Other (13 page)

My entire body throbs with pain. I clench my teeth, and a muffled groan escapes. I can't keep doing this. Shaking, I slide inside and grope through the darkness to the door. In the bathroom, I swig a glass of water so cold it makes my teeth ache, concentrating on swallowing and trying not to look at my shifting reflection.

My gut cramping, I double over and retch. Breathe, Gwen. Breathe. I get a grip on myself and return to my bedroom. Yet another gunshot shatters the night. I want to go out and look, to see who's winning, even though I know it's totally stupid. Fear and recklessness battle inside me. Guess which one wins.

I grab a notepad and scribble,
Heard howls. Went out as an owl to see. Don't worry!!! Love, Gwen
. I leave it on my pillow.

Face flushed with shame, I yank off my clothes before it's too late, climb onto the roof, and jump. My stomach lurches as I shapeshift. My owl wings strain upward, slowing my descent. I flap hard and gain altitude. The moon shines through a filigree of boughs, casting milky light upon the forest.

Danger draws me like a moth to a flame. I'm just waiting to get burned.

I knife through the darkness, soaring low over the trees. Dark shapes are loping below me, keeping out of the moonlight. The sight of them sends a thrill down my spine. They're so huge and wild and
real
. They don't pant, as if they're desperately trying to keep quiet. I sweep the air with my wings, to keep up without flying too fast.

Behind me, I hear a hissed curse. I swivel my head and see a figure with a gun. Owls must have better hearing than werewolves—I hoot in warning. One of the werewolves looks back and barks. They scatter into the shadows.

“Damn owl,” someone whispers.

I tilt one wing down and bank toward the figure. It's a tall man all in camouflage, wearing night-vision goggles, holding a rifle with a laser rangefinder scope. Somebody spent a lot of money on high-tech hunting gear. Behind him, I spot four shorter guys in black ski masks. One of them holds a shotgun.

“Where'd they go?” says the guy with the shotgun.

I recognize the voice in a heartbeat. Chris. I know who the other three short guys must be.

“Shhh,” says the tall man. I have no idea who he is.

He stalks forward, then hooks his fingers and beckons the others. I sail over their heads silently, then circle back and follow. The guys sneak into the darkness after the werewolves. Gunfire rattles nearby. My heart skips a beat.

The hunters move faster, running in a crouch. Ahead, I see more men with guns. They look familiar, Klikamuks townspeople I don't remember by name. They nod at the tall man with the night-vision goggles.

“We got one,” a bearded man says.

“Good,” the tall man says. His voice. Have I heard it before?

“It's wounded,” the other man continues, “but it kept running.”

“Let's get it,” Chris says, his voice quivering with bloodlust.

I'm flying too close, too low. I flap and try to slow, but owls can't hover. The wind from my wings ruffles their hair.

They look up.

“There's that fucking owl again!” Chris says.

He raises his shotgun and takes aim. Holy shit—I don't want to die. I fold my wings and twist into a dive.
Bang.
Shot tatters my tail feathers and peppers the trees. I tumble, then flare my wings and swoop up.

“It knew,” the tall man says softly.

I don't stay to hear what he says next. I beat my wings hard and get the hell out of there. My ragged tail makes flying wobbly. I reach my house in record time, diving through my open window and crash-landing on my bed. I sink my talons into my mattress and drag myself upright, shapeshifting.

A girl again, I hug myself and shiver. My ears are still ringing. I smell gunpowder.

On my pillow, I see my note. I grab it and try to imagine Mum reading it in the morning while I lay bleeding in the forest.

I crumple the note, slam my window shut, and climb into bed. I drag the covers up to my chin. The urge to hide beneath them grips me, and I laugh hysterically. I hate this. I don't want to be afraid of dying anymore.

I bury my face in my pillow and scream.

No one comes running, luckily, and I stare into the darkness until I succumb to sleep.

thirteen

W
hen I wake at five the next morning, I'm exhausted, as if I didn't get any sleep at all. I yank open my curtains and squint at the dawn. Thin clouds ripple across the sky, the sun tinting them gold. When I was a little kid, I used to think there had to be clear skies for someone to die, so they could go to heaven.

Did werewolves die last night? I abandoned them to the hunters. But what could I have done?

I swallow hard. It's not worth pondering it—it's none of my business. Blinking my bleary eyes, I shuffle over to my computer. Checking my blog seems comfortingly mundane. No new comments, so I open my email next. My gaze snags on an old email from Chloe, just a short message about lunch. It hurts to read.

I scroll past it and select all the spam, my finger on the delete button. Wait. Is that spam? A message from FoxFire88.

Gwen,

I didn't mean to pressure you yesterday. My apologies. I need someone to talk to, someone who understands what's really going on around here. Chloe, Mr. Quigley, that couple who supposedly drowned. They're all connected. We both know we're also in danger because of who we are. You don't have to reply, but consider that we might be able to help each other.

Tavian

It feels like the bottom of my stomach has dropped out. Oh, man. He
is
an Other. A kitsune, a fox spirit. And he's sure I'm Other, too.

What do I say? Do I have to reply?

Tavian confuses me, to make the understatement of the century. And I think I've had enough of guys and their cryptic statements. I've had enough of letting my guard down and getting hurt.

I close my email and blow out my breath. The scent of bakestones trickles under my door. No matter how crummy I'm feeling, I can't resist bakestones—they're a kind of Welsh scone. Mum always adds golden raisins. I suspect this is part of Operation Cheer Gwen Up. Well, it's working. I hurry downstairs.

“Morning,” I say, and cram a bakestone into my mouth.

Ah, heavenly. Ambrosia isn't Greek; it's Welsh. Guilt needles me. It's only been a week since Chloe died. How can I be so happy? But an undercurrent of pain lurks beneath the surface. I dip into it, then pull myself out again.

“Mail,” Dad calls, slapping it on the table.

Mum riffles through the mail. “There's something for you, Gwen.” She hands me a cream-colored envelope.

“Oh?” I say, my mouth full of hot buttered bakestone.

“What is it?” Megan asks, leaning closer.

I grab the envelope. Zack's return address, written in impeccable cursive handwriting—not his. The bakestone suddenly tastes like cardboard. I swallow hard and rip open the envelope. Out falls a folded brochure and a note.

I read the note first. It's also written in the cursive handwriting.

Dear Gwen,

I hope this will provide some comfort in your troubled times. I know it has helped quite a few people find happiness.

God bless,

The Arrington Family

My chest tightens. I unfold the brochure. The first thing that catches my eye is a picture of two girls laughing. They have pointed ears—faeries, or elves. Beneath them it says,
Freedom is possible through the Lord!

Oh, no. I don't want to keep reading, but I do anyway.

Are you struggling with your paranormality or “Other­ness”? Do you feel distanced from your family and friends? At times it can seem impossible to escape sin's grip, but remember that God still loves the sinner. There's no need for suffering. If we trust Him to heal us, His unlimited power will help us. You can successfully manage paranormality and live a full and holy life. We know the journey isn't an easy one, but the American Association for Research and Treatment of Paranormality will stay by your side throughout the process. For more information, please visit our website or give us a call.

My hands clench involuntarily around the paper. I shove my chair from the table, stride to the garbage can, and tear the brochure into pieces. Mum, Dad, and Megan gape at me. I'm breathing hard, trying not to cry.

“What was it?” Megan asks, in a tiny voice.

“Shit. Total shit.”

“Gwen!” Mum looks shocked.

I don't say any more, afraid my voice will crack. I just shake my head and go upstairs to my bedroom. I curl on my bed and hold my shark toy tight even though I know it's stupid and immature. It takes five minutes—I count—for the burning in my eyes to stop.

When I think I can talk again, I grab my cell phone and dial Zack's number.

“Hello? Gwen?” he says, his voice disbelieving.

“You told them?”

Silence.

“Don't play dumb. I got the brochure. Was it your idea?”

“No. Ben thought we—”

“Oh, great.” I clench my jaw. “Your brother's just as preachy as the rest of you.”

“It's not like that, we—”

“Why did you tell them?”

Zack exhales in a hiss. “I had to. What was I supposed to say?”

Something inside me snaps, and I'm yelling. “Nothing! You didn't have to tell anybody anything. I trusted you, Zack. Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you the truth? I thought you would understand.”

“Gwen …”

“I thought you were different, not another one of those narrow-minded prejudiced Christians who thinks all Others are sinful and evil. But you're just like the rest of them. You'd rather believe other people over me.”

No reply.

“Zack? Zack, are you listening?”

“I don't know what to say. What do you want me to say?”

“I … I … do you still love me?”

“I loved the Gwen I knew.”

My heart folds and crumples. “Fine.”

“Gwen … it's all been so sudden. I've barely had any time to think about it.”

“Why am I even wasting my time on you?”

Zack's voice chills. “If that's what you think …”

It isn't, really, but I can't bring myself to say so. “I have to go. I'm sorry.”

I hang up before he can hear me crying. But my tears stop much sooner than they usually do, as if I've used them up. My pulse throbbing in my temples, I sit at my computer and reopen my email. My fingers rattle the keys.

Hi Tavian,

All right. You want to talk? I'll be at the Boulder River Wilderness Area today, probably from now until noon. Look for a huge bigleaf maple about a mile from the Kliminawhit Campground. It's east of the Boulder River. Not too hard to find.

See you,

Gwen

My finger hovers over the send button. Should I? What the hell. I do.

I might as well just tell Tavian. He seems to know already. I'm sick and tired of dragging things out.

After refreshing the page every thirty seconds, I decide to test a novel I checked out from the library. It turns out to be a steamy romance involving a hunky alpha werewolf. Ugh. I've had enough of werewolves.

My email dings two minutes later. Apparently Tavian's also haunting his inbox.

I click on the message, my heart thumping.

Gwen,

I'll definitely be there. Looking forward to it.

Tavian

I get ready in a flash, stride across our backyard, and stalk into the forest.

The sun is lurking behind clouds, and a lukewarm breeze slides languidly through the trees. The quiet mismatches my thumping heart. I near the Kliminawhit Campground and veer around it. Ahead stands the maple—Chloe's maple.

“Tavian?” I call.

An ocean of leaves sighs around me. I glance at the maple's crown.

What was the last thing Chloe saw? Was she still alive when the murderer hung her? I suck in a slow breath and banish those thoughts from my mind. I don't feel at peace, but I feel numb, which is almost as good.

It's cold in the forest. Or maybe it's just me.

The wind nuzzles my neck and rakes its fingers through my hair. I shiver and cross my arms. You know, it's probably not particularly safe to be standing out here in the open, alone. I glance at the maple again.

I have an idea. Slightly crazy, but I feel slightly crazy today.

I kick off my shoes and curl my toes in the leaf litter, feeling the cool loam beneath. I flex my fingers. My nails blacken and curve into claws. Tan fur shadows my skin, but I hold the rest of the transformation back. Half-
cougar
, half-girl, I quiver on the brink of shapeshifting. I swipe at a tree and gash bark, wondering what flesh would feel like. Nobody better try to mess with me now. My muscles bunch, and I spring in one fluid motion. Claws biting the bark, I climb to a high limb.

With a triumphant sigh, I relax into girl form and shut my eyes. That felt
so
good. It's about time I shapeshift when and how I want to. My arms dangle beneath me. Bark presses its pattern into my skin.

“Gwen?” calls a faint, familiar voice.

I keep my eyes shut.

“Gwen?” Tavian calls, closer to me.

I open my eyes and watch him wander closer. He looks small beneath me.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears. He found me. He actually came. What should I say? How can I trust him?

Tavian glances around, then up. “Gwen!”

I say nothing, just stare at him with lowered eyelids.

He half-frowns, half-smiles. “How did you get up there?”

“I climbed.” My voice sounds flat, contrary to the excitement jittering inside me.

Tavian squints. “That's a long way up.”

“Yes, it is.”

He stares at me for a moment. “Aren't you going to say hello?”

“Hello.”

“Why don't you come down?”

“I don't want to.” Actually, I doubt I can without changing back into a cougar.

Tavian frowns at me. “Okay. Fine.” He rummages in the pocket of his jacket. “But I wanted to give you this.”

I stare at the envelope in his hand. What's inside? A confession that he's Other?

“What is it?” I say.

He smirks. “You'll never know unless you come down.”

“I already said I'm not.”

Tavian waves the envelope at me. I don't budge. I'm obviously stalling for time. But I have an awful track record when it comes to telling the truth.

“Why did you
really
come?” I say.

He cocks his head. “Why did you?”

Growl. Enough of this. If he's Other, he can say it first.

I yawn, feigning laziness, and close my eyes again. I wait for him to say something or go away. Instead I hear scraping, a grunt. I look down. Tavian has jammed his foot in the fork of the trunk and is hauling himself up.

“You won't make it,” I say.

“Oh yes I will,” Tavian says.

He scrambles onto a higher branch. I watch him for a moment, then stare at the sky. If he wants me, he can come get me.

Leaves shudder around me. The wood creaks and groans. Tavian's breathing comes closer, then there's a loud crack.

“Oh, shit!”

My gaze snaps in his direction. A rotten branch has crumbled beneath his feet, and he's hanging from a higher branch, staring at the falling fragments. The envelope flutters down. His legs dangle at least twenty feet above the ground.

I grip bark as if I'm the one in danger, not him.

Tavian tries to lift himself onto the limb. He pulls himself halfway up and holds himself there, his muscles taut, then struggles to hook his leg over the branch. But after a minute his arms tremble, and he swings back down.

“Uh, Gwen? A little help?”

My heart thumps in my ears. How can I get to him without shapeshifting? I'll have to try it as a human first.

“Bollocks, Tavian!” I hiss as I crawl closer. “I told you not to come up.”

“Actually,” he says, grimacing, “you told me I wouldn't make it.”

“Shut up, or I'll let you fall.”

“You wouldn't.” His smile is strained. “You like me, don't you?”

My face flushes. “No,” I lie.

I climb down the tree, as close to him as I can. There's a big, swaying gap between me and the branch he's hanging from.

“Don't jump,” he says, the humor gone from his voice. “It's too dangerous.”

“You're a fine one to talk,” I say.

I crouch and slowly stand, my arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. I wobble, then find my balance.

“Gwen. Find a safer way down. Go get help.” His hands slip, and he struggles to hold on. “Don't do anything stupid.”

“Damn it, Tavian! I'm not going to leave you hanging there. I'm not going to let you fall. You should have never come after me! You're going to get yourself killed, just like—” My throat constricts, and the word doesn't come out.

Tavian gapes at my eyes. I know they're glowing.

“Screw it,” I say. “Don't look, okay?”

He continues gaping.

“Just don't look!” I tug my shirt off, and that finally makes him shut his eyes. “Okay, now hold on.”

“I don't plan on letting go.”

My clothes float to the ground. Somehow I think I'm too experienced at perching, naked, in trees. I leap from the branch, my arms spread. Tawny cougar fur sweeps over me. Claws scythe from my fingertips.

Tavian peeks. Great. “Gwen!” he shouts.

I try to tell him to shut his eyes, but a strangled cougar scream escapes.

Yelling, Tavian lets go of the branch, which is quite possibly the dumbest thing to do. I bite the back of his shirt like a cat does with a kitten's scruff. My momentum slams us both against the trunk, and I dig my claws into the bark and cling to the tree. Leopards make it look so easy, carrying gazelles up trees. Tavian keeps yelling, and it hurts my ears.

I growl around a mouthful of shirt:
Shut up!
He must get the message, because he does.

My claws slip, gashing the bark. I inch, backward, down the tree, then lose my footing and scrabble down the rest of the way. With an undignified thump, we both land in the leaves, bruised but alive.