The Awakening dp-2

by Kelley Armstrong

  His back muscles twisted and shifted under my hands, the knobs of his spine pressing against them, his skin soaked with sweat and covered with coarse dark hair that wasn’t retracting, but growing longer.

  Finally Derek stopped heaving and shuddered, his whole body trembling from exhaustion, his head lowered almost to the ground. I rubbed his shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re doing great. You’re almost there.”

  He shook his head and made a sound that must have been “no,” but it was too guttural to be more than a growl.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “You will or you won’t. You can’t rush it.”

  He nodded. His head was down, face averted, but I could still see the changes, his temples narrowing, hair shortening, the tops of his ears sticking out as they shifted higher onto his skull.

  I absently rubbed his back, then halted. “Do you want me to stop? Move away and give you more room?”

  He shook his head as he struggled to catch his breath, sides and back heaving. I massaged the spot between his shoulders. His skin stopped moving and his spine retracted. His shoulders felt different, though. Set different, the muscles bunched and thick, almost hunched. The hair felt more like fur now, like my friend Kara’s husky, with a coarse top layer, softer underneath.

  Derek said werewolves changed into actual wolves. I’d found that hard to believe. In fact, I’d heard that the reason the “wolfman” type of werewolf had been so popular in early Hollywood was because of the difficulty of changing a human into a wolf. If they couldn’t do it with makeup and prosthetics, surely the human body couldn’t do it. But looking at Derek, shivering and gasping as he rested mid-Change, I saw I’d been wrong. I still couldn’t quite wrap even my vivid imagination around what I was seeing, but there was no doubt he was changing into a wolf.

  “It seems to have stopped again,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “That’s probably it, then. For now, this is as far as—”

  His body went rigid. The muscles under my hand moved, but slowly, like they were settling, preparing to reverse the transformation…

  His back shot up, limbs straightening, head dropping and there was this…sound—an awful popping and snapping, like bones crackling. Then his head flew up and the crackling was drowned out by an inhuman howl. His head whipped from side to side and I saw his face then, the nose and jaw lengthening to a muzzle, neck thick, brow receding, black lips pulled back to show teeth sharpened to fangs.

  One eye caught mine, and the absolute terror in it chased mine away. I could not be afraid. I could not be freaked out. I could not make this worse for him in any way. So I met his gaze, unblinking, and kept rubbing his back.

  After a moment, the muscles under my hand relaxed and he went still, the silence broken only by labored heaves as he panted, the sound more canine than human. His back rose and fell with the deep breaths. Then another massive convulsion seized him, and I was sure that was the final jolt, that the transformation would finish. Instead, the fur between my fingers receded. He convulsed again, gagging, threads of bile dripping from his jaws. He shook them off, then turned his face away.

  Derek hacked and coughed for a minute, his limbs trembling. Then, slowly, they slid out from under him, like they couldn’t bear his weight any more, and he collapsed, panting and quivering, his fur a dark shadow of stubble, his body almost returned to a human shape, only the thickened neck and shoulders remaining.

  After one more deep, shuddering sigh, he rolled onto his side, toward me, legs drawn up, one hand draped over his face as it finished the reversal. I huddled there, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Derek wrapped his hand around my bare ankle, where my sock had slid down into my sneaker.

  “You’re freezing.”

  I didn’t feel cold. The shivering and goose bumps seemed more from nerves, but I said, “A little.”

  He shifted, then took my knee and tugged me closer, sheltered from the bitter wind. The heat of his body was like a radiator and I stopped shivering. He wrapped his hand around my ankle again, his skin rough, like a dog’s paw pads.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked, his voice still odd, strained and raspy, but understandable.

  I gave a small laugh. “I should be asking you that. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. That must be what’ll happen for a few times. A partial Change, then back to normal.”

  “Practice runs.”

  “I guess so.” He moved his hand down under his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah. You did.” He looked at me. “You did a lot.”

  His eyes met mine, and I looked into them and I felt…I don’t know what I felt. A strange nameless something I couldn’t even identify as a good something or a bad something, could only feel in my gut, jumping and twitching, until I turned away and looked out over the forest.

  “Yeah, we gotta go,” he said, starting to rise.

  “Not yet. Lie down. Rest.”

  “I’m”—he sat up and swayed, as if light-headed—“not fine. Okay. Just give me a sec.”

  He lay back down, eyelids bobbing as he fought to keep them open.

  “Close your eyes,” I said.

  “Just for a minute.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I don’t know if they were even fully closed before he fell asleep.

  Twenty-nine

  I HUDDLED THERE UNTIL the sweat dried from his skin and he began to shiver, still sleeping. Then I unwrapped his fingers from my ankle. He let go, only to grasp my hand instead. I looked down at his hand, so huge around mine, like a kid’s clutching a toy.

  I was glad I’d been here for him. Glad someone was—I don’t think it would have mattered who. Even if there’d been nothing I could do, just having me there seemed to help.

  I couldn’t imagine what he was going through—not just the agony but the uncertainty. Was this normal for young werewolves? Starting to Change, then reversing? Or was it something the Edison Group had done? What if he couldn’t ever finish it? Would his body keep trying, putting him through this hell again and again?

  I knew he would already be worrying about the same thing. That didn’t excuse his outbursts, but maybe it helped me understand him and not take it so personally when he lashed out at me.

  I slipped my hand from his, and he shifted with a grunt but didn’t wake, just tucked his hand under his other arm and shivered. I hurried to where he’d left his clothing. When I returned, I checked the sweatshirt I’d been sitting on, but it was a damp, mud-caked mess. I decided to give him my jacket instead—it had to be close to his size—but it soon became apparent I wasn’t getting any clothes on him.

  It didn’t matter that they were baggy—all Derek’s clothing was, like he thought he’d be less intimidating if he looked chubby instead of muscular. Still, I couldn’t get his jeans past his knees and even then I was sure I was going to wake him. So I settled for draping the clothing over him. I was fussing with the jacket, making sure it was the fleece side against him, when I caught a movement in the trees. I hunkered down beside Derek and went still.

  When I didn’t hear anything, I peeked over Derek and saw a man through the trees. His face was rigid with anger as he walked fast. Something moved near the ground ahead of him. A truck stop visitor taking his dog for a walk?

  I glanced at Derek. If the dog smelled him, we were in trouble. I pushed up to a crouch and crept forward as quietly as I could. I saw a flicker of yellow fur through the thick bushes. The man waved his hand with a flash of silver, like he was holding a chain leash. He looked furious. I couldn’t blame him. It was cold and wet and muddy, and his dog seemed to be insisting on doing its business in the deepest part of the small forest.

  When the man’s foot flew out in a kick, though, my sympathy vanished, and I tensed, a shout of outrage on my lips. Then I saw it wasn’t a dog in front of him. It was a girl with long blond hair, wearing a lig
ht-colored shirt and jeans, crawling on all fours, like she was trying to get away from the man.

  He kicked her again and she twisted, scuttling forward awkwardly, like she was too badly hurt to get up and run. Her face turned my way and I saw she wasn’t any older than me. Mascara raccoon-ringed her eyes. Dirt streaked her face. Dirt and blood, I realized, the blood still dripping from her nose, staining her shirt.

  I sprang to my feet and as I did, the man raised his hand. Silver flashed—not a leash, but a knife. For a second, all I could see was that knife, my mind stumbling back to the girl in the alley, the knife tip over my eye. The terror I’d fought so hard to hide shot through me.

  The man grabbed the girl’s long hair. He wrenched her head up and that jolted me from my frozen terror. My mouth opened to call out, yell anything, just get his attention so she could escape.

  The knife sliced through the air, heading straight for the girl’s throat and I let out a cry. The knife passed through, seeming not to have left a mark, and I was sure he’d missed. Then her throat opened, splitting, gaping, blood gushing, spurting.

  I fell back, hands flying to my mouth to stifle another scream. He thrust the dying girl aside with a snarl of disgust. She collapsed to the ground, blood still spurting, mouth moving, eyes rolling wildly.

  The man turned toward me. I ran, tripping and stumbling through the undergrowth. I had to get to Derek, wake him, warn him. It seemed to take forever, but I finally made it. As I dropped beside him, I caught a glimmer out of the corner of my eyes and I turned to see the man…back where I’d first seen him, in exactly the same position, heading the same way.

  His mouth opened, saying something, but no words came out. Why couldn’t I hear him? The forest was so silent my panting breaths sounded like a train, but I couldn’t even hear the man’s footsteps. I realized that the whole time I’d never heard a thing.

  I waited for the flash of silver I’d seen earlier, and it came, in exactly the same place. Then he kicked the girl…in the same spot.

  I reached into the pocket of my jacket, still wrapped around Derek, and pulled out the switchblade I’d taken from the girl in the alley. I was pretty sure by now that I wasn’t in danger, but I wasn’t taking chances. I crept toward the silent figures moving through the woods. The man kicked the girl a second time, but again the blow made no sound, her fall made no sound, she made no sound.

  Ghosts. Like the man in the factory.

  No, not ghosts. Ghosts might not make noise moving, but I could hear them talk. I could interact with them. These were just images. Metaphysical film clips of an event so horrible it was imprinted on this place, endlessly looping.

  The man grabbed the girl by her hair. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I still saw it, the memory imprinted on me now, replaying on my eyelids.

  I swallowed and retreated. Back in the clearing, I hunkered down beside Derek, drawing my knees up, my back turned to the scene playing out in the woods. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see it. I knew it was there, unfolding behind me, and it didn’t matter if I hadn’t really watched a girl die. In a way, I had.

  A girl my age had been murdered in these woods and I’d seen her last terrified moments, watched her bleed to death in this forest. A life like mine had ended here, and it didn’t matter how many times I’d seen deaths in movies, it wasn’t the same, and I wasn’t ever going to forget it.

  I huddled there, shivering, surrounded by darkness. I’d hated the dark since childhood. I know why now—I used to see ghosts in the dark when I was little, brushed off by my parents as bogeymen. Now, knowing that the “bogeymen” were real didn’t help at all.

  Every whisper of wind sounded like a voice. Every animal rustling in the forest was a poor creature I’d raised from the dead. Every creak of a tree was a corpse clawing up from the cold ground. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the dead girl. Then I saw the dead bats. Then I saw the girl, buried in this forest, never found, waking in a shallow grave, trapped in her rotted corpse, unable to scream, to struggle….

  I kept my eyes open.

  I thought of waking Derek. He wouldn’t complain. But after what he’d just been through, it seemed silly to say I couldn’t bear being out here with a murder reenactment playing behind me. I did nudge him a few times, though, hoping he’d wake up.

  But he didn’t. He was exhausted and he needed his rest, and even if he did wake up, what could we do? We were trapped at this bus stop until morning.

  So I sat and I tried not to think. When that failed, I recited multiplication tables, which only reminded me of school and made me wonder whether I’d ever go back; and that reminded me of Liz, of how much she’d hated math, and I wondered how she was and where she was and…

  I switched to reciting favorite movie dialogue, but, again, it only reminded me of my other life, then my dad and how worried he must be. I drove myself nuts trying to figure out some safe way to get him a message, getting more and more frustrated when I couldn’t.

  I finally settled on something that always comforted me—singing “Daydream Believer.” It was my mom’s favorite song, the one she’d sung me to sleep with whenever I had nightmares. I only knew one verse and the chorus, but I whispered them under my breath, over and over and…

  “Chloe?”

  Fingers touched my shoulder. I blinked and saw Derek crouched beside me, still in his shorts, his face dark with worry.

  “S-sorry. I drifted off.”

  “With your eyes open? Sitting up? I’ve been trying to snap you out of it for a while.”

  “Oh?” I looked around and saw it was day. I blinked harder and yawned. “Long night.”

  “You’ve been sitting here awake all night?” He lowered himself to the ground. “Because of what happened with me? I know that couldn’t have been easy to watch—”

  “That’s not why.”

  I tried to duck having to explain, but he kept pushing, and it came down to telling the truth or letting him think that watching him Change had put me in a state of shock. I told him about the girl.

  “It wasn’t real,” I said as I finished. “Well, it was—once. But I was just seeing some kind of ghostly replay.”

  “And you watched that, all night?”

  “No, it’s”—I waved my hand over my shoulder—“back there. I didn’t look.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You were tired. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Bother me? That is the stupidest—” He stopped. “Wrong word. Stubborn, not stupid…and yelling at you right now isn’t helping, is it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Next time, wake me up. I don’t expect you to tough out something like that, and I’m not impressed that you did.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And next time you don’t tell me, I will yell at you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not your drill sergeant, Chloe. I don’t like getting on your case all the time.”

  I wasn’t touching that one.

  “I don’t mean to…” He sighed, shook his head, and got to his feet. “Give me a minute to get dressed, and we’ll head into the truck stop, warm up, and get some breakfast.”

  He took his clothes and headed for the thicket, still talking. “The main bus station is in the city. I’m hoping we’ll have enough for cab fare. When we get inside, we’ll call and get the bus rates and schedule, so we’ll know how much money we have left over.”

  “I’ve got”—I pulled bills from my pocket—“eighty. I left the rest in my backpack. I don’t like carrying it all around.”

  “Most of mine is in my backpack, too, which I forgot on the bus.” He cursed himself under his breath.

  “You were in no shape to be remembering anything last night. I should have thought to grab mine.”

  “But you were worried about me. Never mind, we’ll have enough. I’ve got about a hundred…”

  A pause. Then the sound of hands slapping fabric, like he was patting his
pockets.

  He swore. “It must have fallen out. Where did you get my jeans from?”

  “Right where you left them, folded by the tree. I checked the pockets first. There was just an energy bar wrapper.”

  “I know I had—” He stopped and swore again. “No, I moved the money to my jacket, which I left on the bus.”

  “Eighty dollars should cover the bus to New York and breakfast. We’ll walk, then catch a city bus to the station.”

  He strode from the bushes, muttering, “Stupid, stupid.”

  “Like I said, you had other things on your mind. We both did. And neither of us is used to playing fugitive yet. We’ll learn. For now, let’s get inside. I’m freezing.”

  Thirty

  WHILE DEREK WAS IN the bathroom I called the bus station and got fares and a schedule. The guy was even nice enough to tell me which city buses we needed to take to get there.

  When Derek came out of the bathroom, his sweatshirt was damp and clean, and his hair was wet and glistening, like he’d wiped down the shirt and washed his hair in the sink.

  “Good news first or bad—” I stopped. “Dumb question. Bad, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve got a two-mile walk to the nearest bus stop, plus one transfer to get to the terminal. The good news? The fare is sixty dollars for two students to New York, so we have enough for breakfast.”

  “And deodorant.”

  I was going to say that didn’t matter, but from the set of his jaw, it mattered to him, so I nodded and said, “Sure.”

  We bought deodorant and a cheap comb. And, yes, we shared them. Money was too tight to get silly about that.

  The smell of bacon and eggs from the restaurant set my mouth watering, but our cash wouldn’t stretch to cover a hot breakfast. We grabbed cartons of chocolate milk, two energy bars, and two bags of peanuts, then headed out for our hike to the bus stop.

  After about a half mile of silence, Derek said, “You’re quiet this morning.”