by Rin Chupeco
My email sent, I thumb through the rest of my inbox and grin when I see another new message. This one is from Callie.
“I hope that smile’s for me, Halloway.”
I glance up to see Trish Seyfried standing by my table, but she isn’t who spoke.
I don’t discriminate against cheerleaders. There’s bound to be at least a couple of intelligent, sassy girls for every giggly group of brainless Trish Seyfrieds. And Kendele Baker fits that profile. She volunteered to be my lab partner two semesters ago, and it took a few classes for me to realize she wasn’t afraid of me like her friends are. That makes me nervous—especially when she insisted I tutor her in Spanish. Beautiful green-eyed brunettes don’t usually want much to do with me, but at least I now understand who Trish got my number from.
“I just want to thank you again,” Trish says, moving to sit across the table from me while Kendele takes the empty seat on my right. “For saving Andy and me from the zombie.”
Zombie? “Zombie?”
“Well, it was kind of like a zombie, wasn’t it? If I told everyone it was just a doll, it would sound kind of silly.”
I groan.
“Trish is joking, right?” Kendele asks. “I mean, you don’t exorcise zombies—you lop off their heads.”
“It wasn’t a zombie,” I say. “It was a seven-armed Japanese woman.”
Kendele breaks into laughter. Nobody ever believes me.
She changes the subject, much to my relief. “Hey, there’s that new movie coming out, A Walk in the Rain. Ever heard of it?”
“Not really. I’m not into chick flicks.”
“It’s playing tonight at the mall,” Kendele persists, smiling at me. “What do you think?”
“Uh, that’s great,” I lie, because the title alone sounds like I’d rather have my teeth drilled. “You and Trish ought to go, if you really want to catch it.”
Kendele’s mouth falls open and Trish has a giggling fit. I don’t understand girls at all.
“Actually, I have a better idea,” Trish pipes up before Kendele can say anything else. “Keren McNeil’s having a party later tonight. It’s that big house over on Buckle Street. Wanna come? As, you know, a thank-you for everything. Like a reward for helping Andy and me.”
I think Trish and I have very different definitions of what constitutes a “reward.”
Kendele shoots her a warning glance. “I don’t think Tark’s interested in going to a party full of jocks, Trish.”
“Why not? I’m sure he is.”
I clear my throat. “That sounds really, um, cool. But I’ve already got other plans.” That was true enough at least.
Trish shrugs. “Bummer. Well, if you have time, feel free to stop by. Kendele and I will be there, and I’m sure the guys won’t mind.”
Kendele’s still frowning at me when she and Trish get up to leave. Once they’re gone, I relax. I’ve never really gotten the hang of talking to girls, and Kendele’s acting especially odd today.
I turn back to my phone and Callie’s email. My cousin’s a junior at Boston University, but we visit each other during the longer holiday breaks. Callie’s not a big fan of Okiku, though Okiku has been nothing but nice to her. Some prejudices are hard to break.
Hey, Tark!
I’m going to keep this short and sweet. I have a date with Trevor in five minutes, but I wanted to dash this off to you first.
I pause to roll my eyes. Trevor Goodman is Callie’s new boyfriend.
It’s official. In addition to our Japan trip, I’ll see you and Uncle Doug for your graduation. After all, I’m pretty sure finishing high school wouldn’t be the same without me there to celebrate!
I’m so proud of you. I know Uncle Doug agrees, and I know Aunt Yoko would too. You’ve grown into such a good person. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than a cousin. An annoying little brother, but hey—no one’s perfect!
Okay, wrapping up now before I get too mushy. How are things with Okiku? All that night creeping is bad for your health. Can’t you guys figure out a way for Okiku to go out on her own so you can stay at home and be safe? (I know I’ve asked this a billion times before, but I’m thinking there has got to be a better way.)
See you in a couple of weeks! Japan!!!
I swallow another grin. From the way she talks, you’d think Callie had never been to Japan before, despite us making a yearly trip together.
I finish the rest of my sandwich with little interruption and move to stand. My chair scrapes back and bumps into someone behind me.
“Hey!”
Great. Of all the chairs in all the cafeterias in all the Washington, DC, private schools, golden boy McNeil is standing behind mine.
I turn. The star quarterback frowns at me, his teammates surrounding him. I accidentally jostled his tray when I stood, and water’s spilled over his sandwich.
“Sorry,” I say and take a step to leave, but one of his flunkies, Matheson, blocks my path.
“That’s all you gonna say, Halloway?”
Inwardly, I sigh. Bullies have avoided me since that water fountain incident, but that doesn’t mean some people aren’t itching to try again.
“Accidents happen.” I try to edge away from the boys, but a sharp prod on my shoulder forces me back.
“Looks like someone owes McNeil a sandwich, freak.”
I dig into my pocket and hand McNeil a ten-dollar bill—partly because it was my fault, but mostly because I’m not in the mood for a confrontation. The jock looks taken aback by my easy acquiescence, but I should have known better than to expect McNeil’s goons to be satisfied. Fact is, Matheson looks insulted, like he was the one I’d bumped into.
“Hey, you scrawny little Chink—”
He reaches over to grab the collar of my shirt.
There’s a sizzling, searing noise from overhead, and that’s all the heads-up I get before the fluorescent lights above us explode. I leap out of the way, and McNeil and his friends jump back as a cascade of sparks spill down between us. The light fixture spins crazily to one side, but the wires are still intact, which keeps it from crashing to the floor.
The cafeteria is silent. Everyone stares at the broken lights, then back at us.
“Like I said…”—I wave the ten-dollar bill at McNeil, trying to act as if I’m not fazed despite nearly jumping out of my skin—“accident. Here.”
McNeil recovers. “Don’t sweat it, Halloway. It’s just a sandwich. Let’s go, guys.”
Matheson scowls at me and strides off after him, the rest of their friends close behind.
I look up to the ceiling again, and Okiku is there, staring after the boys. Her shoulders hunch forward. Her hands form claws against the cement. She’s rattling, as if she’s about to go on the attack, and she’s—
hunger hungry kill peel off their skin
cut it thin take heads and limbs
little dark little dark kill
Uh-oh…
“Ki!”
She jerks away and disappears, leaving me alone with a roomful of strangers. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out, slowly becoming aware that people are still looking at me. The whispers are starting.
“Show’s over, folks,” I mutter, stuffing the money back in my pocket and catching sight of Trish and Kendele loitering by the doors. Trish looks both fascinated and terrified. Kendele is a little harder to decipher. She watches me, a strange look on her face.
With as much dignity as I can muster, I stride out of the cafeteria to the restroom. I check to make sure there’s no one else around before sagging against one of the stall doors.
“Okiku.”
She appears, settles on the ceiling, and looks everywhere but at me.
“Ki, what was that all about?”
“It is nothing.”
“Like hell it was,” I say. “You were about ready to flay those guys alive.”
“I do not like them.”
“No one in their right mind likes them—which says a lot
about the students here, since they do. Are you feeling antsy about tonight?”
A pause, and she nods. I have a feeling she isn’t telling me everything, but I let that pass. “Don’t worry about it, all right? I know you’re impatient, but let’s not freak out any more people than necessary. Can you hold off ’til then?”
She nods again, this time with more determination.
“Good.” Still, I can’t shake my unease as we leave the restroom. Okiku’s never kept secrets from me before, but I’ll have to pry them out of her after tonight’s work when she’ll be more at ease.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
Hunters
I can tell by the smell of food as I walk through the door that Dad’s been home for at least an hour. As a lauded connoisseur of takeout in the greater DC area, I’ve learned to interpret my father’s moods by the food he brings home for dinner. Lo Wan’s means he’s brought his work home with him and shouldn’t be bothered for the rest of the night. Thai Mam means he plans to relax for the evening, maybe watch a game or two.
Kouzina takeout, from the Greek place he knows I like, means he wants to sit down and have one of those father-and-son talks with me, which never deviate beyond asking how school is going and expressing mild disappointment at the dearth of extracurricular activities making up my social calendar. Japanese food from the Sushi-ya takes this a step further, with the conversation at the table revolving around musical lessons and sports camps he suggests I sign up for, though I’ve always found a million and one reasons why these were bad ideas.
This time, it’s different. There is a faint scent of burned pasta and my eyes widen. Dad’s attempting to cook, which could have no possible happy ending without the fire department on standby.
I drop my backpack on the couch and race to the kitchen, where Dad is juggling an assortment of prechopped herbs sealed in tiny, expensive containers, the kind specifically marketed for those who have no idea how to work a stove but would like to give it a try. He’d changed out of his business suit into a polo shirt and pants that could only be described as part jeans and part sweats.
Dad can speak four languages and wring out millions of dollars in settlement clauses with no more than a PowerPoint presentation, but put him in front of anything that involves preparing food and it’s like a kitten attempting to power a lawn mower. The most horrifying words that could ever come out of my father’s mouth in the kitchen are “What does this knob do?” and “I’m sure that was supposed to happen.”
The pasta is more than done. The gas flame underneath is turned to its highest setting. There’s barely enough water in the pot but enough leftover foam that Macbeth’s witches would dance around it. I switch off the burner, and Dad pauses in his herbal acrobatics to glance over his shoulder at me. “You’re home late.”
“You killed the pasta,” I reply. “I’m calling 911.”
“Are you sure? I put it on maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Twenty-five minutes?” I peer into the pot, at the mushy mash of noodles that are more Al Capone than al dente, and sigh. “Dad, the package says ten.”
“Really? I thought it would take longer. Let me go make the pesto and then I can—”
“Out of the kitchen,” I command, poking him in the shoulder. I’ve had a couple of growth spurts lately. Dad’s still taller, a couple of inches short of six feet. I’ve been slowly but surely making up the difference.
He retreats, not without some relief, though he makes a play at reluctance. “You sure? I could help—”
“You can help by setting the table. Not everything in the house has been insured yet.” My cooking is nothing to write home about, but at least it is edible.
With Dad safely out of the way, I dump the noodles in the trash and start a fresh batch, pouring the premade pesto sauce he brought home into another pan. Inside, I’m worried. The last time Dad tried to cook, it was right before he told me we were moving to Applegate to be closer to my mother. I didn’t react well.
Once both sauce and pasta are done, I carry them to the table.
“Smells a lot better than anything I might have made,” Dad admits, inhaling deeply. Unmoved by human appetite and good food, Okiku counts the floor tiles again, like the number might have changed since yesterday. Okiku has been with me for two years, but she can always find something to count.
“Well, spill it out,” I say as we take our seats.
“Spill what?”
“All this.” I gesture at the pasta. “We’re not going to move again, are we? Can’t we at least wait ’til I graduate? I’ll have to move for college anyway, so it won’t matter as much.”
“Tark, what are you talking about?”
“Every time you try to poison me with your cooking—”
Dad snorts.
“—it’s always before springing some surprise on me. Surprises I don’t usually like. So what gives?”
Dad raises his hands. “Can’t a father want to cook and spend time with his son?”
“Nope,” I say, and Dad’s grin fades a little, spotting the agitation I’m trying to hide.
“Tarquin”—he places both elbows on the table and leans forward—“I promise you there’s no other motive. I’ve just gotten back from a grueling work trip negotiating with a few hard-nosed and hardheaded businessmen from Beijing, and the only thing I’ve got in my head right now is enjoying the little time I can spend with you this weekend before I do the same thing all over again on Monday. I know that the last few years have been a little…difficult, but I’m glad we’ve gotten to the point in our relationship where we can actually talk.”
That is true. Three years ago, Dad and I had been nothing more than housemates, sharing the same rooms but little else. I start to relax. “Really?”
“Really. Although I’m not sure I like the insinuation that my horrible cooking always precedes horrible news.”
“My theory was that after surviving whatever you set out for me to eat, any other news would be easier to stomach.”
We burst into laughter. Okiku looks up from counting, startled by the sudden noise, then loses interest after seeing we mean nothing by it.
The pasta winds up being pretty tasty. Dad can pick out good food, just not make it. “Wanna watch the game later?” he asks as we’re clearing the table.
I hesitate. “Sorry, Dad. I kinda have plans. That okay?”
“Oh? Going out with friends of yours?”
“Yeah, I guess you can say that.”
I hate, hate lying to him, even if I think I’ve got good reason to, but I don’t have much choice. I feel bad, knowing he’d been looking forward to hanging out with me, but Dad looks pleased. He’s been after me to be more social, to go to parties and pep rallies like a normal teenager, and I can tell he considers this a definite improvement over spending Friday night holed up in my room. I don’t want to frighten him with the truth.
“In that case, don’t let your old-fogy dad stop you. Where are you going?”
Trish’s invitation to the jocks’ party is the first thing I can think of. “Um, there’s a party not too far from here. Over on Buckle Street.”
“All right, as long as you’re home by…ten-ish?”
“One a.m.?” I counter.
“Eleven.”
“Midnight.”
“Deal.”
It’s my turn to make an offer. “I don’t have anything planned for Saturday…”
“Ah, that reminds me. A business partner gave me two tickets for the game at the Verizon tomorrow night. Wizards versus Cavaliers.” He smiles at the look on my face. “I take it you’re interested.”
“You’re the best, Dad!” I jump up to give him a quick, fierce hug before taking the dishes back to the kitchen. My enthusiasm fades though, as I contemplate the night ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, Dad is settled in front of the television and I’m off, Okiku trailing after me in eager anticipation. Dad’s us
ually away, so when Okiku gets her urges, I rarely have to sneak out while he’s in the house. As it is, I make sure he’s focused on the college basketball game before making my escape. I’m pretty sure he’d wonder at my need to bring a heavy backpack to a party, or why there are gloves, a lower face mask, and a dark hoodie inside, if he deigned to check.
I hop into my Bimmer and pull out of the driveway, keeping my breathing even, which I’ve found is the best way to keep calm.
It’s hard to explain what I feel when I go hunting with Okiku. On one hand, I’m constantly tormented by the idea that I might get caught, that the police might one day piece together all these unexplained crimes and find enough evidence to attribute them to me. On the other hand, I thrive on the danger. The idea that I am helping put the scum of the earth back where they belong—which, ideally, is six feet under—is an unnatural high that I both hate and enjoy.
It’s a nice night, so I’ve got the top down, and Okiku all but stands up in her seat, hair streaming in the wind as I tear through the silent streets that lead into busier intersections. Okiku’s finger moves toward the east and I comply, steering the car in that direction. I could never explain how Okiku can pinpoint where these people are, but she’s always been right. We’ve been indirectly responsible for closing some cold cases in the last several months, and I’m sure that if the Washington PD believed in either ghosts or vigilantism they’d be sending us gift baskets by the dozen.
She points north as I drive past a few more streets. Our destination is almost always an apartment complex or a cheap hotel a few miles from the interstate. Every now and then, it’s a private residence, nestled among other identical houses in the suburbs. It’s horrifying that perps like these live among us. But Okiku leads me past the rows of houses and into the commercial district of town. When she signals for a halt, I’m almost sure she’s joking.
“A Five Guys? Ki, why are we at a Five Guys?”
She shrugs. I suppose cold-blooded killers have to eat too, so I park and we venture inside. There’s a big crowd, and in my case, this is an advantage. The less obtrusive I can be, the better.
I sidle into an empty seat, the smell of fries percolating the air. I scan the throng of people, ready to tell her that she must have made a mistake—until I see him.