The Seeker rh-3

by Melinda Metz

  Maria pressed the tangerine oil into Isabel's hand and gently closed her fingers around it. "Take it home and try it later," she said. "If you like it, I'll get you some more."

  "Thanks," Max said. Maria smiled at him, although she had to fight to keep the smile in place when she got a good look at his face. He looked… ravaged. That's the only word that seemed to fit. This isn't just about what happened last night, Maria realized. There's something new. Something horrible.

  She glanced over at Liz. Liz sat with her arms wrapped around herself. It was like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. Or like she didn't want to have one inch of her body touching Max's.

  What was going on? Had Max already told Liz whatever he found out from Ray this morning-was that why she looked like she was about to throw up?

  "Somebody better start talking fast," Alex said.

  Max pulled in a deep breath. "Do you want to do this or do you want me to?" he asked Michael.

  "You're our fearless leader. You do it," Michael muttered.

  Maria didn't like the sound of his voice. It was too flat, too dead sounding.

  "Okay, so we went over to Ray's this morning," Max began.

  "Did any of you start writing that history paper?" Alex interrupted. "Don't tell me yes, because I haven't even picked a topic."

  What was he talking about? None of them were even in his history class. Maria opened her mouth to ask him if he'd lost his mind, but then she heard footsteps coming toward them, and she caught a whiff of cologne. She knew that smell. She didn't have to turn around to know that Sheriff Valenti was behind her.

  What was he doing here? Did he know the truth about Michael and the others? Maria felt a shiver race across her shoulders. She hoped Valenti didn't notice. She didn't want to do anything that might make him suspicious.

  "I'm already halfway done with my paper," she told Alex. "You shouldn't be here right now if you haven't started. You should be at the library."

  Valenti stepped up to the table. "I'm looking for Nikolas Branson," he announced. "His parents called me this morning and informed me that he never made it home last night."

  Did he sound this calm when he talked to Nikolas's parents? Maria thought wildly. Did he just ask them all the usual questions and tell them he'd do everything he could-knowing the whole time that Nikolas was dead? Dead because of him!

  "Nikolas didn't seem like the kind of guy who would be tucked in bed by midnight, you know what I mean?" Liz said, looking Valenti right in the eye. "He probably just partied a little too strenuously last night."

  "Yeah, I bet he'll come rolling home sometime this afternoon," Alex agreed.

  Valenti turned to Isabel. "Is that what you think?"

  "Sounds like Nikolas to me," she said. Her voice gave the tiniest quiver when she said her boyfriend's name, but she answered without hesitation. She must have a little of her steel left after all, Maria decided.

  "Is that all you can tell me? The two of you were together last night, weren't you?" Valenti asked. "My son, Kyle, said you and Nikolas were going out."

  Thank you, Kyle, Maria thought. The little rat boy had to tell his father everything about everyone at school.

  "We were together for a while, but we… we had a fight. I…" Isabel's breath began coming in ragged pants.

  Maria shot Alex a panicked look. Isabel was going to lose it, right in front of the sheriff! What should we do? she thought frantically.

  Michael grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and shoved it at Isabel. "Thanks for getting her started again," he snapped.

  "We've been trying to cheer her up," Maria jumped in. "Nikolas was a complete jerk to her last night."

  Isabel buried her face in her hands. Michael pulled her against his chest and glared up at Valenti.

  "Well, if you hear from him-any of you-I expect you to call me immediately," Valenti told them. He turned and strode away.

  Silence stretched out at the table. Maria didn't even hear anyone breathing. She knew she wasn't.

  "Okay, he's gone," Max finally announced. Maria let out her breath in a whoosh.

  Isabel sprang to her feet. "Give me the keys, Max. I'm going home."

  "Izzy, come on, stay with us," Max said.

  "No! I can't stay here." Isabel's voice rose higher and higher. Maria noticed her getting some curious looks from the people in the next booth.

  "One of us could go with you," Liz volunteered.

  "Or we all could," Maria added.

  "I need to be alone," she snapped. "All of you just stay away from me." Max pulled out his keys, and Isabel snatched them out of his hand.

  Maria watched as Isabel half ran out of the place. Doesn't she know that now is when she needs us the most? Maria thought.

  ***

  Isabel chipped a little more wild cherry nail polish off her big toe. She added the tiny red flakes to the pile on her bedspread. She should never have let Michael coax her into going to Flying Pepperoni. She needed to be here, in her bedroom, where she could work on her little nail polish mountains. As long as she kept chipping and piling, she could blank out and turn the inside of her head into a buzzing gray screen.

  But when she stopped, the screen got clear and a little movie began to play. A movie of Sheriff Valenti shooting Nikolas. Over and over and over.

  The movie theater in her head was ultra-high-tech. It even came with odorama. Every time she heard the shot, she smelled the gunpowder, the odor of a row of firecrackers set off all at once. The sharp scent of her nail polish wasn't nearly strong enough to block it out.

  Nikolas had always said humans were like insects. He'd said if Valenti got too close, he'd just squash him. And Isabel had believed him. She'd started thinking she had no reason to be afraid of the sheriff. That she had wasted years being terrified of a man whose powers were no match for Nikolas's or even her own.

  But Nikolas was the one who had gotten squashed last night. Leaving behind an ugly spot on the floor, like any good bug. And now Isabel remembered why Valenti had filled her nightmares since she was a little girl. She remembered that she would always be hunted and that she would never be truly safe.

  Isabel chipped another piece of polish off her toe and carefully added it to her little mountain.

  She glanced at the clock. Max wouldn't be back from Flying Pepperoni for at least an hour. But as soon as he got home she knew her brother would be wanting to talk, wanting to tell her whatever they found out from Ray. As if she cared. As if she wanted to know anything more about her history, her stupid alien powers. If she were just a normal girl, none of this would have happened.

  Isabel chipped the last speck of polish off her big toe. She carefully added the red flake to the very top of her mountain and studied her feet. Not one dot of color left. She grabbed her bottle of nail polish and started to paint them again. She worked fast, not worrying about being sloppy. She wanted to get her toes painted and dry so she could start chipping and piling again.

  She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Max must have followed her from Flying Pepperoni, worried about his baby sister. She wished he'd leave her alone. Him and Michael and everyone else.

  A knock sounded on her bedroom door. "Go away, Max," Isabel said.

  "It's not Max-it's Alex. Can I come in?"

  Isabel sighed. She couldn't deal with Alex right now. If she stopped focusing on what she was doing, the movie in her head would start back up. She knew it. And she wouldn't be able to take it. She couldn't watch Nikolas die again.

  "Your mom gave me some ginger ale and saltines to give to you," Alex called through the door. "She said your stomach was upset."

  She really did not want to talk to him. Maybe if she didn't say anything, Alex would go away. She finished painting her last toe. She grabbed a magazine and fanned her feet. She wanted the polish chippable-now. Then she could get the movie to stop.

  "It's too late to pretend you aren't in there," Alex announced. "You already said something."

 
"Did someone invite you over here?" Isabel snapped.

  Alex was probably getting sad little puppy eyes on the other side of the door. But too bad. She hadn't invited him.

  "Nope. I know I'm always welcome," Alex answered.

  Isabel tested the polish on her toes. Still too wet to chip. "What? What do you want? Do you want me to tell you that you were right about Nikolas?" she demanded. "Okay, you were right. He was dangerous. He almost got us all killed. You know everything. Okay? So go."

  She heard the doorknob turn, heard Alex mutter a curse when he discovered it was locked. "That's what you think?" he exploded. "You think I came over to get my jollies off making you tell me I was right all along?"

  Good, Isabel thought. Get mad and get out. She waved her hands over her toenails. Almost done. Almost.

  Alex sighed. "Why is it always so hard with you?" he mumbled. "Let me spell it out. I came because I wanted to see if you're okay. You went through something pretty traumatic. I thought you could use a friend."

  Oh, great. Now he was going to be nice to her. She couldn't take it. She and Alex… they had something sort of nice starting up before… before Nikolas came to town. But Nikolas had totally blinded her to everyone else.

  Isabel's eyes filled with tears. How was she going to survive without him? She didn't have one thing to remember him by. Not one picture. Not anything. She wished she could have that ring he always wore, the one with that strange stone. She could hold it in her hand and at least know that it was something Nikolas had touched. Something Nikolas had… had…

  Isabel's throat began to burn. She felt a tear slide down her cheek. Nikolas… oh, God, Nikolas…

  The smell of gunpowder flooded her nose. She scraped at her toenails, trying to block out the image of Nikolas dying. But the polish wasn't dry enough to chip. It smeared across her fingers, wet and red.

  Isabel choked back a sob. What was she going to do? She'd go crazy if she couldn't make the screen go blank.

  "I'm not leaving," Alex said, his voice quiet. "Yell at me. Give me your ice princess thing. Whatever. I'm not leaving. If you don't want to talk, fine. I'll talk. I'll tell you about my champion Little League season, for starters. One of the best times ever. I can still smell the grass in the outfield. And taste that flat purple taffy from the snack shack…"

  Alex kept talking. And his voice, his voice made the screen go blank.

  Isabel stood up and crept over to the door. She sat down and leaned her cheek against the door. Listening to Alex describe every moment of the very first game of the season.

  He was so normal. A nice, normal guy.

  She wished she could be normal like him. A nice, normal girl who couldn't see auras or dream walk or heal. A girl who didn't ever wake up screaming from dreams of Sheriff Valenti with the eyes and teeth of a wolf, a wolf intent on hunting her down.

  I can be normal. I'll be just like Alex. I'll never use my powers again, she decided. Never.

  *** 3 ***

  Michael glanced at his alarm clock. Ten-thirteen. He'd only been in bed for thirteen minutes. It felt like thirteen days. He wasn't tired. At all. He only needed two hours of sleep a night-one of the cool things about not being human-and he wouldn't even be needing those two until later.

  But ten o'clock was his bedtime. His bedtime. He could not believe he had a bedtime. Mr. and Mrs. Pascal thought that structure was the key to making children feel happy and secure. Or some stupid psychobabble like that.

  His new foster parents had rules for everything. They had given him a typewritten list with a dorky little drawing on the top-a raccoon that had one of those cartoon balloons coming out of its mouth. The raccoon was saying, "Rules for Pascals' Rascals."

  The rules were in the form of a poem. "Please lower the toilet seat. Wash your hands before you eat." That kind of thing. Alex had practically wet his pants laughing when Michael showed it to him.

  But there was nothing funny about the rules when you had to follow them. And Michael did. At least for a while. His social worker, Mr. Cuddihy, would have a hissy fit if he got a complaint call during Michael's first week at a new place. So that meant no sneaking out of the house for a few weeks.

  Which meant no late night visit to the Evans house. Michael wanted to check up on Isabel. He felt like shaking her for wasting one tear on Nikolas. But he also felt like holding her tight and letting her cry as much as she wanted. He'd do whatever it took to get his Isabel back-smart-mouthed, sassy, stuck-up Izzy, not that pale sad-eyed girl who'd been sitting next to him at Flying Pepperoni.

  Tomorrow, he promised himself. I'll get there first thing in the morning, score some breakfast, and see if Isabel needs me.

  He rolled over onto his side. The covers were tucked in too tight. He felt like a mummy. He gave them a yank, but it didn't help. The kid in the next bed-Dylan-gave a high, whistling, wheezing snore. Michael pulled his pillow over his head.

  Down the hall he heard the baby begin to cry. A moment later he heard Mrs. Pascal's bunny slippers flapping down the hall.

  I would kill, Michael thought, or at least maim, to get out of this house. I could just crawl out the window and go. I don't need to go to Isabel's. I could go somewhere else. I could go… to Maria's!

  Yeah, that was perfect. Right now he just wanted to kick back-and Maria's girlie-girl room was the place to do it. He liked the way she had clothes and nail polish and all her little vials of perfume oils scattered everywhere. He even liked the weird way her room smelled-like roses and cough drops.

  Even when Maria wasn't home, he liked to hang there. But it was better when she was there. Maria could always make him laugh. A lot of times she wasn't even trying to be funny, like when she was getting all earnest about her aromatherapy.

  Mrs. Pascal started to sing to the baby. It cried louder. Michael didn't blame it. Mrs. Pascal's voice… well, she better keep her day job, that's all he had to say.

  Michael stifled a groan. I can't take it, he thought. I'm not going to live until morning.

  "Sleep, don't peep, don't creep, don't beep, don't seep," Mrs. Pascal crooned.

  Seep?

  "Just dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream."

  Dream walking, Michael thought suddenly. That's what he should be doing. Just because he couldn't fall asleep himself didn't mean he couldn't go into someone else's dreams.

  Michael closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Mrs. Pascal's singing grew fainter, and so did Dylan's snoring. He took one more breath, and the dream orbs became visible. The glistening, soapbubble-iridescent orbs swirled around him. Each gave off one pure note of music. Big improvement.

  Michael didn't dream walk nearly as much as Isabel did. But he'd still spent enough nights channel surfing through the dream orbs to know which orbs belonged to which people at school.

  Doug Highsinger's orb spun past. Doug was usually having some kind of sex dream. But watching a football star get off wasn't Michael's idea of fun. Pass.

  Arlene Bluth's orb whacked him on the back of the head. He definitely didn't want to go exploring in her dreams. She only dreamed about school. Right now she was probably having a nightmare about taking a test with a number three pencil. Pass.

  Tim Watanabe's orb was a pass, too. Big pass. For some reason Tim Watanabe kept dreaming about a big clown with a green tongue named Bobo. It was none of Michael's business, but he didn't think a little therapy would hurt that boy.

  Michael caught the sound of a high, sweet note of music. Maria's orb. He grinned. He couldn't go hang out in Maria's room. But he could visit one of her dreams.

  Except it was kind of weird going into a friend's dream, like barging in on them in the bathroom or something. Sure, he'd gone into Maria's dreams a few times. But that was before he really knew her. It felt different now.

  I'll just tell her I'm there, he decided. Then it won't be like I'm spying on her.

  He began to whistle, drawing her dream orb to him. It whirled into his hands, soft and cool under his fi
ngers. Michael drew his hands apart, and Maria's dream orb expanded. When it was big enough, he stepped inside.

  Maria lay in a field of wildflowers. Doing some major making out with a dark-haired guy.

  Whoa. Not what he expected. Michael backed out of her dream-fast. He'd thought Maria would be dreaming she was a bird or a mermaid or something. Those were the kinds of dreams he remembered her having.

  Those were the kinds of dreams she should be having. Maria dreaming about boarding the love train with some guy-that just didn't feel right. And who was that guy, anyway? Michael had only gotten a glimpse of him, but he didn't look familiar. Was he someone from school? Did Maria have some kind of major crush going?

  Michael sat up in bed, chewing on his lip. Maybe he should check it out. Maria had no concept of what guys were really like. She didn't know that they-some of them, anyway-lived to scam girls like her. Sweet girls. Innocent girls. Yeah, he should make sure Maria wasn't getting all gooey over some total jerk-off.

  Michael closed his eyes and called Maria's dream orb back over to him. He coaxed it into expanding, then stepped inside. Maria and the guy were still going at it. He couldn't quite see the guy's face, though. Maybe that's because half of it was down Maria's throat.

  Michael did not like this. At all. He moved closer, circling around Maria and the sex fiend. They didn't notice. They wouldn't notice a nuclear explosion right now.

  No guy should be doing that with Maria. Maria was the girl Michael watched stupid horror movies with. Maria was the girl who insisted on teaching him how to bake a cake. Maria was the girl who made him wear an apron. Maria was his buddy. She should not be kissing some guy. It was just wrong. So wrong.

  It's a dream, he reminded himself. Dreams are weird. Dreams aren't always about what you wanted. Maria probably has no interest in that guy or any guy.

  It's not like Arlene Bluth wanted to take tests with the wrong pencil. It's not like Tim Watanabe wanted to live in a doghouse with Bobo the green-tongued clown. It's not like Doug Highsinger wanted to bed half the girls at-