Bloodborn

by Karen Kincy

  The thick, sweet smell of rotten moss and strange flowers fills my nose. Cyn’s almond-vanilla scent blends right in, so I don’t find her right away. Then, through the leaves of a banana tree, I see her bending over an orchid the exact same pink as the streak in her hair. It throws me off, and she catches me gawking.

  “Brock!” The pot she was holding shatters on the floor.

  Maybe she’s going to take one look into my eyes and know I’m a beast. Maybe she’s going to scream and throw something at me.

  “Sorry,” I say, sweating. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did!” Her face looks as red as mine feels. “What are you doing here?”

  “What did you do to your hair?”

  Flustered, she pats her bangs. “It’s my hair. And you still didn’t answer my question.”

  I hold the candy apple out to her. “I got you this.”

  She stares at it, and for a long moment, says nothing. Finally, she speaks. “Why?” Her voice is low and level.

  “Don’t you remember? Bull boogers?”

  “I remember.” Her smile fades after only a second. “Brock, I don’t want that.”

  Cyn strides away, grabs a broom, and begins sweeping up the shattered pot. I crouch and pick up shards one-handed, the candy apple still in my other hand, but she shoos me away. I almost drop the candy apple in the dirt.

  “Brock.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Brock! I work here. Let me do my job.”

  I straighten to my full height, trying not to loom over her. It’s hard, since she’s so small. “Can we at least talk?”

  Her face tightens. “I’m not sure I’m ready to.”

  As if it was hard only for her, the one who ended things.

  “Cynthia,” I say, trying to sound gentle. “It’s been a month and a half.”

  She keeps sweeping. “And what makes you think things have changed?”

  “Because they have.”

  Cyn has to know I’m a gick now. The werewolf attack was all over the news.

  She grips her broom tight and leans on it, staring straight at me. “You’re still the guy who thought it was a great idea to use werewolves for target practice. You’re still the guy who worked for Benjamin Arrington.”

  “So I’m guilty because he was?” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  “You helped a murderer, Brock.”

  I drag my fingers through my hair. “I didn’t know he was a murderer. Not at first.”

  “Not at first?” She narrows her eyes. “So you found out later and kept helping him?”

  “No!” My face heats. “I don’t know what bullshit you’ve heard, but that’s not true.”

  Cyn sucks in a slow breath, then blows it out. “Who am I supposed to believe?”

  “Me?”

  She glares at me. “The week after we broke up, my family went to Mexico to visit my abuela. Now that I’m back, everybody is telling me all sorts of crazy rumors about what happened while I was gone.” She stares into my eyes, her own dark and glittering. “What really happened?”

  I lower my voice. “Arrington seemed like a guy who was into curhounding, nothing more. That’s what me and Chris thought. He was paying us to track the werewolves, and it seemed all noble and shit. To keep Klikamuks safe.”

  Cyn’s face twists. With pity or disgust, I can’t tell. “And then?”

  Maybe she knows, or has at least guessed. Maybe she just wants to hear me say it myself. The blood drains from my face, leaving my skin feeling cold, distant. I stare at a nearby orchid and count its petals until I’m calm.

  “We got bitten.”

  “You—what?”

  “Bitten.”

  Cyn’s eyes widen, and in them I see myself reflected, my own eyes smoldering. The blush in her cheeks fades. I can hear her heart beating hard and fast. She backs away from me, slowly, as if I’m going to bite.

  “Oh, God,” she whispers. “It’s true.”

  I need to talk faster, to explain this to her.

  “It happened at the Evergreen State Fair.” Which would have been our one-year anniversary. I can tell it hurts her to think about it, but I keep talking. “We were tracking a werewolf that Arrington said was especially dangerous. Blackjack got wind of the werewolf, and he tore after him before I could stop him. Of course me and Chris had to follow. Blackjack attacked the wolf. Chris caught up and got out his gun. The wolf bit him, and when I tried to help Chris, the wolf bit me.”

  When I say it that way, it sounds matter-of-fact, boring, like something out of a history textbook. But sweat still soaks my armpits, and I find my fingers on my biceps, clutching the scar there as if to stop it from bleeding.

  “Brock,” Cyn whispers, her knuckles pressed to her mouth. “Is Chris okay?”

  “He’s in the hospital.” My voice sounds harsh. “We don’t know when he can come home.”

  Cyn touches my arm, just brushes it, and her fingertips draw electricity from my skin. I meet her eyes, remembering how I used to be able to stare in them forever without feeling uncomfortable. Her gaze drops to my clenched fist, and I realize the candy apple’s stick has splintered in my hand.

  I was an idiot for even thinking of it as a gift.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” I say. “See you later.”

  “Have a good day,” she says, but it’s not chirpy at all.

  I throw the candy apple into the trash as I walk out.

  I shouldn’t go into the forest alone, Dad says. He doesn’t say why, but I know.

  Werewolves.

  Not like I’ve seen any around here in the last million years or so. Hell, they don’t own the forest. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’m not about to stop taking walks in my own backyard just because some curs are loose.

  Blackjack barks and lunges at the end of his chain as I hop the fence. I don’t have the heart to yell at him. Besides, I don’t think any amount of yelling would untrain what me and Chris taught him about werewolves.

  The sun slides down the curve of the sky, an egg yolk leaking runny gold. My breath fogs the air, but my skin feels warm. I trot along the lengthening shadows and leave the dairy behind for the shelter of maples and firs. The whooshing of the highway dies away, replaced by the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker. I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the smell of rain, earth, and softly dying leaves.

  Out here, I can start to untangle my thoughts. What am I doing with myself? Why am I not back in school? Like I have a chance in hell of surviving my senior year of high school. Chris got lucky, graduating before he got bitten.

  I spot bright blue through the trees. Hidden between two hills, somebody has pitched a tumbledown tent out of a blue tarp and a framework of sticks. The ashes in the fire pit look pretty fresh. On the branch of a cedar, empty bottles hang from colored yarn tied round their necks. I read the labels. Beer, vodka, and wine.

  Fucking hippies.

  There have got to be some plastic baggies of pot in the tent, or maybe a pagan shrine. I peek inside. Instead, I see a cooler and a neatly rolled, though dirty, sleeping bag. I peek inside the cooler, expecting booze. No, plastic-wrapped meat on Styrofoam trays, with the orange “DISCOUNT” stickers still attached.

  A sick feeling tightens my stomach. I close the cooler and hurry out of the tent, then hike back up the hill. Near the top, I hear a cough behind me. Shit. A man stands at the top of another hill, watching me. He’s strongly built, wearing a raincoat and hiking boots, with a shaggy beard and brown hair streaked with silver above his forehead. Not old, though. Late twenties, early thirties. Even with the beard, I remember him.

  three

  The man doesn’t move. I don’t move.

  I remember his name. Randall Lowell. The werewolf, fresh out of jail. They arrested him thinking maybe he was th
e serial killer, but let him go when they caught Benjamin Arrington. Of course, me and Chris never told the police what really happened when we got bitten—we made up some bullshit about walking Blackjack in the forest and getting ambushed. Only Dad knows the absolute truth, and he sure as hell didn’t tell anybody.

  Randall stares at me, silently. A snake coils in my gut, some poisonous feeling I can’t name yet, and I’m not sure why I’m not screaming and charging the bastard who bit me and my brother. I’m not sure, either, why the gick, the cur, isn’t attacking me.

  You fucking gick. Stop staring at me. Stop standing there and finish the job.

  Randall’s raincoat rustles slightly as he crosses his arms. I flinch a little, as if expecting him to pull out a gun. He doesn’t even need a gun. He could just lunge into the body of a silver wolf and take me down any second, tear out my throat and let me bleed. It’s hard to glare at him—his eyes are so dark and empty of emotion.

  Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you trying to kill me?

  I don’t want to deal with this now. I don’t want to have anything to do with werewolves or the wolf inside me. What’s the matter? whispers a little voice, my twisted conscience. Are you afraid? Part of me is superstitious, as if Randall holds the key to open the last lock between Brock the Human and Brock the Beast.

  I step away slowly, not dumb enough to turn my back on a predator. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. My blood burns through my veins. The scar on my left biceps throbs with freshly dug-up pain, remembering teeth biting to bone.

  Randall watches me. He blows out his breath in a stream of white. Then he speaks.

  “Bloodborn.”

  What? What does that mean? I clench my jaw so I won’t ask, won’t do anything but walk away. I keep my legs tensed and my fists clenched, ready to either run or fight, but the gick lets me go. As soon as I’m out of his sight, I run.

  It’s the only smart thing to do. Right? Get the hell out of here before things get even more fucked up. After all, the worst that could happen ranges from maiming to death. I’m not stupid. I know I got lucky last time, and Chris didn’t.

  When I get home, I slam and lock the door to my bedroom, then hoist up my mattress. Hidden underneath, a battered old book. The silver letters on the cover are almost rubbed off: A History of Lycanthropy by Edwin Brood. I checked it out from the library—not the one in Klikamuks, because they banned these sort of books there. I had to go all the way to the Seattle library to find it. I bet it’s almost overdue now, but I’m such a slow reader that I’m not done with it, and I need to read the rest.

  I flip it open to the index. “Bloodborn,” I mutter. “Bloodborn … ”

  Page 281. With a musty smell in my nose, I start to read, mouthing the words.

  Werewolves who inherited the disease from one or both of their parents are known as natural born. Typically, they do not suffer from the violent initial stages of transformation common to werewolves who acquired the disease later in life via infection. These werewolves, bitten rather than born, are known as bloodborn. Most of the bloodborn do not survive their first few months, and hence their numbers in the wild should seem to be lower than those of the natural born. However, the disease has a propensity to spread through violent attacks by werewolves, particularly in more crime-ridden areas. On the outskirts of certain cities, packs of bloodborn roam and terrorize humans. As of this writing, efforts have been successful in reducing their numbers.

  I don’t understand all the words, like propensity or acquired, but I get the gist of it. So I’m a bloodborn. What did Randall mean by calling me that? Was he amazed that I survived being bitten? Did he want to taunt me?

  I growl and slam the book shut. Enough. I don’t want to know all the details about being bloodborn. I just want to smash something and be done with it. I mean, who cares? I’m a gick. End of story. End of my life.

  C

  I’m sitting on my ass flipping through TV channels because I’m bored out of my mind and Dad’s out working. There’s nothing but shit to watch on a Friday afternoon. I glance at the clock; my ex-classmates are getting out soon. Maybe I should go back to high school. Even its hellish halls have to be better than this.

  On every channel, I see Others. A commercial shows mermaids swimming in the bow wave of a cruise ship, laughing, their boobs carefully covered by blond hair. Yeah, right. In real life, half-fish skanks aren’t going to be family friendly. Another commercial stars nearly naked frost spirits modeling diamond jewelry on their sparkling skin. Sex sells, I guess, especially with supernaturally sexy gick-ladies.

  On PBS, there’s Little Red, a retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood,” only the werewolf isn’t the bad guy. In this pastel cartoon forest, Mr. Werewolf helps the little pigtailed human girl solve her problems with peace and love. All the gicks in this one are totally politically correct. Never mind that the original fairy tale was meant to scare kids away from the packs of outlaw werewolves that used to roam around Europe.

  I flip off the TV in disgust, then lumber to the kitchen. Fridge’s empty. Great. My stomach rumbles in complaint. There’s an ancient bag of hash browns in the back of the freezer. I pop it into the microwave and eat it despite the sour, old-food taste, but my stomach still feels hollow inside.

  I sigh. Time to make a trip to Klikamuks.

  I bike my way downtown under the patchy cloud-and-blue sky and stop outside the Safeway. The automatic doors slide open and I’m overwhelmed by the aroma of chickens roasting on rotisseries. Mouth watering, I make a beeline for the chicken, eyes half-closed at the thought of sinking my teeth into juicy, tender meat—

  “Whoa!”

  I plow into some guy. I don’t like the looks of him, all squirrely and skinny, with a too-quick nod and laugh.

  “Brock! Hey, man! I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  The skinny guy … I know him. Josh Gunter, one of the people I used to hang out with. He’s taller now, an inch more than me, but only half as big, with zero muscles. I realize I’m glaring at his pimply face and force myself to relax.

  “Hey,” I say, and it comes out rough, growling. I clear my throat. “Long time.”

  “Yeah! I mean, I haven’t seen you since … ” Josh laughs nervously. “Like, how are you anyway, man? How you doing these days?”

  I shrug. “You know.”

  He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “And Chris?”

  “Still in the hospital.”

  “That’s rough.” Josh’s gaze slides away. “My sympathies.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I pause. “You heard anything about Cyn?”

  “What?”

  “Cynthia Lopez.”

  Josh still won’t meet my eyes. “Oh, your ex? Yeah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Man, you haven’t been in school in ages.”

  My stomach sinks. “Is she, like … dating anybody?”

  Josh just shrugs and gives me this look of pity. He must think I’m pathetic, a high school dropout still trailing after the girl who dumped him while the werewolf virus multiplies within his blood, over and over and over.

  “But hey!” Josh perks up. “There’s this sexy new girl from Hawaii.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Rumor is she’s not human at all, if you know what I mean. I’ll bet she’s a succubus. Seriously, though, she’s like porn-star hot.”

  Never mind that I’ve always thought porn stars were too skanky for my tastes.

  Or maybe he thinks I’m only good enough to date gicks, now that I am one.

  I grimace. “I’ve got to go.”

  “See you around,” Josh lies, eager to get away.

  I watch him go, then glance back at the chicken. I’m not hungry anymore.

  Cyn must have found herself a new boyfriend by now. A girl that smart and sexy wouldn’t stay on the sidelines for long. I was a moron for trying to talk to
her again. I’m a moron for even thinking about her, but she’s like a song that won’t stop echoing in my head, or a perfume that won’t wash off my skin.

  C

  Saturday. It didn’t used to be so important, but now it ties my guts into knots. Usually both Dad and I head out, but lately he’s been “too busy” to go, so I have to drive myself to the hospital and explain this to Chris.

  I take the pickup down the back roads, windshield wipers swishing away the rain. The forest is so green and wet it looks aquatic. I roll down the window a crack so I can breathe the sweet smell of dampening earth. I wish I were driving east, not west, away from the hospital and into the wilderness for a nice hike. But no, I’m taking the highway on-ramp, driving far beyond Klikamuks, all the way into the shining glass skyscrapers and grassless sweeps of pavement that are Seattle. God, I hate cities.

  As I pull into the parking garage, the ceiling of the truck scrapes the low concrete. I grit my teeth. I should be driving one of those perky little sedans made for compact parking spaces. I should be one of those street-smart guys who knows the city and knows how to handle visiting his most likely dying brother.

  I square my shoulders and tense my jaw. Ready, set, go. Armored behind my best Sunday suit and a blank face, I walk into the hospital. I hate the stink here: industrial cleaners, all fake-lemony-fresh, to cover up the smell of rusty blood and the old, the sick, and the dying. Even the lights look sick here, a greenish-blue fluorescent that makes everybody look ghostly. The receptionist smacks gum loudly, like a cow chewing its cud, and I clench my fists so hard my knuckles crack. I hate gum chewers. So fucking rude.

  The receptionist raises her penciled eyebrows, and I wonder if my disgust is so obvious. Or is it a flash of fang, or yellow eyes? Maybe the seams of my sheep’s clothing are fraying, the wolf inside peeking out. I hurry past her, into the bathroom. The dim, cheap mirror distorts my pale face, but it looks normal otherwise.