?” my husband shouted.

  “Call 9-1-1, maybe?”

  I could feel it, the shift just before the strike. The static current of anger that could only be expelled with fists and feet meeting supple, tender body parts. The result would be us stranded in this town longer than necessary and, unlike me, my husband had a job to return to, so I groaned a little louder and wiggled again, setting off jabs of pain throughout my entire body so sharp, so livid, I screamed.

  “Avery,” my husband breathed. He sounded scared, but it was the sheriff who rounded the couch first.

  I smelled him. He was bleeding whisky and sweat. Animal sweat, pungent and heavy in the back of my throat. Not entirely unpleasant. I stirred as they both neared, the reek off my husband making my lip curl. It was hard to place, but it sat square in the middle of my mouth, crawling its way up my nostrils.

  Cowardice. Chew it. Let it fuel you.

  I resisted the urge to snort the sensation and odor out within a mass of mucus and focused on where I thought the sheriff to be situated.

  “You did this?” the sheriff asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He prodded at my neck where the knot had been, the sensation dulled. “Can you feel that, ma’am? Does it hurt when I touch you?”

  “No,” I wheezed. My throat was dry, shredded as if I’d swallowed a cactus whole. I tried again, my eyes allowing a sliver’s worth of sight. “But everything else does.”

  The sheriff watched me, jaw ticking. Without the trucker hat, he was not a handsome man, but I could see him landing some housewife ass in that wind-burned, Midwestern way. His incisive navy blue eyes, obscured by a shock of long, more-salt-than-pepper hair, were set a bit too far apart under a thick brow ridge. Judging by the smoothness of his skin, the pigment change was premature.

  I felt flayed under his stare, like he was reading for much more than a battered damsel in psychological distress.

  “Water,” I croaked. Footsteps moved toward the kitchenette and the sheriff closed in.

  “Did he do this to you?” he whispered, rushed.

  “No.” I swallowed. “Wolf.”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened and he ticked back, away from me. Then the oddest thing: He smirked, slow and relaxed and warm. Welcoming. He nodded at me and stood up just as my husband appeared over his shoulder with a mug and more pills in the palm of his hand. The sheriff said, “Plenty of water, limit the pain medication, and plenty of rest.” He turned to my husband. “I’ll be checking in tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s not necessary, Sheriff, we—”

  “Unless you want to be arrested on suspicion of assault and battery, I suggest you think it necessary,” Bruce snapped.

  I didn’t bother looking at my husband; I knew the hitch in his breathing, the pop of that fucked-up knuckle in his middle finger, the low strain of his exhale.

  I was in for it once Sheriff Hayword was out of the area.

  “Walk with me, Jonas,” he said, taking the water and the pills from him. Jonas stood there blinking stupidly at the sheriff until Bruce gave a slight head nod. “Go on.”

  Jonas jittered a bit before finally stepping away from the couch. Bruce crouched again, carefully tipping the mug against my bottom lip. I took two small si
ps. Bruce offered the pills and I nodded. He placed them on my outstretched tongue, then tipped the mug again until I finished the contents of the mug.

  “Good.” He stood up again and rummaged in his pockets, finally coming up with a whittled hunk of dark ivory. Intricate carvings worked in tandem, dancing around each other until they intersected only to separate again. It hardly registered that I could observe this much detail through mere slits of my swollen eyelids, especially on an object no bigger than four inches across, but I was drawn to it, my breathing increasing, eyes aching to focus on it.

  Bruce carefully worked at the sheet until it came away to free my right arm. “Here.” He pressed the ivory into my palm. It was warm, disconcertingly so, and heavier than hell, as if he’d placed a block of lead in my hand. “From your grandfather.” He stood before I could react, his footfalls surprisingly soft as he neared my husband, Jonas’s breathing heavy and fast for different reasons.

  The men stepped outside.

  I wept softly as the ivory warmed even more in my hand, preparing myself for Jonas’s return.

  * * *

  I am here again, my arm outstretched, my fingertip pressing gently against the tiniest sliver, the smallest of the teeth, the one most stained and—fuck, it’s sharp.

  I bring the stain to my face. Smear it under my nose. Suck it from the prick.

  It is blood. In the very center of the spiral, at the bottom of the staircase, at the back of the basement, at the end of the gravel, pavement, loose dirt, grass—

  It is blood. And it is fresh.

  * * *

  It took longer than expected.

  I’d grown tired of sitting with my back straight, so I leaned into the couch cushions. By the time the door opened, I was fading into another nap.

  “What took you so long?” My voice was stronger, remarkably so considering the wrecked state it had been in last time I used it. The carved ivory felt lighter in my hand, the grooves becoming familiar with the whorls of my palm and fingerprints.

  “What did he say to you?” Jonas asked instead of answering me. He stomped around the cabin, no intention other than to make the space thick with his anger. I slowly released a breath, not convinced.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” I said, testing my eyelids. The swelling had gone down; the pain was subsiding. I peeled them back with the tips of my fingers and immediately hissed at the brightness. “Take off the fucking lights!”

  A moment. A tick, really. But solid enough to poke at the base of my belly, followed by the instinct to press my thighs together.

  “The fuck did you just say?”

  And then it was over. My whole body drooped, my breathing slowing, my hands at my sides, one open, the other closed in a fist around the curve of ivory. I closed my eyes again, electric whispers ghosting over my skin, the hairs standing on end.

  He took a step; I took a breath.

  “What did you just say to me, Avery?”

  All bluster, no might. I chuckled.

  Like a wound-up clown, Jonas stomped over to the couch, then swung around, body swollen with ego. He leaned forward, grabbing my wrists and squeezing.

  “What. Did. You. Say?”

  The pressure increased with each word, the ivory deeply embedded within the fat of my palm, still warming, warming, warming until it became unbearable. I hissed and I saw him clear as day. I saw his smile …

  And I twisted my left wrist, flesh burning as it rubbed away within his grip, my fingers clawing for purchase, beginning to squeeze back as one digit, two, three dug deep and hard into the tender, thin thew of his own left wrist, nails piercing, growing as I pulled down with all my might. Jonas screamed, yanking his left hand away, strips of flesh dangling in its wake. The move was so fast, he barely had time to bleed before I struck his nose with my forehead. He mewled and stumbled back, the hands cradling the center of his face barely hiding the shock of the hit.

  I smiled and stood, my eyes still closed. I could feel him in front of me, smell the reek of something frail, something grown by fear, fostered by anger, delivered by a need for shallow control deep within him. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to rip it from his chest and show him in his last moments just how … small he’d become to me, the man who’d been my world for fourteen years, the man who’d taken my fourteen years.

  But he swung on me, connected a wild throw of a side fist with my temple, dazing me, and I swung back and, shit, I didn’t mean to, I promise, I’m just—I’m a righty and the ivory, the ivory was still in the palm of my hand and I’d completely forgotten until that thick whiplash of plasmal wet slashes my—

  I open my eyes to the taste of blood.

  I lick my lips of the spray and they heal, my mouth no longer dry, my eyelids no longer swollen.

  I don’t look at him, I can’t. So I turn away and head toward the door, leaving it open as I step out into the freezing night.

  * * *

  The headlights have been illuminating my path for the last six miles. Pinpricks highlighting the road ahead of me, really, but everything is so fucking sensitive, it almost hurts. It does hurt. Like new skin to a freezing wind. As if I’d skinned myself alive and left the shell of me lying on the floor of my grandfather’s cabin.

  Whichever grandfather he may have been.

  Ahead of me, I hear the relaxed clomp of a deer stepping onto the asphalt just as the headlights dip below a man-made hill. I hear several more and when the headlights finally return, I stop in my tracks.

  Five deer, their necks stripped of fur and skin and fat and flesh, leaving tendons and palpitating stratum, the thumping, thumping, thumping in time with the heaviness in my heart. They stand watching me just as I watch them. One snorts, shaking the horror that is its head. It is then that I notice the membrane swinging loose from the tip of an antler. A new point, bringing it to twenty. All them are in this stage, all with twenty points, all still miraculously breathing.

  The truck slows, its brakes squealing in protest. The door opens and work boots stomp the pavement, but I don’t panic.

  “There are more of them, but the antler points are for each of us.”

  I feel the itch of wool before the warmth of his arm around my shoulders and I realize I’m naked.

  “There’s something we have to show you.”

  I tear my gaze away from the deer and eye Casimiro carefully. I nod. “Okay.”

  * * *

  He doesn’t speak and I’m too bewildered, too tired to ask questions. We double back to the cabin, pass it, then pull into a short, paved driveway some ten miles out.

  “C’mon,” he says, then unfolds himself from of the truck. I don’t move until he opens the door for me. I slide out and shiver and Casimiro slips a thick arm around my shoulders. I didn’t notice how tall he is until now, a full head taller than I am, with thick black hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of his stocky neck. Long hair must be the trend around here.

  I do not fit in.

  I’m studying the curve of his lips as he walks me up the trampled path leading to another log cabin. “Yours?” I say, still staring.

  He nods. “We all have one.”

  “We.” I don’t question.

  “Yeah. Just a warning: My dad is here and he’s a bit of a pendejo, so—”

  I chuckle. “As long as he doesn’t try to whoop my ass, I think I can handle him.”

  Casimiro smirks and I suddenly long to see his full smile. I want to see his tiny eyes squint further. I want to hear his laugh from that barrel chest or from the solid belly below. But instead he unlocks the door and gently tugs me inside.

  * * *

  His cabin is the same as the one my sister supposedly rented, except there’s more furniture and all of it is well worn.

  The first thing I notice with sharp interest is on the far wall: a spiral of teeth. This one is much smaller than the one I dreamt of, but the same principle applies: smallest to largest from the base on, the same varying colors of ivory, the same sta
in on the very tiniest one at the center. I’ve taken all of three steps into the identical cabin before I stop, completely mesmerized.

  “We all have them,” Casimiro says to my left. He’s quiet for such a big dude. “Each generation fills in what we’ve lost, what has been taken from us.” He looks at me, at the side of my face because I’m still staring at the spiral, transfixed not by hypnotism, but by something else, something deep in base of my belly. “Some of us have lost more than others. But we stick together, no matter what. One loss for me is a loss to us all.”

  “Mijo, ¿qué hace una negra en nuestra casa?”

  We both turn to the loft stairs where the voice is coming from, and making feeble progress down the ladder is a man who has aged in body much more than mind. Something ugly is eating at him, gnawing into his bones and festering his lungs. My nose wrinkles. Casimiro must have noticed because he says way too close to the shell of my ear, “Told you he’s an ass.”

  “Not the worst, trust me,” I mutter back.

  Casimiro moves around me and I breathe deep. “Vuelve a la cama, Papá, esto no es tu asunto.” I watch Casimiro’s shoulders flex as he takes hold of his father’s withered shoulders.

  “Ella está en mi casa, es mi asunto!” his father shouts back.

  I watch as Casimiro leans toward his father. I find myself straining to hear as Casimiro whispers to the old man and with a pop of a balloon, my ears prick at the words, “… déjala en paz.” His father sags, then lets himself be guided back up the stairs. Casimiro returns a moment later and says, “I heard you like tea.”

  * * *

  I’m on my second cup of Earl Grey when I ask, “What in the entire fuck is actually going on?”

  Casimiro stops mid-sip of his coffee and stares at me, eyes wider than I thought possible with those heavy lids, his lips curling up around the lip of the mug. “I’m surprised it took you this long.”