by Alyson Noel
“What’s up with that jacket she wears?” the girl with the bright pink lips says, who, according to Xotichl, is either Jacy or Crickett, though I’m not sure which is which.
“Seriously,” the other one echoes, the one with the best blond highlights of the bunch. “What’s up with all of it?” she adds, looking to Lita for approval—they both do.
I glance between the door and them—it’s closing but is still open enough to provide an easy escape. If I make a run for it right now, there’s no way they’ll notice me and I’ll be well on my way.
I’m just about to do exactly that when Lita heads for the mirror, stands right before it, and says, “I don’t know…”
The door’s closing—one second more and I’ll have to wait ’til they leave.
I start to move, start to make a run for it, my legs short, spindly, but powerful nonetheless, propelling me forward faster than I ever would’ve imagined. But just as I’ve reached it, pink lips heads for my stall—the one the real me is currently occupying—as opposed to the obviously empty one right beside it with the door hanging wide open.
I freeze. Unable to risk it. If she somehow manages to push her way in, if the lock I double-checked somehow fails, she will catch me slumped over the toilet seat—my body present, my consciousness in limbo—and I will never live it down.
I slip back to my corner, it’s the only thing I can do. Antennae twitching with frustration when she finally gives up and claims a vacant stall, just as the bathroom door closes—my perfect chance for escape now lost.
Except it’s not.
Not entirely.
Not for something as small as a cockroach.
That same paper towel I avoided before must’ve been inadvertently kicked by one of their heels, as it’s now firmly lodged between the door frame and the door. Leaving a crack just wide enough for me to slip through and get on with the job Paloma sent me to do.
I creep toward it. Keeping a close eye on Lita still standing before the mirror, cupping a hand around each breast, heaving them higher into her bra, as she smiles seductively at her own reflection, and says, “Take that, Cade Richter.”
She rubs her lips together, fluffs her hair around her shoulders, and when she twists her head from side to side so she can verify just how pretty she is, I can’t help but agree. I mean, she could certainly learn a thing or two from Jennika on the proper application of eyeliner—and the highlights could definitely be a lot better—but she’s still pretty. And no matter how awful she’s been to me, it breaks my heart that she’s so willing to waste that beauty on Cade.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts, it takes a minute to register when she says, “Anyway … I think her boots are kind of cool.” Returning to a conversation I was sure had already ended.
Her statement causing pink lips to cough in her stall—as the other one gapes at the sink beside Lita’s, striving to adjust to this new way of seeing me. Quickly recovering when she says, “Yeah, and her jeans are cool too.” Shooting Lita a sidelong glance, eager to get a jump-start on agreeing with her before pink lips has a chance to bang out of the stall.
Lita rolls her eyes as though she’s sick of being surrounded by suck-ups, even though it’s obvious she wouldn’t have it any other way. Sighing deeply as she says, “I’m talking about the boots. The jeans are common. But the boots…”
Common if you buy all your clothes in Europe! I start to say. Until I realize I can’t.
I’m a cockroach.
A cockroach with a mission.
I have no business caring about this kind of nonsense.
“I’m so glad you said that,” pink lips says, taking her place on the other side of Lita. “Because all this time I’ve been secretly thinking they were awesome.”
Oh, brother. I creep forward, eager to get out of here before it gets any worse.
Glancing toward the mirror to see Lita roll her eyes, shake her head, and say, “Jacy … really…”
“What? It’s true. I totally did!” pink lips/Jacy says.
“Whatever.” Lita sighs. “It’s just—do you have to agree with everything I say?” She snaps her bag shut, hikes it high onto her shoulder, and makes to leave.
But I need to leave first. I’ve seen more than enough of the inner workings of their clique, and now I need to get out while I can.
I crawl toward the door. Unwilling to use my wings, knowing it’ll attract too much notice, I begin scaling the crumpled paper towel that holds the door open, which, from my new, low-to-the-ground perspective, may as well be Everest.
Having just made it to the summit, when Jacy falls in place behind Lita, causing Lita to heave a great sigh, boost the door open, and say, “Please—after you,” in the most sarcastic voice she can manage. And all it takes is the reshuffling of feet just behind me, along with the careless kick of Jacy’s red pointy shoes spiking my back end, to force me off the paper towel mountain and send me flying out of the bathroom and into the club.
My body grazing the pant legs of more unsuspecting clubgoers than I can count. Veering wildly out of control but trying not to panic, since panic will only result in a lost connection—until I land with the kind of heavy, unexpected thud that reverberates throughout me.
I’m stunned. Watching as an army of shoes stomp all around, and knowing I can’t just sit here like the universally hated target I am, I start moving. Making slow, cautious progress until the band takes a break and the journey becomes increasingly perilous when the same crowd that swarmed the stage, now suddenly leaves the stage in search of the bathrooms, a drink, and each other.
Heels slam down all around me until I can’t decide which is scarier—the spiky tip of a stiletto or the heavy, rubber tread of a boot?
In a desperate fit to survive, I wind up the wings on my back and propel myself from shoe to shoe, pant leg to skirt hem, until I’m in the clear. Then I make for the wall, clinging to the shadows, until I’m free of the busier part of the club and into that weird hall of corridors, where I make for the office I visited last time I was here.
I pause by the door, watching as Cade perches on the edge of a desk, flipping a baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The sound of wood slapping, dull and continuous, as another man, a man who’s clearly older and most likely related, talks to him about something that, though I can’t quite make it out, has clearly captured Cade’s interest.
I sneak closer, straining to hear, but before I can glean much of anything, Marliz appears. The sight of her causing Cade to abandon the bat and slip out, as Marliz approaches the desk. Her face slack, eyes resigned, loosening her apron strings as the man tilts his chair away from his desk, and growls, “Close the door.”
I steel myself against the force of the slamming door, watching as Cade makes his way down the hall, pausing briefly to light a cigarette despite the fact that he fails to smoke it past the initial drag. He just waves it around—the tip sparking, flaring, as a blizzard of ashes drift to the ground. Unknowingly leading me down a series of halls so confusing I take note of all manner of landmarks so I can find my way back.
There’s a gum wrapper on the ground, just before the door with the chipped paint near the bottom, that looks like the shape of a heart. A real heart—the kind with aortas, and ventricles, and arteries—as opposed to the Hallmark kind.
There’s a squashed cigarette butt in the corner where the wall is warped and bubbled in a way that could be the result of water damage.
But while I’m off to a good start, it’s not long before there are so many doors, so many hallways, so many little bits of debris to keep track of, I completely lose count. So I tell myself it’s not my concern what becomes of this cockroach when I’m finished with him. From the looks of things, I’ve done him a huge favor by leading him to an area where the carpet is crusted with a wide assortment of his most favored treats. Bits of hair, flakes of dried skin, an unlimited supply of unidentifiable small greasy things that just the mere thought of prompts his instincts to kick
in. Making him hungry enough to try to turn around so he can go hunt some of that down. And it’s all I can do to convince him to work past it, to get back to what I need him to do.
I pick up the pace, sneaking dangerously close to Cade’s heels but feeling pretty good about the move until he stops without warning and I slam so hard into the back of his big brown boot, it takes a moment to reorient myself.
I’m just about to scramble backward in a bid to keep a safer distance between us, when I realize we’re here.
Watching as Cade waves the smoldering tip of his cigarette before what at first appears to be a large blank wall—but that’s before I remember Paloma’s advice and train my focus on the invisible, the unknown—coaxing it into my immediate field of consciousness—and it’s not long before that brick wall has morphed into something entirely different.
And all I can think as I gaze at it wide-eyed is that Paloma was right.
The portal looks nothing like I would’ve imagined.
thirty-five
Cade stops. Stiffens. His spine straightening, head tilting as though he senses something out of place—something out of the ordinary.
Could it be me?
He turns a slow circle, head swiveling from side to side, gaze running the length of the hall. And when he lowers his gaze to the ground where I wait, I take my chances, spread my wings, and flit toward his pant leg. Assuring myself I can easily extricate my way out of the situation if necessary—all I have to do is sever the bond and I’ll find myself right back in the bathroom, no worse for the wear.
Though I’m not sure I believe it.
I’m in deep.
Maybe too deep.
It’s as though the cockroach and I are now one.
I cling to the hem of Cade’s jeans, keeping silent and still while he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and moves forward again. Then I scurry up the back of his leg where I stop at his waistband and sneak halfway into his belt loop, hoping for a more secure ride and a much better view.
My eyes dart like crazy, taking note of all the details—ugly, greenish/gray industrial carpet, hideous white walls that have seen so much tobacco smoke waved before them they’re streaked a dull yellow/brown. Desperate to find something that sets it apart from all the other hallways I’ve seen but coming up empty. No wonder most Seekers couldn’t find it—it’s something extraordinary hidden well within the confines of the painfully ordinary.
He stands before the wall—or at least the place where the wall was before it became a soft, yielding, grayish-tinged swirl of energy that’s neither welcoming nor unwelcoming but definitely intriguing.
Paloma’s warning repeating in my head: Under no circumstance should you enter. You’re not yet ready—there will be plenty of time for that later …
Though it’s too late to heed—we’re already in.
The first thing I notice is the darkness.
The second thing I notice is the demons.
Two huge, scary, malevolent beings with the requisite tails, hooves, and horns you’d expect, along with obscenely grotesque faces that appear to be a mixture of animal, human, and some other unidentifiable beast that originated in a place I prefer not to visit.
Cade stands before them, greeting them in an ancient tongue I can’t understand. Presenting the cigarette like some kind of offering, he tosses it to the larger one who wastes no time shoving it into his mouth and devouring it whole—smoldering tip and all—as the other beast looks on with unconcealed envy. His blatant hunger causing me to burrow even deeper into Cade’s belt loop, assuming that if they’ll eat burning cigarettes, they’ll have no qualms eating a cockroach.
Cade speaks, but again the words make no sense. Though whatever it was, it got the demons laughing—if you can call hideous, gaping, fanged mouths flapping wide open before snapping shut again laughing. Then after a few more words are exchanged, he nods and moves past them. His step echoing so loudly, it’s as though we’re moving through a hollow tin drum, and it’s only a moment later when I venture out a little farther, take a good look around, and confirm that we are.
It’s a long, hollow tube—the kind they use to build sewers. The soles of Cade’s shoes banging hard against the bottom, making for a sound that’s so unsettling, so unpleasant, I’m overcome with relief when he steps out of the tunnel and onto a dirt-covered area that marks the mouth of a cave.
But unlike the small, spartan cave of my vision quest, this one is large, seeming to ramble and sprawl without end. Consisting of a series of rooms—very well-appointed rooms from what I can see. The one we currently occupy posing as some kind of grand entry.
Cade slips two fingers into his mouth and whistles long and low. Then he waits. Waits for … something. I can’t imagine who or what he expects to find here, though I’m braced for more demons.
But when I see a long-nosed, red-eyed coyote racing toward him—I’m not one bit surprised. Of course El Coyote isn’t just a name—it’s his spirit animal, just as Raven is mine.
Coyote leaps toward him, plops his long, gangly legs up high on his chest as he nuzzles his snout into Cade’s neck. His nose pushing, prodding, sniffing—then, catching a whiff of something unexpected, he darts his face toward me, bares his sharp teeth, and growls.
With no way to defend myself, I burrow into Cade’s belt loop, all too aware that this hard shell of a body will do nothing more than provide a nice, satisfying crunch once Coyote’s had his way with me.
“Hey, boy—how’s my boy? Huh? How’s my boy?” Cade pushes Coyote’s paws back to the ground, scratching his head and ruffling his fur like a favored family pet. Then he straightens, pats the side of his leg in a way that urges Coyote to follow. The two of them bounding deeper into the cave until they come to a well-furnished den, where Cade uses his silver-and-turquoise lighter to set the wall torches blazing.
“She’s here,” Cade says, settling onto a red velvet sofa that sits low to the ground. Pulling Coyote closer as he smooths the fur at his crown. “The one we’ve been waiting for, Daire Santos, has finally arrived.”
Coyote growls, snarls, as though he understands—or maybe I’m reading too much into it—maybe it’s just a coincidence. Though probably not—as Cade’s spirit animal, they’re deeply connected.
All I know for sure is that when he shoves that long snout toward me again—when his nose starts twitching and his growl deepens—I’m overcome with relief when Cade misreads the whole thing.
“Not to worry, you know I can handle her.” He lowers his face to Coyote’s, nuzzling him with affection. “It’s just a matter of time until I convince her we’re so much better together. So much better to wage peace and not war. Though she’s tougher than I figured. Prettier too. It won’t be easy to convince her—but then easy is overrated. The reward is so much sweeter when it requires a little conniving—and man is she sweet. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
Coyote throws his head back and howls, spinning in a quick series of circles before he rests at Cade’s feet, tail thumping with anticipation. The move practiced, a much-rehearsed ritual, prompting Cade to make for a large icebox I hadn’t noticed ’til now.
He flips the lid and retrieves a large crystal bowl filled with bloodied, dark, squishy things. The sight and smell of which triggers the coyote into an absolute frenzy.
I peek past the belt loop, determined to get a better look. Overcome by the scent of something so putrid, it kicks the cockroach’s most primal instincts into high gear when he senses what lies just before him: random, chopped-up bits—either animal or human—something that repulses me just as much as it drives the roach insane with desire.
Cade returns to the couch, where he sets the bowl on the glass table before him and scoops his fingers into the sludge. His hand held in offering, tempting the coyote with a heap of putrid, bloodied chunks. Face shining with pride when Coyote slurps it right off his palm with a finesse that’s surprising.
Coyote licks his chops, gives a quick yelp that co
mes off as a cross between a growl and a bark, then he goes through the whole spinning ritual again—his version of begging for seconds.
The performance causing Cade to laugh when he says, “You know the drill—gather the troops and there’s more in it for you.”
Coyote obeys, streaking from room to room until I can no longer track him. Leaving me alone with Cade who settles back on the couch and readies a snack for himself. Slipping his hand into the bowl, he retrieves a long, stringy bit of ick he’s quick to plop into his mouth. Taking a moment to close his eyes and savor the flavor, before leisurely licking his slick, bloodied fingers, and dipping his hand in for more.
thirty-six
I creep under Cade’s T-shirt. Using extreme caution to cling to the fabric and not him. The last thing I need is to tip him off—from what I’ve seen, he might consider me less a nuisance and more a nice little morsel to eat.
It’s a risky move, being this close. Yet it’s one I’m willing to take. I can’t risk the cockroach’s instincts overpowering me—making a dive for the bowl of bloodied bits in search of a little late-night nourishment.
If that happened on my watch, I just couldn’t bear it. There’s just not enough toothpaste and mouthwash for something like that.
The wait feels much longer in here. Probably because there’s not much to see other than the flicker of torchlight that penetrates the thin weave of Cade’s T-shirt, highlighting the Calvin Klein waistband of his black boxer briefs like a Times Square billboard. I also detect the all-pervasive scent of a musky body spray for men—and while at first I found it repellent, after a while, I have to admit, it goes a long way in masking the horrible scent the bowl of crud emits.
I wait. Growing so bored I’m tempted to nap, but instead I spend the time eavesdropping as he hums a few songs I don’t recognize—songs that sound tribal and ancient. And when I do decide to take a quick peek, due to sheer boredom if nothing else, I watch as he gives himself an impromptu manicure by gnawing a hangnail right off his thumb.