Beware the Wild

by Natalie C. Parker

  Heath finishes his coffee in one gulp. “She told me that I’d been infected with Shine because I’d swallowed swamp water the night of the crash, and there was nothing to be done about it. Then she slapped this around my wrist and told me the pills would help dull my new swamp sense or whatever.”

  He reaches to pop the glove compartment, where a host of orange bottles rattle like snakes. “Now, I always feel like I’m a little bit crazy, but . . . I don’t care as much. That swamp still glows like an army of demons hides inside, but as long as I don’t look at it, I can sort of forget. I guess that’s not the most heroic way of handling things, but it works.”

  All the rumors about Heath being a stoner or an alcoholic make sense now. His eyes have been glazed because he has been drugged, but it was the only way he saw to save his sanity. I can’t imagine what I would have done without him. He’s been doing this completely alone for more than a year. No wonder he disappeared after last summer. I barely made it a day before breaking down in the cafeteria.

  “I took them until the day you told me you were going after your brother and made me feel like a coward.”

  “I never meant to make you feel that,” I say, closing the glove compartment. “I think what you’ve done is very brave. Choosing not to take them.”

  Heath’s laugh is rough, self-deprecating. “Giving up on pills isn’t brave. Going into the swamp after my friend would’ve been brave. I never did that. You did that.”

  It’s a compliment, but given his self-criticism it’s too awkward to accept. Instead, I say, “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “No, I know. What I’m really trying to say is that I still believe you, Sterling. Nothing is going to change that, I swear to you. I’ll do everything I can to help you find your brother and bring him home. Don’t you believe he meant for this to happen. I don’t. Lenora May doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Something surges up from my belly, through my lungs, and makes my heart thump five times faster. I push myself across the bucket seat and wrap my arms around Heath.

  “Thank you,” I say against his neck. “I don’t know how to make that sound as big as I mean it to be, but thank you, Heath. Thank you for believing me.”

  Heath’s hands are warm and flat against my shoulder blades, his chin pressed against the bare skin of my shoulder. I feel small and secure in his arms with my hip balanced against his thigh. This is different from the kiss. That felt chaotic and delirious and like something beginning. This is the opposite. Together we are solid and smart and somehow not new at all.

  All around, the parking lot is filled with students who have more energy than they know what to do with and we’re creating a target. The first “whoop!” is distant. So far away that there’s a chance it wasn’t directed at us, but a second and third follow before the truck heaves like a ship in a storm. Heath’s arms become a vise around me as the truck lurches. We rock back and forth to the sounds of cheering and jeering and pounding against the sides of the truck. Heath keeps his arms locked around my waist but even so, my head knocks against the window.

  “You’re doin’ it wrong, Durham!” someone cries. I recognize the drawl of one of the Wawheece boys. Typical. “Get this truck rockin’!”

  There are more than a few of them circling like vultures. Each one adds another crude comment, hollering at the top of their lungs.

  When it stops, Heath is through the door, squaring shoulders with one of the Wawheece brothers. With three boys fanned behind their leader, these are bad odds for Heath.

  I climb out on the other side, where the other Wawheece brother waits, grinning at me like he’s invited me to kiss his boots. It’s the sort of look that makes me feel small and rotten inside, and it takes every bit of stubborn I’ve got not to slink away. This is the brother that shaves his head. The other keeps his hair long and ratted—a perfect habitat for fleas. One of the boys is Lamont, the other Briley, but I can’t tell which is which. They’re basically a two-headed entity with one brain between them and even that brain is challenged on a good day.

  “What’re you looking at?” I spit.

  I’ve never had trouble with this gang. They’ve always had enough sense not to mess with Phin or his friends. But No Hair doesn’t back down. His eyes rake over me like I’m fair game. I feel another layer of Phin’s protection melt away. As far as the Wawheece boys are concerned, I’m just another girl who should fear or revere them.

  On the other side of the truck, Flea Bit and his three minions are goading Heath. The jabs they throw are loud enough for me to hear. Heath’s response is quiet. He keeps his eyes fixed on Flea Bit’s face. Judging by the way the three lackeys glance at their leader, whatever he’s said makes them nervous.

  “What did you say?” Flea Bit pushes his nose into Heath’s face. He’s taller, broader across the shoulders, and I’d be willing to bet he fights dirtier, too.

  No Hair blocks my path to Heath with a filthy leer. From the school, the warning bell rings. Everything else is quiet.

  Heath’s arms are tense, but he doesn’t retreat when he answers, “I could say it again, but I don’t think you’ll understand it any better a second time.”

  Heath must have seen the punch coming, but he doesn’t move to defend himself, doesn’t try to counterattack the way Phin might’ve. He stands there and lets Flea Bit’s fist crash into his face.

  It’s enough to distract my captor. I dart around the truck, diving straight into the mess of flailing limbs and cuss-crazed boys. Heath’s trying not to get pinned, but someone has his arm pressed against the truck. They’re about to give him a real beating.

  “Stop it!” I scream, inserting myself between them in time to catch a fist with my ribs.

  All my air leaves in a rush. My lungs refuse to work. I hear my name and see Heath’s face flush red as he gives Flea Bit a hard shove in the chest. Flea Bit hits the ground and so do I.

  I can’t breathe. Panic rises. Again I try and fail to draw a breath. The world is loud in my ears.

  “Take it easy,” Heath says, his hands so warm on my cold, cold skin. “Relax, relax, you’re okay.”

  He continues to murmur in my ear, stroking my shoulders with deliberate calm. I smell the clean rosemary-and-mint scent of his soap, and that’s when my lungs remember what they’re for; as they slowly open, pain stabs my side.

  The boys are gone. Scared off because they hit a girl. It’s only me and Heath and a few fussy mockingbirds in the parking lot.

  “Our first fight,” I say, and immediately regret laughing.

  Heath’s cheek is mottled pink and white with a little blossom of blood near his eye. It doesn’t seem to bother him. While I hunch over my bruises, he smiles through his.

  “I thought that was more of a fourth- or fifth-date sort of thing.”

  It’s the second time he’s said “date” today like it’s no big thing. Given the circumstances, I suppose it isn’t really. Still, I feel slightly breathless again.

  The pain in my side eases slowly. I remember this sensation too well—the shock of pain that spears your entire body. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if Phin still existed. But if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t know that instead of running away from a fight, I dove straight into one.

  Heath keeps a hand beneath my elbow as we climb to our feet. The movement encourages the pain. Sitting through a day of school isn’t going to be easy, but it’ll be worse for Heath. There’ll be no hiding what he’s been up to. At least exams are over and all we have to do is pick classes for next year.

  Ducking to investigate the damage in the rearview mirror, Heath dabs at the blood with his fingers. They leave rusty smears on his pale jeans and he frowns. It’s a look that says his mama won’t be happy about that stain.

  The final bell blares overhead. We’re officially late.

  “At least we’ll get to add tardy to our list of criminal achievements,” I say.

  “It’s worth it.” Heath pulls me near, falling into
one of his somber expressions. “Sterling Saucier,” he says.

  “Heath Durham.”

  His eyes narrow in a smile. Sunlight shines through them, illuminating too many rings of brown and brass to count. He bends closer.

  “May I kiss you?” he asks.

  I close the gap between us, press my lips to his, and forget everything else except this feeling. The world has never been so small. It’s all in the space between us, all in the press of his hand in my hair, all in the tang of blood on his lips.

  We part. Breathless, laughing, and shaking with adrenaline.

  “Yes,” I say, and he leans in to kiss me again.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL is too pointless to bear. I make it halfway to class before deciding to ditch. Heath is right. I’m not crazy. There’s no way Phin wants to be stuck in the swamp for the rest of his life. I’ve messed things up. First with Phin and then with Lenora May. And now I’ve got to fix them. I’m done relying on other people telling me where Phin is or what Phin wants. I’m going to see him for myself.

  The trip home isn’t comfortable. My ribs hurt at first, but the more I move, the better they feel, and soon enough I’m able to step into a careful jog. A few cars pass, but I don’t get nervous until I see a police cruiser stopped on the road ahead. I stick to the tree line on the opposite side, but as I get closer, I see it’s Sheriff Felder and a few other boys. They’re all huddled by the fence with their backs to me. Must be more damage.

  When I reach the house, Mama’s Corolla is in the driveway. I drop my bag and change my shoes at the screened porch, making sure to keep quiet. My hands shake as I pull the bootlaces tight over my calves, a combination of adrenaline and exhaustion. As soon as I’ve double knotted them, I’m off and over the fence.

  In the full light of day, the Shine is faint. Ghostly tendrils reach for the bracelet, warming my skin as they wrap loosely around my wrist. It’s not aggressive, but I remember the way one of these seemingly gentle vines gripped my neck a few nights ago. I brush them away and they reach again. No matter how violently I swat at them, they float to my wrist and snuggle up to my bracelet.

  Fisher said I had a knack for navigating the swamp. Mostly, I think I have a knack for not dying in it, but I consider what he meant. The only thing I did on my first trip over the fence was say my brother’s name. Is that what he meant?

  “Phineas Harlan Saucier,” I say.

  Shine begins to weave together, forming a trail. I move quickly, all too aware that there are beasts in this swamp and my last encounter with one was nothing short of terrifying. Shine leads me on a mostly dry path through tall foxtail plants, past a squatting juniper bush, and into the grove where the magnificent cherry tree spreads its limbs like wings. Each blossom full and open to catch the sunlight.

  “Thank you,” I say because giving thanks is polite no matter who, or what, you’re giving it to.

  I catch a bit of Shine between cupped palms, so I can whisper to it as Fisher did. I say, “Show me Phineas,” and then for good measure, “please.”

  The lights fly from my hand, skating over the pond and hovering there. Something flips in the water—a quick, quiet sound. I almost miss it, but turn to see ripples drifting toward the edges of the pond. In the center, something has broken the surface and it’s moving, pushing ripples ahead of ripples.

  I crouch, pressing my knuckles into the spongy ground. Whatever it is, it’s not a snake or a gator, but it’s round like a turtle. It stops a few feet away. I stare at it a bit longer and, with a start, I realize it’s not a turtle.

  It’s a head.

  Eyes, big and blue and human, lift above the water. Dark hair slicks over the crown. The skin around the eyes looks as rough as tree bark and as dirty green as hanging moss. But the eyes looking at me are more familiar than my own.

  “Oh, God, Phineas.” I lean forward, not caring that my hands and knees are covered in mud. I only care that those are my brother’s eyes.

  At his name, he lifts his whole head from the water and I gasp at the way it both is and isn’t Phin’s face. His once-smooth skin is scaled, with lips pulled into a hard grin. Teeth peek from beneath them, eggshell white and sharp: a gator’s grin. The edges of his once-firm nose are soft, smeared down his cheeks, making his nostrils overly large and dark. An airy, hissing sound drifts from his horrible mouth.

  “Phin, oh, God. Oh, my God, is that really you?” Panic pushes my voice into a high, thin pitch. I’m not in control of it or my breath, which huffs unevenly in my ears.

  Phin blinks slowly, drifting closer in an eerily graceful way.

  “Phin? Can you speak? It’s me, Sterling. Your sister, Sterling Annabel Saucier. I steal your magazines and sit on your car, never eat the candy you give me, and I’m constantly pissing you off. You sang me songs after Dad left when I couldn’t sleep, and last year you got a tattoo that Mama doesn’t know about. She’d skin you alive if she did. Can you hear me, Phin? Please, say something!”

  “I’m hungry,” he says, a sound that seems to crawl from his throat. It’s devoid of the warmth Phin’s voice should have, all mud and gravel. He reaches with webbed hands, each finger tipped with a sharp, black claw.

  Not my brother, I think, a trick.

  I pull back so abruptly that I slip. My balance gone, I skid down the muddy bank, hitting the water as I topple over. I see the rictus of my brother’s face inches from my own. Claws grip my arm, fear grips my heart, and I have a second to wonder if the town will forget me when I die here.

  Suddenly, there’s a tug at my waist. I’m pulled backward, crushed against a body that’s warm as the swamp air.

  “Sterling?” Fisher’s voice is in my ear, his hands biting into my waist. “Are you all right?”

  “That’s his cage?” I struggle in his arms. “That’s what she did to him? Phin!”

  I slip again before my feet find solid ground. I twist against Fisher’s grip, scanning the pond for the creature with my brother’s face. He’s several feet away, submerged in brine, watching me with shallow eyes.

  Fisher catches my chin in his hands, dipping his head to look into my eyes with such intensity that I freeze.

  “Are you all right?” he repeats.

  I shouldn’t wish that the answer was no, but there’s something about his unwavering concern that makes me want to fall into him.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling away before my cheeks give away my secrets. “I’m fine.”

  “No,” Fisher says quietly with a stern shake of his head. His eyes have fallen from my face and he lifts my right arm gently. “You’re bleeding.”

  Two gashes streak my forearm. One deep, one not. Both bright with blood dripping to the ground. Phin’s claws must be every bit as sharp as they look. Now that I’ve seen the wounds, I feel them. A stinging pain crackles through my arm and sends a vicious tremor down my spine.

  “That’s going to need stitches,” I say, beginning to feel fuzzy. “Big ones.”

  The more I study the cuts, the less I feel like that arm belongs to me. It looks like a painting. Something isolated and disconnected from the rest of me. I think of Doc Payola’s office and how there’s no chance I’ll be able to hide this from Mama and Darold. What will I say? Freak accident in the bleachers? I fell against an angry box cutter? As ridiculous as they sound, anything will be easier to swallow than “attacked by a gatorboy in the swamp.” I can imagine Mama’s bug-eyed expression when I tell her, and I begin to laugh.

  “Hmm.” Fisher’s frown becomes disapproving.

  For some reason, that tickles me even more. Each laugh leads to another, carried forward with its own delightful momentum. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just, I’m gonna be in so much trouble.”

  “Perhaps not,” he says.

  Holding my arm steady in one hand, Fisher extends the other. As if call
ed, a single frond of Shine drapes itself over his palm. He pinches the light between his fingers, detaching it as easily as if it were made of Play-Doh or clay. His fingers skim over the top of my bracelet. Blood has fallen into the hollow spaces, leaving the silver bouquet looking like ghastly red roses. He dwells on the band as if he can’t decide if he’s going to remove it. Then he presses the bit of Shine against my deepest cut, does the same with the second wound, and lays his hand over both for a brief second.

  A growing warmth seeps through my arm, sinking into my bones. It’s followed by a wave of nausea that crests in my belly. I’m dizzy. The air is thick and suffocating with the hot scent of mud. My palms and feet tingle for a moment. When it passes, Fisher has one hand against my neck, the other around my waist, supporting me.

  He says, “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten that the sensation can be disorienting. It should pass quickly.”

  My belly feels full as the Mississippi after a storm. Gradually, my head clears enough that I can stand on my own. The skin on my arm has knitted itself together, leaving two pale pink lines behind. The stinging pain is entirely gone. In fact, even the soreness in my ribs has vanished. When I look up, the Shine is bright and crisp. Fisher’s hands fall away and I move from beneath the everblooming cherry tree.

  “What was that? I feel so awake,” I say, staring at the trunk of a large cypress tree growing in the pond. Dozens of its strange skinny knees push up through the water like wooden straws and between each is woven an intricate web of Shine in pale grays and greens. I never would’ve seen it before.

  “That was the magic of the swamp. And you are more awake now than you have ever been.”

  With Shine still thrumming against my skin, pieces of understanding click into place.

  I reach for the ground, and Shine rises to my fingers as it did to Fisher’s. Effortlessly. Instinctively. The small tendril shimmers with energy. This Shine—this magic—can do so much more than steal my brother and implant a false sister. It can heal and transform.