The Wolf of Summer

Preface

Summertime is always the best of what might be. ― Charles Bowden

1

Nell was happily trudging up the narrow, rocky mountain trail looking for blueberries when she first saw the eyes. They were the swirling green of malachite lit up by the sun, and the intensity of the color sent shivers down her spine before she even recognized that they were part of some living, breathing creature. At first she nearly mistook them for some sort of fantasy object, like she had stumbled upon a fabled dwarven helmet or fairy crystal; she thought nothing in real life could ever be so beautiful and dazzling.

She almost missed them entirely, hidden in a dark bush off to the side of the trail. In fact, she probably would have walked straight by and never been the wiser if the eyes hadn’t blinked. The sudden movement and flash of vibrant green had caught her attention, however, and she had turned to stare right into the dark pupils. As she registered just what it was that she was looking at, she found herself rooted to the ground. If nature documentaries had taught her anything, it was that encounters with creatures with eyes that large and vibrant were probably not going to end well for her.

But what could they belong to? She knew it must be something large; no hedgehog or happy little rabbit had eyes that big. Her mind flashed through the possibilities. Human? No way, the eyes were far too oval and set too widely apart. Bear? She had never heard of a bear having such green eyes, and if it were a bear, it would probably have already ripped her face off. Mountain lion? If so, then she should have started to run about thirty seconds earlier. God damn it! I don’t know anything about animals. I knew I should have taken biology instead of band, she cursed silently.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared in her life, the eyes vanished. Withdrawn in a rush, the spot where they had peered out of now only contained pale green leaves and thick red berries. Nell thought she could faintly hear leaves rustling in the distance as the creature fled, but she could not be entirely sure. What could be so big and yet move so quickly? And what could move so quickly and also be so quiet? The whole thing made Nell’s skin prickle. She wasn’t sure if she felt any better now that the eyes were gone; it only meant she didn’t know from where they might be watching now. So Nell did what any normal, thirty-year-old, grown adult woman would do.

She ran like hell.

She ran like something was chasing her – which, for all she knew, something was. Faster and faster she sprinted, following the twisting and narrow trail as it tumbled down the mountain. The only things she focused on were her pumping legs and the rasping gasps which escaped her lips as she ran for the first time in fifteen years. Her lungs weren’t prepared for the onslaught. However, while Nell certainly wasn’t the fittest woman, she ran like she was in the New York Marathon. Except it was the New York Marathon mixed with gladiators, where she might get mauled at the finish line.

Trees flashed by (much like her life was flashing before her eyes), and she couldn’t hear anything behind her. She had never been that high up on the mountain before, and the terrain wasn’t all that familiar to her so she found herself tripping and stuttering on the rocky path. Her legs strained, and her arms flailed wildly, with her curly hair streaming out behind her. She was glad that her last undignified moments would not be witnessed by anyone else.

She ran until she thought she might collapse from exhaustion. She probably would have, but just when she reached her breaking point she hit the foot of the mountain and broke through the tree line into the wide clearing where her little cabin stood.

Never had she been so happy to see the sturdy pile of logs with its lopsided chimney and funky oval front windows. Sitting in the most beautiful, serene glen for miles, it sparkled in the summer heat. She was even glad to see its withered garden out front that she never remembered to water. If I live, I swear I will water that garden, she frantically thought. I will even buy it a garden gnome.

She dashed across the clearing to her door at a speed that would have made her high school gym teacher proud, sneaking furtive glances behind her as she ran on the last of her fumes. Nothing seemed to be bounding across the clearing to eat her, so at least she had that going for her. She said a little prayer of thanks as she reached the front door, pulled it open with all her might, and rushed inside her cool, dark cottage.

Once safely inside, she slammed the door shut, locked the deadbolt, and cowered on the couch to peek through the blinds. She still saw nothing out there: no boogieman, no bear, and no huge mountain lion with impossible green eyes. There appeared to be nothing frightening at all. All she could see was the sweet little flowers in her meadow bobbing happily in the wind, oblivious to her terror.

The lack of movie villain bounding across the lawn comforted her; she had no plan for what to do if she actually saw anything flying across the big field at her. The closest thing she could come up with was to hide and wait it out. She was fairly sure the cabin could survive an onslaught from an angry carnivore. It had been hand-built by her grandfather, who had lived through two world wars, seven children, and 90-years of mountain living. In fact, he had built the cottage in the most beautiful, wild place he could find for the sole purpose of trying to tame it. He was the bravest man Nell had ever met, and she had a feeling that bravery had leaked into the very wood of the building.

Unfortunately, Nell wasn’t too sure that the same bravery had managed to make its way down the bloodline into her own body.

After several long minutes of making sure that nothing ferocious had followed her home, Nell turned from the window and wandered to the cottage’s small kitchen in search of a snack. The unexpected exercise had made her famished, and she had a desire to stress eat some of her fears away by gorging on junk food. This was easy to do in the tiny kitchen that had been built by a widower – the cranky stove, lack of counter space, and ancient fridge made snack packs a very tempting food group.

The kitchen was like everything else in the house: leaning slightly, outdated, and designed by a grumpy old man. The couch was lumpy, the windows lacked insulation, and the only source of heat was one’s own body fat or a temperamental fireplace that occasional threatened to burn the place down. These were all reasons why Nell intended to be gone by the end of summer. However, for all its quirks, at the moment the cabin was a beacon of paradise and Nell felt like kissing its rough, wooden walls.

So, with her thoughts filled with feelings of moderate safety and an urge for potato chips, Nell left her vigil at the window to go munch. With her back turned, she didn’t see the two green emerald points sparkling from the bushes at the edge of the clearing, just where the sunlight hit the tree line. She didn’t see the great black shadow that flitted past the trees in the distance, its hulking presence just barely in view. If she had watched for just a little while longer, she would have seen the signs, and perhaps she would never have opened the door that evening.

2

After Nell hastily made herself a turkey sandwich, she wandered into the living room with her plate and a big bag of potato chips. Her fear had managed to travel from her heart to her stomach, as did most of her feelings, and she couldn’t wait for the salty goodness in the bag to soothe her. She set the food on her desk and made herself comfortable in the old brown leather chair she had received as a graduation gift from her grandfather. Silent, upright, and smelling vaguely of cigars, it was her fondest reminder of him. She spent most of her time at her desk, sitting in that old chair and working on her novels.

With her food close by, her curly black hair piled high on her head, and her favorite rock playlist on, Nell forgot about her earlier brush with danger. She felt almost ready to begin tackling work on yet another book.

She tried not to be discouraged before she even began, but she knew this one had to be a hit. The last two books had been complete flops, and her publishing house was breathing down her neck. The poor reviews of her last book had truly surprised her, because she really had thought that genie motorcycle gangs were going to be the next big niche in romance novels.

She knew she couldn’t press the publisher’s patience much more. Her editor, Jorge, had even resorted to daily emails to check in, saying he just wanted to see if inspiration had struck yet. These emails had rapidly become the worst thing in Nell’s life. If she lied and said yes she had found inspiration, Jorge would sweetly demand to know what exactly had been so invigorating in that mountain air. Nell was a horrible liar and would usually blurt out the first thing that crossed her mind; her attempt to convince Jorge that laundry detergent was inspiring did not go over