Blood and Chocolate (16 page)

23

Vivian waited until it was dark to leave. She was damned if Aiden would see her driven away. She watched two bands perform through tear-blurred eyes, but the music was meaningless noise—she never clapped, and she never rose to dance like the others around her—and each peal of laughter that drifted over from the Amoeba made her stomach clench and her shoulders stiffen, until she was almost rigid with anger. She wouldn't look that way or she would shatter, for sure.

“You all right?” the guy beside her asked, obviously longing to comfort her.

“Yeah.” The word came out a harsh whisper, and she shook her head when he tried to put his arm around her. He backed off, grabbed a beer from his buddy, and yelled encouragement at the stage, covering rejection with bravado.

Finally the dusk deepened and the bright stage lights came on, blinding the audience to those around them. When everyone stood to cheer the outgoing band, Vivian stood with them and slipped off.

She picked her way through the crowd, between blankets and coolers, over legs and backpacks. She passed couples tangy with sweat and cheap wine, and groups of young men reeking with the burping ripeness of beer. Across the cooling air drifted the smoke of cigarettes and marijuana. She cursed them for their happy oblivion.

She found the river and followed it upstream toward her home. When she was back in her territory, she dove into the tall grass and rolled there, clutching herself as if to crush the pain, but her misery broke loose and she shrieked her curses at the sky. She raged at herself and the boy, and cried hot tears.

“I am beautiful!” she screamed hoarsely. “Why can't he see that?” She ripped at the grass, dug holes in the earth, and flung the soil into the night.

She didn't hear someone approaching.

“Jeez, Viv, could you make a little more noise?”

Vivian went rigid, her hands clutching the front of her shirt. One lengthening nail snicked through the cotton and pricked her chest.

Rafe sauntered around her and bent to peer in her face. “Upset?”

“Fuck you.”

“Why don't you take care of him, Viv? He deserves it. You could do that—couldn't you?”

She lunged at Rafe and tried to tear off a piece of his face.

He jumped back, laughing. “Save that for your meat-boy, Viv.” Then he was gone.

Vivian curled into a ball to stifle her sobs, ashamed that Rafe had seen her out of control. After a while, even her crying ceased, and she crouched in the prickling grass with her arms tight around her knees, her nose full of the dust of summer hay. Gradually she slid to her side in a crumpled rag-doll heap.

There was rustling in the grass, and this time Vivian recognized the leather and tartness that was Rafe before he reached her. She could feel him standing over her but she ignored him. He nudged her gently with his toe, then slid something long, cold, and smooth into the crook of her arm. She opened her eyes and bared her teeth at him.

“It doesn't solve anything,” he said, and she was taken aback by the unaccustomed pity in his eyes. “But it makes you numb for a while.” Then he left.

He had given her a bottle. She didn't even bother to read the label, but unscrewed the top and took a swig. She sputtered, losing half her mouthful in a spray. She was prepared for the second mouthful, even though every drop carved a burning path to her gut. The third gulp brought on the beginnings of the promised numbness.
I owe Rafe one,
she thought, and laughed bitterly. She wondered if the whole bottle would wipe out her pain, or would it kill her?

If they find me dead of alcohol poisoning in the morning, that'll serve Aiden right,
she thought.
He'll know it's his fault.
She took another swig.
Everything's his fault.
And another swig.
I was okay before he hurt me.
And another swig.
I never had a blackout before. I never woke up with blood all over me before. It's all his fault. I might have done something terrible, and it's…all…his…fault.

The more she drank, the more reasons she found to hate him.

And then he flings that bitch in my face,
she fumed. Kelly had been waiting for this chance all along.
How long did it take her to show up on his doorstep after she found out we'd split?
Vivian wondered.
Not long, I bet. Dammit, if that cow had left him alone, I'd have him back. The scheming, filthy little white-fleshed grub.

I wanted to love you,
she thought miserably as she held the bottle in an embrace.

The liquor didn't burn now, but was warm and comforting; thinking of Kelly and Aiden burned.

I'd like to feel my teeth in her throat,
Vivian thought.
I'd like to slit her gullet.
But the image of a yellow police ribbon came to her unbidden, and she shook her head violently. The action left her feeling slightly sick.
No, no,
she thought.
Bad girl. Can't do that, can I?
Then an idea brought a thin smile to her lips, and made the warmth of the liquor burn brighter.
But I could scare her real good.

“And where might I accomplish this delicious task?” she asked aloud. Her words slurred, and for some stupid reason this made her laugh. “Where, where…” She laughed again. “I know where you live, Kelly.” She almost sang the words.

She struggled to her feet and tottered a few steps, and when she remembered the bottle she almost fell over retrieving it.

It took Vivian twenty minutes to lope down deserted, lamplit streets to Kelly's home, and her gait became steadier as she found her rhythm. At the house she looked around to see if anyone watched, then slunk into the shadow of the hedge that bordered the side of the yard.

There was a car in the driveway of the small brick rambler, and all the windows were dark, but the lights on either side of the front door were on. It was way after midnight; was Kelly not home yet?

Vivian opened the bottle and took a drink, then leaped a white picket fence into the backyard. Her landing was more of a stagger. She could taste the liquor when she inhaled, as if she breathed its vapor instead of air.

She peered into three windows before she found the room she wanted—a small bedroom papered with rock band posters. The bed was empty. Vivian growled at the back of her throat, imagining Kelly in another bed—Aiden's.
Gonna wait for you, girl.

She tried prying open the casement window with her fingers, but it was locked from inside. What now? She wiped the sweat from her brow with a downy forearm.

A quick tour of the yard turned up a shed. The chain holding the door closed snapped like a candy cane. Inside were a lawn mower, gas cans, a bench laden with pots, and garden tools dangling neatly on pegs. On one of the pegs hung a roll of duct tape. She took that and a trowel and went back to Kelly's window. The air was a soup of moisture and insects. In the distance thunder snarled.

She ripped off lengths of tape with her teeth and plastered them over a windowpane, then hit the mess with the trowel. The tape deadened the noise, and the broken glass peeled away easily. Through the hole, she flicked the lock, turned the handle, and let herself into the cool, dark room.

Vivian carefully closed the bedroom door, drew the curtains, then turned on a lamp beside the bed. She winced at the light. A few seconds passed before she could look around through squinting eyes.

The room was that of a little girl gone bad. Beneath the haphazard pictures full of naked chests, flannel, and tattoos, she could see pink, flowered wallpaper. There was an ink-stained pink ruffle around the dressing table, and a loving mother still made the bed up in pink sheets, although it was probably the daughter who had thrown a black down comforter on top. An old stuffed tiger lolled its head on the pillow.

Great Moon, what am I doing here?
Vivian thought.
This is crazy. Kelly didn't do anything I wouldn't do.
Suddenly she yearned for her own room, her own bed. Waiting seemed stupid and useless.
Gotta get out of here,
she decided.

“Here, have a present, Kelly.” Vivian smacked the bottle down on the dresser amid jars of makeup, bangles, pens, and tapes. The bottle tipped when she let go, and she grabbed for it, then noticed the chain underneath that had set it off balance. On the end of the chain was a pentagram.

As she picked up the pentagram her nails lengthened to claws and hair grew in a prickling trail down her back. “He gave it to you?” Her words were a whisper of strangled outrage. Was this the same necklace she had thrown back at Aiden? Was he so callous he could turn around and give it to someone else? Or did he give everyone a pentagram? Tears coursed down her cheeks as she bent the charm in half.
I thought I was special.

She clicked off the light.

“I hate pink,” she spat, and pierced a curtain with her claws, shredding it down to the hem. She turned both curtains to ribbons, savoring the sound of tearing and the tingling vibrations in her fingertips.

She went to the closet. The clothes hung in ranks—in front of the door were the black outfits Kelly favored, to either side were cheerful items most likely bought by a worried mother and only worn at family occasions after much pleading. Vivian shredded the black clothes.

She turned to the bed.

Her first swipe at the comforter sent feathers flying. They made her think of killing chickens, and she drooled as her claws swiped faster, faster, until the bed was a pile of down and pink-and-black rags. She lowered herself into this nest and her muzzle grew.

Hello, Little Red Riding Hood,
she thought.

She remained in a half-state—part girl, part creature—and her toes curled and uncurled with the pleasure of imagining Kelly's face when she saw what was in her bed. She could be finished and gone before Kelly's screams brought her parents running—or so the alcohol told her. But as the minutes ticked away, the pleasure began to dim, and she turned back to girl. Was Kelly coming home at all?

Vivian retrieved the bottle and gulped from it, her throat now dead to the burn. Her vision was blurred, and shadows dissolved into disconcerting gray tweed. Her head throbbed. She listened for the front door, but heard only snores and the creaks and groans of a nighttime house. She paced unsteadily, but whenever she stopped, the room began to turn, so she kept on moving. Every so often she picked up one of the cassettes from the dresser and unraveled it, strewing tape across the room.

The clock did away with luminous minutes until it was three
A.M.

“She's not coming home,” Vivian growled. “The bitch is not coming home.”

She climbed through the window, scraping her shins, and tumbled onto the grass outside. She struggled to her feet, and somehow made it back over the fence without turning upside down, then set off down the road.

She knew where Kelly was. “I will rip you from his arms,” Vivian promised. “I will rip you.”

The night contracted to a pinpoint of hate.

24

Vivian woke with a start. She didn't remember coming to bed. She groped for some memory of brushing her teeth or undressing, but nothing came. Carefully she opened her eyes. A pain beat at her head like a mallet in a sock; the other sock covered her tongue. Her whole body ached.

This was too much like another recent morning. Her heart pounded.

Vivian sat up amid her twisted sheets. She was naked. She looked around the room for the clothes she had worn the night before. The back of her desk chair was bare. There were no rumpled piles on the floor. Where were her clothes? She forced down the rising panic.

The early-morning breeze that wafted through the open window was damp but cool. The window screen was ripped across its entire width—enough for a person to climb through, a person without the wits to raise an obstinate frame. There was dirt on the floor.

Vivian looked down at herself. She was streaked with green mud as if she'd been in the river. She snatched up her hands and inspected her nails. They were pink, tipped with white. She exhaled audibly. There was no blood, thank the Moon.

She began to relax. She'd been drunk last night, that was all. So what if she'd stripped off her clothes and run around on all fours for a while? She deserved it. Instinct had probably kicked in and kept her to the woods. Yes, she'd been stupid to go to Kelly's house, but thankfully she'd gotten the hell out of there before anyone discovered her.
I don't think I went to Aiden's,
she thought. Of course she didn't remember how she'd become muddy either.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and moaned. The sheets were dragged with her. And that's when a hand fell on the floor with a small soft thud.

Vivian froze. The room spun out of focus. The only clear thing, sharp-edged, real beyond real, was a severed hand lying palm up on her bedroom rug. The flesh was pale and slightly puckered, as if it had been in the river with her. There were tooth marks in the palm. At the wrist was a ragged fringe of skin that surrounded a dark crusty core and a bone that protruded white. The bone had been crushed so someone could suck the marrow.

She saw a ring on the middle finger. Choking back the bile, she stuck out a foot and flipped the clammy hand over, then recoiled. The ring was a silver skull. It belonged to the biker who'd come on to her outside Tooley's, the one she'd told Gabriel she'd smack around.

She breathed fast and shallow like an animal in a trap.
I've got to get rid of it,
she thought.

Had anyone seen her? Had she left a trail to her house? She rushed to the window and looked out. A mist rose from the grass, but there was nothing unusual outside.

What if Esmé came in? She ran to the door and locked it. Despite the cool breeze she was bathed in sweat. She had to hide the hand until she could get it out of the house.

She looked around desperately. The wolves painted on the wall seemed to laugh at her. She yanked open the closet door. In a boot? No, she'd never wear them again. She noticed a Timberland shoe box up on the shelf. Perfect. She nudged the top off, retrieved the hand, and, carrying it gingerly by its waxy thumb, reached up and dropped it in. There was a rustle of tissue paper, and for one heart-stopping moment she imagined it writhing in there. She stifled a hysterical giggle and dropped the lid on the box.

Esmé was still in bed; her door was closed. Rudy was out. Vivian showered and dressed as fast as she could; then she shook the hand from the box into a cheap nylon fanny pack, which she strapped on. Her skin crawled as she walked out the kitchen door.

In the thickest part of the undergrowth out back, she sat on her haunches and rubbed garlic and pepper into the hand as if it were a leg of lamb. She hoped the smell would drive away any dog that might try to dig it up.
I can't believe I'm doing this,
she thought. She'd had dreams that seemed more real.

She couldn't seem to make a hole deep enough.
Just a few more inches,
she kept on telling herself.
I can't let anyone discover it.
If Gabriel found out he'd kill her for the safety of the pack, whether or not he wanted her for a mate. She saw in the granite of Gabriel's face swift justice and questions later, no matter what he said about being a good listener and his boasts of muscle to spare for her protection.

Finally she tossed the hand in and scrabbled to fill the hole, her knees bent ready to dive through the scrub if anyone approached, her mouth metallic with fear. She prayed to the Moon that it would stay there undisturbed.

Inside, Esmé was up. She sat at the table drinking a cup of coffee while a news show on the radio droned on quietly. Tomas was with her. They looked like a wet funeral.

“Look who came tapping at my window at dawn,” Esmé said, with only a glimmer of her usual sly grin.

Vivian's breath caught in her throat, but nothing in Tomas's expression suggested that their paths had crossed. “What's up?” she asked, knowing already.

Esmé got up for another cup from the cabinet. “Someone found another body. The news said it was mutilated, but they wouldn't say how.”

“The police hold that sort of information back,” explained Tomas. “That way only the real killer will know the details, and they can weed out cranks who confess for attention.”

“Where was it found?” Vivian asked.

“Over by the university,” Esmé answered, bringing Vivian some coffee. “Behind one of the temporary buildings where they're gonna build the new art department.”

The street Kelly lived on was only blocks from that side of the campus.

“I know, baby,” Esmé comforted, misinterpreting Vivian's pale face. “We all feel the same way.”

Tomas reached out and stroked Esmé's hand. She grabbed his fingers and held on. “What must you think of us?” she said. “Honestly, you just happened to come along right when things started to go crazy. We'll get this mess sorted out…” She realized she was babbling and shut up.

The sound of the radio seemed to swell to fill the void left by her silence, so no one missed the news bulletin:
“In a bizarre new twist in the latest, so-called ‘beast murder,' an inside source reports police have been the recipient of an anonymous phone call claiming the two murders are the work of werewolves. Chief Detective Sirilla refused to comment.”
The news reporter had some difficulty concealing his amusement, but regained his awareness of bad taste before he made a joke.
“These are, of course, serious crimes, and police would appreciate any real information that would lead to an arrest.”

Esmé leaned back in her chair and turned off the radio. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“But who would know?” Tomas asked. “Who could possibly know?” He was flushed and angry.

Vivian was well aware of who it was.
How could he do that?
she thought in dismay. After all those sweet kisses, how could he think she could kill? She might doubt herself, but she had given him no reason to doubt her. Just because she could change into an animal didn't mean she would behave like a mindless brute. Then she remembered shredding Kelly's clothes.
Sweet Moon,
she thought.
Why wouldn't he think me capable of violence?

Something else chilled her: The newscaster had said
werewolves
. But newspeople got details wrong all the time, she'd heard. Maybe Aiden had told the police
werewolf
, singular. He couldn't have said
werewolves
.
What did I tell Aiden when I changed?
she thought. Had she at any time implied that there were more than one of her kind? Had he guessed that her whole family was like her?

“They won't believe the caller,” Tomas said. “They'll think he's a nut.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Esmé.

“But what if there's one of those vigilante creeps out there?” Esmé asked.

Vivian rose to leave the kitchen, afraid of what was showing on her face. “Bathroom,” she mumbled as she went through the door to the dining room.

Aiden wouldn't have expected his phone call to make the news.
He must be wetting his pants right now,
she thought.
He'll know I know who told.
The idea should have cheered her up; instead it depressed her.
I would never hurt you,
she promised silently.
I couldn't hurt you. I love you.
She gazed out the dining room window in time to see two police officers coming up the front path.