I trudge toward the park, head down and hood up. Something about the park challenges me. The site of my failure--it's as if I need to prove to it that I can hunt successfully. I head for the far end this time, where the trees fade into little bungalow houses and roads. I follow the pumping of music and the buzz of conversations until a house-turned-club appears.
One side of "the Attic" is painted with graffiti, and every time the door swings open, guitar and drum sounds sweep across the street, the notes plowing into me. There's a long line of people waiting to get in. Their shadows are sharp and well defined on the brick wall behind them. They think that this is what's real, that the world is just people with pretty hair and nice clothes and cars whizzing by. They haven't seen the sunlight.
Strange how seeing the light can make a person feel so 156alone in the darkness, I muse as I duck behind a ridiculously large SUV. This is the perfect spot to watch them, to wait and see who follows girls when they slip away in small packs. I lower myself onto the curb and try to look bored, as though I'm waiting on someone to come take my arm and lead me into the club. A few people glance at me, but their eyes move away quickly.
Watch. Just watch. Minutes pass, maybe longer. Most of the girls who walk away seem to have cars nearby, and no one lurks after them. Maybe the Fenris aren't around this club--maybe I should try another. I rise, but as I do, a group of three girls emerges from the club. One is obviously drunk--she stumbles down the steps as if her legs are made of cloth. The others laugh and help hold her up, though they don't look to be much better off. They pause at the corner, talking and pointing toward various streets. Finally, all seem to agree on a direction, and they begin to walk away from me. I'm about to turn my attention to someone else when I see a man in a dark coat slip away from the Attic's far wall. He blends in well with the other guys, but he moves away from the blasting music and loud chatter, toward the group of three girls.
He's a Fenris. I can feel it. There's something primal in his long, striding steps. I cross to a street that runs parallel, so I can watch without his knowing he's being followed. Why do I have to wait for him to transform, to give him a chance to get away? I don't have to be the bait. I can kill him now. I take a long step closer, like a cat edging toward a mouse. I wrap my fingers around my hatchet.
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And then the laughter, that damn bright, horribly bubbly laughter. They're at least my age, so how is it they laugh like children? They aren't like the sparkly club Dragonflies, but some less-adorned breed of Dragonflies in T-shirts and jeans, walking together down the city street with their arms linked and ponytails bobbing. The Fenris watches them hungrily, sniffing the air and grinning sickeningly when he catches the scent of their hair and perfume on the wind. It doesn't matter that people are all around--I can slaughter him like the monster he is, then run. They'll never find me. I need this.
Except that it does matter. Seeing the Fenris, seeing what they really are... it changes you. It changes everything, even if they don't take your eyes or your skin. The Dragonflies will never be the same--they'll have seen darkness; they'll know it exists despite their glittery eye shadow and glossy lips. They'll never look at the news the same way again, never look at a man noticing their legs the same way, never feel the same. I would be killing not only the Fenris, but also the girls' stupid, ignorant innocence.
Go on, monster. Transform. Force my hand. Change right here, in front of everyone. Make me fight you.
But the Fenris doesn't change. He just moves toward them, flicking his cigarette onto the city street. When he does so, the neon lights illuminate his wrist, lighting up a symbol amid the thick veins: an arrow.
I clench my hatchet so hard that my hands pinch and I feel blood vessels begin to pop. God, an Arrow. I watch the Dragonflies, certain that if I stare at him any longer, some
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sort of animal force will take over and I'll have to attack. As the Fenris approaches them, the Dragonflies toss their hair and sway on their feet like a row of Lipizzan horses, all refined beauty and grace, pointed shoes and glittery skin. He's smiling, grinning, shaking hands and running fingers through his lustrous hair that I know will become matted fur soon enough.
Don't fall for it. Look at his eyes. It's hunger, not desire, in them. I want to shout out, warn them... no. They'd just think I was crazy and I'd lose any element of surprise I have with the wolf.
The Dragonflies and the Fenris begin to walk away together in a chorus of giggles and chatter. I slink behind them, but they're quick and it's hard to follow without being seen. They take a sharp and unexpected turn down Spring Street, a road that's so well lit I'm afraid to follow. It's okay. Focus. I turn down an alley that runs parallel to the street, hoping to beat them to the far end so I can be certain of their next turn. I reach the mouth of the alley and peer around the brick corner nervously.
They're gone. Where--
A girl's scream slices through the night, terrified and shrill.
I run toward it, though it's difficult to tell exactly where the shriek is coming from as it echoes off the glass buildings. She cries out again in pain, and another girl screams. Where are they? I run down Peachtree, and a side road appears to my left, so tiny it's barely an alley. Figures loom toward the back,
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two girls clustered together while a giant wolf circles them, snapping his jaws. There had been three girls, not two. My stomach lurches. I yank my hatchet from my waist and barrel down the tiny alley, screaming an angry war cry. Please. I can still save you.
The wolf roars in anger, baring glittering yellow teeth at me. I lift my hatchet--I'll never reach them in time; I'll have to throw it. The wolf's jaws snap, and one girl cries out in terror as his teeth skim her leg. I release the hatchet with so much strength and hatred that my body pitches forward onto the oily pavement as the weapon hurtles through the air.
I brace my hands to push myself up and continue, but my right hand finds something warm and smooth on the pavement. I get just enough of a glance before I'm standing again to realize what it is: a young woman's elbow. Her unattached elbow--just a small curve of skin and bone discarded in the street like a piece of garbage. The ground is awash in red. Red everywhere. Blood, matted hair, and remnants... I gag, despite all I've seen. I close my eye and force myself to stay standing.
I run toward the surviving two Dragonflies and realize with a sick, sinking feeling that they're the only life-forms left at the end of the alley--my thrown weapon missed him. The Fenris is gone into the night, once again powerful and focused after his meal. Anger rushes through me, my tongue too twisted by rage to speak. I swiftly grab my hatchet off the ground.
The girls scream. They clutch each other. Their eyes are wide and terrified, streaming with tears.
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"It's gone," I say. I see them scan my body, look at the scars that cover me and the hatchet in my hand. I don't know what else to tell them. Their friend is dead--did they see the wolf devour her, or did he pick the first one off in the darkness? Someone's friend, someone's daughter, granddaughter, someone's sister... nothing more than food for a monster. My stomach tightens again and I try to vomit into the gutter but fail. I take a step closer to the girls and they scream again. I cover the scarred side of my face with my hood to settle their nerves.
"Come on. I'll walk you to a taxi. You should go home."
They tremble, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. I know how they feel--they think it's all a horrible nightmare as they shakily walk down the alley. Is this how I looked, standing in front of my sister so many years ago? Nothing can help you, Dragonflies. Say good-bye to the world you knew, welcome to the mouth of the cave. I'm sorry I failed you. I'm so, so sorry.
I guide them around the dead girl's tiny, scattered body parts to the main road. I lead them to a taxi and they take off into the night. They don't look back, as though they're afraid I'm part of the bad dream as well. I think they might be right.
I consider taking the bus back t
o the apartment, but instead I walk, trying to ignore the deep, gnawing feeling in my heart. My mind replays finding the girl's elbow so often that I keep thinking it's beneath my fingertips. The thought mixes with memories of emerging from Oma March's
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bedroom, covered in the dead Fenris's blood, hoping to run into Oma March's arms only to see there was nothing left of her but a bloodied, shredded apron. It's as if the Fenris know to leave a small piece of the victim, a piece that always lurks in front of all the happy memories of the dead.
A loud stereo sings out in the night, car tires squeal, but other than that the street is empty. I trudge forward like some kind of zombie, too dead to feel anything. Well, almost anything. Self-hatred fills me. The wolf is free, when I had the chance to stop it and didn't.
I wonder if Rosie has had any luck tonight.
I know the idea of my sister being successful should make me happy, but there's some dull, disgusting feeling of jealousy swimming through my body that I think might burst out. Hunting sings to me, calms me, comforts me. I am a hunter. Or was. Now I am a failure. I yank the eye patch off and snatch my cloak off my shoulders.
The junkie is on the steps of the apartment building, but he doesn't growl at me. Instead he simply stares at the space where my eye should be and then steps out of my way with a sort of dignity that alarms me. The flickering streetlight catches the black teardrop tattoos on his face, and I can sense the shadows that my scars throw across my skin, as if they're tattooed on as well. I hit the steps slowly, feet heavy, and push open the door, trudging until I get to the top floor.
"No, they thought I was a girl, actually, up till the moment I was born. I think they were disappointed, to tell you the truth."
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"Really? That explains a lot." My sister giggles in a voice that's so Dragonfly-like that it causes my cheeks to heat up in frustration. That, and what I'm seeing: Rosie is lying down on the couch, Screwtape asleep on her stomach. Silas is leaning back in one of the chairs, feet propped up on the graffiti table. Both are wearing pajamas. Both look warm. Comfortable. Bored, even. They don't look like they've been hunting, obsessing, trailing Dragonflies to protect them from monsters, trying harder than anything to make the world a slightly better place. They don't look as if they've had to deal with a slaughtered girl.
"Scarlett." My sister says my name like she's surprised and worried.
I drop my cloak and eye patch on the floor and turn around, seething, taking my time to lock the door behind me. Breathe, Scarlett. Don't yell.
"Lett? You okay?" Silas asks. His chair thuds to the ground and I hear his footsteps behind me.
"A girl died. I couldn't get there in time to stop it. She died. A Fenris devoured her," I say. I turn back toward them, gritting my teeth. The images of the Dragonfly, the Arrow, Oma March flash in my head.
"Scarlett," Rosie says again, jaw dropping in horror.
"I'm sure you did all you could," Silas says firmly.
I raise my eyebrows. "Of course I did what I could," I snap. "Because I was out hunting. Not in here chatting it up."
"Wait, Lett, you agreed to meet back here at two o'clock."
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"And?" I hiss at him.
"It's four in the morning, Scarlett," Rosie says, dumping Screwtape on the ground and padding toward me with bare feet.
I glance at the clock on the radio. They're right. Four oh three. I shake my head and stomp toward the bathroom, flicking on the tap and splashing water across my face. When I come back out, Rosie and Silas are watching me carefully, lingering close to each other. Rosie still looks different, and it scares me.
"Scarlett, come on," Rosie says. "I made peanut butter cookies while we were waiting for you. Sit down for a little bit."
"Sit down?" I almost spit. Emotion bubbles through me, rises up from my toes to my head until I think my vision is doubling, tripling. "I come here, thinking I'll sleep for two hours and then go back out to try to do something, and I find you, my partner and my sister, just... just sitting. How can you sit? How can you just relax when you know there are monsters in this world, monsters that you have the power to stop?" My voice is high, higher than I ever remember it being, and I realize that the thick lump in my throat is from tears. I don't cry. I never cry. But I'd like to.
Don't they care? I thought we were all here for the same purpose. She's my sister--how can she not care? I took on the wolves for her, I stood in front of her, and now in exchange I need her to care.
Silas speaks, gently. "Because, Lett. No one can spend
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their life fighting. Come on, sit down with us." He steps toward me and extends a hand. He has a way of talking sometimes that makes me feel as if it's only him and me in the room. I want to take his hand. More than anything, I'd like to sit down and not think about hunting for just a moment, to ignore my responsibilities like they so easily can. They--the two beautiful people, unmarred, an exclusive club. Of course they want to sit and talk through the night instead of hunt.
Silas and Rosie lean toward each other, like they can each shield the other from me, like I'm the outsider instead of a sister, instead of a partner. I shake my head in frustration and duck back into the bathroom, letting the door slam behind me. I turn on the ice-cold shower to drown out the sound of their hushed whispers, the sirens in the city below, and the muffled, choked sobs that force themselves up from my ugly, scarred throat.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
Rosie
I don't go to a class at the community center the following week. I make ramen noodles every night, and we eat the leftovers the following morning. We barely leave the apartment. It feels as if we're standing still. Scarlett and I push the couch aside and train in the apartment. She does it because she says I'll lose my edge if we don't. I do it because I think she'll lose her mind if we don't. She counts down the days till the next full moon like a death-row inmate counting down steps to the electric chair.
Of course, I might lose my mind as well. I'm in love with a woodsman and I simply can't be. Scarlett has no time for love, so why should I? But it gets harder and harder not to blurt out my feelings to him; while my sister spends the days poring over notes on Fenris, Silas tugs me away, convinces me
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to walk around the block or the street or the entire city until we lose ourselves in a flow of conversation. I try not to touch him, not because I don't want to, but because I'm afraid that if I let my hand brush his or he puts a casual arm around my waist, I won't be able to stop. I'll want to touch him again. And again. I'll want him to pick me up into his arms like he did the night he returned to Ellison. I already want him in a way that delights and frightens me at once.
And Scarlett knows.
Well, she doesn't know, but she's not stupid--I see her cast Silas and me suspicious glances every now and then. I think she knows we're pulling at the ropes that bind the three of us together; I just don't think she knows that Silas and I are pulling as one.
But I am a hunter, and when we return from a walk and see Scarlett, brows knitted together in what's become a permanent frown, the point is driven home: I can't act. I have to wait for the feelings to pass. I owe Scarlett my life, and if she insists I spend it chasing Potentials and Fenris, well... it's the price I pay.
By the following Tuesday, Scarlett has brought home another giant stack of books from the library with Silas's help. They're fairly ridiculous--books on wild wolves, monsters, myths... She's getting desperate, rereading books that can't possibly help us figure out who the Potential is. I force her to eat something for breakfast, but by lunch, I feel as if I'm going to snap. Energy leaps under my skin, begging me
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to do something, anything but sit in the apartment for even another second.
Silas groans as he stretches toward the bathroom door where Scarlett is showering. "Hell, one wolf. If she could just bag one wolf, I think she'd relax. Is there anything I can do, anything I hav
en't thought of?"
"No," I sigh. "I don't think so. You know how she is."
"Yeah," Silas answers quietly, but there's new guilt in his eyes. "But she isn't always like this. She's hardly even thinking straight. Am I..." He pauses and looks down as he walks to the kitchen. "Am I pulling you away from her?"
I blink, surprised--is he asking what he means to me? He pours himself a glass of water while I try to come up with some words. When I don't, Silas speaks again.
"You know, telling you about those classes... I don't want her to feel like she's losing you. I just wanted you to be able to live a little. Maybe I should mind my own business--"
"Oh," I answer quickly. "No, Silas. Those are my decisions."
"Right. It's just..." Silas grimaces and runs his fingers over the condensation on his glass. "I don't want to play any part in breaking up the two of you. I know what it's like to be on one side of a fence while your siblings are on the other, furious with you. I can't do that to you and Scarlett. I can't... lose both you and Scarlett, to be honest. You're all I have left... She's lost weight--did you notice?"
"Lett and I will be okay. We've always been okay," I say
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softly, though I'm not sure I'm telling the truth. It isn't okay to hope your sister isn't in the room with you and Silas; it isn't okay to betray her, to sneak around behind her back. If I still thought of Silas as just a friend, I might hug him for comfort, but there's that rumbling desire in my chest that is afraid I'll hug him too closely, touch him too tenderly. How can my sister and I be okay when all I want to do is touch her partner?
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