How to Run with a Naked Werewolf (Naked Werewolf 3)

I was treated to yet another Caleb expression to add to the catalogue, the halfhearted I’m getting really tired of your shit, woman glower. Normally, a glare like that would have me retreating a bit, at least leaning back in my seat. But there was no heat in Caleb’s stare, just frustration and a touch of irritation. Somewhere in my chest, a little pressure valve opened up, and I was able to release a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding.

Contrite, I told him something real. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet. All you need to know is that I need to get to Anchorage to pick something up. It’s nothing illegal. I don’t have any warrants. After that, I don’t know where I will be going.”

Caleb muttered something I couldn’t make out, frowning into the distance. Well, if there was any way to kill a fun, flirtatious conversation, that was it. We rode along in silence for a mile or two.

Desperate to recover the previous mood, I said, “OK, lightning round. Siblings or only?”

“Only,” he answered. Of course, I knew that. Only children were such a rarity in the hyperproductive pack that the wolf-aunties were sure to tsk over “poor Caleb,” all alone, the last of his line, handling the details of his father’s death by himself.

Caleb’s mother, a human, had abandoned him and his father when Caleb was just a little boy, I remembered now, which had been quite the scandal in the little valley community. Did the lack of brothers and sisters make it easier for Caleb to leave the packlands and wander by himself? As a cub, he would have had plenty of kids to run around with, cousins upon cousins to keep from being lonely. But still, after his father died, I could imagine Caleb feeling his connections to his fellow wolves fading.

I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Running with other wolves was supposed to be one of the best parts of being a werewolf. How often was he able to shift out here on his own? How did he avoid hunters and game wardens or running afoul of locals? Shifting alone was considered a big no-no in the valley. The more time a wolf spends with the pack, the clearer his memories during the phasing. There was a sort of collective memory among the wolves, which could be unfortunate, given some of the stupid stuff some of them were known to pull while on four legs. Shifting solo could lead to a werewolf waking up in human form, naked, in a grocery store parking lot two hundred miles from home. (It had happened to Maggie.) Or suspected of eating hikers. (It had happened to Cooper.)

I cast a sidelong glance at Caleb. How long had it been since he’d been able to run? Werewolves had to shift every once in a while just to get the “wolf wiggles” out. Maggie told me once that her kind tended to get pretty cranky if they went too long without phase. It would explain Caleb’s occasionally less-than-sunny demeanor.

It seemed my little mental vacation had taken longer than I thought, because Caleb was looking at me expectantly. Oh, right, I was supposed to be participating in car games, not pondering werewolf PMS. Cheeks flushing, I cleared my throat and asked, “College?”

“No.”

“Past felonies?” I asked.

“Is public nudity a felony?”

Wrinkling my nose, I asked, “Biggest phobia?”

“Russian nesting dolls. I’ve always hated those.”

“Because you think the tiny baby doll inside could be made of pure evil?” I suggested.

“Yes, I do.” He managed to say it without a hint of irony.

“Rambo or Rocky?”

He scoffed. “Terminator.”

“Sorry, the correct answer was John McClane,” I told him, shaking my head. “Always.”

“I feel this quiz is unfairly skewed toward Bruce Willis fans.”

“Don’t feel bad. I stopped speaking to a friend for a month when she suggested Love, Actually was a better Christmas movie than Die Hard,” I told him. It was true. My relationship with Mo was very strained until she brought me chocolate chess squares as a peace offering.

“Springsteen or Def Leppard?”

He fist-pumped in mock triumph. “Neither. The correct answer is Garth Brooks.”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” I told him.

That obscenely sunny smile made another appearance. “Well, at least you admit that we’re friends in the first place.”

I rolled my eyes. “Football or basketball?”

“Curling,” he insisted, and when I burst out laughing, he added, “I can’t help it! It’s weirdly compelling. Those poor guys out there on the ice with their little brooms.”

“I have no problem with that,” I promised him. “Chunky or creamy?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wow, I hope you’re talking about peanut butter.”

And so it continued for almost an hour, with Caleb attempting to ask me reciprocal questions. I dodged all but the most trivial, giving him bits and pieces of information that couldn’t come back to bite me. Bruce Willis. Florence and the Machine. Born in Kansas. (A lie.) Chicago Cubs fan. (Also a lie. Go, Cardinals.) Chunky over creamy. (True. It was the only way to keep my chunk-phobic father out of my Jiffy stash.) I avoided questions about schooling, employment, past relationships, even the places I’d traveled.