The Silver Tongue
1096 Words
Werejoy sat unnaturally quietly in the passenger seat for the rest of the ride. Breathing evenly, its eyes flickered with eerie intelligence.
Claire took the next U-turn, reading the neon sign mounted on a rod.
ETHAN CARTER. MISSING.
The glow of the streetlights caught the edge of the wolf’s mouth as their car passed. And Claire caught something unnatural about its teeth as well.
Claire blinked the image away. Maybe it was exhaustion clawing at her senses.
The night air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and burning fuel as she pulled into her driveway. The house loomed, a dark shape against the deeper black of the sky.
Werejoy padded out of the car before Claire could even unbuckle her seatbelt. It glided more than ran and waited at the porch. Its eyes locked on Claire as if it understood the tension thrumming beneath her skin.
It wasn’t just the unsettling presence of the wolf itself—it was the whispering. A strange, insidious hum just at the edge of her hearing. Like the rustle of silk against stone.
Claire stepped closer, hand instinctively going to her wolf’s gleaming collar. “What is wrong with you? You’re putting me off.”
Werejoy tilted its head. Its eyes watered. And then—
“I don’t know, Claire.”
Uh?
Speech?
Claire staggered back. It wasn’t a growl, wasn’t a whine, but words. Real words. Spoken in a smooth, almost human cadence.
Claire’s heartbeat slammed into her ribs. She backpedalled, and tripped on a hose. Her hands reached out to the back to soften the fall. She half-expected Werejoy to leap on her, but it was just there. Looking down at her.
Her elbows hit the floor. Her wolf—no, this thing—licked its lips, and a glint of silver shimmered where its tongue should be.
She did what thought any rational person would do just then. Without turning, she eyeballed the position of her car.
She gauged the distance.
If her life weren’t at stake, it was a short distance. But as it stood, the wolf would be upon her in three great strides. Claire was athletic but Werejoy was nimble. Too nimble for its size. Maybe if she did not have to open the door, slide over the passenger’s seat, close the door, and then start the car, she could make it.
But Werejoy would still be upon her before she could take three steps, if it wanted to.
Did it want to? Claire wondered.
What did it want?
Why was it talking?
“Claire,” it said again, this time in her head. “Help me.”
I need help, Claire tells herself.
But the wolf was visibly hurting.
Claire berated herself just then for being scared. She brushed the bits of grass off her clothing and turned towards her car. She could hear the wolf bounding just behind.
***
The vet clinic smelled like antiseptic and metal. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Claire pushed through the double doors, the wolf trotting obediently at her side.
Dr. Langley was a tall woman with greying hair and sharp green eyes. She was used to people bringing in strange cases—stray creatures found at crime scenes, injured animals abandoned in alleys—but she had never seen one quite like this.
Langley frowned as she observed the wolf. “You’re pale.”
“You would be too,” Claire muttered. “Check its mouth.”
Langley hesitated, then grabbed a pair of gloves. The wolf sat perfectly still on the examination table. Its gaze locked onto the doctor. When she pried open its jaws, the sharp intake of breath confirmed Claire’s worst fears.
The tongue was silver. Metallic and smooth, but still organic. It pulsed as though alive. And then—
“I wouldn’t do that, Doctor.”
Langley recoiled, nearly knocking over a tray of instruments. Her eyes darted between Claire and the wolf. “Tell me you heard that,” she whispered.
Claire nodded. “That’s why I brought it here.”
Langley stripped off the gloves like they had burned her. “Get it out of my clinic.”
“I need you to—”
“No. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t want to know. Whatever you’ve done, Claire, whatever this is, I can’t help you.”
Claire clenched her jaw. “You won’t even—”
Langley turned away. “Take it to the priest.”
Claire inhaled sharply, snatched the leash, and stormed out.
***
The car ride back was suffocatingly quiet.
Werejoy sat in the passenger seat, its unnatural tongue flicking over its teeth. Claire gripped the wheel hard enough to make her knuckles ache.
Holt had warned her about this. About things she didn’t understand. About digging too deep. She had ignored him. And now—
She hit the call button.
On the other side of the phone was an ageless beauty, with silver-streaked black hair, pale skin, and glowing amber eyes. She was Madam Victoria Vespera, Proprietress of Green Lapels High – where Claire worked as a geography teacher.
And she was much more too. Something innately spiritual.
The phone rang twice before Madam Vespera’s voice cut through the silence. “Miss Donovan.”
Claire inhaled sharply. “Something’s wrong with my wolf.”
A pause. And then, “What did you do to it?”
The question rattled her. She was expecting confusion, dismissal—not immediate suspicion.
“Excuse me?”
“Did you feed it the blood?”
Her breath caught. “What?”
The line crackled. “Did you feed it the blood, Claire?”
She swallowed. “No.”
A sharp exhale on the other end. “Then why does it have a silver tongue?”
The temperature in the car seemed to drop. Claire’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s what I want to know.”
Silence. Then, in a voice too calm: “Where are you?”
Claire hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to lie. But before she could, a low voice, smooth as velvet, slid into her ears from the passenger seat.
“She’s driving.”
Claire slammed on the brakes.
The wolf chuckled. Actually chuckled.
Somewhere in the city, Holt sat in his police vehicle, earpiece buzzing with the live call feed. He leaned forward, fingers hovering over his radio. The moment Claire mentioned Vespera’s name, his stomach dropped. He had been right. He just didn’t know how much yet.
But he would.
And so would she.
- Writer
