Other (9 page)

It would be so easy to kill Others in a big city like Seattle. Pick them off, one by one.

I leave the living room in a cold, numb daze and trudge upstairs to my bedroom. The water sprites. The vampire. Mr. Quigley. How easy was it to kill them? I lie limp on my bed, blood whooshing through my ears. I drag the covers over my head and curl into a ball. Hot tears leak past my eyelids.

The hatred finally boiled over. Someone's killing Others.

I toss aside my covers, grab my cell phone, and call Chloe. I gouge a hangnail as it dials.

“Hello?” she says.

Words tumble out of my mouth. I want to tell her everything: Mr. Quigley, the boys harassing me again, Tavian, the murders in Seattle.

“Slow down,” she says, in a voice of forced calm.

I draw a shaky breath and start over, digging at my hangnail until it starts bleeding.

She listens, then at last says, “You think there's a serial killer out there?”

“I don't want to.” By now I'm gulping air and trying not to cry. “Do you?”

She's silent for a moment, and that tells me everything.

“Do you think Tavian's right?” I say. “Do you think they're Others?”

“Can we trust him?”

I heave a shuddering sigh. “I don't know. Do you think
he's
Other?”

“There's a possibility. I haven't a clue what kind, though.” Chloe pauses. “You know, these killings make me think of the White Knights.”

“The White Knights?”

“An ultraconservative organization that's built around a hatred of Others. They're famous for burning crosses and lynching Others. Around the turn of the century, the White Knights had over four million members in America alone.”

“Oh! I remember reading about them. But I thought they disappeared in the 1930s.”

“That's merely what the history books say. So long as people hate Others, the White Knights will never truly die out.”

I shudder. “You think it's them?”

“Or perhaps someone who aspires to the ideals of the White Knights. Gwen, if a killer is targeting Others, we'll simply have to lie low.”

“What, you trust the police to do their job?”

She speaks in a cool tone. “Don't try to do their job for them. Now would be an exceedingly poor time to make ourselves known.”

“Yeah.” I grab a tissue and blow my nose. “Sorry. I didn't mean to get all emotional.”

“That's all right. It frightens me too. Promise you'll be careful?”

“Of course. You too.”

I stare at my reflection, red-eyed and blotchy, in the mirror above my bookcase.

Chloe pauses. “How are things between you and Zack?”

“Not bad, actually. I think I'm going to tell him soon.”

“Good.” Her voice sounds warm with relief. “I'm proud of you, Gwen. It takes guts.”

I'm quiet for a moment, a little embarrassed, and then a thought crosses my mind. “How about you and that—you know, Randall?”

Chloe coughs. “We're both fine.”

“I still can't believe you're dating him,” I mutter.

“I trust him.”

“I can't believe you do.”

“Are you implying I have poor judgment?” Chloe says frostily.

My face reddens, and I'm glad she can't see it. Part of me wants to ask what he's like. I've never knowingly had a conversation with a werewolf.

She sighs. “Well, I should go. We can talk more later, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for listening to me. I feel better now.”

“You're welcome.” Chloe's voice thaws a bit. “Good night.”

I set down my phone and bite a hangnail. Really, of all the crazy things … dating a werewolf has to be near the top of the list.

I sign on to the Internet and scour Tavian's blog for any signs of Otherness, but it's so full of the bizarre and fantastic it's almost impossible to tell. He's uploaded a new piece of artwork, in the style of a Japanese woodblock print—a little black-haired boy standing among foxes in kimonos. The boy looks lost.

I frown hard. What does it mean? Who
is
Tavian?

nine

W
hen I open my bedroom curtains the next morning, I think it's snowed in the middle of summer—but only for a few groggy seconds. The white is toilet paper. It loops and tangles through the trees in our backyard.

I stare numbly at the TP. Who did this?

Chris. Brock. And the rest of those stupid boys.

I glance at my alarm clock. Still 6:40. I'm the early bird of the family. Maybe I can clean it before the others wake up.

I don't bother changing out of my pajamas, just slide open my window and crawl onto the roof. Gritting my teeth, I grab a piece of TP fluttering in the wind. The moist air makes it somewhat soggy. It tears into little pieces. I curse and pull myself into the nearest vine maple. I grab fistfuls of TP and toss it down.

This is going to take forever. My stomach sinks to somewhere in the region of my toes.

Damn it! Why did I ever try to talk to those guys in the woods? Why did I talk to them again at the hardware store? I should've just ignored them and told my parents. But then they'd be pissed at me, too.

I work faster. I can't reach the highest branches. Should I transform into some sort of nimble animal? Would anybody see? A dog barks, and traffic whooshes on the nearby highway. A car door slams, an engine starts.

Maybe if I go down and get a stick. A rake. Or something.

I descend from the vine maple, scraping my knees and bloodying some knuckles. I drop to the ground. A sharp rock jabs my foot. I yelp and hop on one leg, cursing through clenched teeth. Crappity-crap.

The front door scrapes open. I freeze like a deer in the headlights.

“Gwen?” Dad blinks owlishly at me. “What's going on?” His eyes widen as he glances around the yard. “Who did this?”

“Not me.” I laugh, on the verge of hysteria. “Not my fault.”

But it is, to some degree. My throat tightens until it hurts.

Dad tramps outside in his slippers. He stalks around the yard, glowering at every tree, and rakes his fingers through his tousled hair.

“I'm sorry.” My voice quavers, and I have to look away for a whole second before I can get a grip on myself. “I didn't mean to piss them off.”

Dad stares at me. “Who?”

“Chris and Brock, those brothers. Mikey. This guy named Josh.”

Dad looks dumbfounded. “But
why
?”

“I need to talk with you and Mum.”

Mum isn't very happy to be woken up for this. As soon as she sees the mess in the yard, the Welsh swearwords fly. I make a mental note to look them up later, if I can manage to spell them.

My parents sit at one end of the kitchen table. I sit at the other. Why does this feel like the interrogation room in a police station?

“All right, Gwen. Tell us,” Mum says, her accent suddenly strong. Uh-oh.

I draw a shaky breath. The story spills out of my mouth. Everything, including me digging claws into Chris's arm and drawing blood. When I repeat the word “gick,” tears sting my eyes, but I set my jaw. I end with a pathetic, “I'm sorry.”

“Gwenny,” Dad says, “it's not your fault.”

“Isn't it, Nicholas?” Mum's voice lilts like a furious songbird. “She knew very well what sort of trouble she was getting herself into.”

I let my head drop to the table and fold my arms in front. “I know,” I moan.

“Those boys were being assholes!” Dad says.

“Of course they were,” Mum says. “But Gwen has to learn that just because she's half pooka, she's not bloody invincible.”

I hate it when they start talking about me like I'm not in the room.

Dad sighs. “You're right.” Anger returns to his voice. “Gwen, what happened in the store? Were they harassing you?”

I nod. Hot tears roll down my face. I keep my head down.

“Those little pieces of—”

“Nicholas,” Mum says.

Dad glares at the floor, his jaw taut, and I know he's trying not to rant around Mum.

“Gwen,” Mum says, softer. She can always tell when I'm crying. “Those boys had no right to treat you that way, but what you did was dangerous. There's a better way to handle things. You have to be nonconfrontational.”

“What?” I lift my head, frowning. Is she going to go all Gandhi on me?

“Talking to those boys only provoked them,” Mum says.

“Obviously,” I mutter under my breath.

Mum narrows her eyes, and I flush.

“Nonconfrontational,” Dad repeats. “It's best to ignore them and report them to someone who can handle them.”

“What, the police?” I say with a bitter laugh. “They don't care about Others.”

“They'll care about this,” Mum says, waving at the TP on the trees. “Believe me!”

She has this tone that makes me believe she'll march down to the police station and kick butt if they don't cooperate. I feel a little bit better.

“I don't think TPing is actually illegal in this county,” Dad says, somewhat mournfully.

“Well then.” Mum sighs. “I suppose I'd better call their parents before the police.”

“I hope they get grounded for life,” I mutter.

Mum goes over to the telephone. As she flips through a phone book, she glances at me. “As for you, Gwen … I don't want you out of this house after dark. As soon as the sun goes down, you're staying in.”

“Okay,” I say.

“That includes nighttime flying,” Mum says.

“What?” How did she know about that? Bollocks. I underestimated her motherly radar.

Mum gives me a scorching look.

“Yes, Mum,” I sigh.

I still don't feel right. Shaky, sick with fear. Chris, Brock, and the other guys seem to think I'm Other. But if they'd do something as silly as TPing my yard, they don't seem like the kind of people to actually kill anyone.

Then who did?

Of course, the werewolves are the most likely suspects. They're not very friendly. I mean, heck, they're fugitives from Canada. Frowning, I lean my elbows on the table and knead my forehead. Why do I have to have problems in the boyfriend, family, and possible-serial-killer departments all at once?

My life officially sucks.

My cell phone rings, and everybody jumps. It's Zack. I unplug it from the charger on the kitchen counter and hurry upstairs.

“Hey, Zack,” I say, trying to sound like I'm glad to hear from him.

“How's it going?”

“Good,” I lie.

“I just remembered something I wanted to tell you the other night.”

My stomach sinks. “Oh?”

“My parents and Ben are going to an art fair this Sunday. They'll be gone until the afternoon. We can have the whole house to ourselves.”

I perk up. “Really?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

“Yeah!” Suddenly I feel alive again, my skin tingly. Now's my chance to tell him.

“I want to make things perfect,” Zack says, his voice suddenly velvety.

“Oh!” Of course that's what he means. “I …”

“I'll let you think about it. Call me if you're interested, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

Zack hangs up, and I set down my cell phone with wobbly hands. I clench them into fists. Why do I have to be so naïve and scared? I chew on my lower lip. After a minute or so, I tell myself that I'm making my decision and there's no turning back. No chickening out now, it's too late for that. I'm going to go.

Sunday morning, I keep glancing at my cell phone. It rings, and I lunge. Gah. Just one of those random telemarketer numbers.

Deep breaths, Gwen. I pretend to swoon onto the bed. Giggling, I hug myself. Okay. I know I want to do this. I've been thinking about it practically forever. Now we'll finally be as close as we can be.

And somehow or another, I'll tell him the truth about me being Other.

With sweaty hands, I call Zack.

“Gwen?”

“Yeah, it's me.” I draw a deep breath. “How's it going?”

“Great. My parents just left. You want to come over?”

The way he says it, I can imagine his eyes smoldering. “Sure.”

I shut my cell phone and rub off the fingerprints. After half an hour of trying on clothes, I settle on my favorite jeans and a moss green blouse. I brush my hair, watching myself in the mirror, then run downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“What's the hurry?” Mum calls, peering from her office.

“I'm going to Zack's,” I say.

“For how long?”

I flush. “Oh, I don't know. An hour or two.”

She eyes me, then looks back at her computer. “Okay. Be safe.”

What's that supposed to mean? Be safe on the way there, or be safe with Zack?

“I will,” I say, since I plan on both.

The bus ride to Zack's neighborhood lasts several eternities. I cross and uncross my legs, my skin hypersensitive, and keep reapplying my lip gloss. Finally I hop off the bus and walk to his house. When I knock, he sweeps open the door.

“Hey,” he says. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” I flash a nervous smile.

He ushers me inside with a wave of his arm. I cross the threshold, my heart racing. I stride to the living room and perch on the couch.

“Zack?”

He's standing in the doorway of the living room. “What?”

“Uh …” I break into a grin. “This is kind of awkward, isn't it?”

“Not really.”

I can't stop staring at his eyes, so blue, and his long loose hair. I realize I'm pressing my knees together. I force myself to relax.

“Do you think we should talk more?” I say.

“We already talked,” he says. “Isn't that why you're here?”

I blush. “Well, yes.”

He flicks his eyebrows upward. “Come upstairs. You're going to love what I found.”

The moment of no return. I can back out later, but it will be harder emotionally. A grandfather clock fills the silence with ticks.

Excitement bubbles inside me, boiling over as one word. “Okay.”

Zack heads upstairs. I follow, clutching the banister. My heart hammers at my own daring. He peeks inside his bedroom.

“Uh, wait here,” he says.

He darts inside and shuts the door behind him. I see his shadow through the crack under the door. What's he doing?

“Okay,” he calls. “Come in!”

I push open the door. The window curtains are closed. Silver candlesticks stand on his dresser and cast a warm, flickering glow.

“Oh!” I say, sounding unusually coy. “How lovely.”

“Yeah.” He smiles, a smoking match in his hand. “I found them in the attic. I almost did roses too, but that would be overboard.”

I try to smile in return. I can tell him now. But I really don't want to ruin the moment.

“You look nervous,” he says. “Relax.”

That was blunt. I press my lips together.

Zack stands so close behind me I can feel the heat of his body. His breath stirs the hairs on the nape of my neck. I tense.

“Zack …” I face him. “I …”

He kisses me on the mouth, and words melt from my mind. I pull back, my pulse racing. His eyes are flame-blue.

“I have to tell you something,” I say quickly. “You don't know everything about me.”

He frowns, then makes an effort to look understanding. “Okay.”

“I … I'm not sure how to say this, but I'm …”

He exhales, relief dawning on his face. “It's okay.”

“Really?”

He nods and steps very close. Before I can speak, he scoops me into his arms.

“Zack!” I make a noise between a laugh and a shriek. “Don't drop me!”

He smiles down at me. “Don't worry. I've got you.”

I cling to his neck, feeling like one of those women on a romance novel cover. Heat radiates off his body, and desire clouds my mind. I want him, all of him. He lays me on his bed and kisses me so fiercely I wilt.

“Zack,” I whisper.

His golden hair curtains my face. He kisses the hollow of my neck. I swallow, feeling his lips against my throat.

“Zack, wait.”

He pulls back. “Too fast?”

I struggle to catch my breath, my hand above my heart. He stares at the rise and fall of my chest. My blouse rides up past my bellybutton, and his fingers skim the bare skin at my waist. I catch his hand.

“Stop,” I say, trying to be gentle but firm.

He frowns, looking more and more confused. “What's the matter?”

“It's not you … it's just … I …”

Tenderness fills his eyes. “Gwen. I totally understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he says, and he kisses me as if to prove it.

When he pulls back, I know he can see the hesitation on my face.

“Do you want to or not?” he asks.

“It's more complicated than that.”

“It's kind of a yes-or-no question.”

I sigh. I'm such a coward. How can I break it to him?