by Liz Braswell
“Where are we?” Chloe shouted.
“Where all the rich assholes live,” Alyec yelled back.
“I thought that was San Jose.”
Alyec thought about this. “Old money rich assholes!”
He made a left and pointed. Chloe’s jaw dropped at the sight of the house in front of them.
It was like an estate out of some English film, a giant stone-and-wood manor, rising several stories in the middle. Lower wings flanked either side. The roof was slate. The great lawn that sloped down the road had to be several acres at least and was protected by a tall and spiky old-fashioned fence, gate, and guardhouse. A gravel driveway gently rolled up from there to the front door, ending in a circular roundabout whose center was a fountain. Every piece of greenery was immaculately trimmed, and dotting the lawn were topiary and even the occasional fountain.
“Oh my God … It’s beautiful,” Chloe breathed. “I had no idea there was anything like this around here.”
“It is not mentioned ever in House and Country, if that’s what you mean,” Alyec said wryly.
Christ. “Who owns this place? Bill Gates?”
Alyec shook his head. “Sergei Shaddar. He’s the guy who bought the old market downtown and turned it into a multiplex. A true capitalist pig-dog. And a distant relative on the American side of my family.” His face went dark for a moment. “He is the one who wouldn’t put up the money to bring me and my family over.”
“What a douche bag! I can’t believe he spent it all on this instead.”
“Yes, well, who knows,” Alyec said airily. “Someday, maybe it will all be mine. He isn’t ’married with children,’ as they say.”
He turned the car around and drove slowly back down the road, letting Chloe get one last good look at the beautiful house. She sighed. It was a complete world away from her and her troubles, a little fantasy kingdom of rich people and beautiful things and rich-people problems.
Noticing her silence, Alyec reached over and handed her a solid pewter flask with Russian words on it. She had no idea how he could have kept it on his person with the jeans he was currently wearing, extra tight around the ass. But she pulled from it generously. It wasn’t vodka, as she’d expected, but something dry, deep, and stinging.
“Do you know how hard it is to get bourbon in Russia?” he asked when she coughed. Chloe gave him a smile, but it was weak. “Oh, you’re getting all depressed.”
“I wish—“She stopped, thinking about her birthday cake. “I don’t know what I wish. I wish life was simpler,” she finally said. “I wish we could hang out longer.”
Alyec chewed his lip for a moment. “We need one last thing to cheer you up before you go home.” Then he brightened.
“Chloe King, have you ever ’caught air’?”
Eighteen
In a dark room with no name, a circle of robed figures gathered.
Nine sat around an ancient wooden table lit by flickering lanterns that marked its circumference. Behind and above them, torchlight cast monstrous shadows onto the ornately tiled stone floor below.
A black-and-white monitor sat on the table, adding its sickly light to that of the flames; the main character in its silent movies was a girl engaged in all sorts of normal girl behaviors—as well as some that were not so normal.
One of the robed figures at the table spoke. “You see: already she has become dangerous—and it has been only days since she perceived her true nature.”
“I hardly believe that defending herself from the onslaught of a street ruffian constitutes a dangerous personality,” said another voice, old and female.
“But see who she keeps for her company,” a third, ancient male voice cackled. A skeletal hand reached forward. His fingers might as well have been just bone for all the good his dry, shrunken skin did; it clung to every detail, bump, and crevice. As if to magnify the deterioration, a bold ring with a giant black stone sat above the knuckle of the index finger. All looked to where he tapped on the glass of the monitor.
A young man was kissing the girl, on a bench outside a fast-food restaurant.
“Is the Russian still next in line?”
“We have no reason to believe otherwise.”
“This is all moving too fast,” the first speaker said, shifting in his seat. “Novitiate, you had said merely that the two knew each other. And that should anything arise, you would immediately … intercede.”
“I did my best, Primary,” a young voice from the benches said dully.
“Yet you failed. You also failed to positively determine whether she is the One the Rogue believes her to be.”
“First you want me to befriend her, then you want me to see if she dies when I stick a knife in her belly. I didn’t think that was part of my mission.”
“Did she tell you anything? Anything strange at all—about her past, about some experience as a child, some miraculous survival or near-death experience?”
There was a long pause.
“No, sir,” the novitiate said finally.
“I’m afraid you’re far too close to the situation to be able to react rationally. You are off the case; we will let the Rogue handle things his own way.”
“But sir—let me try one more time. She’s a good person—raised by humans. The Rogue will just kill her! He’s mad—”
“Alexander Smith is a valiant member of the Order. He does his duties well and with zeal—let us not forget this. Above and beyond our own orders, he feels his way is directly ordained by God. Let him be, and God will determine the outcome.”
“This is just murder, not the way of God,” the young man spat.
“Novitiate, the Order of the Tenth Blade has not carried out its mission of protecting people from the feline scourge for a thousand years just to throw it away for the misguided urges of one infatuated adolescent! Am I clear?”
Another long pause.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone reflected on this.
“So our action is decided,” said one.
“So it is recorded,” said another.
“As we have done from ages past, as we shall ever do,” chanted all of the figures.
Slowly they rose and filed silently out of the dark room. All except one—the young one who’d spoken, whose knees shook and who scratched at a scar on his cheek.
“It’s all for the best, son,” the oldest man said, hanging back and patting his shoulder with a skeletal hand. “I know it’s hard … but there’s no future there. Look at that poor Greek boy—you don’t want to end up like Mr. Xavier Akouri, do you?”
Nineteen
In fact, Chloe had never “caught air” before, even though she had lived almost her whole life in San Francisco. Amy had tried once or twice, using the car Paul’s brother let him borrow occasionally, a really tacky job with purple lights all over the place and a few too many spoilers. But as much as Amy pretended to be a badass, she’d never really gotten up the courage—or the speed.
Alyec had no such issues: he jammed the accelerator at the top of a good hill. But when they raced over it, the car just sort of bounced up and down. Alyec swore and tried again, swerving around corners and running a red light to build up speed. Winds tore through the windows. The city had just entered darkness and the lights were all on, but the afterglow of the orange sunset remained. It was a wild-feeling night.
I can’t believe we’re doing this. Chloe was so excited, she actually clapped as they approached the intersection.
“And … now!”
Suddenly she felt weightless. It only lasted a moment; her body strained against the seat belt and they crashed down hard onto the street again, causing her neck to whip forward and back.
She wasn’t sure if all four wheels made it into the air, but it certainly felt like it.
It all happens a lot faster than on TV She sighed, wishing they had gone slow mo through the movement, like they were on camera.
Alyec zoomed back to Inner
Sunset. As they drove past the school parking lot, someone—with the build of a senior jock—was screaming, “Where’s my car? Where’s my goddamn car?” Alyec and Chloe sank down in their seats, giggling, but the owner’s back was turned as they passed him.
“Where do you live? I’ll drop you off before returning this.”
“You don’t know where I live,” she said slowly, savoring the way it sounded, how it felt. He didn’t know her other boyfriend’s name, he didn’t know what she really was, and he didn’t know where she lived. Just a slightly more psychotic than usual average teenage boy. Simple. It was a nice thing.
“No, how could I?”
“Forget it,” Chloe said, smiling, pointing where he should turn.
He slowed down as she tapped the windshield, indicating which house was hers.
“Hey,” Chloe said, turning to look at him. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You see? I’m not just a sexy boy. I also like doing dangerous and stupid things.”
“Yeah?” She smiled.
“Yeah,” he answered, leaning over. He very gently bit the bottom of her right earlobe, tugging it, deftly avoiding her piercings. Then he kissed her neck. Chloe shuddered. “Next time,” he whispered.
Chloe’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say no.
Inside, her mom was wrestling with butcher’s twine tied awkwardly around an incredibly primitive-looking hunk of lamb. She was tying a knot, holding one end in her teeth. Chloe went over to put her finger on the knot to make it easier for her, but Mrs. King shook her head emphatically.
“’Ot ohtil oo ’ash ’or ’ands.”
Chloe sighed and ran them under the faucet before returning to help. At one time—during her brief stint as a vegetarian—the sight of meat like that, especially weird meat, especially weird meat from a baby animal, would have completely grossed her out. She couldn’t help noticing her stomach growl, however, and had to actively resist the urge to pick off bits of the tastiest-looking raw fat and pop them in her mouth.
“There.” Her mom put her hands on her hips and admired her work. She indicated the oven with her chin and Chloe opened it, feeling very nice heat waft out. “Should just be forty-five minutes or so. I bought some couscous to go with it. Hey, are you feeling all right?”
Chloe looked up, surprised by the sudden change in conversation topic. Come to think of it, now that the wild car ride was over, she felt a little let down.
“Did something happen at work?”
Chloe took a deep breath. “I didn’t go to work. I… hung out with my friend, Alyec. He gave me a ride home.”
Mrs. King raised her eyebrows.
“Marisol gave me the rest of the week off,” Chloe explained quickly. “I didn’t feel like—I couldn’t do it.”
“Don’t flake out on this,” Mrs. King warned. “This is only your first job. If you get bored with this, and the next, and …”
Chloe just looked at her, patiently waiting for her to finish. It was probably the complete lack of any response from her daughter—much less an angry one—combined with Chloe’s exhausted look that made Mrs. King trail off, giving up the lecture.
“Are you getting sick?”
No … But she realized she wanted to leave her options open. So she shook her head without saying anything, a weak protest at best.
They had a quiet night of lamb and couscous and a salad with feta cheese, working the Greek theme. Her mom let her have a glass of wine, something fruity, white, and Middle Eastern. It put Chloe right to sleep when she curled up on the couch next to her mom, who was flipping back and forth between CNN and Animal Planet.
Chloe knew she should have been more alert, but she was exhausted, her belly was full, and she felt cozy and warm.
“Well, what do you know,” were the last few words she heard before dozing off. “Baby elephants suck their trunks just like human babies suck their thumbs. …”
When she woke up the next morning, Chloe was still on the couch but stretched out, with her own pillow under her head and her own comforter covering her. Her mom was already up and getting ready for work.
“How do you feel today?” she asked, leaning over Chloe and putting the back of her hand to her daughter’s forehead. “When I tucked you in last night, you were burning up.”
Chloe felt fine.
Holy shit, did I help Alyec steal a car and catch air with it yesterday?
How many more times, she wondered, would she be struck the next day by the weird things she had done the night before? And frankly, thinking about the car theft, she felt sheepish. What had gotten into her yesterday? Was she really that mad at Brian? He was just an idiot, after all. … Why did she do these weird things when she was around Alyec?
“Uh …” Chloe started to sit up, then fell back on one elbow, as if she were woozy.
Mrs. King sighed. “I’ll call the school. I shouldn’t have let you drink anything last night. Or I should have at least made it red. That’s supposed to be good for headaches and colds.” She fluffed Chloe’s hair. “I’ll call you later. Call me if you need anything—do you think you’ll be okay at home by yourself?”
Ah, here it comes. Chloe saw the worry and the single-mom guilt shadow her mother’s stony eyes. Should she stay home with her sick daughter? That was what her mother would have done. Well, her mother didn’t have a job, but whatever. At least Chloe’s mom was always very careful to keep her adult doubts and worries and psychoses to herself and never burden her daughter with them.
Of course, she couldn’t help projecting sometimes.
And she would worry a hell of a lot more if she knew about the attempt on her daughter’s life.
“Don’t worry,” Chloe reassured her, wondering vaguely how the whole mother-daughter thing had flipped around so quickly in the last few weeks and wondering when they would flip around away from each other again. “I’ll call Amy.” Yeah, right. “She can come over right after school with stuff if I need it. I’m probably just gonna sleep here for the next few hours anyway.”
“Okay,” her mom said, sounding unsure. She leaned over and kissed Chloe on the forehead. “Feel better.”
And with the clank of a Coach purse, Italian attaché, and Kenneth Cole heels, she was gone.
Chloe waited on the couch for a while before deciding what to do. There had been enough time since the attack for a little distance; she wasn’t as terrified to be alone at home as she had been the first night. This day would be a good test: if her assassin meant to track her down and attack her at home, there would be no better time. She was by herself and the neighborhood was quiet.
But even if she did stay at home all day, it certainly wasn’t going to be in a prone, vulnerable position lying on the couch. She could follow up on Xavier more, maybe call him. And what exactly about Xavier and Alyec? Were these urges—all the way from sexual to self-destructive to simply destructive—normal, or did they come with the claws, the speed, and the sudden desire to eat raw meat?
She flexed her hand and watched her claws sslt out. She held them up in a ray of sun that beat its way around the curtains and plants. On the one hand, the claws looked “normal”: shiny, off-white, with little bits of calluses and dead skin around them at the base. On the other hand—paw—they looked as freakish and alien as the first time she’d seen them.
“What else do you bring?” she asked them aloud. Still no tail, thank God. That would have been harder to hide, and she couldn’t imagine it suddenly disappearing somewhere up inside her body. She looked at her feet—her mom had removed her socks sometime during the night. Chloe hadn’t even felt it—was that because she’d been dead asleep or because her mother’s scent and touch and little sounds were familiar, nondangerous? Had she somehow known instinctually, even in her sleep, that she was safe? Amy’s cat would often spend the entire day sprawled at the bottom of the bed. You could pet him as hard as you wanted and he would stretch, never quite open his eye, and continue sleeping.
Or did I just c
ompletely pass out? A much scarier thought.
She spread her toes pinkly in the sunlight. Then she flexed them. No claws emerged. Was this it, then? No more physical changes?
She got up and stretched, enjoying the feeling of morning warmth.
Then she went upstairs to brush her teeth and stuff. But before she did, she remembered one task she had to take care of: Mus-mus.
She went into her room and opened the drawer. Mus-mus came running forward, eager for a treat. Chloe dropped in a Cheerio. It bounced. The delivery and noise startled Mus-mus for a second, who was used to much gentler treatment. Chloe put her hand out slowly, extending a finger toward the little mouth. He leaned forward, sniffing. Then he squeaked, dropping the Cheerio, and ran away.
“You don’t like cats, even nice ones …,” Chloe whispered. Just one more thing that came with her changes, along with the violence. She bit her lip, feeling a tear well up in the corner of each eye.
“Okay, Mus-mus.” She reached forward to pick him up; he was so desperate to escape her grasp that she had to extend her claws and very delicately close them around him like a cage. She held the mouse up to eye level, regarding the terrified little thing that had been her closest confidant as of just a few days ago. “Goodbye,” she whispered. “And good luck.”
Then she leaned down and opened her hand near the base of the bed. Mus-mus didn’t hesitate at all, shooting forward and under the bed as soon as he could. Chloe sighed again, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. She carefully placed a little pyramid of Cheerios on the floor in case he needed a good start.
I’m gonna miss you.
She took a shower, trying to wash away everything she felt and start the day again. She put on her tank top and a pair of jeans, not bothering with undies. Cats don’t wear underwear, she told herself but didn’t even manage a smile. She adjusted her bra. This cat has to wear something supportive on top, however. She couldn’t imagine having six or eight teats the size of her own.