I Was a Teenage Weredeer by C. T. Phipps & Michael Suttkus

Author:C. T. Phipps & Michael Suttkus [Phipps, C. T. & Suttkus, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: urban fantasy
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2017-09-20T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I woke with a monstrous headache. I was lying down with a wet wash cloth over my head and jolted up once I remembered what had happened. “Emma!”

No answer.

The sight that surrounded me was a confusing one because I was in the family cabin. Sort of. It was identical to how the cabin had been when Grandpa Jacob was alive, not redecorated like Jeremy had wanted with his posters and stuff. The place had an old rustic feel with fishing equipment, stuffed trout, and portraits of the Wild West on the walls. The floor had several hand-woven rugs done in Odawa patterns. Sunlight was streaming through the windows even as yet another rainstorm was pouring down, not diminishing the light one bit. I could see the kitchen past a load-bearing pillar, still looking like it’d been decorated in the 1950s.

Grandpa Jacob didn’t own a TV and in its place was an extra stuffed couch that had been patched several times. I was sitting on the leather couch across from it, an old Return of the Jedi blanket over me. Beside me was a plain wooden coffee table with a steaming mug of hot chocolate inside it. The mug had a cartoon stag holding a rifle on it, along with the words, “Deer Hunting Season 2001: This time we hunt you.” Oh Grandpa Jacob, father of so many weredeer traditions.

There was another quality that disconcerted me as I looked around the place. It was the fact the cabin was huge. It loomed around me not as I remembered it from the time I was an adult but like I remembered it from my earliest memories. The couch was sized for giants or me as a toddler, though I was in my regular form. I reached for my throat and thought about Emma going for it. She obviously hadn’t since I wasn’t dead. Was I?

“No,” I muttered, shaking my head. “If I was in Heaven it would be coffee. I hate hot chocolate.”

“Who hates hot chocolate?” the voice of my grandfather spoke.

Turning my head in shock, I saw the figure of Grandpa Jacob Abair. The oldest and wisest among our kind, theoretically, he was an Odawa man with weathered light-brown skin and long silver hair. Unlike the majority of the ones I’d met, he also had a thick bushy beard. He was dressed in a thick pair of slacks, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots. He had a bright smile on his face and looked not a day over sixty. I didn’t know much about his past, though I understood he was originally from the Little River Band of Ottawa Indians rather than Bright Falls or the Little River Indian Reservation. Yes, that meant I was one quarter Canadian.

Rather than react in a manner similar to heroines would in a novel or movie, tearfully embracing a long lost relative. I, instead, turned around and screamed before jolting to the other side of the couch. The sound that escaped my mouth as

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