A Thousand Faces

by Patterson, Janci

  "The train station," Kalif said. "We can leave the car and go anywhere from there."

  Mom shook her head. "No good. The train goes in a straight line. We need someplace bigger. Someplace with crowds. Someplace we can get clothes."

  "The water park," I said. It had just opened a few weeks ago. "Crowds and locker rooms. Clothes left lying around."

  Dad and I had gone there last fall, right before they closed for the season. We'd tubed down the tallest water slides until we weren't certain our SPF fifty waterproof sunscreen was working anymore. Neither of us could afford a sunburn—we wouldn't be able to shift it—and I remembered scrutinizing Dad's nose for signs that it was time to stop. His nose, that withdrew into his face and left him entirely blank.

  I shivered. Kalif ran his fingers over my shoulders.

  And then, for the second time that day, one of my parents accepted my plan as the best course of action. Mom pulled onto the freeway, headed in the direction of the water park.

  I looked down at my hands. "We need to find a gas station first," I said. "One with a bathroom outside."

  "In the meantime," Kalif said. "You better stay down." I let him guide me down, resting my head on his knees, looking up at the tops of the trees as they passed by outside the windows. I was aware of Kalif watching behind us, and Mom stopping for red lights and changing lanes without weaving. I hoped that meant she was calming down. I could feel tears building under the surface. I needed Mom to help me, to do the good spy thing and hold it together with me, because I wasn't going to be able to keep them at bay forever.

  If Dad were here, he would be the strong one. He'd hold things together for both of us. If I hadn't insisted that we save Kalif, he would be. But in that situation, likely as not, Kalif would be the one who was dead, instead. And did I really wish I'd made that trade?

  I traced a slow circle with one finger around Kalif's knee, following the way the car seemed to spin around me. It was a terrible question—the kind with no answer. What I wanted was never to have had cause to ask it.

  I looked at Mom's hands, her nails etching grooves into the sides of the steering wheel. If it wasn't for me, they'd both be dead. Kalif and I were a team. Of course I went back for him—that's what Mom would have done, if Dad were the one who was trapped.

  And in the end, Dad approved of that. In the end, he stood by me. He had my back. In that situation, he trusted me to handle whatever was going to come our way.

  Now, that had to include handling his death. I closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the wheels against the road. And then I realized what Dad must have seen in me, standing there in the hall.

  If I could run a successful job against four experienced shifters, I could handle anything.

  Even this.

  We drove in silence down the highway until the twisting waterslides came into view. Mom found a gas station down the block with a drive-thru car wash. She pulled the car into the tunnel, out of sight of the street and the storefront.

  I climbed out of the car and stood, letting the water wash away the blood. The spray was so strong, I felt like it might take my skin with it. I took advantage of the moment out of sight to shift into someone younger, a child who could pass by unnoticed. The form felt unnatural, though, and I had to focus to hold on to it. After everything that had happened in the last few days, it was hard to even pretend to be a child.

  I climbed back into the car before the soap started, and when the wash was done Mom pulled around behind the car wash. In the trunk, she unearthed several changes of clothes. I should have known they'd be there. This was a shifter car. We kept changes in ours, always.

  We all ducked down into the car, changing faces and clothes. We left the car with the keys still in the ignition and snuck around the back to walk up the block to the amusement park. Water dripped from my hair, but the sun beat down on me, drying it. A sopping wet girl was less conspicuous than a bloody one.

  Kalif led us straight up to the gates and bought tickets with cash. We probably could have snuck in, but there was no need to risk it when we could just pay. Once we walked through the gates and became part of the crowd, Mom slipped into the coin-op locker rooms to pick locks and fish through unattended bags to come up with enough clothes for us all to change again.

  I pulled Kalif into one of the family changing rooms—the one room kind with a locking door. Here, away from eyes and cameras, we shifted our faces into ourselves and rested them together.

  Kalif kissed my forehead and whispered, "I'm so sorry about your dad."

  "We saved my mother," I said. She might be scarred and unable to do her job, possibly forever, but at least she was alive.

  My eyes were still dry, though we were safe enough now to cry. If they'd managed to follow close behind us, they'd have caught us by now. We'd change clothes and then faces again and then disappear, which was what we were born to do.

  "That's true," Kalif said. "But I didn't think it would happen like this."

  A knot hardened in my stomach. This wasn't how things were supposed to go at all. We were going to free my parents, and then we'd run off. They'd be together; we'd be together. But now instead of four, we were three.

  And that meant the plan had to change. "I can't leave my mom now," I said. "Not with her face the way it is, not after she just lost my dad."

  Kalif nodded. "Of course. We can talk about that later."

  "No," I said. "We have to talk about it now."

  "Can't we do this after you're settled somewhere?" His voice was pleading.

  And that's when I knew he knew. We weren't going to run away together like we'd planned. The truth of that sat in my stomach like a stone.

  Dad had believed me about trusting Kalif, but Mom hadn't liked it. And now, that very thing had gotten him killed. Kalif couldn't come with Mom, and I couldn't leave her.

  And that meant we had to split up.

  "What are you going to do?" I asked.

  He sighed, his arms circling my waist. "I have to go back for my mother," he said.

  I pushed away from him. "You can't go back into that mess. They'll kill you."

  He shook his head. "She won't let them find me. She and I have an arrangement—a place to meet that even Dad doesn't know about."

  I shivered. "Really? Do you think she knew then, what your dad was capable of?"

  Kalif shuddered. "She lived with him for two decades. I don't think she was willing to admit what she knew, even to herself."

  I shook my head. "I don't like it. I don't want you putting yourself in danger without me to watch your back. Your mom could be dead. Or they might have locked her up like my parents. You're not thinking of breaking back in there."

  Kalif looked down at the floor. "No. Not on my own, at least. I'll just go check to see if she shows. If she doesn't, I'll contact you, okay? And I'm not leaving yet. I'll help you and your mom first."

  Even I couldn't believe what I was about to say. "No," I said. "Mom doesn't trust you. She's probably already planning how we're going to get rid of you."

  Kalif gave me a pleading look. "I don't want to leave you like this."

  I leaned against his chest, and his arms tightened around me. "Just tell me how it works out," I said. "Just tell me a story with a happy ending."

  He paused, and for a horrifying moment, I thought maybe he couldn't think of one. But then he leaned down and spoke in my ear. "You'll take care of your mom. You'll do that until she's okay. I'll find my mom, and make sure she's the same. And when we're done, we'll meet up. It isn't forever. It's just a delay."

  Trapped tears burned behind my eyes. I buried them in his sleeve. It wasn't fair of me to cry while I was asking him to walk away. "But I won't be able to contact you. Even if I email you, the Carmines might track it. They know you exist now. They'll be watching." I didn't add that Aida was just as likely to turn me over. The bruises at my throat proved her desire to protect Kalif didn't extend as far as protecting me.

  Kalif pulled a pen fr
om his pocket, found a torn bit of a receipt on the ground, and scribbled something on it. "This is an email address I've never accessed from home. Send an email to it when you need me. Let me know where you are, or how to reach you."

  I stared at the paper. Getting separated hadn't been part of the plan. "When did you make that?" I asked. "Didn't you mean to leave with me?"

  Kalif's eyes burned into mine. "I did. But the longer I thought about it, the more I thought lots of things could happen that might separate us, once we got your parents. Not this, though. I never thought about this."

  That's the way we'd worked, him and me. We just kept charging forward like things would always go our way. And even now, after facing the consequences, I didn't know what else to do but continue that way.

  I looked at the paper, memorizing the address in case I had to leave it behind. Then I squeezed his shoulder. "Okay," I said. "I'll send you an email as soon as we land somewhere. Be watching."

  We were both quiet, then. Both waiting for the other one to say that this was a bad idea. That we should forget about everyone else and just run off together like we planned. But I didn't want Kalif to always regret not going back for his mother. And I couldn't leave mine, not when she'd just lost Dad.

  "I love you," I said.

  Kalif smiled. "You, too."

  The idea of carrying on without him or my dad, just Mom and me trying to find a new kind of normal, was enough to break my heart like he was already gone. How long would it be, before it would be right for me to contact him, and for him to answer?

  Kalif must have sensed that I was wavering, because he turned my chin so he could look me in the eyes. "We will always find each other. I know it seems like you can't count on anything right now, but you can count on that."

  And in that moment, I believed him. What else could I do?

  Kalif kissed me, long and slow, and I tried to memorize the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body. I stored up the feeling of his hands on my back, his mouth against mine.

  I was going to need these memories—the reminders of something true and good. The reality of my father's death hadn't hit me yet, not fully. I knew already that it was going to seep into my soul slowly, like a drafty chill. Kalif couldn't be there to help me through it. He couldn't be there for me like he had been for the last few days. The memory of this wasn't going to be enough to take the pain away.

  But I already knew holding onto it was going to help.

  When we left the changing room, I could see Mom watching us, a bag of clothes tucked up under her arm. She wasn't close enough to eavesdrop at the door, but she'd be learning things just by watching us now.

  "Don't come back after you change," I whispered to him. "That's your chance to get away." He squeezed my hand in response, and I did the brave thing. I pulled away and led him over to Mom.

  Mom distributed some clothes, all the while watching Kalif. The way she eyed him, I knew we were making the right choice. I couldn't risk letting him stay.

  Not for any of our sakes.

  Kalif took a step away, headed for the men's locker room. "Let's meet by the front gates," Mom said. And Kalif nodded, not giving Mom any indication that he had no intention of showing up. He looked down at the clothes in my hands: shorts and a fresh tank top, as if noting them. Then he squeezed my hand, and I turned around, watching him go.

  If Mom sensed that we were saying goodbye, she didn't comment. She just pulled me into the girl's locker room and toward the largest stall. When the tall door was closed behind us, she turned me to look at her. The cuts on her face looked redder and angrier now. We'd need to stop by a pharmacy for supplies—she couldn't afford an infection.

  "I want to see your face," she said.

  No one could see us in here. I faded into myself, and she did the same. Mom ran a hand under my chin. "You look older," she said. Then she pulled me into a hug.

  Older though I might look, I could feel the little girl part of me bubble up, and my eyes filled with tears. "You were gone so long," I said. "I thought you were dead."

  And even though I knew that Mom was hurting even worse than I was, her voice was calm and comforting, like the way she spoke to me when I was a little girl. "I would have been, if you hadn't come for us."

  And there it was. We did it, Kalif and me. We found Mom and Dad. We got them both out. If it weren't for us, they'd both be dead, or worse.

  But somehow, I still ended up with only one of the people that I loved.

  Mom's hands gripped my shoulders. "How did you do that?" she asked. "That facility was secure. How did you even know where to look?"

  I staggered. The story was too complex to tell here, or maybe ever. "I just did what you taught me to do," I said.

  And as Mom nodded, I realized that I stood an inch taller than her. I wasn't just older; I'd grown taller, too.

  The edges of her mouth turned up at the corners, in the closest thing she could muster to a smile.

  And that's when I knew, even though she didn't say.

  It wasn't just Dad I'd impressed. Mom was proud of me, too.

  When she pulled away, she fidgeted with her stolen clothes. "I know you and Kalif are involved, but we still can't trust him."

  "It's okay," I said. "He's not going to meet us. He's going back for his mother."

  Mom sighed. "That's for the best."

  She sounded relieved, like I was finally taking the advice she'd given me, and stepping away from Kalif for good. I knew she was right—this was for the best—but not for the reasons she was thinking.

  Mom and I turned away from each other, shedding our clothing and sizing our bodies to match the new sets. The shorts and tank top were much smaller than my usual—this persona was going to have to be young again, if I didn't want her to look like her clothes had shrunk in the wash.

  I sighed as I put them on. People would be coming back for these clothes—real people who needed them. This was the opposite of what I wanted to be doing—more stealing, more hurting other people. I'd never felt that way about stolen clothes before—obviously my parents and I had done much worse.

  This wasn't how I wanted things to be. But for today, we had to survive.

  When we walked out of the room, I couldn't help looking around for Kalif. He might not have worn the clothes that Mom picked for him, choosing instead to procure his own. He could have been anyone, anywhere. As we pushed into the crowd, an overweight man in a wife-beater passed me, and for a split second, his fingers brushed mine. I looked over my shoulder at him as he disappeared toward the entrance to the park.

  He turned around and looked at me, too. And, for a moment, I saw him smile.

  I got the message. This wasn't goodbye. Aida said no one escaped from the Carmines. But we escaped. We saved my mother. We held on to each other when everyone else wanted to drive us apart with doubts.

  We'd keep escaping. We'd keep holding on. Against the odds, I felt more sure of that than I ever had before.

  Kalif and I would be together again.

  I could count on that.

  Acknowledgments

  First thanks on this book are due to Brandon Sanderson, who went far out of his way to support this book. I am forever in his debt, and there's no nicer person to be indebted to. Thank you, as always, for your friendship.

  Thanks always to Isaac Stewart, for his advice, his expertise, and his friendship.

  Thanks to Eddie Schneider for his tireless championing of my work, and especially of this book.

  My writing group—the Seizure Ninjas—read several different endings to this book, and never complained. Thank you for your excellent feedback. This book would not exist in its final form without you.

  My beta readers, including Kathy Cowley and Megan Grey, gave excellent feedback on this book. I know there were more of you. Thank you.

  As always, I am grateful to my amazing editor and incredible cover designer—Kristina Kugler and Melody Fender. You girls make me look far better at this than I am.
Thank you.

  And last of all, thank you to my husband and daughter, whose patience for my craziness seems to be without limit. Love you.

  Janci Patterson is the author of young adult contemporary and science fiction novels. Visit her online at www.jancipatterson.com.

  In a world where vampirism is an STD, sixteen-year-old April is being hunted and stalked by the man who raped and turned her. He's one step ahead of her at every turn, but April must find a way to retake control over her own life, and stop him once and for all.

  Turn the page to read the first three chapters of A Million Shadows, the exciting sequel to A Thousand Faces.

  One

  Wearing Tommy Amato's pants was an exercise in self-restraint. As I sauntered down the street toward Tommy's girlfriend's house, all I wanted to do was hitch them up on my hips so they wouldn't feel like they were about to fall to my knees. But Tommy never did that, even when his belt was clinging to the lower half of his boxers by static alone. So I swaggered like Tommy, my bones thickened to nearly double their normal size, every muscle packed with extra bulk, which I supposed was to be expected when a sixteen-year-old girl spent her morning in the shape of a large thirty-something-year-old man.

  The pants weren't literally Tommy's. They were his favorite brand and color, and I'd bought them at a thrift store so they wouldn't look new, since none of Tommy's pants were. But the most important and most difficult piece of my cover wasn't the pants. It was Tommy's truck, which I could see parked on the curb up the block.

  Producing a truck identical to Tommy's would have taken me a month. The model was rare—the nearest one I could find for sale in the same color was in Fresno, nearly a six-hour drive away. And even that one wouldn't be perfect: Tommy's driver's-side fender had rust spots in a pattern that resembled moldy cheese. His mermaid hood ornament was a collectible that sold for hundreds on eBay. And worst of all, the back bumper was hung with Truck Nutz so greasy I wouldn't have touched them with two-foot tongs. I really didn't want to fathom how I would go about making my own.