Maggie Stiefvater - [Wolves of Mercy Falls 02]

by Maggie Stiefvater

  Grace made a face, then shrugged an agreement.

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved as she thumped back down onto a pil ow.

  Grace closed her eyes. “I don’t think they’l find anything.”

  I thought she was probably right. But what else could I do?

  • GRACE •

  Part of me wanted to go to the doctor, in case they could help. But more of me was afraid to, in case they couldn’t. What option was left if this failed?

  Being in the health center added to the surreal aspect of the day. I’d never been, though Sam seemed familiar enough with it. The wal s were a putrid shade of sea green and the exam room had a mural featuring four misshapen kil er whales frolicking in sea green waves. Al the while the nurse and the doctor were questioning me, Sam kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out. When I shot him a look, he quit doing it for a few minutes, then started cracking his knuckles with his thumb instead.

  My head was swimmy, which I told the doctor, and my nose obligingly demonstrated its bleeding for the nurse. I could only describe my stomachache, however, and both of them looked mystified when I tried to get them to smel my skin (the doctor, however, did). Ninety-five minutes after we’d entered, I left with a prescription for a seasonal al ergy medication, a recommendation to get an over-the-counter iron supplement and saline nose spray, and the memory of a lecture on teens and sleep deprivation. Oh, and Sam was sixty dol ars poorer.

  “Do you feel better?” I asked Sam as he opened

  the door to the Volkswagen for me. He was a hunched bird in this spring weather, black and stark against the gray clouds. It was impossible to tel from the occluded sky if it was the beginning of the day or the end of one.

  “Yes,” he said. He was stil a terrible liar.

  “Good,” I said. I was stil a fantastic one.

  And the thing inside my muscles groaned and stretched and ached.

  Sam took me for a coffee, which I did not drink, and while we sat in Kenny’s, Sam’s cel phone rang. Sam tipped the phone toward me so I could see Rachel’s number.

  Leaning back, he handed me the phone. He had

  his arm curled around the back of my neck in a way that was very uncomfortable but very charming, so I couldn’t move. I leaned my cheek against his arm and flipped the phone open.

  “Hel o?”

  “Grace, oh my God, are you total y crazy?”

  My stomach twisted. “You must’ve talked to my parents.”

  “They cal ed my house. Probably the Tundra Queen’s as wel . They wanted to know if you were with me, because apparently you did not spend last night in your bed, and you were not near your phone today, and they were growing slightly concerned, in a way that is very disturbing for Rachel to be involved in!”

  I pressed my hand into my forehead and leaned my elbow on the table. Sam politely pretended not to listen, though Rachel’s voice was clearly audible. “I’m sorry, Rachel. What did you tel them?”

  “You know I’m not a good liar, Grace! I couldn’t tel them you were at my house!”

  “I know,” I said.

  Rachel said, “So I told them you were at Isabel’s.”

  I blinked. “You did?”

  “What else was I supposed to do? Tel them you were at The Boy’s, and have them kil both of you?”

  My voice came out sounding a bit more

  pugnacious than I intended. “They’re going to find out eventual y.”

  “What do you mean? Grace Brisbane, you do not

  mean that you’re not going back home again. Tel me that this was just because you were momentarily angry at them for grounding you. Or even tel me it’s because you could not live without The Boy’s stunning Boyfruits for another night. But don’t tel me you think it’s forever!

  ”

  Sam’s face was twisted into a weird shape at the mention of his Boyfruits. I told Rachel, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But no, I don’t real y feel like going back anytime soon. Mom helpful y told me she thought that me and Sam were just a fling and that I needed to learn the difference between love and lust. And last night, Dad told me I wasn’t al owed to see him until I was eighteen.”

  Sam looked stricken. I hadn’t told him that part.

  “Wow. Again, the limited understanding of parental types never fails to surprise me. Especial y because types never fails to surprise me. Especial y because The Boy is…wel , The Boy is clearly incredible, so what is their problem? But, anyway, what should I do? Are you going to…um. Yeah, what’s going to happen?”

  “Eventual y I’l get tired of wearing the same two shirts over and over, and I’l have to go home and confront them,” I said. “But until then, I guess…I guess I’m not talking to them.” It felt weird to say it. Yes, I was furious at them for what they’d said. But even I knew that those things weren’t real y worthy, on their own, of running away. It was more like they were the tip of the iceberg, and I wasn’t so much running away as making their emotional distance from me official. They had seen no less of me today than they had most other days of my teen years.

  “Wow,” Rachel said. You knew she was

  nonplussed when that was al she could say.

  “I’m just done,” I said, and I was surprised to hear my voice waver, just a little. I hoped Sam hadn’t caught it; I made sure my voice was firm when I said, “I’m not pretending we’re a happy family anymore. I’m taking care of myself for once.”

  It seemed suddenly profound, this moment, sitting in a faded little booth in Kenny’s, the napkin holder on the table reflecting an image of Sam leaning against me, and me feeling like an island floating farther and me, and me feeling like an island floating farther and farther from shore. I could feel my brain taking a picture of this scene, the washed-out lighting, the chipped edge of the plates, the stil -ful coffee mug in front of me, the neutral colors of the layered T’s Sam wore.

  “Wow,” Rachel said again. She paused, for a long moment. “Grace, if you’re real y serious about this…be careful, okay? I mean…don’t hurt The Boy. It just seems like this is the kind of war that leaves lots of bodies behind and leaves the vil ages of the surrounding areas exhausted and war-weary from al the pil aging.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “The Boy is the one thing in al this that I’m determined to keep.”

  Rachel breathed out a huge sigh. “Okay. You know I’l do whatever you need me to do. You probably ought to touch base with she-of-the-pointy-boots to make sure that she knows what’s going on.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and Sam leaned his head on my shoulder as if he were suddenly as exhausted as I was.

  “I’l see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Rachel agreed and hung up. I slid the phone back into the pocket of Sam’s cargo pants before resting my head against his head. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I just let myself inhale the scent of his hair and pretend that we were already back at Beck’s house. I just wanted to be able to curl up with him and sleep without having to worry about confronting my parents or Cole or the odor of almonds and wolf that was starting to blossom on my skin again.

  “Wake up,” Sam said.

  “I’m not sleeping,” I replied.

  Sam just looked at me. Then he looked at my coffee. “You didn’t drink any of your liquid energy, Grace.” He didn’t wait for my answer; he simply took some bil s out of his wal et and slid them underneath his own empty mug. He looked tired and older, dark circles beneath his eyes, and suddenly I was suffused with guilt. I was making things so hard on him. My skin felt weird and tingly; I tasted copper again.

  “Let’s go home.” I said.

  Sam didn’t ask me which home I meant. The word

  meant only one place now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  • SAM •

  I should’ve known it would come to this. And maybe, in some way, I did, because I wasn’t surprised when I saw a blue SUV in Beck’s driveway, one of the gloss
y, huge ones that were the size of a smal convenience store. The license plate said CULPEPR, and Tom Culpeper stood in front of it. He was gesturing wildly to Cole, who looked profoundly unimpressed.

  I had no hard feelings about Tom Culpeper, other than those generated by him staging a hunt on the wolves and shooting me in the neck. So my stomach clenched when I saw him standing in the driveway.

  “Is that Tom Culpeper?” Grace said, voice conveying al the lack of enthusiasm I felt. “Do you think he’s here about Isabel?”

  As I parked on the street, an uneasy tingle shot down my limbs.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think he is.”

  • COLE •

  Tom Culpeper was a prick.

  Being one myself, I was al owed to think such things. He’d been trying to get Beck’s whereabouts out of me for about five minutes when Sam’s little gray Volkswagen pul ed up at the curb. Sam, in the driver’s seat, looked tight mouthed as he got out of the car. Clearly he had some history with this tool.

  Tom Culpeper stopped running his mouth as Sam

  walked across the brittle lawn, casting no shadow in the sunless afternoon.

  “What can I do for you?” Sam asked.

  Culpeper put his thumbs in the pockets of his khakis and eyed Sam. Suddenly he was jovial, confident. “You’re Geoffrey Beck’s kid. The adopted one.”

  Sam’s smile was brittle. “I am.”

  “Do you know if he’s around?”

  “’Fraid not,” Sam replied. Grace joined us, standing between me and him. She had a vague frown on her face, like she was hearing music no one else did and she didn’t like it. Culpeper’s amiable expression sharpened when he saw her. Sam added,

  “I’l let him know you stopped by.”

  “He won’t be back today?” Culpeper asked.

  “No, sir,” Sam said, managing to sound both polite and insolent. Perhaps unintentional y.

  “That’s too bad. Because I had something for him that I real y wanted to give to him in person. But you know, I think you can probably handle it for him.” He gestured with his chin toward the back of the SUV. Sam’s face was as gray as the sky above, as he

  and I fol owed; Grace lagged behind.

  “Do you think this looks like something that might interest Mr. Beck?” Culpeper asked. He lifted the tailgate.

  This moment. There are moments that change you

  forever, and this was one of mine.

  In the back of the SUV, among plastic grocery bags and a fuel can, was a dead wolf. It lay on its side, shoved a bit to make it fit, its legs crossed over each other. Blood matted the fur at its neck and again at its stomach. Its jaw was slightly slack, the tongue lying limply across the canines.

  Victor.

  Sam put the back of his fist to his mouth, very softly, and then lowered it. I stared at the pale gray face with the dark markings, and at Victor’s brown eyes staring blankly at the carpeted wal of the SUV. Crossing my arms, I bal ed my hands to keep them from shaking. My heart was thumping in a frenzied, desperate way. I needed to turn away, but I couldn’t.

  “What is this?” Sam asked coldly.

  Culpeper grabbed one of the wolf’s back legs and, with a single jerk, tugged the body over the bumper. It made a sickening thump when it hit the driveway. Grace cried out, her voice ful of the horror that was just starting to rise up inside me.

  I had to turn around. My gut felt like it was unwinding inside me.

  “You tel your father this,” Culpeper snarled. “You tel him to stop feeding these things. I see another one on my property, I will shoot it. I wil shoot every single wolf I can get in my sights. This is Mercy Fal s, not National Geographic. ” He looked at Grace, who appeared as sick as I felt. To her, he said, “I would’ve thought you’d know to keep better company, considering who your father is.”

  “Better company than your daughter?” Grace managed to shoot back.

  Culpeper gave her a thin smile.

  Sam had gone very, very quiet, but Grace’s voice seemed to bring him back to life. “Mr. Culpeper, I’m sure you’re aware of my adopted father’s profession.”

  “Very. One of the very few things we have in

  “Very. One of the very few things we have in common.”

  Sam’s voice was disturbingly even. “I’m pretty sure there are legal implications to tossing a dead wild animal on private property. It’s out of hunting season for pretty much every animal, and most certainly for wolves. And I’m guessing if anyone knew about those implications, it would be him.”

  Tom shook his head and headed back around toward the driver-side door. “Right. Wish him luck on that. You have to spend better than half the year in Mercy Fal s if you want the judge on your side.”

  I wanted to hit him so badly it hurt. I wanted to pound the waxy smug smile from his mouth.

  I didn’t think I could stop myself.

  I felt a touch on my arm and looked down to see Grace’s fingers circling my wrist above my fisted hand. She looked up at me, biting her lip. From the look in her eyes and the set of her shoulders, I could see that she wanted to pound the living crap out of him, too, and that was what stopped me.

  “Better move that thing if you don’t want me to back over it,” Culpeper cal ed as he slapped the driver’s door shut, and the three of us rushed forward to pul Victor’s body off the driveway, right before the SUV’s engine roared and he backed out.

  It had been forever since I’d felt so damn young, so absolutely powerless against an adult.

  As soon as the blue SUV was out of sight, Grace said, “He’s gone. The bastard.”

  I dropped to the ground next to the wolf and lifted the muzzle. Victor’s eyes looked back at me, dul and lifeless, losing meaning every second this side of death.

  And I said what I should’ve said a long time ago—“I’m sorry, Victor. I’m so sorry”—to the last person I would ever destroy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  • SAM •

  I felt like I had dug too many graves this year already. Together, Cole and I got the shovel from the garage and took turns digging through the partial y frozen ground. I didn’t know what to say to him. My mouth felt stuffed ful of words that I should’ve said to Tom Culpeper, and when I tried to find some left over for Cole, I came up short.

  I wanted Grace to wait inside, but she insisted on coming along. She watched us from among the trees, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes red. I had chosen this site, sloped and sparse, because of its beauty in summer; when it rained, the leaves flipped up to reveal glowing white undersides that rippled in the wind. However, I had never been human here to appreciate its equal y beautiful presence this time of year. While we dug, the evening transformed the woods, making ribbons of warm sunlight across the forest floor and painting stripes of blue shadows over our bodies. Everything was splashes of yel ow and indigo, an impressionist painting of three teens at an evening funeral.

  Cole had transformed yet again from the guy I’d seen last. When I handed off the shovel to him, we exchanged glances. And for the first time since I’d met him, his expression wasn’t empty. When our eyes met, I saw pain and guilt…and Cole.

  Final y, Cole.

  Victor’s body lay a few feet away from us, partial y wrapped in a sheet. In my head, I came up with lyrics for him as I dug.

  Sailing to an island unknown

  Failing to find your way home

  you walk under a sea

  leagues beneath us

  Grace caught my eye, as if she knew what I was

  doing. The lyrics could also be about her, so I shoved them out of my mind. Digging and waiting to dig. That was what I thought about as the sun crept down. When the grave was deep enough, we both

  hesitated. From here, I could see Victor’s bel y and the blast that had kil ed him. In the end, he died as an animal.

  It could have so easily been Beck’s or Paul’s body that Culpeper pul ed out of the back of his truck. Last year, it could have bee
n me. It was almost me.

  • GRACE •

  Cole couldn’t do it.

  When the grave was final y dug and he was final y standing by Sam and looking down at the body next to the pit, I saw that Cole couldn’t do it. I recognized the veneer of control as he stood, his breaths ragged enough to make his body sway with each exhalation. I’d been there.

  “Cole,” I said, and both Sam’s head and Cole’s jerked toward me. They had to look down, because I had long before gotten too tired to stand. From my place in the cold, dry leaves, I gestured toward Victor.

  “Why don’t you say something? I mean, to Victor.”

  Sam blinked at me, surprised. I think maybe he’d forgotten that I’d already had to say good-bye to him once. I knew how it felt.

  Cole didn’t look at either of us. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead and swal owed. “I can’t, um…”

  He stopped, because his voice was unsteady. I saw his throat move as he swal owed again.

  We were making it harder for him. We were making him fight both grief and tears.

  Sam picked up on this, and said, “We can go if you want some privacy.”

  “Please don’t,” Cole whispered.

  His face was stil dry, but a tear, cold against my hot cheek, streaked off my chin.

  Sam waited a long moment for Cole to speak, and when he didn’t, Sam recited a poem, his voice low and formal, “Death arrives among all that sound, like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it…”

  I watched Cole go completely stil as Sam spoke. Stil like not moving. Not breathing. A sort of stil so deep you know it went al the way through him.

  Sam took a step toward Cole and then, careful y, he put a hand on Cole’s shoulder.

  “This isn’t Victor. This is something Victor wore, for a little while. Not anymore.”

  They both looked at the body of the wolf, stiff and smal and defeated-looking in death.

  Cole sank to the ground.

  • COLE •

  I had to look at his eyes.

  I uncovered the body so there was nothing between me and Victor’s brown eyes. They were empty and faraway, ghosts of his real eyes.