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Up the Airy Mountain


Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald

As soon as I put down the phone on Saturday morning I knew that Val was planning to get herself killed.

All she'd said was, "I found a place that didn't smell right, so I thought I'd go check it out in the daytime."

I said, "Wait for me," and that was it.

Thing is, Val thinks she's immortal. I know she isn't. So I grabbed my backpack from behind my bedroom door and went out to the pickup. I had to brush a layer of fresh snow off the Beast's windshield before I could see well enough to drive. I hadn't gone anywhere off the farm since getting back from school on Friday afternoon before it started snowing, even though there'd been a dance later that same night and I sort of have a steady girlfriend.

But the sort-of-girlfriend is Val, and Val…well, Val is a werewolf. It means she can't eat pizza because of the garlic; she's always hungry because all that supernatural healing ability, strength, and speed have to get their energy from somewhere; and she doesn't approve of the Lone Ranger because of those silver bullets. I like her anyway. Want to make something out of it? What it all boils down to is, the reason I wasn't at the dance was because Val wasn't at the dance, and Val wasn't at the dance because Friday night was the full moon, and she was off running through the hills and howling.

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