Other (21 page)

Tavian waits for me at the bottom of my driveway. I climb into his car silently.

“You look tired,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek.

“I didn't sleep much last night.”

“Me neither.”

We say nothing as we drive to Boulder River. The clouds lie flat in the sky, tinged with a pallid yellow. My stomach feels heavy.

“There,” I say, pointing through the windshield. “See that tree?”

A charred cedar, struck by lighting, stands crookedly by the riverside, its veiny black boughs stretching across the sky.

“Well,” Tavian says. “It's certainly a big black tree.”

He pulls over and kills the engine. The dead grass sizzles in the breeze, and mosquitoes whine fitfully through the muggy soup of air.

Tavian locks his car and glances at me. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans.

He takes my hand, and we swish through the grass toward the blackened cedar. The wind gusts harder and I tense, wishing it didn't mask other sounds—like the sound of a killer stalking us, ready to strike—

“Gwen?” Tavian touches my arm. “Are you okay?”

I exhale in a shaky sigh. “Not really. I keep thinking we're going to get ambushed.”

He narrows his eyes, his irises flashing orange, and tilts his nose into the air. “I don't smell anyone else here … wait …”

“Wait?” I whisper. “What is it?”

“Come on.”

Tavian follows his nose, and I follow him. We reach the base of the cedar. The charred wood gleams dully in the overcast light. The slow, lazy snake of the river, glittering like scales, slithers through trees and muddy banks.

“Something smells weird,” Tavian says. “Like … fish? No, not quite.”

“Well, we are by a river,” I say with a nervous laugh.

“Over here.”

He tugs me down the slope to the riverside—me half following, half resisting. This scene seems too familiar to me. When I see a backwater pool glinting beyond the cattails, I freeze. I don't want to go any farther.

“Gwen?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Tavian sucks in air, then grimaces. “The smell is close.”

“Go ahead of me. Please?”

He hesitates, then nods and lets my hand go. I fold my arms tight, my hands tucked by my sides, and try to breathe only through my mouth. I don't want to smell what Tavian is smelling, because I think I know what it is. I watch him walk toward the cattails, his head held low, then turn my back on the river.

My hand flies to my mouth.

There, against an overhanging tangle of roots, sits a little girl. Her skin looks pale as porcelain, and she's staring at me with forget-me-not blue eyes. Dark curls, speckled with duckweed, hang around her angelically calm face.

“Hey,” I say, my voice high, trembling. “You scared me. Are you … Maris?”

The little girl stares at me, unblinking, sightless. I step toward her, then stop.

Oh, shit.

“Tavian?” I call. “Tavian!”

He jogs back to me and covers his mouth with his hand. “That's it. The smell.”

“I think it's Maris.”

My feet move by themselves, bringing me closer to her body. She's holding a chunky red crayon in one hand. In the other, a folded paper.

“Look at her neck,” Tavian murmurs.

I do, though I don't want to. Ugly bruises mark her pale skin. She was strangled.

“What kind of Other is she?” he asks.

I stare at her blue eyes. They look familiar, and so does the silvery sheen to her pale skin.

“Water sprite,” I say. “That couple who died … they must have had a daughter.”

“Ah.” Tavian's face twists. “She's what, five? Six?”

I realize what the paper in her hand must be. “The letter. What does the letter say?”

“Gwen, we should get out of here.”

“I want to read the letter.”

“Let's go.” Tavian tugs on my arm, but I don't budge. “Gwen.”

I bend over the girl, over Maris, and grasp the corner of the paper, but it won't come free. I pry apart her icy webbed fingers and unfold the paper. Rather than Maris's childish handwriting, it's chillingly precise.

I read it out loud:

Gwen: You are Other, are you not?

Tavian seizes my arm and drags me away from Maris. I stumble after him, the letter clenched in my hand, my heart thumping a million miles an hour. We zigzag through the grass, my throat burning, my lungs crying for air.

“Slow down!” I gasp.

“He's here,” Tavian says. “I smell him.”

Terror electrifies my muscles and my feet fly over the ground. They hit pavement, and I see Tavian's car ahead. Yes. We're going to make it. He yanks open the passenger door and pushes me inside. I shut the door as he hurries around the car. I sink low in my seat, clutching my seat belt.

Tavian opens his door, and I ask him—

A gunshot. The world slows down. Another.

Tavian staggers forward, his eyes wide. A scream leaps to my throat, and I barely hold it in. Blood streams from a wound between his lower left ribs.

He's been shot.

twenty-one

“O
h, no,” I say, my voice rising uncontrollably. “Oh, no. Tavian, get in the car!”

“I don't think I can drive.” He winces and clutches his side. “Ah.”

I wrench open my door and leap out of the car. Every muscle in my back tightens, waiting for another bullet. Every second feels like an eternity, and yet what happens next happens in a blur.

I help Tavian into the passenger seat and climb into the driver's side. I slam the door.

Please, no. Please don't let there be another shot.

After three tries, I start the engine and speed onto the road, the gas pedal to the floor. The car rattles over the washboard pavement.

“Gwen,” Tavian says. “Slow down.”

I glance at him. Blood soaks his shirt—so much blood.

Tavian tilts his head back and clenches his jaw, his face tight. “Oh, man. I didn't think getting shot would hurt this much.”

“Put pressure on the wound,” I say. “Stop the bleeding.”

He nods and clamps a jacket over the wound. I realize the bullet was meant for his heart, but I don't say this out loud.

When he shuts his eyes, my heart just about stops. “Tavian! Say something.”

He opens his eyes. “It hurts to talk.”

“Then don't talk!”

He half-laughs, then moans. “You just said to.”

“Shhh!”

“It's better if I breathe shallowly,” he says. “Oh, hell, blood all over the seat.”

“Wait.” I grab my cell phone. “No service.” I grab his. Same problem. “Shit!”

A widening circle of red is soaking through the jacket that he's holding over the wound. I look away. When we reach the main road, I stop and pull out my cell phone again, but it's still not getting any signal. I curse and toss it aside.

Tavian groans. Blood is dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “Damn.” He coughs, bringing up more red into the palm of his hand. “Must have gotten me in the lungs,” he says, sounding oddly detached.

“Are you okay?”

He smiles weakly. “Yes.”

I know he's lying.

“No talking,” I say.

Tavian twists his lips in what might be an attempt at a smile. “Yes ma'am.”

I try to smile back, but I'm scared as hell. I keep glancing at him as I drive. His teeth are beginning to chatter. His lips look bluish.

“Are you going into shock?” I say, my voice shrill.

Tavian says nothing, his eyes closed. Is he breathing?

“Talk to me!” I cry.

He opens his eyes a crack and rasps, “You said not to.”

“Don't
do
that to me.” I hit the steering wheel. Maybe if I keep him talking, he'll stay awake and alive. “Did you see who shot you?”

“No.”

“How close was he?”

“I don't know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Gwen.”

I glower at the road. “You don't have any idea?”

“Gwen! There's a guy out mowing.”

I slam on the brakes. A stout man with a John Deere baseball cap is driving a lawn mower outside his farmhouse.

I wrench open my door. “Hey!” I shout. “Help!”

The man stares straight forward, oblivious.

“Help!” I scream, waving my arms.

The man glances at me, frowns, and shuts down his lawn mower. He pulls off his earmuffs and walks toward me.

“Help,” I gasp. “Call 911. He's been shot.”

“Who?” says the man.

I run toward the car and yank open the passenger door. Tavian slumps in his seat, his eyes closed. His sodden, blood-soaked jacket lies on his lap. I check his neck for a pulse—it's there, but fast and erratic.

“Please don't die,” I whisper.

The strange man calls 911 on his kitchen telephone, and I kneel by Tavian as he lies bleeding and silent on a couch. Soon an ambulance wails to a stop outside and the paramedics move Tavian into the back. I sit beside him and hold his cool hand. I realize I don't know the man's name, but it's too late.

They wheel Tavian into the ER, his hand slipping limply out of mine. I stand alone at the doors until a woman in purple scrubs asks me if I'm okay; do I need to sit down? I nod my head. She guides me inside to a waiting room where I sit, mute and numb. I blink at the too-bright lights and wrinkle my nose at the smell of disinfectant and death. The woman stops trying to ask questions and leaves.

He could be dying right now. I might never see him again.

I'm shaking uncontrollably, ice in my veins. I fold my arms tight and cross my legs, but it doesn't help. The woman in purple scrubs returns and drapes a hospital blanket over me. I throw it off and march down the hallway where I saw them take Tavian. She holds me back while I fight to free myself.

“I have to see him!” My voice sounds rusty. “He needs me.”

She says she's sorry, I can't go in there right now. I sink onto a chair again. She murmurs soothing words I don't listen to.

The hospital doors slide open and an Asian couple comes running inside—a balding man with a trim goatee and a petite woman with steel-gray hair. The woman in scrubs leads them down to Tavian—their son, I realize—and leaves me alone.

The doors slide open again and three police surround me. Officer Sharpe is one of them.

“Hello again, Ms. Williams,” she says. “You and trouble seem to go hand-in-hand.”

I stare blankly at her, too numb to be afraid.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions. Where were you and Octavian Kimura when he was shot?” Sharpe says, her pen poised over a notepad.

“By Boulder River,” I say. “On the side opposite the forest.”

“What time, approximately?”

“I don't know. Morning. I don't know when, exactly.”

“Did you see who shot him?”

“No.”

Sharpe scribbles something. “What were you doing at Boulder River?”

I cross my ankles, stare at the bottoms of my sandals. “We were on a date.”

“Anything in particular?”

I meet her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Did you have anything in particular planned?”

My face heats. “No. Just a date.” What does she want? Graphic detail?

Officer Sharpe raises her eyebrows and scribbles something else down. “Did you see any unusual activity in the area?”

I remember Maris, her face so doll-like and calm. How can I leave her there to rot?

“Yes.”

“Can you be more specific?”

What should I tell her? How much more can I say before she thinks that I'm a part of these killings? That I'm guilty?

I shake my head. “You need to go there. You need to investigate.”

Sharpe's eyebrows descend.

“Gwen!” Mum's voice tugs me to my feet. “Oh, Gwen, are you all right?”

My family hurries through the doors, and I run to meet them. Mum catches me in a hug and squeezes me tight. Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders. Megan hovers nearby, and I glimpse her scared face.

“What happened?” Dad asks.

“Tavian got shot,” I say. “I'm okay.”

“Shot?” Mum gasps. “By who?”

“I don't know.” I glance at the police. “Nobody knows.”

“We're working on it,” Officer Sharpe says, her tone almost exasperated.

Megan touches my arm. “Is Tavian okay?”

I shake my head. “I don't know.”

As if she heard our question, the woman in purple scrubs returns. I read her nametag: Gloria Rivera. Her face is blank—what does that mean?

“You can visit him now,” she says to me.

I glance at Mum, and she nods. I follow the woman down a hallway.

Tavian is lying on a bed, hooked up to IVs and a cardiac monitor. There's a tube stuck down his throat to help him breathe. He looks so pale and vulnerable that I want to cry. His mother and father are sitting on either side of him.

Gloria clears her throat. “Ma'am. Sir.”

The Kimuras glance at me. Mr. Kimura stands and shakes my hand. “They say that without you, he might not have made it.”

Mrs. Kimura's dark eyes glimmer. “What happened?”

“He got shot,” I say. “We didn't see who did it.”

“Our son has told us a lot about you,” Mrs. Kimura says. “Do you love him?”

I blink, startled. “What?”

“Do you?”

I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, but I say, “Yes.” I do love him.

Mrs. Kimura gives me a wavering smile. “Good. He needs someone like you. You make him very happy, I can tell.”

I hear Dad clearing his throat in the doorway, and Mr. Kimura walks over to shake his hand, then Mum's and Megan's. They murmur introductions.

Mrs. Kimura keeps looking at me. “He said you were like him. Other.”

“I am.”

Mrs. Kimura smiles again. “He was so happy when he first told us about you.”

I slip to Tavian's side and look down at him. Gingerly, I touch his hand, as if I might wake him. It's still cool.

“He lost a lot of blood,” Mrs. Kimura says.

“I know,” I say. “I saw.”

Mrs. Kimura presses her lips together. “The bullet just missed his heart.”

I swallow hard.

Megan creeps up beside me. “What … what was it like?” she says in a timid voice.

“Horrible,” I say.

Gloria steps inside. “I'm sorry, but he needs his rest. You can visit again later.”

We all shuffle out of the hospital room and down the hallway. I still feel numb. Why am I not crying? Why am I not relieved, or terrified?

I eat dinner mechanically. Input nutrition. Brush teeth. Try to sleep.

Who tried to kill Tavian? It can't be Randall, unless he broke out of jail. And not Brock or Chris either, unless one of them was trying to avenge being bitten by a werewolf in some twisted way. Besides, Chris must still be in the hospital. That leaves … who?

It's hopeless. Any happiness in my life has been shot down. When will it be my turn to die?

I shut my eyes and let sleep carry me away.

I'm an owl flying over a nighttime forest. Werewolves run beneath me, fleeing hunters. Dread fills me, but I'm powerless to change anything. A tall man dressed in camouflage, wearing night-vision goggles, holds a rifle with a laser rangefinder scope. Everything shatters, reforms, and I see a werepuppy in a wolf trap, writhing and yelping. The wolf trap clanks at the end of a thick chain anchored to a tree.

I'm at the hardware store. “I'm looking for some chain,” Justin says. “I want extra strong.” He takes five yards of chain to the checkout, along with a camouflage poncho, three pairs of thick gloves, a shovel, and an ax.

As I scan the items, I say, “What's all this for, anyway?”

“Speaking of hunting,” he says, “is it true that you folks have a werewolf problem?”

Randall looms behind Justin, his eyes burning. “He was just … watching her. I tried to tell her. And then she died.”

I'm in the grass by Boulder River. A gunshot—a bullet from a hunting rifle.

I lurch awake, gasping as if surfacing from a deep dive. Realization drenches me like a bucketful of ice water. Randall wasn't lying about the stranger in the B&B. How could I have been so blind?

Justin's here to exterminate Others.

Stunned, I stare at the ceiling. It can't be true. Would Justin really exterminate people as if they're vermin? I remember his white van with the grotesque cartoon of a dead rat. What did the motto say? I strain to remember; it seems important.
We Get What the Others Leave Behind
. The Others. A cruel pun?

But why would he do this? Zack's words echo in my mind.
“
He loved this woman a year or so ago, even brought her to meet his family, but it turned out she was a vampire. I'm still not sure he's over her.”

Of course. Revenge. After being seduced and nearly bitten by an Other, Justin could have decided all Others were evil. The truth—if it is the truth—feels like a weight on my chest. I struggle to breathe. What does Zack know?