Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“There are some

who can live 

without wild 

things and

some who cannot.”

 

Aldo Leopold

I hate subways. 

They’re always romanticized in movies and TV shows, and it drives me crazy. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I get why. They’re part of the charm of the “city life” or whatever, right?

Well, tell you what: if you’re okay with your charming city life stinking of fucking piss, then please, by all means . . . go with your heart. 

The thing about subways is that they’re cheap. They’re cheap, and depending on where you are in the world, it’s really easy to catch a free ride, especially if you’re someone like me, where cheap doesn’t cut it. 

Don’t have a dollar in your pocket? Don’t worry. The real fee is: how high can you jump?

I’m not going to recommend that you try it in New York, New York, but some smaller cities in the Northeastern U.S.? 

Well, you didn’t hear it from me. 

Another tolerable thing about subways besides being cheaper than cheap for the broken I MEAN BROKE among us is that people don’t stare too much. My sweatshirt is pretty much a planter now for all the dirt that’s on it, but people aren’t going to blink twice if they see a filthy kid walking around. It’s unlikely to be the weirdest thing they’ve encountered using the public transportation system. 

Believe me. 

I usually go to the laundromat maybe once every two, three weeks, depending on what change I can scrounge up (usually not too hard in high tourist traffic areas), but I’m just short a couple quarters, and I’m not about to wash all my clothes without a dryer. 

So unwashed grungy orange sweatshirt and worn-out jeans on week four it is. It’s not fashion, but it’s not naked, either, so. 

Call me bougie (you’d be right), but wearing dirty clothes is way better than wearing clean clothes not dried in a dryer. I can’t deal with itchy, stiff clothes that have a weird mildew scent.

I know. Bougie as hell. 

I’m not about to deny it. 

I guess you’re probably wondering right now what I’m even doing here, if I hate subways so much. The truth is, I never thought I’d be back here myself. 

Yeah, those words—

I never thought I’d be back here —

Well, they’ve been bouncing around in my head for a while. 

Fuck, I sound dramatic. 

Purgatory is my home, sure; the one place I know I can come back to without any pretense at all and know that I am home. 

But it’s also the one place I know I should have never come back to (it’s probably a little late for that statement). I’m not sure if that makes any sense. 

My family moved around a lot when I was a kid—never stayed in one place long enough to really settle anywhere. I never felt like I belonged, but here . . . here I could have, if we had stayed long enough. 

Like most kids growing up, I lived with my parents in apartments and other small living spaces, nothing special. Life was school, reading comic books, binge-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and reading Twillow fanfic—shout to my old friends on the kitten board), and hanging out with my best friends, Wynonna and Waverly Earp. 

So Purgatory is a small town, right? Chances are good you’ve never even heard of it.

And like most small towns, Purgatory has its share of problems, one of them being extremely gossipy rich folk who spend their lives spreading rumors and keeping down others they’ve deemed below themselves. 

Word on the Purgatory street for years before I ever arrived had on good authority that all the women in the Earp family were carrying genetics suitable for witchcraft. 

We are in New England, so I suppose one of the worst things you can be secondary to being a woman is a witch. 

Good little Purgatory children know better than to play with anyone suspected of witchcraft, and it probably goes without saying that the Earp sisters weren’t winning any popularity contests with the neighborhood kids (although Waverly told me not too long ago that she won the Nicest Person in Purgatory award, which came with a sash. She was delighted).   

I, however, having never fit in myself anywhere, was immediately drawn to them. 

Their home property—lovingly nicknamed “The Homestead” (I believe that is a Wynonna-ism if I’m not mistaken, definitely sounds like her)—was a good thirty minute drive outside of town, but the family-owned used bookstore, Black Cats Bookstore and Café, was right in the center of the city, directly across the street from where I lived.

I gotta be honest with you and say I love how you can tell what kind of people the Earps are from the name of their shop in a town that hates them for the witchcraft rumors: absolutely zero fucks given.  

Let me just interrupt your regularly scheduled program to let you know that Black Cats Bookstore and Café serves the most fucking delicious vegan goodies and coffee in the whole damn world. 

Eating there is like eating Speculoos Cookie Butter straight from the spoon. It tastes like you got it on a random sale you didn’t know about; you just waltzed into Trader Joe’s like you always do but everything in the store is 50% off. It tastes like you stocked up on jars, and you can savor every morsel without guilt because you know you’re never going to run out again.

It tastes like that fresh mashed avocado on whole wheat toast you love from the one local food truck that only serves brunch on weekends. It tastes like normally they have a freakishly long line (we’re talking hours, people), but you got your grub before the traffic hit. 

It tastes like you got a full ride scholarship at the liberal arts college where you majored in your passion, graduated with no student debt, had a job lined up before you left school (a job with benefits and work-life balance), and bought a house before the age of 40. 

I know, I know.

Nothing can taste that good, right?

But I’m Dixie Chicks serious. This is some good shit. 

So let me save your overworked fingers from some unnecessary scrolling on Yelp: it’s Black Cats or bust.   

So anyways. Let’s talk Purgatory. 

Purgatory is kind of a basic bitch paradise, with a farmer’s market every Saturday spring through late fall and a locally owned coffee shop on virtually every corner selling pumpkin spice whatever. Tbh, during the fall, it looks like someone ripped a scene from a fucking postcard you’d pay a whopping $4 for at tourist shop, what with all its autumnal getup and fall aesthetic.  

I know it might sound like I’m angry at Purgatory for being a beautiful town, but that’s not it at all. I like that Purgatory is a kind of fall paradise, and the tourists are an important part of the small economy, so I’m glad that people want to visit us. 

I guess I just get annoyed when people see a town that looks perfect from the outside, so they assume all the people on the inside are perfect, too. And what I hate more is when the people on the inside start thinking that they’re perfect as well, so whenever something happens that doesn’t fit that exact description, Purgatorians do whatever is in their power to ignore it, and if you’re the one to bring it up? 

Well, they say silence is golden.

I don’t remember the exact moment I figured out that Daddy Earp was abusive, but I remember that even when I told Wynonna I knew, she never stopped pretending that there was some other reasons for the bruises.  

Wynonna is the type who will throw herself between those who she loves (I know I used the word loves, but I’d be lying if I didn’t mention that I’m not sure Wynonna ever loved anyone besides Waverly) and violence, so she was getting more than just her own punches. 

For all her bravery, Daddy Earp still made sure Waverly came out childhood feeling invisible, insecure, and unworthy of love. 

The bastard. 

My situation wasn’t really comparable to the Earps, but being at home with my parents didn’t really feel safe most of the time (my dad and I fought like too underfed chihuahuas trapped in a room furnished by Marie Kondo, and my mom did nothing about it), so I made Black Cats and time spent with the Earp sisters my home. 

Friendship with Wynonna was easy; if I’m being honest, she was the easiest friend I ever made. She’s the kind of friend that if I never connected again with a single living soul for the rest of my miserable life, she would still be more than enough.

Don’t tell her that, though. I know she’ll think it’s weird.  

Now her younger sister? Waverly? 

Well, Waverly is a different story. 

Waverly is like . . . damn, I am at a loss for words. Waverly is like someone took sunlight and made it a human. She’s bright, warm, impossibly kind in a way that makes me anxious (like homegirl someone someday is gonna take advantage of you and then I’ll have to kill them and be a murderer), and when she smiles, her eyes turn into little half-moons that honestly make me want to weep.   

I haven’t told her any of this yet, of course, because you don’t want people you like to know you like them, right? 

The. Horror. 

Maybe when this all over, I’ll go see her. 

I cling to that thought as I make my way deeper into the forest well outside of the city limits. It’s dark, and horrible, and I would rather be anywhere else. But I know there’s no one else who can do this. It’s got to be me. I’ve got to keep people safe. 

I sense movement to my right, and I whip around with my flashlight to see nothing. It feels too loud to let out a sigh of relief, so I hold it in, but it’s in that moment that I hear it. 

It’s pawing at the ground, close. It’s big, and I know somehow that it’s angry.

Worst of all, it knows. 

It knows I’m here.

So much for a sneak attack. 

10 days later

I wake to the sound of my stomach growling, a petulant child inside of me begging for food. To be fair, it has been a long time since I’ve eaten (I’m not going to be precise on the details here, because thinking about it makes me hungrier), but I’m too afraid to leave the forest now. 

Everything in my body is sore, to the point where I feel like I’ve turned into one giant bruise. A bruise to rule all bruises. 

But the pain is the proof that I am still alive, which is more than I knew I should hope for when I came back here. 

I turn myself to a different position on my back, allowing myself the luxury of an exceptionally self-indulgent (if I do say so myself) groan cuz damn it hurts. I don’t know why making noise when we hurt makes things better, but it works, so I’m not going to question.  

I blink back the sleep from my eyes and realize with a little teaspoon’s helping of shock that it’s dark outside. 

I guess that’s what happens you sleep for . . . I look at my watch. 

Shit Shit shit Shit shIT shiT Shit sHit 

This thing always shows up a midnight, cuz you know, spooky things have a reputation to uphold, of course, let us never forget that. I lied down for a “quick” nap at I don’t know, maybe six-ish? But I guess I pulled a Sleeping Beauty, because according to my watch, it’s 11:57. 

Yeah.

Gave myself three minutes. Awesome. 

Normally, I am a lot more prepared than this. Okay, I’ll admit that things have been a little more flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants these days, but I am not usually like this. 

I shake my head. Nothing to be done about it now, and it’s not like I can scoff and pretend I didn’t need the sleep. I mean, I can and I will scoff and pretend about my sleep deprivation because HELLO that’s my coping mechanism, but that’s neither here nor there.

I run my hand across my eyes, clearing out the last vestiges of sleep before I glance at my watch (11:58) when I hear the voice. 

“I waited outside already for two hours and didn’t see a thing. I don’t know, Chrissy, headed into the forest now to check it out, though, okay? Yeah. Yeah. I’ll let you know when I’m headed back home. Text the aunties if I don’t text you in about an hour. Uh-huh. Okay, cool. Bye!”  

I furrow my brow. That sounds an awful lot like . . . 

But there isn’t time to dwell. Not that I have much of a choice, anyway. 

When my mom told me about my, um, we’ll call it “werewolf-ness” (were-aptitude? were-tendencies?), I had a pretty good attitude about it. In fact, I think I was kind of excited about my first transformation. 

Being excited about monsters is kind of a popular thing, you could say.

Well, she left out all the details about how painful and exhausting it is (and how it’s kind of a weird consent issue, but werewolf transformations aren’t really up to speed with the times), how you grow hair in uncomfortable places at an uncomfortable pace, and how it re-engages my dysphoria every damn time like a bitch, but whatever. You know. Details. 

It hurts. It hurts like hell, but it’s quick. 

I hate my transformations, but when I’m done, it feels, I don’t know . . . free? I know I’m stronger in wolf form, and being stronger means that I’m safer and can do more for other people. I don’t hate that part so much. 

I guess my self-soliloquy was pretty fucking distracting, though, because speaking of distracting, Waverly Earp is standing right in front of me (she is wearing a very adorable, appropriately fall-themed outfit, I must say. Really, she belongs in a catalog with her button down scarf, Doc Marten’s, matching tights), her eyes wide and wand drawn, a light emitting from its tip and casting shadows through the forest. 

I stare back at her in wolf form, blink. 

I can see memories pass over her face as recognition dawns there. 

“N-nic?” she calls out, her voice shaking like it always does when she’s unsure. 

I panic. 

So you probably figured out on your own by now that the rumors about the Earp sisters are 100% true, and Waverly is one banging witch (as are all the women in her family related by blood). She’s crazy powerful, and I would trust her with my life, but sometimes a werewolf needs to slay their own forest demons without being rescued by the damsel in distress, yeah?

So I run.

I know, I know.

Maybe you’re screaming at your screen, why don’t you just talk to her you colossal fuckwit    

You would have a really good point, and I can’t blame you for screaming. I’m as stupid as stupid comes. 

But the more distance I put between me and Waverly, the more distance I put between Waverly and the demon. And that’s a choice I’d make, over and over again.    

But Waverly gives my chivalry a big, fat, whatever, I guess, because my this is not going according to plan. 

“Wait! Come back!” Waverly yells, several paces behind me, but still way, way, way too close. 

I’m trying hard not to panic as I dash through the forest, knowing that while I’m much faster than Waverly (at least in wolf form, now human form? I’m pretty sure I’m still faster, but Waves might disagree with me), I’m much slower and smaller than the demon. 

I hear Waverly stop, hear her wheezing.

Good, now stay there. 

I don’t say it aloud, of course, because fun fact: werewolves can’t talk. 

I mean, we can still communicate: howls, grunts, baring our teeth, you know, all the fun stuff you love to see in your Halloween movies. But I can’t say actual words when I’m in wolf form. 

The very first time I transformed and realized I couldn’t talk, I remember feeling scared. Worried that I might never be able to speak again. But it only lasts when I’m in wolf form, and then I go back to being regular old me, vocal cords intact.  

My relief is short-lived, however; because I hear Waverly, this time closer, call out, “Nicole, is that you? Where are you?” 

It’s pawing at the ground, snorting, its breath turning into mist in the cold. 

I want to tell Waverly to run, to get far away, but I can’t. So I howl. I howl until it’s echoing through the trees, until the leaves around me are shaking. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter because Waverly, it turns out, was hiding in a grove of trees behind me, and I hear her mutter “oh crap” as she takes in the sight of the horse-like demon now directly in front of us.

It rears back on its hindermost set of legs, the other two sets of legs bucking out in a show of strength, the limbs and joints stuck out at odd angles. There’s an eye in the middle of its belly, the iris red and dark as blood. It’s fixating on me, tracking my movements so closely I wonder if it can read my mind and predict my next move. 

The smell is something awful, as clumps of decayed flesh hanging loosely from deep gashes in its neck, back, and hindquarters sway and catch in the wind, perfuming the air around us with the stench of death. Its mane, the color of ash, fans out and forms a halo behind its monstrous head. 

Its lips are drawn back in a snarl, a warning not to approach. 

Waverly’s wand flashes light right into one of its glowing red eyes, and it makes a sound that sounds frighteningly like a human scream before turning towards her.

I don’t give it a chance, though. 

The moment I see it so much as think in her direction, I’m growling on my haunches, my fur standing on a point, giving it a mere minute before I propel myself directly at its neck. 

But as I launch myself forward, I instantly realize my mistake, watching with dread as it pulls its head back and our skulls smash together with a force that makes my teeth chatter. 

I fall to the ground, momentarily stunned. Everything hurts and if I had the option to cry, I would. My main problem is, I can’t move. Not the best vantage point when you're in immediate danger of being trampled by Black Beauty from hell.  

“No!” I watch as Waverly runs at the thing, her wand exuding magic. “Screw horses!” 

I can barely see through my left eye, which is rapidly swelling, but I feel magic begin to surround me in a protective bubble, a feeling that is something akin to looking directly into the sky as a light rain falls and taps the plane of your face. Everything around us is now an electric hue of blue, a color so vivid that even through my closed eye, I can definitely see it. 

And there’s Waverly at the center of it all, looking like a certified badass as raises her arms high above her head, a gesture that I’m guessing is somehow connected to increasing the strength of the protection spell. But it’s not enough.

I can see the pain, bright and obvious, across her face as she withstands the attacks of the horse demon. 

I can deal with a lot of shit, I’ll tell you what, but one thing I have zero fucking tolerance for is something that’s putting Waverly in pain. 

So I rise to my feet (err, paws?), still hella unsteady and damn am I sore, but hey, legs are legs, and they are moving again, plus Waverly needs my help. I’m in good enough shape for another go by my standards, anyway.

So I jump (yes, I wanted to sing, so I creep, yeeaaah, along to the tune of the song, but I mostly resisted), and because I am, in fact, capable of learning on occasion, I aim this time for the back. The smell of the necrotic skin there is nightmarish, and every inch of me cringes when I sink my oversized incisors in deep. 

I'm blocking out all the sensations with a compelling fantasy about how, when this is all over, I'm locking myself in the nearest bathroom and brushing my teeth for fifteen minutes straight. 

We struggle for a minute there, evil horsey and I, before the principles of physics win out and the demon with significant more mass throws me off with ease. 

I hit something hard as I fly off (a tree probably?), and I’m pretty sure my molecules have now been rearranged, because everything inside me is spinning like a washer on its final cycle, and I feel more numb than anything else. 

Waverly and I must be luckier than the seventh rainbow marshmallow at the bottom of the box of Lucky Charms, because the demon is running off in another direction, somewhere deeper in the forest.    

I’m trying not to call any attention to myself, which is probably why I begin to hack furiously. 

Did I mention that after my transformations, I turn back into Nicole Haught: Naked Edition? 

Yep.

It’s pretty cool, you know, haven’t seen my childhood crush in years, we fight a demon together, and I show up to the after party in my birthday suit. 

Fuck. 

Fortunately, I've been saved, courtesy of some very conveniently placed shrubbery, and most of me is hidden when I put all my charm into: 

“L-long time, no see, Honeybee.”  

Waverly shakes her head at me, the hint of a smile there, as she adjusts her hearing aids. I’m very naked, but I still make sure I’m facing her where she has a good view of my lips (for hearing purposes), and I make sure I look at her when I’m talking. 

“Honeybee?” she asks, working her arms out of her jacket and draping it over me. “I haven’t heard that nickname in ages. Are you okay, Nicole? What was that?”

I hastily pull some leaves from my hair. “Yeah, I’m okay. Great, actually. Well, a little sore, and there’s something going on with my eye . . . ”

Waverly hisses as she takes a closer look at my face. I can’t see myself, but I can’t imagine I am looking my best. The skin under my eye feels like it is more balloon than human and has its own heartbeat to match. Cute. 

“Do you need a healing spell?” Waverly asks, looping an arm around me to help me stand. “I’m sorry. I don’t have all my supplies on me, but I’m sure I could do a little something to help the pain if it’s bad?” 

It’s bad, but the chances of me telling Waverly that and having her worry?

You guessed it. 

It’s gonna be a no from me. 

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “But, uh, my backpack with all my stuff is out here somewhere, and I have some clothes in there I can put on, so you don’t freeze to death without your jacket.”

“I could do a little accio backpack if you want,” Waverly offers as we both sift through the underbrush and leaves in search of my belongings. 

“You know we're not supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts,” I tease, stumbling into my backpack, which is nestled behind the nearest tree. 

Did Waverly tell me she was a bonafide witch during one of our countless Harry Potter movie marathons?

Yep, she sure did. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, to be exact. 

It’s never been the same movie for me since. 

Waverly uses her wand as a flashlight to help me see the contents of my backpack, and I reach for the cleanest things I can find: a red flannel, thin black jacket, scruffy pair of jeans, and purple converse. 

Waverly’s being quiet as I fasten my buttons, and I’ll be honest and say I’m dreading her next words, because it’s pretty obvious the girl is mad. Well, maybe she’s just annoyed. 

But anger, annoyance, irritation, frustration, etc. in Earp women? 

Really bad combo. 

I mean, like—

“Nicole, why didn’t you tell me where in Purgatory?” 

Well, shit. 

Waverly doesn’t sound mad at all. She’s sad. And sad Waverly? Well, be prepared to give up all your valuables, because there’s nothing quite so heart-rending as seeing Waverly Earp cry and wanting to give her anything to make it right again.

I hand over her jacket, brushing off some imaginary werewolf-dust so it’s a little nicer before she takes it. 

I want to say I’m sorry because it sucks that I made Waverly upset, and it seems like the easiest thing to say that would make things better, but I don't. I don’t because it’s not true. I’m not sorry.

“I planned on seeing you when I was done,” I say, and that is the truth, “but I had no idea how long everything would take, and I didn’t want to worry you.”

And as soon as I say the words, I want to punch myself in the face.

I forgot Waverly trigger phrase number one: I didn’t want to worry you. 

Those are classic Wynonna and Nicole excuse words for being overprotective, and the two of us have seen enough Waverly blow-outs in response to them to be smart enough not to use them. 

Except for not me, apparently, because guess fucking what?

Oops. 

She’s furious, her eyes hard, and her mouth in a long, straight line. Her arms are crossed, and her whole body is radiating tension.

“What have you been doing this whole time, then, Nicole? Living out in the woods by yourself?” 

I grimace. 

“It’s only been the woods the last ten days," I say.  

I have no idea why I thought that would be a helpful thing to say, but it’s out of my mouth now. Too late to take it back.

Waverly stamps a foot on the ground. “You could’ve said something, Nicole! You know we have a giant house with plenty of room!”

“You know we would’ve taken you in,” she says, this time softer. 

I know the Earps would have taken me in, no second thought, no questions asked. And maybe that’s why I didn’t do it. Too easy? There’s been a part of me that’s been daydreaming about just walking up to the homestead and knocking on the front door. 

I sigh. No explanation I give is going to be enough, but not saying anything? I might have escaped death by demon, but death by Waverly is all but a guarantee.  

I run my hand through the back of my hair, trying to cover up my wince as I feel a bump forming there. “I know it’s been hard for Gus since things with Curtis, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

Waverly actually rolls her eyes. 

“Gus would be so mad if she heard you saying that. You know she’s the most independent woman on the planet, and hello! She raised three Earp kids who weren’t even her her own,” Waverly pauses, contemplates. “Well, four, now. Maybe three and half. You know she wouldn’t care.” 

“Wait, four?” I ask, mentally counting Willa, Wynonna, Waverly, over and over again, until I’m worried that maybe I never mastered the concept of the number three.

Yikes on bikes. 

“You’ll see,” Waverly winks, reaching down to grab my backpack and gently pulling it over my shoulders. “If we go back to my place?” 

She sounds so hopeful right now, and the chances of me saying no to Waverly Earp were already negligible to begin with. But there's fear again (Hey, Nicole! Miss me?), like a giant, fucking anvil sitting at the bottom of my stomach. 

It’s just been me for so long, trying to figure things out. Figuring out being a werewolf, figuring out my body, figuring out how to function without a family, trying (and failing) to figure out my powers, figuring out why there’s this cult out there, trying to get me. 

Yeah, you read that last line correctly. A cult. 

It’s been a lot. I don’t know if I’m ready to share with anyone yet, even if that someone is the crush of my young life. Maybe especially because this is the crush of my young life.

Hey Waves, I'm on the run from a cult. Wanna get a coffee sometime? I'm sure that would go over swimmingly. 

“Waves, I’m sorry,” and this time I mean it. “There’s a lot of things that have been happening to me, and I don’t know how to put it all in words. Is that okay?” 

Do I sound poetic? Mature? Or am I merely masking the fact of my emotional impotence with words that sound unconvincingly sexy and emo?

“Of course, Bubs.” 

Maybe I’ve sprouted wings or something, I don’t know, because hearing Waverly call me by that nickname makes me feel like I’m flying. 

She walks towards me with her hand outstretched, her fingers soft and gentle as they palpate my bruised and swollen eye. I feel my breath catch in my throat and my whole face warm in response to her touch.  

I hope I’m not being super obvious, but it’s probably a lost cause at this point. Cool.

“Come on, let’s go,” Waverly says, swinging my arm over her tiny shoulders and steering us with resolve in the direction of the Homestead.   

We’ve only been walking for a couple minutes or so when Waverly swears (shit!) and digs in her pocket for her phone, which has come to life with some of call.

“Waverly Earp, it’s been an hour, and you better not be dead!” a voice demands shrilly from the receiver. 

The sound of Chrissy Nedley’s voice sends me right back to my Purgatory High days. Ah, the nostalgia. The long forgotten smells of teen spirit. Funny how the passage of time can make you miss your most hellish four years. 

“Hey Chrissy, everything is fine, and I’m on my way back right now,” Waverly says, giving me an apologetic look. 

I shrug. 

“Are you with someone?” Chrissy asks, sounding suspicious.

Maybe narrowing your eyes doesn’t technically make a sound, but actually, it’s the sound of Chrissy Nedley.  

“Yeah, I am,” Waverly admits. “But I can’t really talk right now, can I call you back tomorrow with all the details?” 

I can’t really hear what’s happening on Chrissy’s line from where I’m standing, but I would be willing to bet cold, hard cash that she’s not a fan of that plan. Chrissy and Waverly have been best friends since kindergarten, and any withholding of information at this point in their relationship is as good as betrayal.

“If you don’t call me before 9 am tomorrow morning, I will show up at the homestead. I will not bring breakfast. And I will wake Wynonna up before her alarm clock and set it up to make it look like it was your fault.”

Waverly gulps. 

“I promise, Chrissy. Talk to you tomorrow?”

She doesn’t respond, just hangs up. 

“Damn,” I chuckle. I don’t full-on laugh like I want to, because I’m not about to risk Waverly Earp’s wrath for a second time in so short a timeframe. But you’ve got to hand it to Chrissy—if anyone could handle Waverly’s spiciness (she’s basically a miniature, adorable bottle of hot sauce incarnate)—it’s Chrissy Nedley.

A friendship match made in I'm-too-spicy-for-your-bullshit-heaven.   

Fortunately for me, Waverly laughs as well. “Yeah. She is something else. I guess that’s what you get for being the daughter of the Purgatory Sheriff.”

Ah, good ol' Sheriff Randy Nedley. The man who mistakenly thought I was going to make something more of myself beyond being homeless, extremely hairy several days of the month, and on the run from cults.

I hope he's picked up some new hobbies outside of putting his faith in the wrong people. He could adopt a cat from the animal shelter? He's always struck me as having a soft spot for displaced animals. 

We’re more than seventy-five percent of the way to the homestead when I notice something. 

“Hey,” I say, twirling a wavy lock of Waverly’s hair before situating it behind her ear. “You changed the color of your hearing aids. That new blue color really makes your eyes pop.”

Waverly blushes a pretty shade of pink and ducks her head. So fucking adorable, maybe I died? 

“Thanks,” she says, shy. “It’s a real pain to get them to match sometimes. But I figured it was time to change out the purple.”

“I love them! They look great,” I reassure her. 

I know Waverly has a bit of a sore spot regarding her hearing aids. It’s gotten better with time, I think, but sometimes it’s still hard when there’s some visibly different about you from everyone else. Not that I would know anything at all about that . . . 

“Well,” Waverly says, the steady cadence of our walk coming to a stop outside her front door. “Nothing much has changed, but here we are.”

She reaches under the doormat for the spare key (I know you’re probably thinking, hey, that’s not a very safe place for a key if you don’t want your house easily broken into, and you’d be right, which is what the family’s shotguns are for), and we walk into the dark front room. 

One of Waverly’s three cats trots up to us almost immediately, meowing loudly in a bid for attention as she butts her head up against Waverly’s shins.

“Shhh!” Waverly hurries to bend down and scratch behind the cat’s ears. “You’re going to wake up the whole house with that racket, Phoebe!”

Abruptly, the lights turn on, and it takes all my willpower not to shift into furry mode from shock alone. 

“It’s a little late for that Waverly.” 

Gus’ voice, somehow always riding the line between sharp and kind, is a welcome one as the light illuminates her face. She’s wearing an oversized, extremely fluffy nightgown with bunny slippers to match. It’s an outfit that is so off-putting, it practically walks up to me, says, “Hello, I am the opposite of this woman you love and remember." I’m about to open my mouth to question when I glance at the unfamiliar woman standing next to her, wearing similar, if not identical, garb.   

“Who’s your friend, Waverly?” Gus asks, her eyes steely and shrewd as she walks closer to us for inspection. 

I can’t blame Gus for not recognizing me in my current state. Still haven’t had access to a mirror (#blessed) since our lovely brush with the killer demon, but I know my eye is looking bad and the rest of unshowered, underrested, and poorly fed me can’t be a pleasant sight.

“Is that Nicole Haught?” asks the mystery woman, eyeing me with interest. 

“Hi?”

She thrusts a hand out for me to shake, her face all smiles. As I take her in, I’m impressed. The woman is tall, like, towering over me tall (not an easy feat), which probably makes her somewhere around 6’2” in height. She’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses that make her look intense, but I can see in the deep smile lines etched in her face that she’s also kind.  

“Nice to finally meet you, Nicole Haught, we’ve heard so much about you from Waverly! I’m Ruth Ann Baldwin,” she says by way of introduction. “I’m your Aunt Gus’ girlfriend. We started dating in February.” 

There's a pause of approximately 0.0008967846 seconds' worth of silence as I process my surprise. “Oh, wow, awesome! It’s really nice to meet you, Ruth.”

“What happened to your face, Nicole?” Gus asks, clicking her tongue in disapproval as she takes my chin in her hands and pulls me firmly down to her level, so she can take a look at my battered face.    

You notice how there's no, can I take a look at your face Nicole or that must hurt, please come closer so I can look? Me too. 

Earps. 

She's technically a Gibson, I know.

Earp by association, then.

“Can Nicole stay with us for a couple nights?” Waverly asks as she sits down on the couch and yanks off her boots, wiggling her toes in her socks. “She’s been living as a forest child for the past ten days.” 

All of Waverly's fancy degrees in comparative literature and mastery of several languages have really paid off: you could never say she doesn't have a way with words. 

“No wonder she’s so skinny,” Gus huffs. “Of course she can stay. I just washed some towels and bedding that are folded and ready to go in the linen closet. Go with Waverly, Nicole, she can show you where we keep everything. It’s changed since you were last here.”

I take a deep breath, clear my throat. “They.” 

Gus pauses. “Sorry, what did you say, Nicole?”

“I use they pronouns now.”

“Oh, of course,” Gus gives my forearm a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“What do you need?” Ruth is hovering in the kitchen, setting a tea kettle on the stove to boil before any of us can get in a word otherwise. “We’ve got tea. What about food? What are you hungry for?” 

“I wouldn’t say no to some donuts,” a voice drawls from the hallway. 

“Stop lurking in the shadows Wynonna, and come join us in the land of the living,” Gus calls out to the hallway, shaking her head.

Wynonna!

I’m all kinds of half-nervous, half-excited types of energy. It’s been years since I’ve seen my best friend. If there was anyone I thought about almost as much as Waverly since I’ve left Purgatory, it’s Wynonna. I’ve imagined so many conversations between the two of us about the most trivial things that I’m not sure if I remember how to talk to the real thing. 

“Haught stuff!” Wynonna marches right over to me with purpose, her eyes lit with something that looks a lot like genuine happiness as she wraps me in an unbearably tight hug. 

“Hey Wynonna,” I greet, half-strangled. “I’ve missed you.”

The sound of a baby crying interrupts our reunion. 

I sniff the air (okay, I know I already heard the crying, but I rely so much on my heightened sense of smell these days that I can’t help myself), look at Wynonna in confusion.

“What is that?” 

“Oh, um,” Wynonna starts, at a loss for words.

“I’ve got it,” Gus waves her off and makes her way into the other room. 

“Nicole, I’d like you to meet my niece, Alice Michelle,” Waverly announces, beaming with pride as Gus returns with a little pink bundle and offers the baby to me.

“Alice Michelle?” 

I take her into my arms, looking into a set of eyes just a shade or two lighter than Wynonna’s. Although judging by her size she can be no more than a couple months old, she has a surprising amount of thick, wavy dark hair bunched all on top of her tiny little head. 

She takes one look at me, her eyes inquisitive and clever, before her pudgy face wrinkles into a scowl, and she begins wailing.

“What a set of lungs you have, Alice,” I compliment as I try to very gently rock her in an attempt to soothe. 

Apparently flattery is not the way to her heart, because it seems my efforts only serve to increase the intensity and depth of her sobs. I feel the weight of everyone watching the two of us interact, my embarrassment peaking as I accidentally make eye contact with Waverly.

Wynonna laughs at me, though she is merciful enough yet to take the baby from me, instantly quieting Alice’s cries. “Sorry, Haught. My baby isn’t a big fan of strangers.” 

My head is reeling. 

Baby? Wynonna? What universe have I stumbled into?

“I’ll let you two get reacquainted in the morning when Alice is in a better mood,” Wynonna promises, snagging a box of cookies from the pantry with the hand not busy securing her baby to her hip. “For now, me and these cookies are in for a quality night of bonding. Night all!”

Everyone passes along their good night wishes with varying levels of enthusiasm, and it’s not long before Ruth is pressing teacups and saucers into mine and Waverly’s hands, fussing about how it’s hot and blow on it before you take a sip, dears.

She’s somehow managed to guilt me into eating five of her homemade vanilla bean shortbread cookies (let’s take a brief moment here to admire the fact that these are not your mother’s basic ass vanilla cookies; these are the next level, as in, I’m a sophisticated-adult-who-watches-the-food-network-regularly cookies, ones where you can actually see the little specks of vanilla in there) anxiously studying my face as I eat each one to make sure that I definitely like it before I’m very appreciatively crying uncle and asking to go to bed.

Both Gus and Ruth wrap Waverly in a hug, Ruth peppering her head with kisses before bidding us both a good night and leaving to their bedroom, hand in hand.      

Waverly’s room is just how I remember: airy, light, ethereal—like a microcosm of Waverly herself.  

She sits me on the bed, her hands lingering on my shoulders for just a beat longer than either of us is expecting before she turns and begins rustling in her closet. I lay on my back and gaze at the glow in the dark stars brightening up the ceiling, grinning as I remember using the bed as a makeshift ladder to lift a too-short Waverly in the air, so she could stick them there.   

“Sorry, Nicole, this is going to sting a little bit,” Waverly warns before she sets a cloth against my cheek and eye. “We need to get this swelling down.”

You’d think that the touch of healing magic would be a gentle, welcome one, but that shit hurts.

You can feel the bones and muscles and tendons knitting themselves back together underneath your skin at an accelerated rate, and while it beats out regular, old-fashioned healing in terms of convenience, I’m not sure it’d be preferable outside of a time-sensitive, life and death situation.  

I wince and grit my teeth, trying to hold in my reaction and be cool about the situation before I notice Waverly watching me with worry and maybe I lean into the drama (a bit).

One of Waverly’s cats (Prue? Piper? Phoebe? Although Waverly seems to keep the identical black cats apart with ease, I never can tell which is which) rubs up against me, purring. 

I touch my face, still surprised, after all these years of knowing the Earps and their magic, that the skin there is now smooth and whole. 

The cloth, drained of its enchantment, is soft against my skin as Waverly uses it to clean away any leftover dirt/leaf/blood/unsavory souvenirs from our fun little romp in the woods. 

“Is that any better?” she asks, her eyes burrowing into mine as if looking there for any evidence of a lie. Which, fair, would be on brand. 

“That’s much better, thank you,” I reply, trying to mull her over with what I hope comes across as a grateful smile.  

She’s still looking at me with obvious skepticism. Okay, fine. 

“Um, there’s actually, uh, there’s a bump on the back of my head,” I confess in a rush, patting the sore spot with a bit too much gusto, to the point where I’m visibly flinching.

“Come here,” Waverly admonishes, one hand resting on the back of my neck to pull me closer, the other carding through my hair in search of the injury. 

Like I said, healing usually hurts like a mother, and while I’m aware that Waverly’s working her mojo right now, with her body flush against mine, her breath soft as a whisper against my ear, all I can feel is this warmth spreading across my chest, and the shiver I can’t suppress. 

“There,” Waverly sits back. “Is that everything?”

My eyes feel heavy now, and I know that I look dopey and sleep drunk as I nod. 

“Nicole,” she begins, lacing her fingers through mine. “Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

I sigh, my head dropping down, but my hands still holding tight to Waverly’s.

There were some times, when I was out there by myself, that I would have given anything for someone to just sit down and talk with me. Ask me questions about what I was going through. They wouldn’t have to offer help or sympathy, or anything. Just listen. 

So I feel stupid because here’s Waverly right now, the person that I care about most in the world and probably at least cares about me a little bit, and the words aren’t coming. 

“Okay,” I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Let my lungs collapse and refill. 

I rub at my face, pausing for a second while I wait for the pain from my previously wounded eye to kick in, when I remember that Waverly’s magic has already done the hard work of healing for me. 

“How familiar are you with wolf magic?” I ask. 

“Um,” Waverly chews on her lip (you guessed it— adorable!), and I watch the cute, scrunched facial expression she makes that I know corresponds with the act of her flipping through her mental library of information. “It’s a relatively new field of study, right? I don’t know much, honestly. I’ve seen the words wolf magic while flipping through some of my favorite reference books, but, outside of that . . . ”

“It’s okay,” I squeeze both her hands, still linked in mine. “You’re right about it being relatively new. No one really thought to look into it until about a decade ago. There are still a lot of things we don’t know.” 

“What magic do werewolves have, I mean, beyond the transformation, of course?” she asks. 

“It’s hard for me to explain,” I admit. “I don’t know a lot about it myself. But apparently, changing into a wolf creates a huge amount of energy, more energy than anyone previously thought. It’s still just a theory, but some people say that if you could learn to harness and use that energy, well, it would be enough to bring the dead back to life.” 

“So basically what you’re saying is,” Waverly says. “Is that you’re Dr. Frankenstein?” 

I nod, gravely. “I am Universal’s critically acclaimed film, Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, with a critically acclaimed ass to match.” 

“Ugh,” Waverly smacks me in the face with one of her pillows, causing both of us to erupt in a fit of giggles. 

She lays down on her side, using two of her fingers to dance across my stomach. “This is somehow connected to that horse-ghost thing we saw in the forest, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answer, capturing her fingers in my hand and watching as she half-heartedly struggles against my unrelenting grip. “A body of a demon is buried there, and there’s some kind of legend that says only the power of the wolf can raise it from its resting place. Anyways, that’s what the people who are trying to wake it said. But I didn’t get all the information they had, because when I realized what they wanted, they came after me. I had to get away.” 

“Oh, Nicole,” Waverly rubs her thumb against my hand. “I’m so sorry.” 

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyelids, my hands covering the sneaky beginnings of tears, as I war with the feelings of wanting to revel in her comfort but being too overwhelmed with my guilt to accept it. “I tried to stop them. I tried to get to it before they did. But it doesn’t matter, Waverly. It’s already waking up, and I have no idea what to do.” 

“I’m guessing that’s the horse?”

“Yeah, that’s the horse,” I groan. “I swear I tried to get rid of it, but all my attempts to control my magic to date have been a joke. The only thing I’ve managed to do since I’ve started trying to control it is to get myself stuck as a wolf. For a month. A whole month, Waverly!”  

“We can figure this out!” I’ve still got my hands over my eyes, so I can’t see it, but I can feel Waverly bouncing with excitement against the mattress. 

“Come on, Nicole,” she says, wrestling my hands away from my eyes. “You’ve got me, Wynonna, the aunties, and even baby Alice to help you out!” 

A sandpapery tongue, courtesy of one of Waverly’s cats, is dutifully licking at my fingernails. She looks at me with what may be considered feline affection.       

Waverly’s eyes are flashing with enthusiasm. “I’ll start looking in the library tomorrow. There must be something in one of Emily Perkins’ anthologies; she’s considered the quintessential expert on werewolves by the supernatural community. I’ll have to check out Katharine Isabelle as well. If I’m not wrong, she’s likely the original author of that theory about wolf magic—” 

“Hey,” I say softly. 

I don’t mean to interrupt, but she has to know—

“I really missed you.” 

My fingers tangle with hers, give an experimental squeeze.

She turns to me, smiling, and pulls me into a full on embrace. 

I hope she doesn’t notice the fact that my cheeks are on literal fire (sorry I know it’s metaphorical, but that word just doesn’t convey the same meaning, regardless of its grammatical correctness), but as she leans her head on my shoulder, I can feel the blush of her own cheeks in the heat against my skin. 

“I missed you, too.” 

—