Love What Is Behind You

By E. M. Holloway

It's another busy spring for Puck and his pack. His grandparents are visiting, and he's doing his best to keep them from finding out about werewolves and getting into trouble. Combined with a nosy state police officer and a series of strange deaths, and Puck is beginning to think that his final exams are the least of his worries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359202942

Book preview

Love What Is Behind You

Love What is Behind You

The Sum of its Parts: Book Seven

E. M. Holloway

to everyone who waited patiently

Chapter One

One of the things Puck knows he’s going to miss most once he’s left home is the ability to make sure his father is eating properly. He supposes there are some deep-seated psychological issues involved in this that he might want to address some day. Until that day, however, he’s content to wave to Sandy and then march down the hallway of the police station to drop a brown paper bag on his father’s desk. You forgot this, he says to his father, who’s leafing through a folder full of papers. My feelings are hurt.

Tom doesn’t even look up. Do I at least get peanut butter with the awful celery sticks?

I’ll have you know that there is no celery in this lunch whatsoever, Puck says, smug.

Now Tom does look up, slow and suspicious. "What is in it?"

A sandwich. And a bag of chips. Okay, they’re those baked Sun Chips that you hate, but still, they are chips and I feel as though I should get some credit for that.

Tom considers this from all angles and decides that it’s covered in mouse traps. Uh huh. He pulls the bag towards himself but doesn’t open it. Well, since you’re here, your grandmother called this morning.

Yeah? Puck asks, plopping down into the chair across from his father’s desk. He doesn’t have to ask which one. His mother’s mother died before he was born. Everything okay?

Yeah, fine. Tom leans back and away from his desk for a few moments, then slaps the folder shut to shield it from prying eyes before he continues, resuming his semi-relaxed posture. They’ve bought an RV and are planning a road trip.

That sounds like fun, Puck says.

One of their first stops is going to be to come visit us, Tom says. After a pause, he adds, No, we can’t make it to Canada.

Cana . . . Puck stares at him, face blank of expression for a few moments as it sinks in. "Grandma and Grandpa are coming here? To Arcadia Lake? Home of all that is supernatural and bizarre? They’re coming here?"

Yep. In their RV. To our house. Here. In Arcadia Lake.

For once, Puck is speechless. His mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments before he blurts out, "Why?!"

Because we haven’t seen each other in a while, Puck. Because . . . your hair is longer and my mother cut hers off and they’re getting older, and . . . Tom waves a hand in despair. And God has it out for us.

"Gee, you know what else has changed since the last time they were here? Puck asks in exasperation. I can think of a few things!"

I don’t think we’ll be telling them about that stuff, kid.

"Why don’t we go visit them? Puck asks. You know, you and me and not a pack of werewolves, like we did last time?"

Because now they live in an RV.

Well – Puck sputters. Why did you tell them it was okay?

Puck, explain to me the familial relationship of the people involved in this situation, Tom says, making a circular motion with his fingers.

"Yes, okay, they’re your parents, but, but you could have come up with some excuse, like, the bubonic plague or constant snowstorms or the fact that I still haven’t mastered those weird traditional cabbage rolls that make you gag and I can’t pronounce the name of, or anything other than, ‘sure, come visit the town where things are always trying to kill us’!"

His father holds up a hand and unfolds a finger with each counter-point he makes, mimicking his mother’s accent. There’s a cure for that now, Tommy. The next finger goes up. We lived in Chicago twenty years, we aren’t afraid of a little snow. Another finger. If Wolfgang is still having trouble with traditional Polish dishes, he clearly needs help with them. Last but not least. Son, are you trying to make excuses? What are you trying to hide? Don’t forget we raised you!

Puck chokes and gags and dramatically falls to the floor, knocking over a chair on his way by. Oh God – powers weakening – Kryptonite has been deployed – alpha down, repeat, alpha down –

Tom stands up, braces his hands on the desk, and leans over it to peer at where Puck is writhing. Does this mean I can use your real first name any time you’re being a pain in the ass and then just drag you around by your shirt?

Wow, Dad, rude, Puck says, popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. At least we have a couple months’ notice. I’ll figure something out. The pack might just have to do without me for a week or so.

"I don’t think they’ll have to do without you completely. You are allowed to have friends. And a boyfriend."

Yeah, I hope that won’t be a problem, Puck says, wincing. "Anyway, you’re giving the pack way too much credit for being able to act normal. There’s a girl in my history class that told me we sniff our food before we eat it and wanted to know what was up with that. Plus we’re all touchy-feely. And I think it’d be easier to not be around each other than to try to curb that behavior."

Maybe you could practice. I could watch out for things that give you away, Tom suggests, knowing that no one will be happy if Puck has to cut off contact with the pack, even if it’s only for a few days. Like the fact that they frequently forgo clothing.

Maybe. Puck sighs. I’ll talk to the others and see what they think.

Let me know, he says. He takes a bite of his sandwich. His mouth stops moving after the third chew.

Puck shoots to his feet. Okay! So, I’m gonna go –

Tom points to Puck with a jabbing finger, and then points down at the chair. The message is clear. Sit, or the real name will make a reappearance. He chews. He swallows. Puck sits. Puck, what in god’s name are you trying to feed me?

It’s a sandwich, Puck says, slowly and carefully.

Filled with . . . what is this? He’s identified the vegetables. Carrots, cucumber, all par for the course.

Tofu, Puck says brightly. Roasted tofu. I had some leftover after I was making stir-fry for Manisha.

Okay. Tom puts on his reasonable tone. Why is it in my sandwich and not her sandwich?

With a smug look on his face, Puck says, "Tofu has been proven to lower cholesterol and lower the risk of cancer. It’s a great source of calcium and vitamin E – "

Not in my case. Do you know why?

Puck gives him a suspicious look. Why?

Because, he says, rising from his chair and heading for the door to the office, it gives me no choice but to head towards the vending machine and buy a bag of normal chips to have as an alternative lunch.

"Whoa, whoa, I put chips in your lunch," Puck says, hastening to block his way out of the office.

No. You put those baked pieces of cardboard in my lunch. Tom edges around his son, using his larger body mass to his advantage. Which I was willing to put up with – with a minimum of complaining – while I was getting real sandwiches. He squeezes out into the hallway. Now all bets are off.

Puck grabs him by the elbow. "Those are real sandwiches, anything with two pieces of bread and a filling is a sandwich, look it up."

Tom marches forward, towing Puck along. There’s a difference between a dictionary meaning and a colloquial meaning. A real sandwich has meat in it. Or eggs. I would accept eggs.

"Tofu is a good source of protein, and, and I put avocado on it, you like avocado."

I do like avocado, Tom acknowledges. I also like it with turkey, which I know is on the approved meats list.

Puck makes a face. Yeah, but . . . who else is going to eat all this fucking tofu?

Manisha? he asks.

She hated it, Puck says. No chips, Dad, come onnnnnn, I’ll bring you a turkey sandwich or something.

Tom gives the vending machine a mournful look. Let’s go to that deli on Mill Street. We can negotiate my sandwich on the way.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tom arrives home from his shift around four PM, wishing that his work for the day was over. It’s been a long day, and he’s absolutely sure that the next hour or so is going to be the worst of it. He takes off his gun and puts it away in the safe before moving on to the living room to find Puck.

The pack has gotten so large that it’s rare to find them all in one place anywhere except the den. There isn’t room for them to all crash in the Schneider living room anymore. That doesn’t stop them from trying occasionally, and today is one of those days. That means there are teenagers everywhere, and it’s loud and chaotic. Devon, Joey, and Manisha are clustered around the television, playing video games. Jason and Sophie are sort of watching, but mostly just canoodling on the sofa. The others are doing their homework, Delaney occasionally reminding everyone that they’re being altogether too loud as she tutors Jake through his chemistry while doing her own calculus. Surprisingly, Puck is doing his homework as well, while Connor is sitting on the floor with his cheek resting against Puck’s calf, sketching.

Hi, Papa Schneider, eight different voices chorus, with one hey Dad thrown in for good measure.

Hey, kids, he says, and smiles, seeing them all crammed into the living room, cheerful and happy. He remembers vividly that only a few years ago, Jason was the only other teenager to ever grace the inside of their home. It’s noisy and messy, but it’s nice. He likes this. Connor, I need to borrow your head rest for a bit.

Both Puck and Connor look up. Several of the others look over as well, sensing subtle changes in Tom’s scent and heart rate that indicate something is up. Puck pops up from his chair without waiting for Connor to say anything. Sure.

Tom heads out to the back deck with Puck on his heels, making sure the door is shut behind them. It’s possible that one of the wolves could overhear them, but they’d have to put in effort, and going outside is a tacit request for privacy, so they won’t. He sits down at the patio table and glances up at Puck. Under normal circumstances, he would ask Puck to sit down, but generally speaking, Puck needs to move. Even under the best circumstances, he’s fidgety. It’s about one of the others, he says, figuring it’s best to put that out in front. But given that werewolf packs aren’t the rest of the world, I thought I should talk to you first.

Great. Puck huffs out a breath. Just get it over with, he adds, with a flapping hand gesture.

Tom nods once. Devon’s father was found dead today.

Oh, geez. Puck bites his lip. Okay. Uh. Do you have any idea who killed him?

As far as we can tell, no one and nothing. He was found on the sofa in his living room. No struggle, no violence, no sign of forced entry. Nothing was taken and nothing was out of place. It looks like he probably had a heart attack or something.

Well, he was a pretty high-stress guy. Puck vigorously rubs both hands over the back of his head. Okay. The fact that my brain skipped straight to murder probably means . . . that I’ve lived my life. Never mind. Ugh. Poor Devon.

Yeah. Do you want to be here when I tell him?

I think I should be, Puck says. He really has no idea how Devon will react to this news, but he knows that he’ll need comforting, one way or another. I might not understand Devon’s relationship with his dad, but I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I’ll go get him.

He jogs back inside, and Devon looks up from the television when Puck calls his name, blinking in puzzlement. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. I was framed.

Yes, Connor has framed all of us several times, it’s an art thing, Puck says, completely unable to resist the stupid pun. Everyone groans. C’mon, my dad doesn’t bite, he’s not the werewolf here.

Devon nods and climbs to his feet, handing the game controller to Joey. That’s not making me any less worried, he says, but follows Puck anyway. Puck starts to shut the door into the house behind them, but then changes his mind, leaving it ajar. Devon won’t care, and it’ll be easier for everyone if the others ‘overhear’ this conversation, so Devon won’t have to talk about it.

Tom looks up as Devon nervously sinks into the chair across from him. Arcadia Lake is a small enough town that it’s not often that he has to break news about the death of a loved one, but it never gets any easier. He knows the best thing to do is to say it as simply as possible. Devon, he says, as Puck leans against the railing a few feet away, not crowding them. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your father is dead.

Devon stares blankly at Tom for a moment, then looks down, his palms rubbing nervously over his thighs. He looks back up. I’m sorry, what? He licks his lips a little and then adds hastily, Not that I didn’t hear you or, uh, or understand, but uh, what?

I can’t give you a lot of detail right now, Tom says gently. His body was found this morning. He was due at his shop and didn’t show. It looks like he probably had a heart attack or a stroke. There are a lot of possibilities right now, and we’ll know more after the autopsy, which is scheduled for tomorrow morning. But there wasn’t any evidence of foul play, so it was probably natural causes.

Devon nods and sniffles, then rubs the knuckles of one hand under his eye. Okay.

I’ll keep you posted as soon as I hear something, Tom says, reaching over the table to give Devon’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

Another nod. Thanks, he says, and stands slowly.

Now Puck is at his elbow. I know ‘are you okay’ is a stupid question, so, you know, is there anything I can do? Anything you want to do? That would help?

I don’t know what would help, Devon says. Can we just go back in? Maybe watch a movie?

Puck can tell that Devon desperately wants to bury himself in the comfort of pack right now. Sure, he says, getting a hand on Devon’s elbow both to comfort and to steady him. He looks over his shoulder at his father and gives him a reassuring nod as they head inside. The rest of the pack is all sitting in some uneasy silence.

Devon starts grabbing random people on his way to the sofa so he has someone to curl up with. He doesn’t seem to notice or care who. Puck goes over to the shelf of DVDs and skims quickly for something stupid and funny with no parental problems. Leave some room for me over there, he says to the pack, grabbing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Devon nods and takes up a small space, knees pulled up underneath his chin and arms around his shins. If people squish him in, all the better.

They all wind up sleeping in a pile in the Schneider living room, because nobody wants to move once they’ve gotten comfortable. They order Chinese food for dinner. Puck has discovered that Jake has an amazing talent for organization, and he’s quickly been deemed the pack secretary. Whereas before it would have taken them half an hour to figure out what to order, Jake has everything saved into his phone and can place an order in under two minutes. Puck is thinking about all the ways this skill might serve them well in the future. It’s a shame, he thinks, that Henry and Rose were so set on turning him into a fighter. He would be an excellent hunter – just not in the way they wanted him to be.

Puck is glad he managed to get some solid sleep, since it’s probably going to be a long day. Devon is still obviously upset about his father’s death, and Puck wants to stay near him as much as possible. That’s a little awkward, since they only share two classes, but he can make an effort by checking on him in the hallways between classes.

I’ll be fine, Devon tells him.

Of course you will be, Puck says. See you in fifty-two minutes.

Devon rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest, and even waits outside the class afterwards so Puck can catch up with him. Their next class is together, and then he heads off to French while Puck goes to his history class. Sophie can keep him company there.

He has to stop at his locker to grab what he needs for calculus, but he still finds Devon standing outside the French classroom, chatting with Sophie. They have their next class together, along with Jason and Joey, and it’s just down the hall. As he reaches them, he hears a voice shout, Hey, Schneider! and he turns, Connor automatically moving between him and whatever might be a threat.

But it’s just one of the art teachers, Mitch Carson. He’s a man in his thirties who’s well-liked by all the students, and Puck knows him from a class he had his freshman year. Carson snaps a quick photograph of Puck and probably gets a great expression of confusion on his face. What was that for? Puck asks, laughing.

Candids, for the yearbook! Carson says. He glances over the crowd of them and then says, Hey, Devon. I heard about your dad. I’m really sorry.

Yeah, Devon says, and then adds, Thanks.

You want to talk?

Devon fidgets with the strap of his backpack. Nah, I’m good.

Okay. Hey, you know, the yearbook staff could use a few more people, if you were looking for a way to take your mind off of it, Carson adds. "There’s always a lot of last minute stuff to get, with the prom and