Nocturne

by Christine Johnson

  "I need an alibi," Claire whispered, "and also an untraceable e-mail address."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BACK IN HER room, Claire sat in front of the computer, her hands poised above the keys.

  "I don't want to do this." Her voice was flat.

  "I know." Matthew reached over and brushed her hair away from her face, his thumb tracing the angle of her cheekbone. "Is there—I . . ." He sighed. "Nothing I say is going to make this any better, is it?"

  Claire shook her head. She stared down at the keyboard, thinking only about what she needed to do next, instead of why she was doing it in the first place. In less than five minutes, she'd figured out how to set up an untraceable e-mail account, complete with a professional-looking signature.

  Claire clicked open a new message and started to type out an e-mail. She tried to keep from using any sort of abbreviations, so that she'd sound older. She'd seen Lisbeth's e-mails-anyone over the age of twenty-two wrote e-mails like an English teacher was going to read them.

  Hi! I'm Lynn - I own the Potter's Wheel, on River Glen Drive. I saw some of your work when I was in Philadelphia last month, and I was really impressed. Kelly from Thrown Gallery gave me your e-mail address. I'm looking for some young artists in Hanover Falls for a new show I'm setting up. Would you be interested in meeting?

  She sent the message and waited, watching the minutes tick past on her computer, praying that this wasn't the one afternoon that Amy decided not to check her e-mail. Everything inside her burned. It hurt to breathe.

  Half an hour later, the computer pinged, and an e-mail popped into her inbox. Claire clicked open the message.

  Hey, Lynn - Thanks for the message. I'm very interested! I'm glad Kelly gave u my e-mail addy.

  With her fingers shaking over the keys, Claire sent a response.

  Great! Can you come by around eight tonight? If you could bring some samples of your work, we can see where it might fit in the gallery. We're down on River Bend Drive. Just park in the lot and walk across the bridge, and we'll be on your right.

  She had to close her eyes when she pressed send. It was like handing someone a noose and asking them to check if it would fit around their neck.

  Amy responded faster than a kid grabbing an ice cream cone.

  That would be great! I'll be there right at eight - I'm so excited!

  It was done.

  Claire crumpled into herself like a wadded-up piece of paper, wishing she could shrink herself down until she was small enough to disappear.

  Matthew wrapped his arms around her, scooting her over into his lap.

  "I'm staying with you until it's time. I'll drive you there," he announced.

  Claire shook her head. "No," she whispered. "You have to go home."

  "Claire, let me stay with you. Let me help you."

  She leaned into him.

  "I wish you could," she said. "but you have to go home. You're sure your parents won't be there?"

  "I'm sure," he said.

  "I'll come straight there, after—" She couldn't bring herself to say the words. "I'll come over when it's done." She shuddered, and Matthew tightened his arms around her.

  "Be careful." His voice was urgent, pleading, in her ear. "I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you. I love you, Claire. And I'm so sor—"

  "Don't say it," she begged. "It just makes it worse." She turned her head so that her forehead was pressed against the side of his neck. "Just tell me one more time that you still love me."

  "I do love you," he said. "I love you now, and I'll love you tomorrow, no matter what you have to do tonight. You're not choosing this, Claire. You're not responsible for things you don't choose."

  His kind words fell flat inside Claire. She didn't believe him. Amy's death might have been an order, but she was still the one who was going to reach out and take her life. Pushing away the thought, she straightened enough to kiss him.

  "I'll see you soon," she said.

  He slipped out of the room, and the click of the door closing behind him was the loneliest sound Claire had ever heard. When darkness fell, Claire dragged herself downstairs, so wrapped up in adrenaline and disbelief that she didn't even feel the stairs beneath her feet.

  Her mother looked up at her.

  "I'm going," Claire said simply.

  "So soon?" Marie seemed surprised, but she recovered quickly. Smoothly.

  "Yep." Claire's voice was crisp as an apple but not nearly as sweet. "It's worked out. She fell—she bought it." She was going to say, 'She fell for it,' but it was too close to the truth of what was going to happen. What she was going to do.

  Marie turned to her.

  "Claire—just . . . be careful. Please. I do not wish to see you broken by this. Not in body and not in mind."

  Claire shrugged. There was nothing she could say. She had little enough hope for herself—there wasn't any left over to offer her mother.

  "I'll call you when it's done." She grabbed a dark-colored coat, stepped out into the cold, and walked away.

  She did not look back.

  Claire found a spot next to the bridge, behind some prickly

  leaved holly bushes. Below her, the sound of the river, icy and

  dark and swift, roared endlessly.

  The waiting was torture, but Claire reveled in it. The awfulness of the anticipation was the only thing that made her believe she hadn't turned into a monster yet.

  There was a tiny part of her that hoped if she could hold enough hurt, bear enough pain, then she could do this one horrible thing without shattering.

  But it still seemed like an unbelievably big maybe.

  She shivered in the cold, thinking how much easier it would be to do this if she were in her wolf form. The bridge rail was too high, though. There was no way to throw Amy over without using her arms, and besides, even in her human form, Claire was more than strong enough to lift Amy. To drop her over the side, into the wide, deep, hungry river below.

  At four minutes past eight, she heard the sound of a car pulling into the lot. A door slamming. And then a creaking complaint from the boards at the other end of the bridge. Claire's gaze swept over the scene—the road was deserted except for Amy's car. Claire could barely make out Amy's blond curls bouncing in the darkness. She'd be practically invisible to anyone without the sort of acute senses that Claire had.

  This was the moment. Claire just had to stand up and walk to the center of the bridge.

  Then it would all be over. Claire would be safe and the pack would be protected and they could all start to put the whole ugly thing behind them.

  Except that Amy would be dead.

  On the bridge, Amy started to whistle. A thready, faint whistle that was hopeful and scared all at once.

  The sound of it—so very human and so very alive—broke Claire. She felt it deep inside herself, as she cracked under the strain of it all. The shock of the fracture traveled through her. She jumped, recoiling, filled with the sort of near-miss fear that came with slamming on a car's breaks the moment before a crash. As Claire stood, shaking from the jolt, one shining realization stared back at her.

  She couldn't kill Amy. She wouldn't. No matter what it meant. There was no time to think about the decision. Every second brought Amy farther along the bridge—closer to where Claire was waiting. She snuck out of her hiding spot before Amy was close enough to see her, and then she ran. Fast and hard and as far away from Amy as she could get. She tore through the streets, running as fast as she could in her human form, trusting the darkness to hide her unnatural speed.

  The Engles' driveway was empty, and Claire was grateful. She slipped around to the back door, and Matthew opened it before she even had a chance to knock.

  His face was worried and relieved as he pulled her into the house and shut the door behind her.

  "Is it . . . done?" he whispered.

  Claire's legs shook. "No. I couldn't do it. She's down at some pottery store that never asked to see her work in the fir
st place, probably confused as hell. But she's alive." Her knees started to buckle. "I have to sit down." She staggered over to a kitchen chair and collapsed into it.

  Leaving Amy alive might get Claire killed, but she knew with absolute certainty that it was the only way. If she took Amy's life, it would destroy her. It would be worse than dying.

  "What are we going to do?" Matthew asked.

  "I don't know," Claire admitted. Between the fingers of terror that squeezed her, a leaping sort of joy slipped through, like a fish flashing through a net. It was the exhilaration of being right. Of being almost whole.

  Almost.

  She'd been able to accept the idea of killing Amy, even if she hadn't been able to do it. And it had cracked something inside her. She would have to live with that—and she could. Because deciding not to go through with it had taken the pressure off her broken places.

  She might be cracked, but she wasn't going to shatter.

  "I have to talk to her," Claire said, thinking furiously. "Maybe you can, too. She likes you, so maybe she'll listen to you. She can't be a gardien—my mother already rejected that idea—but there must be some humans who know and just don't say anything because they understand. Maybe if I get her to understand, she'll keep her mouth shut."

  Matthew gripped her shoulders. "Claire, it's too big a risk. If she tells, you'll be caught. Or worse."

  "I know," she said grimly.

  He licked his lips. "And what about the pack? What about your mother? What are they going to do? You disobeyed them by not killing her tonight. Claire, it's their law. Your law."

  She closed her eyes. She didn't want to disobey an order. Break the law. But there had to be a way. She just needed some time. . . . Her eyes flew open.

  "Right. Right! And the law says I have to kill her."

  Matthew nodded, looking like he'd just pulled her off a ledge. Like she was finally talking sense. "Okay. So let's just figure out—"

  "But it doesn't say when," she interrupted. "I could do it in five years. Ten years. When we're eighty."

  "Claire. That's a technicality. Your mom ordered you to do it tonight. Do you really think they'll just let that go?"

  "Probably not. It would at least give me time to try and convince Amy not to say anything—that if she keeps her mouth shut, we'll both be okay. The pack might not make her a gardien, but maybe I can get her to keep the secret anyway. If I can find a way to fix things without killing her, they might just force me to become a seule. They might not kill me, as long as the pack's not at risk."

  "They'll make you leave the pack?" His mouth fell open.

  Claire closed her eyes, trying to stay calm—to hold on to the glimmering, butterfly-winged feeling she'd had when she realized she couldn't push Amy over the bridge.

  The doorbell rang, and Claire's eyes flew open.

  Matthew stepped over to the door and peered through the peephole.

  Claire watched as the color drained from his face.

  "Who is it?" she asked, fear tugging at her voice.

  He edged back into the kitchen, his eyes wild. "It's Amy," he whispered. "Shit."

  "Perfect," Claire said. The edges of her vision had gone fuzzy, and she had an elated, half-crazed feeling that was out beyond the limits of panic. "No time like the present. Let's talk to her."

  Matthew moved toward Claire, brushing the hair off her forehead. "Please. Not yet. Let—let me talk to her. Go hide somewhere, and let me see if I can figure out what happened. Why she's here. Please, Claire. Let me try first."

  She looked at his anguished face and knew that she loved him too much to say no.

  Besides, there was time now.

  There was plenty of time.

  "Okay," she agreed.

  "Oh, thank God. Okay"—he stared around the room— "you can't go upstairs—she might see you go past the front window. It'll have to be the basement. It's the only place."

  "Fine," she said, stretching up to kiss him. She'd meant it to be a quick, reassuring kiss, but the chaos and frenzy of the last few hours turned into need. Matthew's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him with a force that made her gasp. His mouth pressed against hers. The current that passed between them was dizzying. Claire wound her hands around his neck, tracing a path with her fingertips from his hairline down below his collar.

  Amy knocked on the front door. Panting, he pulled away from her.

  "Downstairs," he reminded her. "Please. Wait for me."

  "Okay," she said, breathless. She turned and headed for the door, darting down the stairs. Standing in the shadows that pooled on the basement floor, Claire strained to listen to what was going on above her.

  She heard the click of the latch and Matthew sounding surprised.

  "Hey, Amy—what are you doing here?"

  It was hard to hear Amy's response. The wind carried her voice away from the house.

  "Really? That's weird. Maybe they forgot," Matthew said. Claire could hear his footsteps. "Come on in."

  They moved into the living room, and one of them—Amy or Matthew, she couldn't tell which—swung the door shut behind them. Claire found her fingers curling unconsciously into fists. Amy and Matthew were too far away. Even her hearing wasn't good enough to get through that many closed doors. Cursing the fact that the basement didn't extend below the living room, she slipped back around to the bottom of the stairs, trying to hear.

  "So, what, uh, what brings you by?" Matthew's voice was tense. Claire could practically see him sitting on the arm of his mother's chintz-covered chair anxiously bouncing his knee.

  "It's about Claire, actually." Amy's voice was still faint, and Claire crept up a few steps. "I'm really worried that I've made a huge mess of the whole situation, and I don't know what to do about it." She sounded genuinely miserable, and Claire blinked in surprise.

  "Okay . . ." Matthew's voice was slow, careful, and suspicious. Claire squeezed her eyes shut. He really was a terrible liar.

  Amy said something, but her voice had gotten so soft that Claire couldn't hear.

  Crap.

  She didn't want to go any farther up the stairs—they creaked terribly, and besides, she'd be completely exposed if someone opened the basement door. But the only other way she'd be able to hear—really hear—was if she was in her wolf form.

  She bit her lip. She'd be able to change back long before anyone saw her, but she'd sworn she'd never transform inside again. And Matthew's basement, with all the lycanthropy books that reeked of Dr. Engle, was even worse than her bedroom.

  She hesitated, trying to decide if she could stand the terror of being trapped inside. But whatever Amy was saying up there, Claire needed to hear it.

  Fine. It can't get any worse than it already is, right?

  Her decision made, Claire ducked back into the darkest corner of the basement, where she'd have the most time to get back into her human shape if anyone came downstairs. Bracing herself, she transformed. There was a soft thud as her tail hit the wall behind her, and Claire held her breath as the shock of the noise and the oppression of the walls shot through her at the same time. It wasn't quite as bad as she'd feared. She still felt the knife edged panic of being trapped indoors, but it didn't shock her the way it had the first time. She flattened her ears to her head and focused on Matthew's voice. There was a faint smell of him lingering in the basement, and she used it to help her concentrate.

  ". . . you can tell me. Really." Matthew's voice was reassuring.

  Claire held her breath and listened hard for Amy's response.

  "But you're involved too, and that makes it so hard." There was a tiny catch in her breath, as if she was crying.

  "Just because I'm loyal to Claire doesn't mean you can't talk to me," Matthew said.

  "Listen, I think it's great that you're standing by her. Really. That's one thing that's completely different from what happened to the girl I knew in Philadelphia—one reason this is a little bit less awful. It's a terrible secret to keep alone, b
ut it's not exactly something most people want to spread around. I totally get why Claire is always so distant. Why she won't open up to me, no matter how nice I try to be."

  The words pricked at Claire, needle-pointed and painful. Amy saw her exactly the way the rest of the world saw Marie. Which was everything she'd never wanted to be.

  "That's very . . . understanding of you," Matthew said. He sounded confused.

  "So, anyway, on Saturday, I heard the two of you talking at the ball, and I finally put all the pieces together. The way she was too nauseous to go to the party, the cravings Claire was talking about at the mall, the way she was worried about a growth spurt . . . Plus, she was always so tired and stressed, and a couple of times she mentioned something complicated going on with the two of you. But when I heard her talking about the baby, it just all made sense. It was same stuff that happened to Samantha, the girl I knew in Philadelphia who got pregnant. She tried to get rid of the baby on her own, and she nearly died."