Cure for Wereduck Read online

Before the message ended, Veronica Nightshade left her phone number and made a sort of growling sound. Dirk blushed and cued up the next message.

  BEEP.

  “Mr. Bragg? This is Julie Mountain with B&M Records. I’m going to cut to the chase. I thought your performance on America This Morning was inspired. I’m prepared to offer you a recording contract. That voice. That presence. I think you’ve got the makings of a star. Call me. Soon.”

  BEEP.

  Dirk sank into his chair in ecstasy. Yes, today was turning out just fine.

  Kate climbed the basement stairs the next morning to find her grandmother the only person up and about. She moved around the kitchen as if she’d worked in the space her entire life. The table was set. A pot of oatmeal burbled on the stove.

  “Good morning,” said Kate.

  “Morning,” said Marge, automatically pouring Kate a cup of tea.

  “You’re the best,” she replied, taking the cup and blowing steam from its surface.

  “It’s awfully nice to be back in a proper kitchen,” said Marge, filling a bowl with oatmeal from the pot. “I don’t mind running a camp kitchen, but it sure is wonderful to have a stove again.” She switched one of the gas burners on and off. “I swear, it’s magic.”

  Kate sat at the table, sipping her drink. She looked around the table at the place settings.

  “You’re missing a spot, Grandma,” she said. “There are seven of us. You’ve only set places for six.”

  “John’s already eaten and gone. He cleaned up his own dishes and set the table for the rest of us before I even rolled out of bed,” said Marge. “He even made the oatmeal. I have to say, I like that boy more and more.”

  “Gone?” said Kate. “Where’d he go this early?”

  “Not sure,” said Marge.

  “Shouldn’t he be, like, careful?” said Kate. “Who knows who could be out there looking for us?”

  “John’s a big boy,” said Marge. “I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything foolish.”

  “Dirt Bag already found us once,” said Kate. “And who knows where Marcus is.”

  “Deep breaths, Kate,” said her grandmother flatly as she poured cold milk on her oatmeal. “He’ll be careful.”

  Kate slumped in her chair.

  “Oatmeal!” exclaimed Bea as she entered the kitchen with Kate’s mother, Lisa. “The table’s set already? Ma, I should have invited you to live with me years ago.” She kissed her mother on the top of her head.

  “And I would have come,” said Marge. “But don’t thank me. This is all John’s handiwork.”

  “John?” said Bea, scooping oatmeal into a bowl. “I like that boy.”

  Kate rolled her eyes and took another sip of tea. “What are you doing today, Mum?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lisa, settling in beside Kate. “I suppose I ought to find a way to make myself useful. I hate the idea of twiddling my thumbs around here.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” exclaimed Bea. “Come to work with me at the construction site. It would be so fun.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lisa. “I haven’t swung a hammer in years.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bea. “You’re a better carpenter than half the journeymen at that site. I’ll just introduce you to my boss, and you’re in.”

  “Do it, Mum,” said Kate. “You know you’d love it.”

  “For sure!” said Bea. “And it’s all under-the-table payment, so it’s perfect. It’s like we don’t even exist. I take every full moon off, and nobody bats an eye. They all think I’m some sort of pagan moon-worshipper or something.”

  Lisa laughed. “Well, okay. I’ll give it a try,” she said. “If you think.”

  “I think,” said Bea. “It’s settled.”

  Brian walked groggily into the kitchen and filled a bowl from the pot on the stove. He settled across the table from Kate and took a bite.

  “Excellent oatmeal, Marge,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “Better than usual. Just a hint of cinnamon.”

  “John made it,” said Marge.

  “John?” said Brian. He lifted his spoon to his mouth and took another bite. “I like that boy.”

  “Everybody does, apparently,” muttered Kate.

  “Kate, you’ve got to try this,” said Lisa.

  “Mm, I’m not that hungry,” said Kate. She grabbed a slice of toast from the middle of the table and scraped butter across its dry surface.

  Kate and Bobby’s dad gave them the day off from home-school lessons to settle into their new home. Kate spent her morning cleaning her new room. She hauled everything out before sweeping the floor and scrubbing decades of dust from every surface. She emptied seven buckets of scummy water out the back door as her cleaning sponge uncovered the raw wood of the walls and floor. A bit of vinegar and hot water cleared up the window, revealing the swirls and hazy sections that showed the glass to be as old as the house itself.

  After a morning of work, Kate stood in the doorway and surveyed her progress. The grey layers of dust were gone, replaced by the warm brown of unfinished wood panelling and shelves. The room smelled of clean, damp wood.

  “Better,” she said aloud.

  It took several trips up and down the basement stairs to bring all the empty jars to the kitchen for cleaning. A few hidden in the back rows, indeed, still had food in them, though not as old as Aunt Bea had suspected. The earliest artefact was a jar of mustard pickles labelled “Summer 1984.” Kate washed each empty jar and laid them out on towels to dry. She hid the full ones at the back of the cereal cupboard.

  Bobby breezed through the back door into the kitchen. He was covered from head to toe in muck and mud, a fact he seemed oblivious to as he grabbed a stack of cookies from a jar on the counter with his grubby hand.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  Kate stood on a chair, peering into the upper row of cupboards. She pushed items aside to see to the back.

  “Food colouring,” she said. “I’m sure Bea’s got food colouring somewhere.”

  “What for?” asked Bobby.

  “I need it for my room,” she answered, opening the door to another cupboard.

  “Your room needs…food colouring?” he asked.

  Kate lowered her eyes to look at him. He was filthy and was shoving the filth into his mouth by way of the now-filthy cookies.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Go away,” she said.

  “I was just asking,” he said. He grabbed a fresh handful of cookies and stomped out of the house. “We’re out here working on your thing, y’know.”

  Kate stood on the chair and watched the door slam behind her brother. What exactly could they be working on for her?

  She spotted a familiar box at the back of the top shelf. She grabbed the food colouring and placed it on the counter before following Bobby outside.

  She found him with her father, who was covered in an equal amount of filth. Brian was digging a giant hole in the backyard with a spade. He looked up from his work and smiled.

  “Aw, this was supposed to be a surprise,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his work glove. “You caught us.”

  “Wow, Dad,” said Kate flatly, surveying his work. “It’s really lovely. This hole. In the ground.”

  “It’s more for Wacka, really,” he said, grabbing a dirty cookie from Bobby and taking a bite.

  Kate smiled as she realized what she was looking at.

  “A pond,” she said. “Dad, it’s great!”

  “Still quite a bit of work left, but it should be nice and homey by the time we’re done,” said Brian. “Your grandma is out looking for bulrushes to plant around the edges.”

  “It’s perfect, Dad,” Kate said. “Really. Wacka is going to love it.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Bobby, pointing t
oward one of the lawn chairs by the back door. There sat Wacka, the female mallard duck they’d brought all the way from New Brunswick. Wacka rested with her eyes closed, prim and proper, absorbing the rays of the sun. “We already made her a nest, but she’s not interested.”

  “I swear that duck thinks she’s human,” laughed Brian, shaking his head.

  Kate kneeled at Wacka’s side and stroked her feathers. “Wacka,” she whispered. “Look, your bandages are gone.” Kate shuddered as she thought of the awful attack from Marcus—John’s father—that had nearly killed the little duck. Two matching red scabs showed the spot where he’d bit her. Now that the swelling was down, they didn’t look nearly as bad as they had a few days earlier. Even her feathers were looking better.

  “Your grandma looked her over this morning and said the bite marks are healing really well,” said Brian. “She didn’t think Wacka needed the bandages anymore. This little duck is going to be fine.”

  “That’s great news, Wacka,” said Kate. She beamed at her friend.

  “I suppose you’ll both be spending some time paddling around our little pond sooner or later,” said Brian.

  Kate smiled. “Thanks, Dad. This looks really great.”

  She turned and walked toward the house.

  “Hold up!” called Brian. “Looks like someone wants to come with you.”

  Kate turned and saw Wacka struggling to lift herself from her chair. The injured duck was having a hard time, but seemed determined to follow.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked Kate.

  “Wacka,” said the duck weakly.

  “Oh my gosh. You’re the sweetest thing,” said Kate, lifting the duck into her arms and cradling her like a newborn. “Of course you can come in with me. I’ll fix up a corner of my room just for you.”

  “Wacka.”

  After several hours of pillaging Aunt Bea’s Christmas decorations and arranging and cleaning, Kate proclaimed her bedroom ready to be lived in. She bounded up the basement steps to the kitchen. She was greeted by a summer harvest feast laid out on the table.

  “Holy cow,” she announced, gaping at the plates of sliced ripe tomatoes and peppers, and steaming platters of corn on the cob and new potatoes. “Where’d all this come from?”

  Her father set a plate of cucumber slices on the table. “Seems our good pal John here spent his day getting a job on a farm,” said Brian. He looked at John, the only person seated at the table, already tucked into the meal.

  “Mfflpomm,” said John through a mouthful of potato. He finished chewing and swallowed. “They’re paying me in cash and whatever produce I can carry home.”

  “They’re paying him in food!” exclaimed Brian, not even trying to hide his giddiness. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Son—can I call you son?—you can stay with us as long as you like.”

  John blushed. “It’s the least I could do.”

  He speared another potato with his fork.

  “Actually,” said Brian with a smirk, “Kate demonstrates right now the actual least you could do. This pile of food officially makes you my favourite child.”

  “Dad,” said Kate, glaring at her father.

  “What?” he said.

  “What happened to a little thing called ‘keeping a low profile’?” she asked. “Haven’t we, for our entire lives, been hiding so that no one will find us? Someone like, oh, say, Dirk Bragg the Dirt Bag? Or even Marcus?”

  John winced at the mention of his father.

  Brian sighed. “Yes,” he said finally. “But Dirt Bag has no way of tracking us. We were gone by the time he could have made it back to our camp. And Marcus—well, no one ever told Marcus where Bea lived. Including Bea. So, for now—so long as we’re still careful—I think we’re okay.”

  “But what about everyone else?” said Kate. “What about people at the farm where John’s working?”

  “Well,” said John, sprinkling a bit of salt on a slice of tomato, “I do this thing that helps me blend in with the rest of the people. I don’t howl.”

  “Ha ha,” said Kate dryly.

  “What?” said John. “My dad always said that sometimes the best place to hide is right in plain sight.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Kate. “Your dad. That fountain of backstabbing, duck-biting wisdom.”

  For a moment, it was as if Kate had dropped a bomb in the room. All was silent as she and John glared at each other across the table.

  Brian finally coughed. “So, uh, Kate,” he began awkwardly. “What did you do all day while John was busy filling our table with this glorious feast?” he asked.

  Kate glared at John for a moment longer before looking at her father. “I was just going to say I just finished—”

  John’s chair scraped across the kitchen floor as he pushed back from the table.

  “I gotta run,” he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin and standing up.

  “Run? You just got home from work,” said Brian. “Where could you possibly have to go?”

  “The library closes at six-thirty,” said John, rinsing his dishes in the sink.

  “The library?” said Kate.

  “Yeah, you know,” said John. “The place with the books?”

  Brian laughed.

  Kate scrunched her brow. “What are you doing at the library?”

  “There’s just some stuff I want to look up,” he replied.

  “You hear that?” said Brian to his daughter. “He has stuff. Stuff he wants to look up. At the library.” He prodded her playfully. “Why don’t you ever go to the library?”

  “Because they invented the internet,” said Kate. She glared at John. “And I don’t need to show off.”

  John slung his backpack over his shoulder. He hesitated a moment at the front door. “I’m not trying to show off to anybody,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Take your time,” said Brian as John walked out the door. He stared at Kate.

  “What?” she said.

  “What was that?” he asked. “His dad abandoned him three days ago and now he’s the one taking care of us.”

  “Whatever,” said Kate. She put a piece of corn and a handful of cucumber slices on her plate before heading to the basement door. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room doing the least I can do.”

  Marcus crept through the shadows along a country laneway. It was well after midnight. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the trees above him. Not a car stirred on the lonely stretch of gravel just a hundred metres away.

  The small farmhouse was dark. A single flickering bulb hanging from a pole faintly illuminated the barnyard. Marcus watched from the shadows in front of the house before making his move.

  A car and pickup truck sat parked in the driveway. Marcus approached the car and tried the handle on the driver’s side.

  Unlocked. Perfect.

  He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. He reached under the seat, looking for keys. Nothing. He opened the glove box. It was stuffed to overflowing with old registration papers and tissues. He checked above the sun visor. No luck.

  And then he noticed a set of keys dangling from the ignition. He smiled.

  “Unlocked doors and keys left in the ignition,” Marcus said to himself as he started the car. “I love country folk.”

  He put the car into gear and drove slowly down the lane with the lights turned off. Marcus didn’t like stealing. He really didn’t. But it was necessary for a werewolf to keep moving. He’d learned too many times that staying in one spot was dangerous. Making friends was dangerous. Just look where it got him this time.

  He’d tried to lower his guard and learn to trust. He’d even, for a few weeks, thought maybe he could build a home with his son, John, and Bea. Bea’s family had lived at that camp in rural New Brunswick for nearly a decade witho
ut being noticed. Maybe he could have done the same.

  But it was all a lie he’d told himself. Werewolves are never safe. Hand your trust to anyone and they will crush it like a dead leaf. Just like Bea did. Just like John’s mother did.

  Laura.

  He hadn’t seen her in more than fifteen years, but the thought of her was still like a punch to the gut. She was the reason Marcus and John had begun their nomadic life in the first place: always moving, always running. If John were to find out the truth—that his mother was still alive—if he were to seek her out….

  Marcus shuddered.

  He would just have to make sure that never happened. He didn’t know exactly where John was, but Bea had let slip enough details about where she lived that Marcus could narrow his search. He’d find them soon enough.

  Kate was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, when a knock came at her door.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Come on,” said John, his voice muffled by the door between them. “I just want to talk to you.”

  Kate didn’t answer.

  “Can I come in?” pleaded John.

  “I can’t stop you.”

  The door opened a crack. John peered in.

  “Hey, listen. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but—holy cow, what’d you do to your room?”

  John stood in the doorway, his mouth agape. He glanced around the room. “This is…amazing.”

  Kate looked around. The rows of Mason jars were now clean and filled with water tinted varying shades of blue and green. She had pilfered Aunt Bea’s Christmas decorations and strung lights behind each row of jars. The light shimmered through the coloured liquid to give the whole room a feeling of being under water.

  “Hey, you made Wacka her own place, too,” exclaimed John. “You didn’t miss a thing!”

  Wacka paddled quietly in a small inflatable kiddie pool behind the door. Kate had planted long grass and bulrushes dug up from a nearby ditch in pots and set them around the pool. The little duck looked quite at home.

  “I found the pool stuffed in a box,” explained Kate with a shrug. As resentful as she felt toward John, she couldn’t help being proud of how she’d transformed her room.