“How wonderful! My son and I will be counting the days until we’re all reunited,” Nadine replies. “Oh, don’t you want to know his name?”
Sarcasm meet sarcasm.
“Not really, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us anyway,” Caleb replies.
“Hunter,” Nadine offers. “So you’ll never forget who . . . and what he is.”
Looking at the golden birthmark on the boy’s foot, I’m reassured that even though he’s going to be raised by someone with, at best, questionable mothering skills, he will be protected by Jess’s light. Who knows how the boy will turn out; he may overcome the odds and be as defiant as Napoleon tried to be, or he may choose to follow in the footsteps of the Jaffe women. I would like to say that I’m optimistic that he’ll choose to rebel against Nadine and her vile nature, but that would be a foolish thought; there are too many factors at play. I just hope he is strong enough to know his life is filled with options. For now, however, he is his mother’s child, for better and worse.
Smug and noisy, Nadine starts to leave the cabin, her son in her arms. She is headed toward a future that I have no doubt is warily waiting for her next move. Before she greets the future, however, she has to say good-bye to the past.
“Good-bye . . . cousin,” she says.
That’s a fact I plan to quickly forget.
“Enjoy your peace while it lasts,” Nadine adds. “I know I will.”
I pant louder as I watch Nadine leave the cabin and enter into the waiting night, not because I’m anxious, but because I want to drown out the sound of her incessant squeaking. I hope I never have to hear that sound again. The other sound I never want to hear again is this hiss that masquerades as Luba’s voice. Unfortunately, she has a few more things left to say.
Turning around I see Luba frozen in her spot, staring at me. Her eyes don’t leave mine even when she addresses Caleb and Arla.
“Would you two . . . children give us a moment alone?” she asks.
I can feel Caleb’s hesitation; he doesn’t want to leave me alone in Luba’s presence even if she did swear to a truce in front of Vera and under the watchful eye of Orion. Normally, I’d agree with him—Luba cannot be trusted—but now, I get the sense that all she wants is closure.
Howling softly, I then tilt my head to the front door, letting them both know it’s okay to leave us alone.
“We’ll be right outside,” Arla announces.
The moment they step outside I can feel Luba’s hot breath on my snout. She’s kneeling down on all fours, staring me in the face, creature to creature.
“Remember, Dominy, I created you,” Luba reminds me. “And some day, I will destroy you.”
I’ve heard this before, and I know that Luba means it now, but I’m not afraid. One day, whether it be next week, a year from now, twenty years from now, Luba will come looking for me with or without Nadine and her child in tow, but wherever I am and whatever I’m doing in my life, I’ll be prepared. Because not only did Luba create me, she’s also taught me very well. I know how to fight against evil. And I know how to win.
“Until we meet again, Dominy,” Luba whispers.
“Good-bye, Psycho Squaw,” I silently reply.
And for once I’m thrilled that she can read my mind.
Chapter 28
It’s been three weeks, and still no sign of Archie.
After everything that’s happened to and around me, his disappearance is probably one of the most difficult things to rebound from because, ultimately, when I think about what he’s done, I can’t escape feeling disappointed in him.
No one completely understands the desire, the utmost need to vanish, to want to be classified as extinct, more than I do. Many times since this curse began I have wanted to hit a button or flip a switch and be non-Dom, nevermore, escape from myself and from everything and everyone around me, but what would that solve? Wherever I wound up and whenever I opened my eyes, the curse would still be with me and, worse, I would be part of nothingness. I would be alone without my friends and family, and so I made the only choice I could: I chose to stay and fight back. Knowing that Archie didn’t make the same decision, I can’t help but be filled with disappointment and anger and sorrow.
But even as I allow these feelings to fester inside of me, I know my father would not approve. I remember he said to me once not to judge another person, because you never know the truth of their situation, nor can you expect someone else to respond to a problem the way you would. I try to cling to that fatherly bon mot now, but it’s hard. Archie was a witness to what I’ve gone through, and he knows that without my Wolf Pack, I would not have been able to survive. I just don’t understand why he ignored the example of my life, why he felt the need to leave, why he couldn’t even say a proper good-bye!
Selfish, yes, that’s exactly what I am, and I’m not going to apologize for it. I wanted to share a lifetime with Archie by my side as my friend, not only to lean on him for support, but to offer him my hand and heart and knowledge. In so many ways I could have helped him; I could still help him, but in order to do that I first have to find him.
I know exactly what he’s going through; I know exactly what it’s like to be split in two and have to share your body and mind and soul with another creature. I could have guided him in ways to corral Bad Archie, taught him how to keep all the unhealthy urges at bay and let Good Archie, the Archie that I know and love, thrive and grow and live a wonderful life. The same kind of life that I’m determined to live.
I guess I’m so angry because there are too many unanswered questions. If he had only said “help me” instead of “good-bye,” those questions could have been resolved. And maybe it’s as simple as that: I’m really just pissed off because Archie never said good-bye to me.
When I open my locker, I realize that I’m wrong.
The letter is taped to the inside of the metal door, and I don’t have to open it up to know that it’s from Archie; I recognize his handwriting. There’s no dot over the i in my name; he’s topped that letter off with the bottom part of the y, which ends in a little circle, so it looks like a lasso or even a shooting star. I start to cry at the sight of it.
“Dom, are you okay?”
No, I’m not.
Gwen’s hand feels so soft on my arm, like a bird perched on a branch. But our roles are reversed; she’s as poised and strong as a tree, and I’m the one who feels like she could be carried off to parts unknown if the wind changed its pattern. I look into the dark center of her eyes, and I understand why my brother is dating her. Whether she’s zaftig or svelte, whether she looks like a model train or just a model, she has inner strength that she’s willing to share.
It’s time for me to understand that I don’t have to keep everything tucked away; I don’t have to carry a lock with me to make sure that no one knows what’s going on inside of me, because those ugly parts are going to spill over anyway.
“No, Gwen, I’m not.”
“Are you thinking about Archie?” she asks.
Her fingers slide down my arm to hold my hand, and the urge to flee doesn’t come; I actually welcome this intrusion.
“Yes,” I answer. “He left me a letter.”
With my free hand I swing open my locker to reveal the envelope bearing my name. Gwen doesn’t appear to be shocked; in fact, she appears to be delighted.
“He always had such girlie handwriting,” she comments.
Now I’m laughing.
“Why don’t you go read it in private,” Gwen suggests. “The music room should be empty for another hour or so.”
This girl never ceases to impress me.
“Gwenevere,” I say, “that’s a brilliant idea.”
Inside the soundproof closet off of the music room, I sit on the floor and lean back against the cushioned wall. I grip the envelope from both ends and wish that if only I could pull, tear the paper in two, Archie would pop out and sit next to me, just so I could see his face one more time. His words will have
to do.
Dear Dominy,
I’m not sure where I’ll be when you read this. Truth is, I really have no idea where I’m going. I only know that I can’t stay here any longer. I don’t belong here, not in the way that you and Caleb and Arla do, so I need to find a place where I do belong, a place that I can call my home.
I’m different now. I haven’t been the same person for quite a while, ever since the night I fought with Nadine, the same night that Napoleon died. Everything changed for me then, and I think you’ve always known that it didn’t change for the better. How I wish I were as strong as you are; how I wish I could fight the changes and the urges and these unnamed demons living inside of me, but I can’t. I’ve tried and failed, and there’s a reason for that. After I killed Winston I realized I didn’t want to defeat those demons; I didn’t want to reverse the changes that have been happening to me; I only want them to grow.
I know it’s wrong. I know I should fight harder to keep them buried, but I like the way they make me feel, reckless and wild and free. Maybe if Napoleon were still alive or if he could speak to me or even through me, I would have the strength to fight back. Then again, it might only prolong the inevitable.
When I look in the mirror I feel so proud and magnificent, but when I look at you I only feel ashamed and disgusted with myself. And no one should feel that way about himself. That’s why I can’t stay here; it’s because of you.
I’m not blaming you for making me run away; that’s not what I mean. But it’s because you have always fought; you’ve never given in to the curse or to Luba or Nadine. You’ve risen above all of this, Dom, instead of giving in to it. You’ve been the perfect example of how I should lead my life, and yet I just can’t do it! I just can’t be like you. And even if you and the others don’t hold that against me, I hold it against myself.
It would be so easy for me to blame this all on Nadine and say that she turned me into this evil thing, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth. I’ve made a choice. Someday I may choose to fight back and let Jess’s light take over and be stronger, but for now that isn’t what I want. So for now I have to leave.
I am going to try very hard to push you from my mind so I’m not constantly reminded that there are other choices I could have made, and I hope you can do the same about me.
But until you do forget about me, please forgive me.
Your friend,
Archie
All the anger I was feeling before I opened the letter is gone. How could it remain? In its place I feel such aching grief, like I’m mourning, but even more than when Jess died, because Archie could’ve been saved.
The letter in my hand feels so heavy I let it fall into my lap and let my hands fall to my sides. Oh, Archie, how could I ever forget you? If it weren’t for your helping me, standing beside me, believing in me, I don’t know where I would be right now. But forgive you? No, I can’t do that either, not right now anyway. I will always love you, but the next time I see you—and I won’t rest until I do see you again—I will slap you so hard across your face, the sting marks won’t fade away for weeks.
And then I will hug you so tight that you’ll never be able to leave me again.
When the door opens I see that it’s time for me to leave.
“Dominy?”
I shove the letter into its envelope, fold the envelope roughly in two, and look up.
“Mr. Dice?”
What is he doing here? Spying on me? Oh no, that’s right, he’s also choir master as well as faux math teacher and Okamilord.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you guys had class for a few more hours,” I explain. “I’ll vacate the premises.”
He opens the door, and a shadow of sunlight fills the room.
“Band isn’t for a while yet. I followed you here,” he replies. “I wish I didn’t have to intrude, but this can’t wait any longer.”
So, um, he was spying on me.
“What can’t wait?” I ask.
“Jess.”
Our hands touch, and it’s as if Two W is thrown into the incinerator; we’re engulfed in the most outrageously vivid sunshine I’ve ever experienced. Despite the yelloverdose, the air is cool and fresh and fragrant with the smell of cherry blossoms. I feel like I could grab on to the air and hold it in my hands, but the thickness isn’t oppressive; just the opposite, it’s light and buoyant and soothing.
We’re not quite walking and not quite floating over the lush landscape, more like skimming, our bodies rising and falling instinctively according to the rolling terrain below our feet. Just below my toes the acres of grass and immense trees and plump bushes that populate the land are all in shades of yellow, a thousand different hues of the same color. The overall effect should be unreal and blinding, but it’s the most natural sight in the world.
A golden bird as big as a parrot flies from one yellow tree to another, singing a bright, happy melody, its wings stretched out in mid-flight, creating a breeze that ripples through the air until the wave caresses my face and rustles my hair. To my left, I hear a splash and realize what I thought was an extension of a curved hill is actually a stream filled with golden water. A fish breaks through the surface, its face and tail such a deep shade of yellow it tinges on orange, while its body is the pale color of a faded, old-fashioned photograph. It creates a perfect arc in the air and then dives back down into the water.
Mr. Dice doesn’t have to tell me where I am. I already know that this is Jess’s new home.
“We thought it was time for you to see how the other half lives,” he says.
“Because it’s time for us to say good-bye, isn’t it?” I reply.
“And everybody used to call me the drama queen!”
I grip Mr. Dice’s hand tighter when I see Jess standing in front of us, and my feet circle the air like I’m riding a bike, in search of something firm to stand on because I’m shocked by the sight. Understanding my need to feel grounded, Mr. Dice slowly descends until we touch down and I’m standing in a foot of golden grass. I can feel the blades through my pants, and they’re as soft as cotton. I don’t even wonder how I can feel them because I can’t believe how beautiful Jess looks.
It’s like she’s airbrushed, but instead of turning into some gross reflection of perfection, of what someone would want to look like, she’s been turned into what she truly is. An image of Archie’s blackened bones comes into my mind, but I shake it away. I’ll have time to relive that memory and ponder that evolution; now I want to give my entire self, my eyes, my mind, my heart, to Jess.
Her hair is long and straight, but completely blond like her natural color, a nice compromise between Japanese and Caucasian aesthetics that looks perfect on her. Her skin glows from within, her eyes are twinkling in the light, and her smile is at once all-knowing and impish.
“Yellow, Dom!” she cries. “Welcome to Omikamiland.”
Jess grabs the sides of her kimono, not as elaborate as Mr. Dice’s, but still made of some crazy luxuriant silk-like fabric with long-flowing sleeves and a stiff upturned collar that makes Jess’s face look even more eternally youthful, and she bows to me.
I don’t know what it is about the gesture, the subservience, the humility, the joy contained in the movement, but it makes me cry. I do my best to mimic her motion, but I feel awkward and hardly graceful, so with my head still looking down at the yellow land I start to gigglaugh. And I hear Jess’s cackle join in with me.
We might be in some other dimension, we might be an Omikami and a werewolf, but right here, right now, and forever, we are friends.
“It’s pretty subarashi, don’t you think?” Jess asks.
“Super subarashi,” I reply.
“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Mr. Dice interjects. “I’ll be waiting near the stream when you’re done.”
When we’re done. I don’t want to ever be done with Jess, but I think our time is coming to an end. I’ve known this would have to happen; Jess has been preparing me for it. But now that it�
��s arrived, I don’t think I’m ready.
Scouring my mind for an alternative, a solution, some sort of extension, I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a rustling in the grass near me. Looking down I see a rabbit, its fur fluffy, its body perfectly rounded, nibbling on a long yellow-orange carrot, and it almost looks like the animal version of Jess’s precious Hello Kitty, who herself is an animal, but more like a girl. After a moment it scampers away, and I’m struck with an interesting thought. I almost missed this sight because I was trying to figure out a way to change my life. How much more of life have I missed trying to alter my fate? How enjoyable can life be if you just accept that it’s yours to live and not yours to waste?
“Sorry, Dom, I can’t waste any more time,” Jess says. “And my to-do list is jammed today.”
“Oh really,” I reply. “And what’s first on your list?”
Without hesitation she grabs my hand.
“I’d like to see my family once more.”
In an instant we’ve left paradise and are in Jess’s family’s kitchen. She looks exactly the same except that her expression is a bit harder. She’s not trying to hide her feelings from me; it’s just that she’s a different person now, and she understands she’s here as a visitor.
When Jess’s mother enters the kitchen, Jess sits in a chair in the corner of the room and watches her mother go through her routine. Even though neither of us can be seen, I stand in a corner of the kitchen and try to disappear into the wall to lessen the feeling I have of being a voyeur. We both watch enraptured as Mrs. Wyatt takes groceries out from a shopping bag adorned with Japanese characters that spell out words Jess’s mother never bothered to decipher. She doesn’t care what the words are; she only knows her daughter gave her that bag, and that’s good enough for her.
Jess watches her mother fold up the bag slowly and neatly and slip it in between some cookbooks in the baker’s rack from which she’ll retrieve it the next time she has to go food shopping.
Mrs. Wyatt takes the teakettle off of the stove, fills it with water, lights the flame, and places the kettle back to its original position. Then she sits at the kitchen table, her legs to the side, not underneath the table, in case she has to get up quickly to answer the phone or rush out of the room to take care of some forgotten chore. And then suddenly Jess gets up and kneels on the floor next to her mother and lays her head on her mother’s lap.
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