Bloodborn (2 page)

“Hey,” Dad says. “You hungry?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Now, more than ever. Now, I can't say I'm ever satisfied.
Then I sink my teeth into her peach-soft shoulder, biting to the bone and drinking the juice of her blood.
I shudder and shove that nightmare to the back of my mind.

Blackjack, our brindled pit bull, lies under the kitchen table, his nose on the tiles, his eyebrows jumping as he glances around. Scars crisscross his neck and shoulders. I remember the day he got those scars, the same day me and Chris got bitten. I remember the silver-furred, yellow-eyed werewolf who did it.

“Brock,” Dad says. “Bring your plate.”

I grab a chipped plate and bring it to the stove. Dad shovels a giant omelet onto it, then starts cracking eggs for another.

“Looks good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Dad says.

Neither of us meet each other's eyes. It's always been that way.

When I set the plate down on the kitchen table, Blackjack lifts his head with a rumbling growl. I freeze. Before it happened, me and Chris trained him as a curhounding dog, to hunt the very thing that I have become.

“Down, boy,” Dad says sternly.

Blackjack's growl rises into a questioning whine. He glances at Dad, his ears pricked, his stump of a tail twitching with anxiety.

“It's me, boy.” I bend down by Blackjack and hold out my hand for him to sniff. “See?”

The dog bares his teeth and growls again.

“Brock,” Dad says. “Don't.”

“It's okay,” I say, “he knows it's—”

Blackjack darts forward as if grabbing a scrap of meat, only his teeth close on my hand. I shout and hit him on the muzzle.

“Blackjack!” Dad bellows.

The dog releases me and skitters back under the table, his claws scraping the tiles. He whimpers, his eyes darting between me and Dad.

“Shit,” I hiss. My hand has a crescent of red teeth marks on it; no blood, luckily.

“Told you not to touch him.” Dad yanks open the back door and drags Blackjack out by his collar. “Stay out there, dog.”

Blackjack whines as the door swings shut in his face.

“It's not his fault,” I say.

It's not his fault that I'm a cur now. He tried to protect me from the silver werewolf. He's trying to protect Dad … from the wolf inside me.

“Should put that dog down,” Dad says. “Useless animal.”

“He didn't break skin,” I say, as if that makes any difference. I drag a chair out and wince at the screech of wood on tile. “Can I eat this?”

Dad nods.

We don't talk much more during breakfast, mostly just nods and grunts. Then we head upstairs to get dressed for Grandma June's. All my nice shirts are wrinkled. I don't think the clothes iron has been out of the closet since Mom put it there. A lot of things have stayed the same, like the photos I can't stand to look at and the withering rose garden outside the kitchen. This farmhouse is too big and empty for two.

It's been two years now since Mom passed away. I remember—even while I try not to remember—when she started wearing hats because she'd lost her hair, and how
she got so, so thin, like a skeleton, and it scared me but I couldn't cry, I was too old for that. Toward the end, when Mom stayed at the hospital more than at home, I remember Dad telling me to hold her hand. I was afraid of hurting her. Sh
e felt fragile, almost papery.

Now, standing before my mirror, I blink and scowl at myself. Do I even look like Mom? Grandma June says I have my mom's eyes, the same gray-blue. But my square face and my hair, cropped and dishwater-blond, are my dad's.

“You ready?” Speak of the devil.

“Almost!” I holler back to Dad.

I tighten a sloppy knot in my tie and yank my shirt straight. Grandma June insists that we all dress really nice when we visit for dinner. I hurry to polish the scuff marks off my fancy black shoes, then hear a horn honk outside.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” I growl.

I thump downstairs, yank open the door, and nearly trip over Blackjack, who barks and jumps aside. Dad's idling the pickup in the driveway. He waves at me and I sprint to him, yank open the door, and haul myself inside.

As I buckle my seat belt, he glances at me, his face blank. “Klutzy, huh?”

I grit my teeth. Dad's always going on about how clumsy I am. Not like Chris, who was the star quarterback for the Cougars of Klikamuks High. I joined up, too, but I never amounted to much of anything on the team.

Dad shifts to drive and rumbles down the driveway. Blackjack trots hopefully after the pickup, but stops at the fence, his head high. I sigh. Poor dog. He can't help that I fucked up my life in a really spectacular way. If I were smart enough, which I know I'm not, I'd build a time machine and never do what I did.

We drive in silence away from the dairy, our windows rolled down, through cornfields hissing in the wind of the truck. Out by the Rutgers's orchard, apples weight the trees and dot the grass like rubies that fell from a crown.

“Oh, hell,” Dad mutters, his foot on the brake.

“Aw, somebody hit a dog,” I say.

On the side of the road, a brown animal slumps in its own blood. As the truck crawls forward, I suck in my breath. No … only the hindquarters of a dog, then the naked arms, breasts, and face of a black-haired woman.

“Not a dog.” Dad talks through clenched teeth. “A gick.”

We slow to a stop, and I can see it clearly now: half-beast, half-woman. My gaze drifts down to where the skin below her bellybutton shades to fur. Her hindquarters look mangled. She must have dragged herself there before she died.

“Werecoyote,” Dad says.

“What, really?”

“Haven't seen one in years. Must've strayed from the Indian reservation down south.” He snorts. “Road kill was a lucky way to die. Werewolves here would've ripped that bitch apart for trespassing.”

All my muscles tighten. I've heard that werewolves and werecoyotes fight over prey and territory, but now it seems more … personal. Like if I sat still enough, I would feel an instinct to hate deep in my gut. Right now, I just feel sick.

“Are we leaving her—it—there?”

“Yeah.” Dad lets his foot off the brake. “They'll clean up that bitch eventually, if the scavengers don't get there first.”

As we pass the werecoyote, I turn to look at her face. A mistake. She was beautiful, I have to admit, with glossy black hair clinging to full lips, and high cheekbones, and perfect breasts—dangerously deceptive.

I force a laugh. “Must've been a really stupid gick, to get run over like that.”

Dad laughs more heartily. “Too bad all of them can't be so stupid.”

Yeah, Dad, what about me?

He accelerates, leaving the werecoyote behind. I blow out my breath. I wonder why this werecoyote ventured into dangerous territory, anyway. Was she chased here by werewolves? By the silver werewolf who bit me? I haven't seen him since it happened. I haven't seen any of the pack, but I know they're still here, lurking in the forest and in my nightmares, in the nightmares of everybody in this town.

Dad switches on the radio, and country music replaces conversation and thought.

two

I
t's just under a hundred miles to Grandma June's. With traffic, we make it to her house in the foothills of the Cascades that afternoon. The sun pours light over the forest. Pretty. As soon as I open my door, the sweetness of pines tingles in my nose. Inside my rib cage, I feel an unclenching. I have an urge to swerve from the door and go into the forest for a good run, but that's got to be the wolf talking.

Grandma June's little wooden house hides behind giant rhododendrons and ivy. When Dad rings the doorbell, I stand behind him like I can possibly hide in his shadow; he's a good six inches shorter than me, and not nearly as bulky.

“Kurt! Brock!”

Grandma June opens the door and bundles us both into a hug. She's a tiny pewter-haired lady, but she still manages to do it. Dad squeezes her back; I pat her on the shoulder, trying to be extra careful, afraid of being too strong. Grandma June always smells like oatmeal soap, and when I close my eyes, I feel like a kid again.

“Let me have a good look at you, Brock,” says Grandma June.

I swallow hard. She hasn't seen me since it happened.

She pulls back and studies my face. “Still handsome. Though a little bristly.”

I duck my head, my face hot. She always embarrasses me, never fails. When she looks away, I rub my cheek. Stubble already? Wow.

“Come in!” Grandma June sweeps us inside. “Turkey's in the oven, rolls are next.”

I can tell. My nose quivers at the delicious aromas floating on the warm air, and my stomach growls even though we stopped at an Arby's on the way here and I had two roast beef sandwiches and an apple turnover shake. Good thing Grandma June likes to serve dinner really early.

Grandma June's house is infested by knickknacks, collectable plates, and other junk. One of these days, I'm going to accidentally break a porcelain kitten or something. Chris smashed a little figurine on purpose once, on a dare. It was this hideous little statue of toddlers kissing, but I still felt horrible not telling Grandma June.

Dad nudges me in the ribs. “Go help Grandma June with the rolls.”

“Okay.”

“Wash your hands first.”

“Okay.”

Grandma June bustles around the kitchen, doing a dozen things at the same time. I sidestep past her and start washing my hands in the kitchen sink. She scolds me for getting in her way, but gives me some carrots to chop for salad.

Soon enough, she asks it. “How is Chris?”

“Still in the hospital.” I concentrate on the carrots.

Grandma June sighs. “I already know that. How
is
he?”

“Okay, I guess. Not really better.” I lower my voice. “He still isn't healing.”

“After a month?” Grandma June whispers.

“Yeah. Doctors say he'd be healing better if he was … you know. But Dad told them to give Chris extra Lycanthrox so it doesn't happen.”

I don't need to say what “it” is. We both know Chris will become a werewolf, eventually.

“He's still in our prayers,” Grandma June says.

I'm not sure who, besides herself, she means by “our.” Grandpa passed away six years ago, and I'm not sure anybody else in my family gives a damn about me, or Chris. We're not really family anymore, are we?

The doorbell rings and in comes Aunt Martha and Uncle George and their matching blond-ponytailed junior high girls, Kaitlin and Jordan, followed by Uncle Jeff and his new girlfriend, Carla. All of them greet us with smiles and hellos, but I can tell by their tight jaws and sharp eyes that they don't want to get too close to the beast inside me. Even Carla; she must be one of the lucky few who was told about my secret.

I shut up and keep staring at the cutting board and the knife in my hand. When I finish the carrots, Grandma June gives me some lettuce to wash. I hunch over the kitchen sink, rubbing the lettuce, trying not to shred it too much.

“Too rough, Brock!” Grandma June says. “You're bruising the lettu
ce.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I doubt werewolves are built to handle lettuce. It's so stupid, I laugh. Grandma June frowns and gives the rest of the lettuce to Kaitlin. I sidestep out of the kitchen, accidentally elbowing Jordan, who squeaks and leaps back.

“Sorry!”

I head for the door. Outside, it's much more open. I can fit here, in the spaces between the trees and the sky. The mountains are beautiful now, the sun dripping gold syrup onto the vanilla-ice-cream snow. I stride into the forest, and I want to go farther, out away from the houses and the lawns and the fences. In the wilderness, there's no one to point at me and whisper what I should and shouldn't be doing. But I know the wilderness isn't empty. The werewolf pack lives out here, running and hiding and killing.

What would they think of me? What would they do to me?

I fold my arms tight and dig my nails into my biceps. I wish I could tear the flesh from my bones and yank out the wolf inside me. I would chase it into the wilderness and it would never come back and I could get some sleep.

“Brock.”

I turn around. Dad stands behind me, looking tired, a glass in his hand.

“Is it time to eat?” I ask.

Dad nods.

I stare at pine needles, my shoulders rigid. “I don't belong in there.”

“Why?”

It's fucking awkward. Out loud, I say, “You know I don't like social stuff.”

“Me neither. But we have to. For Grandma June.”

So I go back inside, even though I hate sitting in my too-small chair with my too-big appetite, listening to them chatter and laugh like nothing's wrong at all, like my brother's not in the hospital and I'm not thinking about splintering the arms of my chair in my hands, claws just waiting to slide out of my fingertips. Grandma June's food tastes amazing—it always does—so I concentrate on wolfing down turkey and potatoes and gravy and green bean casserole. But not so fast that they stare.

Do any of them notice how they gossip and pretend to be human, but underneath their words there are yips, whimpers, and growls? They fight and play dominance games while pretending not to, and Grandma June is the silver alpha watching over her little pack. I blink. I've been reading too much about wolves.

After dinner, Dad switches on the TV, and we all lounge on couches and chairs, overstuffed except me and Jordan, who's on a diet. Dad flips through the channels rapid-fire, and Aunt Martha complains that's what all men do. Laughter. I lurk in the flickering shadows-and-light, feeling like a gargoyle in some forgotten corner.

A lady with gold hair and nice boobs delivers today's news on the TV.

“ … residents on the outskirts of Klikamuks remain concerned, particularly for their children and pets. Sheriff Royle spoke with us earlier today.” The shot cuts to a beer-bellied, bald guy with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “In light of recent events, we can understand why the folks of Klikamuks might be a little apprehensive about the continued presence of the werewolf pack in the Boulder River Wilderness Area, but we urge citizens to remain calm and lock their doors at night only as a precautionary measure.”

In light of recent events. I remember those events. Hell, I was part of them.

It all started with the werewolf pack. Me and Chris couldn't stand those gick curs in our backyard, pissing on fence posts like they owned the place. We got together with some friends, Josh and Mikey, and decided to do something about it. With Blackjack and a borrowed shotgun, we went out into the woods to scare some curs. What happened instead? This red-headed gick bitch got in our way, along with her tree-girl friend.

We were pissed, to say the least, but then this guy, Benjamin Arrington, offered to help us out. To make a long story short, it turned out he was killing gicks. He got caught by the police and thrown in jail for murder. Yeah, the law counts gick-hunting as murder now. Josh and Mikey chickened out way earlier than that, so they escaped, but me and Chris had to deal with a load of shit from the police before they let us go.

I realize everybody in the room is staring at me, as if I should make some wise comment.

“Damn gicks,” I say.

Grandma June clucks her tongue, disapproving of my language, approving of my attitude.

On the TV, Sheriff Royle is gone. Now they're showing a fuzzy home video of a silver wolf loping alongside a fence. A ball of rage tightens in my gut. Is it him? The wolf who bit me, still running loose out there when he should be dead, bones in the dirt and a pelt on the wall? Someone touches at my arm, and I nearly whirl and snarl.

It's Grandma June. “Are you all right?”

I exhale shakily. “Yeah.” I'm not going to let myself become one of them.

“You sure?” she asks, and I don't know how to reply.

The next day, I ride my bike down the back country roads, trying to burn off extra energy. I whiz past sunflowers, fields dotted with dairy cows, bigleaf maples dropping floppy yellow leaves that whirl in the wind I make.

Up a really steep hill, I stand so I can push harder on the pedals, the muscles in my legs burning. On the way down, I coast, picking up speed, wind whistling past my ears. I shut my eyes for a second and imagine what it would be like to run this fast, to be able to rocket through the forest on muscle-power alone. Humans have a top running speed of about twenty miles per hour. Wolves, a bad-ass forty.

A car horn blares. My eyes snap open. I'm swerving into the opposite lane and oncoming traffic. I yank my bike back to the edge of the road. I'm getting close to downtown Klikamuks now. The glittering Stillaguamish River twists through farmland and poplars, crossed by the old bridge that looks like something made out of a kid's building kit. Fog floats from the water and joins the clouds of steam billowing from the sawmill. My nostrils widen at the wet sweetness of wood: cedar and maple, mostly.

I bike over the bridge, pumping my legs, passing the cars that crawl along. There's Christina's Seafood Cave, right on the water, leaking the smell of smoked salmon into the air. My mouth waters. And nearby, there's the BBQ Hut, also smelling delicious. Dammit, why do I have to be so hungry all the time?

Ahead, in the intersection, red and blue lights whirl. Cop car. I brake and scuff my foot on the sidewalk to steady myself. None other than Sheriff Royle himself leans toward the open window of an all-too-familiar silver Toyota sedan that makes my stomach do an all-too-familiar somersault. I've seen it before, driven by her—Cynthia Lopez. Just her name makes me feel unsteady, even after almost six weeks apart.

I glance toward her car's rear window, but the headrest blocks my view.

“Excuse me, miss,” Sheriff Royle drawls, as if he were Southern and not a Klikamuks native. “I need to see your license and proof of insurance.”

“Certainly,” Cyn says, using her chirpy helping-customers voice.

I coast closer, flip out my kickstand, and pretend to check my front tire. Now my stomach feels like it's tying itself into knots. Damn. I haven't seen her since we broke up. Klikamuks is so small, I should have brushed elbows with her at least once in the past six weeks. Unless she's been avoiding me.

“Nice day, isn't it?” Sheriff Royle says to Cyn, with a too-sweet smile. “Where're you headed?”

“Work,” she says.

Royle makes a big show of checking his watch. “Aren't you a little late?”

“I will be.”

Jesus, Cyn's as reckless as ever. Everybody knows Royle pounces on the tiniest excuse to exercise his power as a sheriff.

“Here's my license,” Cyn says, “and my proof of insurance.”

She passes them to him. I glimpse her hands, with doll fingers and wrists like the stems of wine glasses. She's tiny. Not anorexic tiny, but petite, barely five feet tall. Before, when I touched her, I was afraid of breaking her by accident.

“Is that all in order?” Cyn says, still chirpy.

Royle squints, then nods. “Appears so, miss.”

“Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

“One of your taillights is out.”

“Oh!” Fake relief almost masks the annoyance in her voice. “Thanks so much for pointing that out, officer.” The car jumps as she shifts to drive. “I'll be sure to have that fixed as soon as possible. Have a good day!”

Without waiting for a reply, Cyn rolls up her window. She glances at her side mirror, and—her hair! What happened to it? In her reflection, for a second, I thought I saw a streak of blazing flamingo pink in her chestnut hair.

Then she pulls into traffic, leaving Sheriff Royle muttering.

He glances back at me. The syrupy smile on his face melts into a frown. “What're you loitering and impeding traffic for, boy?”

“My bike,” I say. “Thought I had a flat tire.”

Sheriff Royle hooks his fingers in the loops of his belt. “Shouldn't you be back over at the Buttercup Dairy, helping your father?” Meaning, shouldn't infected people like you stay off the streets? Wouldn't want to see any trouble.