Hemlock (8 page)

Chirrups of disbelief broke out around the room, and Serena let out a low, surprised whistle as a man strode forward and clasped hands with the senator.

Six years ago, Branson Derby had taken a bunch of loosely affiliated, ragtag groups from across the country and organized them into one united force—with himself at the helm. He was behind the spin doctors and the public service campaigns and the dozens of initiatives the Trackers were undertaking in their war against werewolves.

At first glance, he looked unimposing. He had a hawkish nose, sharp cheekbones, and sandy-brown hair that was going gray.

Like an understuffed scarecrow, he was tal and thin and his faded blue jeans and brown leather jacket seemed to hang on his frame, their colors blending with his tanned skin.

Then he turned to the room and smiled, sending shivers down my spine. If sharks could smile, they’d smile like he was now.

Voice smooth and southern and filed with authority, he said, “I want you to turn your head and look at the person on your right.”

Heads swiveled around the hal. “Now picture that person’s throat gaping open, torn out by a werewolf. Like Amy Walsh’s throat gaping open, torn out by a werewolf. Like Amy Walsh’s throat was torn out.”

He was using Amy’s death like a stage prop. I was going to be sick.

Derby continued. “Now turn your heads to the left.” Automatic compliance from the spelbound audience. “Anyone in this room could be infected. The person you’re looking at right now might be one of them. You can never let down your guard.”

The lights dimmed and Derby raised his hand, a smal remote held loosely in his palm. A picture suddenly filed the white wal behind him. A smiling redheaded woman and a young boy with light-brown hair and gray eyes. A family portrait.

Click.

A ripped jacket, the bend of a knee—those were the only clues that what we were looking at had once been a person, that it wasn’t just a pile of mangled raw meat. My stomach roled.

“This, of course, is the woman from the first photograph.”

Derby’s voice was calm and level. The glow from the projector cast sinister shadows across his face. “A group of werewolves broke into her home, kiled her two sons while she watched, and then kiled her.”

“I think I’m going to be il,” whispered Serena. She closed her eyes.

“Now,” Derby said, “let’s talk about the attack that occurred three nights ago.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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“SO DO WE CATCH THE NEXT BUS OR DO WE TRY AND find jason?”

asked Serena as we stood on the community center steps, surrounded by a restless crowd of pre-Trackers. Derby had done a great job of stirring everyone up, but without an outlet for their energy, people were just hanging around, reluctant to go home but not having anything to do.

I shivered. The sun had set while we’d been inside, but on the edge of the grounds, the RfW raly was stil going strong—or as strong as a smal group of people with poster board signs could be.

I didn’t see Jason anywhere; it was like he had vanished the second the meeting ended. “Do you mind if we check for his car?”

Even though he lived just a few streets away, Jason had been raised in a house where the phrase
oil crisis
was considered obscene—probably because his dad owned a chain of auto dealerships.

Serena shrugged gracefuly. “Sure. Though we may need a Serena shrugged gracefuly. “Sure. Though we may need a battering ram to get to the parking lot.”

We started pushing our way through the crowd.

“Traitorous fleabag lovers,” said someone behind us.

I turned my head, but I couldn’t see who had spoken.

“No right to be here,” added a second, female, voice from the front of the crowd.

A girl and three guys—two of them in varsity jackets—broke away from the throng and strode across the parking lot. They walked up to the man who seemed to be in charge of the protest—

a guy with a gray ponytail who looked like he had been at the original Woodstock.

“This can’t be good,” I muttered.

The girl said something and the protester shook his head. Even though we were too far away to hear the exchange, the people on the steps seemed to hold their breath.

And then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, one of the varsity guys threw the first punch.

The response was almost instantaneous. Half the crowd on the steps bolted, yeling anti-werewolf slurs as they ran for the protest like they were storming Normandy.

Without thinking, I grabbed Serena’s hand and started running with them—not because I wanted to join the RfW slaughter, but because we’d be trampled if we didn’t move.

It was like being in the mosh pit at the world’s most out-of-control concert. Serena gasped out a curse and held my hand in a death grip as we were shoved from al sides. It was impossible to know which way was out.

know which way was out.

Around us, punches flew, and then someone colided with me hard enough that I lost my grip on Serena.

I yeled her name as we were swept in opposite directions.

Trying to force my way to where I had last seen her, I bounced off shoulders and elbows like a pinbal. People were screaming and bleeding and crying and I felt like I had falen into one of those war movies Kyle’s dad was always watching.

For a second, I spotted Ethan, normaly so calm and kind, as he punched a Tracker in the face.

Someone shoved me and I stumbled forward, barely catching my balance before I was pushed again and again. I had the horrifying thought that I was going to fal and be crushed, but then, suddenly, I was knocked to the outer fringe of the crowd.

I staggered a few feet away and began running along the perimeter of the mob, trying to catch a glimpse of Serena as I franticaly yeled her name.

The sea of bodies parted—just for an instant—and I caught sight of her pink coat as a boy hauled her to her feet.

Jason.

He half dragged, half carried her away from the surge and toward the relative safety of the parked cars.

Sirens blared and a police cruiser swerved around the corner.

Everyone scattered—the way they did when the cops busted the drinking parties out by the lake. Everyone who could run, that is.

So quick that it was almost dizzying, it was over.

A few people crouched on the ground among the wreckage of broken signs and debris, too stunned—or wounded—to flee.

broken signs and debris, too stunned—or wounded—to flee.

Slightly shel-shocked and shaking, I headed for the cars.

Jason and Serena were standing next to his SUV. When he spotted me, his shoulders relaxed and his breath came out in a rush. He shook his head. “Wel,” he drawled, “that wasn’t in the program.”

I ignored him. “Are you okay?” I asked Serena as I scanned her for bruises. Her cheeks and forehead were covered in a light sheen of sweat and she was trembling, but only her clothes seemed to have suffered any real damage.

She nodded. “Just very, very rattled.” She slid her phone out of her purse and hastily sent a text. “Trey,” she explained, catching my curious look. “I asked him to come pick me up.”

Jason leaned against the SUV. “I can drive you home.”

Serena shook her head and tried to brush some of the dirt and grass from her coat. “No offense, but I’ve seen how you drive. I think one near-death experience is enough for tonight. Besides, didn’t you lose your license?”

Jason hesitated a second too long before saying, “I got it back.”

I made a mental note to check his walet the first chance I got.

“Jason!” A guy I didn’t recognize strode toward us. He looked about nineteen or twenty, with sun-bleached hair and bronzed skin.

The colar of his faded denim jacket just grazed the unmistakable tattoo on his neck.

“You’re going to Tuesday’s meeting, right?” the guy asked.

I blinked. It was like he was completely oblivious to the riot that had just taken place. Then again, he was a ful-fledged Tracker.

had just taken place. Then again, he was a ful-fledged Tracker.

Maybe this sort of thing happened wherever he went.

He spared a quick grin for Serena and me. He looked a bit like Ben—the same sort of blond hair and build—but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and there was something a little mean about the turn of his mouth that kept him from being attractive. He focused back on Jason. “I know you’re not big on public speaking, but we realy need you on the program next time. Your story would realy help drive home how dangerous these fleabags are.”

Jason nodded and they walked a few feet away to talk.

Serena frowned. “Is it just me, or are we the only ones freaked out by the fact that the evening just went totaly
Gangs of New
York
?”

“It’s not just you.”

A knot twisted in my stomach as I watched Jason talk to the Tracker. They didn’t look like two people who had only met in the past couple of days. In fact, it looked an awful lot like they’d known each other for a while. I had the sudden suspicion that maybe Jason had been talking to the Trackers long before they arrived in town.

A second police car reached the community center, and two more cops joined the ones who were questioning stragglers and kicking at broken signs. A handful of people were standing watch over a couple of girls who had gotten trampled and were waiting for an ambulance.

On the other side of the street, Trey puled up in the orange rust bucket he and Serena shared. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since she had texted him; he must have already been on minutes since she had texted him; he must have already been on this side of the river.

“Do you want us to drive you home?” Serena asked, eyes darting to Jason and the Tracker.

I shook my head. “No thanks. Jason can take me.”

She gave me a quick hug. “I’l cal you tomorrow, okay?” She broke away and crossed the parking lot. She wasn’t limping or moving stiffly. I guess she realy was okay.

Jason returned just as Serena reached her car. I tried to ask him how long he’d known the guy in the denim jacket and if he was realy going to join the Trackers, but the questions wouldn’t come out.

I was too scared of what the answers might be.

“Jason, can we go somewhere and . . .” My voice trailed off as goose bumps swept along my arms. Branson Derby was headed our way.

“Jason,” said the older man, nodding as he reached us.

“Sir.”

The undisguised respect in Jason’s voice took me aback and I tried not to stare. I couldn’t remember Jason ever sounding that respectful to anyone.

Up close, Derby appeared older than he had looked onstage.

Fine lines had begun to snake their way outward from the corners of his eyes and mouth. His skin looked like parchment—like he had spent too much time in hot, dry climates. He was probably in his mid- to late forties, but he wasn’t aging gracefuly.

“I haven’t met your friend,” he said.

“This is Mackenzie Dobson. She attended the meeting.” Jason

“This is Mackenzie Dobson. She attended the meeting.” Jason swalowed. “She was friends with Amy.”

Derby offered me his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I reached out and shook it. His grip was sure and firm, just this side of being too firm for comfort. I withdrew my hand and resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my jeans. The man made my skin crawl.

“Such a tragic loss,” he said. “I’ve become quite wel acquainted with Senator Walsh and the family.” He glanced at Jason and there was something disturbing and proprietary about the look, almost as though Jason was a horse he was thinking about buying. “I assume, like Jason, you’l be joining our teen chapter.”

I smiled and kept my eyes carefuly blank. “I’m not much of a joiner.”

Derby didn’t return my smile. “In times like these, Miss Dobson, pure citizens need to stand together.”

He shifted his attention to the police and to an ambulance that had puled up for the injured girls. “If you’l excuse me,” he said, turning and striding purposefuly toward the flashing lights.

“I can’t believe those idiot fleabag lovers had the nerve to show up here,” said Jason, once we were alone.

The nerve? Had he seen the same fight I had? “The crowd rushed them.”

Something flashed in Jason’s eyes. “The crowd was
provoked
.”

“By twelve people carrying flimsy signs?” I watched Derby as he shook hands with the police. “He gives me the creeps,” I said, voice low.

“Derby? He’s great—as long as you’re not a werewolf.” Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. “They kiled his family, you know. A gang of wolves in Nevada. That picture he showed at the start of the meeting—the woman and boy? Those were his wife and son. They kiled his other kid, too. His whole family was wiped out.”

He cleared his throat. “Derby . . . understands. He knows what I went through. What I’m going through. I can realy talk to him.”

Hurt and not thinking, I said, “Maybe the two of you can form a support group. Lord knows you won’t talk to Kyle or me.”

Jason took a step back, annoyed and out of reach. “I don’t get you, Mac. Werewolves kiled your best friend and you’re upset because I’ve been talking to Derby? The Trackers are the only ones doing something—realy doing something—to prevent attacks. It’s like you don’t care that she’s dead. Like you don’t want to find the freak responsible.”

I reeled. “Of course I care that . . .” I couldn’t make myself say the rest, say that Amy was dead. Before he could hurl any other words at me, I turned and strode out of the parking lot.

I walked past iron gates and ridiculously large houses that were lit up like birthday cakes. I wasn’t sure how long I would have to wait for the next bus, and I didn’t care. I crossed my arms over my chest as I walked, curling around the sting of Jason’s words. Tears blurred my vision and threatened to spil over. I sucked in a deep breath and concentrated on not letting them fal.

Crying wouldn’t bring her back. I had figured that out the first week she was gone.

Yes, a werewolf had kiled Amy. But I couldn’t blame an entire Yes, a werewolf had kiled Amy. But I couldn’t blame an entire group of people—even if that would have been easier. The only person to blame was the one who had kiled her. One person. One werewolf.