by Jeff Sampson
And there was another smell. Something flowery and gross. That was when I remembered: Dalton McKinney, football star, was dating Nikki Tate, head cheerleader. A match made in high school cliché heaven.
Dalton hefted up a stack of twelve-packs and set them on the counter in front of me. He ripped the cardboard open, grabbed a beer for himself, and handed me one. “Screw those guys in the living room,” he said. “Let’s party. It’s what Emily Cooke would have wanted.”
The can was warm in my hand. Its silver-and-red label was familiar from commercials, but it was nothing I’d ever dared try before.
Or something Daytime Emily had never dared try. Cowering, fearful Daytime Emily, who never had any fun and who no one paid attention to. But that was not who I was anymore.
Pulling back the tab on the beer, I hit myself in the face with a spurt of frothy spray. “We wouldn’t want to let Emily Cooke down.” I licked the beer splatter off my lips, and then I tipped back the can and took my very first sip of beer.
It was disgusting.
You know how beer smells? Sort of like cat pee by way of a heady, boozy stench? Combine that with a terrible bitter taste that lingers on the tongue, and a warm frothy bubbliness like a can of cola that’s been left open in the sun for three weeks, and you can imagine maybe a fraction of the nastiness.
I could have just set the can aside—it’s not like I had the need to prove myself to Dalton and his friends—but I wanted the thrill of doing something that, before this night, would have been totally forbidden to me. Drinking this was completely illegal. Totally immoral. If my dad knew I was out drinking, he’d probably break down into sobs and wonder how he failed me.
I guzzled the entire can without taking a breath, elated, feeling freer than even the night before. Slamming down the can, I crushed it with my hand as easily as Dalton had. The pots above my head quaked from the force of my smash.
The guys stared at me in awe for a second as the booze settled into my mostly empty stomach, making me feel half-queasy. Then they all laughed, and Dalton raised his hand high in the air. I looked at him in confusion, then got it—he wanted a high five. I slapped his hand with my own.
“Good one!” he shouted.
“Pass me another,” I said.
He did and grabbed one for himself. At the count of three we downed the cans, slammed them on the counter, grabbed two more, and did it again.
After the fourth beer, my stomach definitely felt odd. My head felt strangely hollow and light, like it had filled with helium and was about to drift up toward the ceiling. I wobbled on my countertop perch. Everything was half-blurry and half much too clear, and every time someone spoke, it took me a moment to realize what was going on before snapping to attention and listening intently. Everything everyone said seemed the funniest thing I ever heard, and we all laughed uproariously.
Somehow I ended up scooted across the island, resting against Dalton’s broad, muscular chest, just taking in his smell. His musk was so strangely familiar and reassuring, the lingering smell of his girl making me giggle to myself even as I caressed his arm. I was invading another girl’s territory, and I loved every second of it.
“Dalton!”
The voice was shrill, the echo of it in the kitchen a buzz in my ear. Grimacing and sitting up, I saw a pair of shadowy figures in the doorway. Squinting, I made out Zach. Standing next to him was a conservatively dressed, pretty girl with long red hair.
Nikki Tate. Dalton’s girlfriend.
Nikki gaped at us, her lips opening and closing as though she wasn’t sure what to say. Beside her, Zach muttered, “Sorry, Nikki.”
“Hey,” Dalton slurred. I resumed stroking his arm. Nikki’s nostrils flared.
“Dalton,” she said again, her voice quiet now, though I could hear a quavering behind her practiced, calm tone. “Put down your beer. I’m taking you home.”
Dalton gazed at her, his jaw slack. He blinked. “Huh? Why would I do that? I’m thirstay.”
“Put it down,” Nikki repeated, her tone going shrill at the end. She raised her hand and clenched it into a fist, as though miming gripping the beer can. She jerked her hand down.
As if in response, the half-full can dropped from Dalton’s hand against the counter, so forcefully it was as though Nikki had indeed yanked it from his grip. Beer spilled as it landed, and I felt the warm liquid seeping into the back of my jeans. With a yelp, I leaped down from the counter and away from Dalton.
Without another word, Nikki grabbed Dalton by the arm and tugged him toward the kitchen door. He protested, his words slurred and unintelligible.
Zach stood in the doorway, glaring at me. I felt the eyes of the other guys in the kitchen on me as well, and I could make out a few girls in the hallway watching.
Seemed they wanted a show. Well, they were going to get one. I chased after Dalton and grabbed him by the waistband of his jeans. He stopped, pulled free of Nikki, and turned to face me.
“Sorry your girl had to ruin our fun,” I said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Leave her at home next time.”
With that, I stood on my tiptoes, stuck out my tongue, and licked the side of his face. To my amusement, he let out a titter.
For a long moment, Nikki stood still, her eyes narrowed. Quavering and red-faced, she pulled Dalton past Zach and into the hallway.
Everyone stood silently, watching me. My head woozy, my vision blurred, and feeling like I was about to fall over at any moment, I looked them all in the eye and smiled.
“What’s everyone staring at?” I said, my voice as thick as if I was talking through a mouth full of cotton. “Let’s party!”
Clutching a twelve-pack in one hand and an open beer in the other, I shoved my way into the hallway. My destination: the front room. Those people needed to stop crying about Emily Cooke and start having fun.
Stumbling, I pushed past a girl with black hair, muttering, “Watch it.”
The girl gripped me by my upper arm and spun me to face her. I dropped the twelve-pack, and it landed against the wood floor with a metallic thump.
“Let go,” I snapped. Then, blinking rapidly to clear the blur from my eyes, I realized there were three of the girl who’d grabbed me. I was seeing in triplicate. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” the black-haired girl on the right said. “You think getting all up on Nikki’s boyfriend is hilarious?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Emily Webb,” the black-haired girl in the middle said, “but you better stay away from him.”
The black-haired girl on the left stood silent and back away from the others, her eyes down.
I blinked again. They were still a trio.
“Whoa,” I slurred. “There really are three of you.”
That’s when I recognized them. The ABC triplets: Amy, Brittany, and Casey Delgado. They used to all have identically cut, incredibly long, shiny black hair that hung to their butts, but apparently they’d all cut their hair in three different styles for the new school year.
The triplet in the middle—Amy, the one with the mole on her nose that could easily be confused with a black nose stud, whose hair hung manelike and wild over her shoulders—scowled at me. She stepped forward and shoved me in the shoulder.
“You hear us?” she said. “Don’t mess with Nikki or you’re going to have to mess with us.”
Oh, no, she did not just shove me.
Wobbling slightly, I got in Amy’s face. “Or you’ll do what?” I snarled. “You think you can hurt me? Aren’t you afraid you’ll break a nail?”
Amy’s nostrils flared. She was about to say something else when someone started shouting behind us.
I turned to see the front door wide open, Nikki and Dalton standing chest to chest on the porch and waving their arms. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Dalton was the one shouting. He raised a hand, and for a moment it appeared that notoriously kind Dalton McKinney was going to smack a girl half his size. Instead he stormed o
ff down the porch steps. Nikki chased after him.
The endlessly depressing dirge from the entertainment room finally shut off, and a group of the pretty people burst out to see what was up. Mikey Harris was in the lead, Spencer by his side, his head only coming up to Mikey’s chest. He was so tiny, that kid.
My stomach roiled and anger at Amy Delgado burned in my chest, but all of that was forgotten when I smelled it. The scent. His scent.
Some distant voice spoke in my brain: Find this smell. He’s the one.
And I saw him—the new guy, right behind Mikey and Spencer, crouched against the wall near the front door as though he was trying to hide in plain sight. But he couldn’t hide from me. He might as well have had a glowing spotlight on him, looking so very hot in his tight black shirt with his dark hair mussed and gelled, his sharp brow furrowed. Forgetting all about the raging Latina triplets behind me, I took a sip from my beer and lurched down the hallway.
“Hey!” Mikey Harris called as I came toward him. “What’s going on out here? I thought I made it clear that this party was sober. Who brought beer?”
A girl behind Mikey sniffed and brushed a tear from her eye. “That is so disrespectful to Emily.”
“This whore was getting drunk and throwing herself at Dalton McKinney,” one of the triplets called behind me.
“Yeah, she was all over him right in front of Nikki,” another said.
I ignored them all. I didn’t care what was going on, I just had to find the source of the musk, had to nuzzle the guy it belonged to. Patrick was all I could see through my foggy eyes. I tripped over my own feet and banged into the stairs, but I immediately righted myself and kept on walking.
Mikey stepped in front of me, blocking my way. I tried to move around him, but he stepped into my path.
“Hey, who are you? Why were you messing with Dalton?”
I grunted. “Me? He was the one drinking. I just joined in. Seemed more fun than your little pity party in there.” I gestured with my beer hand toward the open double doors leading to his TV room. Brown-yellow booze sloshed out of the can and onto Mikey’s shirt.
“That doesn’t sound like Dalton,” Mikey said, so intent on grilling me that he didn’t notice the new stain on his polo.
“It’s true, man,” a male voice said behind me. I spun around, a little too fast, and had to bounce off of the wall to keep my balance. The lights were way too bright in the foyer. Why did they make the lights so damn bright?
Zach stood there. I could barely make out a couple of the other football players peeking out of the kitchen doors, sheepish.
“Sorry, Mikey,” Zach said. “It was Dalton’s idea. We were just trying to loosen up. I know this was supposed to be to remember Emily Cooke and all, but we’re all nerves after what happened . . .”
Quietly Mikey said, “Spence, go make sure that Dalton’s not trying to drive, will ya?”
“Yeah,” Spencer said, then turned to run off.
“And you,” he said to me. “You come with anyone?”
I ignored his question and tried to shove past. He didn’t budge.
“Move,” I slurred. “I’m on a mission.”
“You’re drunk and I’m not letting you drive.”
I tried to get past him again. “Thanks for the PSA,” I said. “But I’m busy. Move.”
This time, Mikey stepped forward, setting me off balance. I reached out to grab the banister. My beer slipped out of my hands, smacking against the hardwood floor and spilling.
“Seriously,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but maybe we can call someone or—”
Rage burned inside me, an inferno in my gut. Lip raised into a sneer, I stood on my tiptoes and got in Mikey’s face. “I go to your school,” I said, jabbing a finger into his chest. “My name is Emily Webb. And you need to get out of my frickin’ way!”
I was angry again, more angry than I’d ever been before. With a cry, I shoved Mikey in his chest.
And he flew.
Pinwheeling his arms like a cartoon character, Mikey tumbled backward from the force of my shove. He smacked against a guy behind him, and both of them fell against a bench near the front door.
Ignoring the outraged cries of the other party guests, I marched to where I’d seen Patrick, but the musky, perfect scent had faded. It was somewhere outside now, and there was no one by the wall near the front door.
Patrick had left.
“Good going, jerk,” I slurred at Mikey where he lay stunned, sprawled half against the bench and half on the floor. “You made me lose him.”
I stormed through the people who weren’t quick enough to get out of my way, then stomped out into the night. The fat guy with the shaved head was still out there, and he tried to grab me.
“Lay off,” I snapped, yanking my arm free from his stubby fingers.
I staggered across the lawn, my body seeming to fight me with every step. Smacking into a few parked cars, I lumbered into the darkened street. The smell led into the woods across from Mikey’s house, the same woods that eventually ended near where I lived.
Distantly I heard two loud pops, like firecrackers going off, then the sound of a girl screaming.
Ignoring the screams, I walked into the trees. As I did, a strong, queasy pain struck. As much I wanted to keep going, to chase after Patrick’s scent, I had to stop and bend over, one hand clutching my stomach and the other against the rough bark of a tree.
I didn’t feel right. My body shivered, my insides swirled in my gut. My head felt like it was filling up with water, like my head was a sponge and I was soaking up the ocean. Above me, the stars in the moonless night glowed too terribly bright, burning into my eyes.
The confidence I’d felt all evening drained away, and the cold of night swelled over me.
I fell to my knees and gagged. The alcohol burned in my stomach. I needed it out of me. I gagged again. My whole body convulsed as I retched, then threw up.
It didn’t help. My stomach still hurt, my vision was still blurry, my head still muddied. I stood and staggered away from the puddle of watery vomit. More pain lanced through my body—my fingers and toes throbbed as though they’d been pounded with a hammer. My skin prickled with gooseflesh, the fine hairs puckering like little needles jabbing my arms. And then the pain in my stomach burst, like someone had grabbed two big handfuls of flesh and torn me open.
Crying out, I fell to the soft ground, wet leaves sticking to my hair and mud staining my perfect green top. I didn’t care, couldn’t care. The world swirled around me as I huddled with my knees to my chest, trying to cry out as my body convulsed, feeling as though I’d been tossed in a blender with some sadistic madman pounding on the pulse button.
And then it was over. My brain was still off-kilter and hazy, but I felt . . . better.
The woods around me weren’t quite as blurry anymore, but it seemed as though the color was leached from them, everything in shades of dark gray and black. I noticed things I hadn’t before—the knothole in the tree in front of me, the rustling of some meek little animal in the bushes to my right, a man-shaped shadow to my left cast by no source that I could see. I snorted and sniffed, smelling the wet leaves, the sour scent of my vomit, the pee of some dog who’d been walked here exactly eight hours and thirty-seven minutes ago. And of course, I smelled his smell. His perfect, alluring scent.
I groaned deep in my throat, the sound coming out like a dog’s growl, then tried to get to my feet. I immediately pitched forward onto my hands. My view was crystal clear, so I had no way to explain what I was seeing, but my arms looked like they were covered in smooth gray and black fur. My fingernails had grown long, sharp, and black; the weight of my body on my hands sank them into the soft earth.
On all fours, I started to stalk forward, then yelped. My legs felt bound with rope or something, so tightly that they hurt. Swiveling around, I reached down and slashed with my long nails. In a moment, my pants were shredded. They were barely clinging to me and still felt muc
h too tight, but now at least I could move. And that was all that mattered.
Wobbly, I stood, then started walking forward. The scent was growing increasingly faint. I had to hurry.
The last thing I remember as I tore deeper and deeper into the woods was the feeling that I was being watched. That same feeling from the night before of some presence hovering near me, observing me.
Only this time, I could see it. See them. All around me I saw more of the shadowy man-shaped figures, standing still, doing nothing. Only they weren’t shadows, not really—more like human statues carved from the blackness around me, somehow seeming both weightless and horribly solid at the exact same time.
Though nothing else about the dark woods worried me—what could hurt me?—something about the shadows, about the way they stood so perfectly still, burned itself into my brain, grabbing hold of some sort of ancient fear and making me whimper.
I ran away from the shadows, toward the smell.
I remember absolutely nothing else.
The Vesper Company
“Envisioning the brightest stars, to lead our way.”
- Internal Document, Do Not Reproduce -
Partial Transcript of the Interrogation of Branch B’s Vesper 1
Part 3—Recorded Oct. 31, 2010
F. Savage (FS): You can’t remember anything else?
Vesper 1 (V1): Sorry. It was the beer. I guess I blacked out.
FS: How unfortunate.
V1: Don’t worry. It’s not the last time it happens. Not the blackout drinking! I kind of swore off beer. I mean the changing.
FS: [laughs.] Oh, of course, I’m aware of everything else that happens. But this is all quite fascinating to read. The varying lengths of your mental shift before the full-on transformation . . . so very different from any other vesper I’ve had the chance to study.
V1: So what is that, anyway? You keep calling me a vesper, but you called us deviants earlier too.
FS: It’s just a term for our records, Emily. Vespers are . . . special. Precious to us in a way you can’t imagine. But you are different than the vespers I’ve worked with in the past. Like I said, the deviant nickname may be unfortunate, but it works for—