Other (12 page)

Around me, people sniff and cry openly. I see a stranger lurking at the edge of the crowd. No, it isn't a stranger, but Randall in a suit—I didn't recognize him, all somber and clean. He meets my gaze, and I look away.

Something in his eyes makes me shiver.

I remember him brooding the day Chloe disappeared. I remember him tearing out floorboards with such savagery. Did he ever show love or tenderness toward her? Does he even care?

They begin to bury Chloe. I watch with dry eyes, as if I've spent all my tears. Megan clutches my hand.

I squeeze her hand. I want to say, it's okay. You're not Other. You're safe.

As we're walking out of the graveyard, I see Randall approach Chloe's grave. Something small and gold flashes in his hands. He kneels by her headstone, then stalks away, his hands empty. I slip away from my family and jog back.

Chloe's maple-blossom earrings lie by her headstone. He had them before—I saw him. Why would he leave them by her grave?

Cold seeps through my veins.

That evening, everyone is hushed. Dad turns the TV on, but keeps the volume really low. On the news, a farmer in Montana bewails his bewitched cows. Megan laughs quietly. I can't remember how to laugh.

After the bewitched cows bit, the fakey blonde newswoman returns. “Yet more werewolf sightings in Klikamuks. They have been seen lurking at the outskirts of town, though there have been no reported attacks yet. Yesterday, a local man brought a pelt to the police, but it turned out to be from a Samoyed dog.”

Disgusted, I go upstairs.

As I lie in bed, chewing on my lip until it bleeds, I wonder why Randall returned to Chloe's grave. Murderers are supposed to do that, from what I've heard. But how did he get her earrings? Maybe he kept them as a trophy. But Chloe wasn't bitten, she was … No, don't imagine what it looked like.

An ember of anger smolders inside me. If he killed her, someone should kill him.

The night grows old. I can't sleep—the air in my room feels hot and suffocating. I slide the window open to let a breeze shush inside, sweet with the perfume of night-
blooming
flowers. The curtains billow around my face.

A long, low howl keens in the distance, sharp with longing. Whether it's hunger, sadness, or loneliness, I can't tell. I shiver. The moon rises on the horizon, bright as a silver coin, only a sliver away from full.

Maybe it's the wildness of the howl calling to me, or everything I've bottled up starting to escape—I don't know—either way, my pooka side wakes up. It stretches languorously inside me, and I clamp down on it.

Not this again. My body can't just decide it needs to change when I don't want it to.

I feel a low, itching throb in all my muscles, even when I'm not moving, like ants gnawing on my nerves. I climb out of bed and try stretching. It feels better for only a minute or so. With a groan, I try clenching all my muscles instead. The throbbing persists. I grit my teeth and lie back down, perfectly still in bed.

I deserve this pain. It's nothing compared to what Chloe must have felt. I can't stop thinking that.

Feverish and cramped, I roll over and concentrate on breathing slowly. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I will not shapeshift. I will not. I grip my arms so hard my fingernails make deep marks in my skin. Tears burn in my eyes. Focus on something, anything, else.

Tavian. Somehow, he suspects the same thing I do—that a murderer's killing Others—and he suspects I'm Other, too. His shadow … did it really have a tail? I try to remember, and end up remembering the way his eyes narrow to black crescents when he smiles. Thinking of him calms my pooka side, for some reason.

Numbing sleep laps at the edges of my vision. Triumphantly exhausted, I finally drift away.

Shafts of sunlight pierce the forest canopy. Emerald leaves rustle around me, whispering like a hushed conversation that I strain to hear. I see a glow ahead, brighter than the sunlight. It drifts closer, slipping through trees, never wavering from its course directly toward me. Fear squeezes my heart like a cold fist.

I turn to run, but my legs won't move, I can't look away.

The glow stands in front of me. Chloe, shining as if illuminated by a heavenly light. Her hair blows in a wind I can't feel.

“Chloe,” I say. “Chloe!”

She stretches out her hand and whispers, “Randall.”

I gasp and lurch awake as if surfacing from deep water. For a minute, I just lie there, my clothes clinging to my sweaty skin.

Questions whirl in my head like a mobile set spinning. My brain is moving too slowly to grasp the answers, so I let myself fall back into a dreamless sleep.

When I wake late in the morning, my skin itches with restlessness. I still feel feverish.

“Randall,” I whisper.

Did she love him? Was he the last person she saw before she died? I try to shove these thoughts from my mind, but I keep seeing things—fur and fangs and blood—and it makes dread coil like a snake in my stomach. I keep hearing Chloe tell me she could trust Randall, even though I knew she shouldn't.

Just be careful, okay?

I will if you will.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to be the one to face her killer.

twelve

A
t breakfast, I joggle my leg and chew through granola so fast I feel like a squirrel.

Mum raises her eyebrows. “Hungry again?”

“Yeah,” I say, around a mouthful of granola.

Through the kitchen window, sunbeams crack the clouds. I squint in the light. My hands tremble as I reach for the box of granola, and I clench my fingers into a fist. Going without shapeshifting doesn't seem to agree with me.

Dad puts his bowl in the sink, and I say, “Can I help at the hardware store?”

He glances at me, eyebrows arched. “You want to?”

“I just said so.”

Dad scrunches his face quizzically. “You must be feeling better, if your snarky is back.”

A smile ghosts across my face. “Snarkiness,” I correct.

I want something to do, something to distract me. Otherwise I feel like I'll just wallow in angst and weepiness. A total waste of time. What good will that do for anyone? Least of all Chloe. It's too late to help her.

No. Don't think of that. I focus instead on finishing breakfast and getting ready. When I don my red apron at the hardware store, I feel purposeful. I sweep the floors, sort inventory, add price stickers on sale items, then sweep the floor again. Even if my life's a wreck, the hardware store can look nice. I notice there's still dirt on some of the windows and grime along the edges of the shelves. I get out the mop.

“Gwen.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “Did you eat lunch yet?”

“No.”

“It's one thirty. Go take a break.”

I mop harder. The muscles in my arms ache.

“Gwen … eat.”

“This place really needs mopping.”

“You can do it after lunch, okay?”

I sigh and let him take the mop away.

Dad stuffs some money into my hand and steers me to the doors. “Go. Pizza beckons.”

I manage to laugh. But as soon as I'm out of the hardware store, my smile vanishes. I cross my arms tight and trudge down the sidewalk, my head bowed.

When someone calls my name, I glance up, startled.

“Gwen? Is that you?”

I turn. “Hey, Ben. What're you doing here?”

He shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “Looking for lunch.”

“Yeah, I'm going to the Olivescent.”

Ben smiles. “Mind if I walk with you?”

I shrug. “No.”

His smile fades at my apathetic answer. I keep walking, and Ben shortens his loping stride to match mine.

“What's wrong?” he asks. “You seem depressed.”

I shrug again.

He clears his throat. “Is it because of what happened?”

I chew on my lower lip. What did Zack tell him? I don't see anything beyond curiosity and concern in Ben's eyes.

“How much do you know?” I mutter.

Ben glances away. “Sorry. I'm not trying to be nosy. You must feel horrible after what you went through. I know I would.”

I feel bitchy. “It's all right. I guessed Zack would tell you.”

“Zack? Oh.” Ben steps back, something changing in his eyes. “Yeah.”

An unpleasant prickling passes over my skin. “I hope he didn't say too much.”

“Nothing too personal.” He rubs behind his ear. “But he does still talk about you.”

“Oh?” My voice cracks, and I keep walking. “I'm … I …” I'm tempted to say that I'm over Zack, but I can't. “Really?”

“You two were together for a long time, right?”

“Yeah.” It all seems like such a waste of time now, but I can't imagine how different the past year would have been without Zack.

I glance at him. “What kinds of things does he say about me?”

“Like I said, nothing too personal. Just little things. Like how you used to go to the park together, or that this was your favorite movie.”

His words squeeze my heart. “Really?”

“Yes.”

I laugh to mask my unease. “I should forget him.”

“He hasn't forgotten you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” My words sound more insolent than I intended, and I regret them. Ben's just trying to be nice.

“I apologize,” Ben says. “I didn't mean to be nosy.”

“Oh, no, it's okay.”

Outside the Olivescent, he holds the door open for me. “After you.”

“Thanks.”

I turn to Ben, about to say more, but a familiar face snags my gaze. Tavian, walking through the door, gives me a crooked smirk. He looks sexy in a black army jacket—brass buttons and braids—over a white shirt.

I have to admit, he's got style. I can only hope it's not gay style.

Ben glances at Tavian. “A friend?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Two's company, three's a crowd.” Ben waves at me. “I'll catch you later.”

“See you,” I say, and we go our separate ways.

Tavian strolls over to me. “Hi, Gwen.”

I can't stop thinking of how I cried so shamelessly in front of him, and how he held me.

“I'm really sorry about Chloe,” Tavian says. “My condolences.” He sounds so formal. As if we never saw each other at the funeral.

I stare at the floor. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“What do you feel like eating?” Tavian says. “It's on me.”

I blink, surprised by his segue. “Oh, I've got money.”

“Please, I insist,” he says, with his most charming smile. “You look like you could use something nice today.”

“Do I?” I say, with a trace of my usual dryness.

“Definitely.” Tavian arches an eyebrow. “Well?”

I tilt my head to one side. “Well, if you're paying, I'll have a slice of three-cheese pizza.”

“That all?”

“I'm not really that hungry …”

Tavian shrugs and heads for the counter. There's no sign of Ben—he must have gotten his lunch to go. Tavian buys a slice of the pizza of the day, with artichokes, zucchini, and mozzarella. I raise an eyebrow.

“What?” he says.

“You're going to risk that? It looks weird.”

“I like weird.”

We sit opposite each other at a corner table. He slings a book bag off his shoulder and pulls out a sketchpad. A breeze from the door ruffles the pages, revealing a drawing of a winged girl. Tavian flips to a new page and starts sketching something. I try to peek, but he curls his arm around the paper. I drink some water and peer over the glass to study the way his glossy black hair falls over his eyes.

“So, are you good at art, or humble-secret-genius good?” I say.

He laughs without looking up. “If you have to ask …”

I love how normal it feels just to flirt with no strings attached, and joke with somebody who doesn't know too much about me.

Tavian bites his pizza and rotates the sketch pad in my direction. “There.”

I lean over to see. He drew a fox dancing on its hind paws.

“What is it with you and foxes?” I ask.

“Why not?”

“I still don't get that drawing you posted on your blog, with the foxes in kimonos. Did you just make it up?”

His eyes linger on mine, dark and unreadable. “No. They're
kitsune
.”

“Kit-what?”

Still looking at me, Tavian turns to a new page and keeps sketching. “A kitsune is a fox spirit from Japan.”

“Like a werewolf? Werefox, I mean?”

“No, it's more complicated than that. They can be helpful or harmful. Either they're servants of the rice god Inari, or tricksters with allegiance to no one. They have one, five, or nine tails, depending on their age and power.”

“Wow, you know a lot about them. What sort of powers do they have?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Shapeshifting. Invisibility. Illusions. The power to enter dreams. Foxfire, which is kind of like static electricity from their tails. You'd call it a will o' the wisp.”

Very interesting. I decide to play dumb. “Are they real?”

Tavian narrows his eyes. “Are Others real?”

My face goes hot, then cold.

“What's wrong?” he says. “You just went pale.”

“I think I'm getting sick. I've had a sore throat all morning.”

“Oh. That sucks.” He smiles sympathetically, but his gaze is still intense. “I'll do my very best to distract you.”

I force a laugh and look anywhere but his eyes. My stare falls on his current sketch. Is it … me? He's drawn me in a way I never see myself in the mirror. Pretty.

“Tell me you're not going to keep that,” I say.

Tavian toys with the edge of the paper. “But I like it.” He cocks his head. “You didn't answer my question.”

“Which one?”

“Are Others real?”

“Isn't it a rhetorical question?”

“Is it?”

My heart's thumping so hard I'm sure he can hear it. I do feel sick, now.

“Tell me this,” I say, sounding much bolder than I am. “Why are you so interested?”

Tavian doesn't bat an eye. “Why are you?”

“I'm tired of this guessing-game crap.”

He says nothing, just stares at me. His eyes make my heart beat faster. I shove my chair from the table and wince at the screech.

Tavian catches my wrist. “Where are you going?”

I twist away. “I've got to get back to work. Sorry.”

“But you didn't eat anything.”

“I said I wasn't hungry.”

People start to stare. Tavian follows me out of the Olivescent. My pooka side tenses, ready to emerge. I swallow hard.

“Gwen,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

I ignore him and keep walking.

“Gwen!”

I whirl on him. “What do you want from me?”

We're both breathing hard. I'm on the verge of tears or shapeshifting, maybe both.

Tavian lowers his voice. “You can talk to me.”

“I barely know you.”

“We have more in common than you want to admit.”

“No, we don't. Leave me alone.”

Tavian's eyes flash green-gold for a fraction of a second. I blink, and it's gone.

“I can wait,” he says, and then he walks back into the Olivescent.

Damn. He's most likely Other, and he definitely knows I am. I can't do this. Now's a very, very bad time to reveal myself. What if he's connected to the murders in some way? I shudder and hug myself.

I hurry back to the hardware store and clean hard, as if I can scrub my worries away.

As soon as I get home, I search for “kitsune” online. It takes me a few tries to spell it right. I find a lot of links to sites on folklore, stories, and role-playing games. I click on the most likely. My gaze speeds down the page.

“Shapeshifting spirits,” I murmur. “Foxfire … illusions … tricksters …”

Either Tavian did his research, or he has some first-hand experience.

I open up a few more pages. They disagree with each other. Some say kitsune grow an additional tail every hundred years. Other sites say kitsune only get all nine tails after nine hundred years. A lot of stories have kitsune as fox-wives that seduce mortal men. One site says almost all kitsune are female, or at least they always change into women regardless of their fox gender. How much of this is true?

Huh. Supposedly kitsune crave sex. Let's just say I don't think Tavian's crazed by the sight of me. Oh, this website says sleeping with a kitsune can be more pleasurable than most humans can handle. Oookay.

So is Tavian a kitsune or not? The shadow of a tail … the flashing eyes …

I chew on my lower lip and lie on my bed to think. Assuming he's a kitsune, what does he want from me? They aren't supposed to be trustworthy. But he doesn't seem to be trying to seduce me or con me into anything. I can't be hypocritical—pookas are supposed to be supreme tricksters, according to human propaganda.

He's going to have to make the first move, because I'm not telling him anything.

That night, the not-too-distant crack of gunshots wakes me. I sit bolt upright in bed, then kick off the covers and slide open the window. I crawl out into the cool night air and crouch like a gargoyle on the roof.

A howl pierces the night, and another answers. A gunshot cuts the first howl short.

I stare into the darkness, my eyes rounder than the waxing moon. They're hunting the werewolves. What do they call it? Curhounding. I imagine silver wolf pelts stained red, and my pulse pounds in my ears. A twisting feeling fills my chest. I grip the windowsill, my sharpening fingernails biting the wood.

My own breathing sounds too loud. I swallow past the tightness in my throat.

A snarl rumbles through the night, faint and faraway, but it scares me as if it were right behind me. I grip the edge of the roof to keep myself from scrambling back into my bedroom. My heartbeat thuds against my ribs.

My pooka half rises slowly within me, leaning against my bones. It isn't eager to shapeshift and fight. It's … defensive. Feeling my fear. My fear? It
is
me, of course. I can't talk about myself as if I have split personalities. I can't section off half of myself and pile all the recklessness and shame there.