Bloodborn (12 page)

“No. I don't know. Please.” My spine crack, crack, cracks and I hunch over. “Cynthia!”

“I'm not leaving.” Her face looks hard. “Not unless I know you're going to be okay.”

I let her tug me out of the moonlight and into the deepest shadows. I huddle with my back against the bark of a tree, panting, staring at the dizzying pattern of the pine-needle shadows. The Lycanthrox must be wearing off at last. I imagine the virus copying itself over and over in my veins until my blood swarms with squirming disease.

“Better?” Cyn asks, crouching in front of me.

I blow out my breath and nod. “Don't know how that happened. Caught me off guard.”

“You still haven't changed yet?”

“Never.”

She inspects my face. “You okay now?”

“Yes.”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and climb to my feet. “I'm going to sleep now.” I grab another blanket from the pickup truck.

I still don't trust myself. She needs to go, as much as I wish she would stay.

“All right,” she says. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

I watch her disappear in the trees, then lie back on the blanket and exhale hard. I'm sure I disappointed the wolf inside me. Tough luck. Around me, the pack sleeps in their fur. I don't see a human among them. I roll away from them and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the silent desperation that swells inside me, filling my chest to bursting.

Sleep, Brock. Sleep.

twelve

I
wake up in my bedroom, back home at the dairy. Outside, I hear the buzz of a weed whacker. I jump out of bed, kicking blankets aside, and go to the window. Dad and Chris are trimming the thicket of blackberries out back. I must've overslept; I promised I would help them. Not bothering with breakfast, I go outside.

“Hey!” I shout, waving to get their attention. “Need some help?”

Chris kills his weed whacker and walks to me, tugging off his ear muffs. His skin glistens; his hair stands in sweaty spikes. “About time you dragged your lazy ass out of bed,” he says. “Bring the wheelbarrow over, okay?”

I nod. The pungent smell of gasoline and chopped vegetation fills my nose. I jog to the wheelbarrow by the kitchen garden and yank it out of the overgrown
weeds. I'm already starting to sweat in the summer sun, so I peel off my shirt.

As I turn back to Dad and Chris, I see them shimmer in the heat. They look tiny against the giant tangle of blackberries. Vines arch high overhead, reaching down, snaking around to dig spikes into flesh. Dad and Chris fight back the blackberries with their weed whackers, but the blackberries keep growing, twisting around their arms and legs, impaling them on thorns. I ditch the wheelbarrow and grab a fallen weed whacker.

“Brock!” Chris shouts. “A little help over here!”

I attack a python-thick blackberry vine, butchering its sinewy stem, and another hisses through the grass toward me. I chop it in half. Above me, Dad and Chris twist helplessly in the grip of the brambles. Their blood drips onto the grass.

I've got to hurry. The werewolves will smell the blood and come for them.

I hack at the vines, killing as many as I can, sweat soaking my armpits, until my arms are slick with red—red? I turn off the weed whacker. The dry grass guzzles the blood that drips
from above. Slowly, I lift my gaze.

No. No! I toss aside the weed whacker. My dad and my brother dangle from thorny nooses, their skin slashed to ribbons, their guts bared, their limbs hacked away. I killed them. I killed them both. But I don't know why.

I wake up, really wake up, on my blanket in the meadow. I'm lying on my stomach, sweat pooling in the hollow of my back. Watery light seeps from the gray sky and trickles through the ponderosas. It isn't quite dawn yet.

Okay. That was just a really messed-up dream. Your hands aren't bloody, see?

I press my fist into my mouth, my throat tight, my eyes burning. God dammit. I suck in a ragged breath and bite my knuckles.

How could I forget what it felt like when Mom died? How could I forget what came after the days of feeling numb? But I was only eleven then, and I thought the world was ending. I can't remember how I made the nightmares go away. I mean, I knew my mind was a little screwy, but this is nearing bat-shit insane.

I don't have much time to think. At sunrise, we break camp.

Randall drives with the window down, one arm out, like we're on a road trip instead of on the run. Pine forest gives way to rolling lion-colored hills, pungent with sagebrush, then valleys of golden grain. All around us, tooth-sharp mountains reach for the blue, blue sky. My heart swells against my ribs like it's trying to grow bigger.

“Where are we?” I ask Randall.

“We just left Idaho. We're nearing Paradise Valley, Montana.”

“Huh. I've never been to Montana before.”

I pretend not to be so excited at the sight of so much wilderness. That's the wolf talking.

Aspens grow here, brilliant against the blue sky, their leaves glittering like golden coins—no, brighter, like yellow dragon scales. I read somewhere that dragons used to be real, but now all you can see are some bones that look like dinosaurs, only different. Humans did that—hunted every last dragon to death. I wonder if werewolves will be extinct one day, just a footnote in some textbook about terrible diseases.

I doubt it. Terrible diseases die hard.

Around noon, we stop at a hole-in-the-wall shack that calls itself a restaurant—Chuck's Chinese. While Randall orders some chow mein to go, I stare at the peeling piss-colored wallpaper and fat bottle flies humming around the ceiling fan. Then this enormous flame-feathered bird catches my eye. It's mounted above the door to the kitchen, its glass eyes dull, its dusty red wings spread like it might still fly.

“Whoa,” I say. “What is that?”

“Dead,” Randall says, counting change. He must be almost broke.

The Chinese guy at the cash register—Chuck, I guess—shakes his balding head. “
Fenghuang
are immortal. Firebird, in English. Like a … a … ” He snaps his fingers as he remembers. “A phoenix.”

“Phoenix?” I arch my eyebrows. “I thought they couldn't die.”

“Apparently not,” Randall says, his eyes on the taxidermied bird.

Chuck shakes his head again. “That's made out of rooster and pheasant feathers, with whole lot of red dye. A fake fenghuang, for good luck.”

Randall squints at him. “So pretending you killed an immortal bird is good luck?”

Chuck shrugs. “Works on the locals.”

“I'm amazed you get any business at all,” Randall mutters. “Have a nice day.”

We exit Chuck's Chinese and share a look.

“People believe some pretty weird shit about Others,” I say.

“That's an understatement.”

“I wish people thought I was lucky. Kiss my ass and all your wishes will be granted.”

Randall snorts, and I can tell he's trying not to laugh.

We gobble the chow mein in the parking lot, then hit the road.

Someone honks at us and the cherry-red convertible cruises up alongside, Isabella at the wheel. Cyn sits shotgun, her feet on the dashboard, her hair flying wild. Behind her, Jessie paints her nails black.

Randall rolls down his window. “Hello, ladies.”

Cyn looks languidly at us. Thick eyeliner rings her brown eyes, and I blink at the startling contrast. What did those werewolves do to her?

Isabella looks over her sunglasses. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of chilly day for a convertible, don't you think?” Randall shouts.

Jessie laughs. “You just can't take it, boy.”

“Drive faster,” Isabella says. “You're holding up the rest of the pack.”

She revs the engine and roars past us. Their laughter trails on the wind. Randall doesn't even try to chase them in our old truck.

“Damn,” I say. “Are they always like that?”

Randall glances at me. “Isabella and Jessie? Yeah. They're pretty ou
trageous.”

I grimace. “I don't know what's gotten into Cyn. Just last night she was cold and hungry, since Isabella and Jessie totally forgot about her.”

He glances at me again, this time with a sharp look in his eyes. “Did they?”

“Yeah. You should tell Winema.”

“Cyn is a hostage.”

I stare straight out the windshield. “Doesn't mean you have to treat her like shit.”

Randall makes a neutral noise that could mean anything.

I hope Cyn isn't up to no good. Sometimes she believes she can think her way out of any sort of trouble, which I know for a fact isn't true.

We keep driving for maybe an hour or two, while darkening clouds boil like devil's soup above the mountains. Ice scents the wind, and I can feel it in my bones—winter's coming. Even the river alongside the highway looks sluggish. Randall keeps his window all the way down, his face blank, the breeze scattering his hair.

Suddenly, he eases up on the gas. “What happened here?”

Not too far ahead, the red convertible rests in the grass, way off the road. Isabella and Jessie stand arguing beside it, jabbing their hands in the air. I spot Cyn standing by herself near the riverbank, her back to the road.

Randall pulls up alongside them and hops out. “Let me check this out.”

He leaves his window open, and I can hear everything.

“To hell with these backwoods highways.” Jessie drags on a cigarette.

“Flat?” Randall asks.

Jessie narrows her eyes. “What does it look like, sweetie?”

“Honey,” Isabella says, “we have the spare. It'll last us the rest of the way.”

“What rest of the way?” Jessie's laugh turns into a cough, and she flicks her cigarette onto the pavement. “This sharp gravel is only the start of it. Haven't you noticed the stink of asphalt? Road construction, could last for hours.”

She points with a sharp-nailed finger. In the distance, steam rises from freshly repaved road, and the faint beeps of machinery echo off the hills.

Randall swears and pulls out his cell phone. “Winema? We're going to be here awhile.”

I open my door and slip outside. My legs feel numb, so I walk toward Cyn, my blood warming as it stirs again.

I walk up behind her, then gently touch her shoulder. “Cyn.”

She swings her head toward me like a frightened deer. “You startled me!”

“Sorry.”

We stand looking at each other for a moment, and unspoken words drift between us, as thick as the clouds above us. She looks rosy-faced and wild, her hair spiked by the wind.

“Last night,” she says, “did you … ?”

“Change? No.” I clear my throat. “Thanks for asking.”

“I appreciate you helping me,” she says.

“Me, too.”

Her gaze drops to my fingers on her shoulder. I withdraw, my fingers curling into a fist. I wish we weren't so damn awkward. There are a million things I'd tell her if I knew how.

“I wonder how long we're going to be here,” Cyn says.

I lower my voice. “Now's our chance to get out of here.”

She shakes her head. “They're still watching us. Besides, it's not like we can really escape. We would be totally lost.”

“I think we could make it.”

Cyn looks past me and shakes her head. “Too late now.”

I glance back. Grady climbs out of a falling-apart brown car. He walks over to Randall, Jessie, and Isabella. Pretty quickly, they tell him what's going on, but instead of getting pissed, Grady grins and throws his arms into the air.

“Winter's coming!” he says. “They've got to fix these roads. And we've got enough time to fix ourselves something to eat. Sausages?”

Yeah, I'll admit the thought of sausages makes my mouth water.

“Are you nuts?” Randall says. “Wait, I already know the answer to that.”

Hands jittery, Jessie lights another cigarette, but Isabella folds her arms and sighs. “Grady, this is a temporary delay.”

“Good enough for me,” Grady says. “Now, if I recall, you have a grill in your truck—”

“Shit,” Randall sighs.

Cyn's hand closes on my arm. Her touch wakes up tingles in the pit of my stomach. I look at her, then follow her pointing finger.

“A girl!” she says.

And sure enough, there's a tiny little girl, only six years old at most. Buck naked. Wind blows her white-blond hair behind her like a flag. She's crouching downriver from us, a twig in her hand, drawing spirals in the gravelly sand.

“Isn't she cold?” I say.

“Brock, this is totally bizarre.” Cyn tugs me forward. “Come on.”

I follow her until we're only a few feet from the naked little girl, who glances at us with pale, watery eyes. She barely has any eyebrows, she's so blond.

“You do the talking,” I mutter to Cyn, since I don't know what to say.

“Hello,” Cyn says in her chirpy voice. “What's your name?”

“Lupine,” the little girl says, and she glowers at us. “You don't belong here.”

“My name's Cynthia. Where's your mommy?”

A flame flickers in Lupine's eyes. “Mommy's dead.”

In the distance, thunder rumbles over the mountains.

“I'm sorry,” Cyn says.

I crouch down to her level. “Where's your dad?”

“He doesn't like strangers.”

“It must be cold out here.” I hold out my hand. “We've got blankets.”

Lupine bares her teeth, only they're not pearly little kid teeth—they're fangs. Her watery eyes glow silvery blue.

“Jesus Christ!” I scramble back before she can bite my fingers off.

A growl rumbles from Lupine's skinny chest and she lunges at me. Midair, her body ripples into the shape of a pure white wolf.

I can't fucking believe it. And she actually knocks me flat on my back.

“Brock!”

Cyn grabs the stick Lupine dropped and whacks the little werewolf like she's hitting a golf ball with a club. Lupine yelps and leaps off of me.

“No!” Cyn snaps at Lupine, as if she's a dog. “Off!”

Footsteps thud the ground. I climb to my feet in time to see everybody else jogging nearer. Randall has the same look of disbelief that I'm sure is on my face. Grady's squinting, and Jessie and Isabella are laughing.