Sisters Red (11 page)

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my resisting the temptation to fall on him. We're silent for a moment, nearly tangible awkwardness floating around the front seats. Silas drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Well, it's not Ellison, but I think you'll like the place we're renting," he continues. "It's in a cool area, lots of artsy sorts of things to do. There's this community center that has dance classes and pottery classes and painting and all that stuff. It's kind of seedy but... artistic."

"Oh," I say, doing a pretty terrible job of masking some of the disappointment in my voice. I'm normally okay with not having a life outside of hunting, until I have to look at shining examples of the non-hunting world, like Sarah Worrell and company at the drugstore a week ago. And now I'll see it every day, people who don't hunt, people who don't even know the Fenris exist... and then me.

"Do you..." I begin, then turn around to make sure Scarlett is really asleep, not just faking it--her chest rises and falls a different way when it's genuine. Satisfied, I look back to Silas and choose my words carefully. "Do you think I'm a good hunter?"

Silas looks confused. "Of course. You and Lett are the best hunters I--"

"No, not me and Scarlett. Just me," I say.

Silas slows the car a tad to look over at me. "Yes. Yes, of course. You're--pardon my language--you're fucking deadly with a knife, Rosie."

I smile and shake my head, remembering all the times Silas scolded his older brothers for throwing language around

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in front of my "virgin ears." It's sort of satisfying to know that his perspective has changed. "Right," I say. "I mean, we hunt together. But Scarlett... it's like a part of her soul."

"Dramatic much?" Silas teases, but he frowns when I don't laugh.

"You know what I mean. It drives her."

"But not you?"

"I don't know. I mean, maybe. It doesn't matter. I owe Scarlett my life, you know?"

"Yeah, but... like I told your sister, that doesn't mean she's got you locked in a cage forever. Unless you want to be locked in a cage, I mean. Wait, that sounds weird." Silas shakes his head and sighs. "I'm forever tripping on words with you, Rosie."

"I have that effect on people," I joke, but Silas's face stays serious as he nods slightly. I grin nervously.

"I'm just trying to say," Silas starts again, voice low, "that your sister didn't save your life only for you to sign it away to hunting if you want something more."

I don't answer, because therein lies the problem. Hunters don't want
more
--at least, not hunters who are related to Scarlett March. It's sort of hard to justify taking dance classes when your older sister is trying to save the world.

We ride along mostly in silence as the sun rises above us--Scarlett wakes when it's almost directly overhead. It isn't until afternoon that the city begins to hint at itself; we pass through towns not terribly unlike Ellison, then bigger towns, then rows of gas stations and car dealerships, until

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the tallest buildings appear on the horizon. They grow closer as though they're moving toward us as quickly as we're moving toward them, swallowing us into their steel mouths as we loop under a bridge and finally enter the city streets.

I glance back at Scarlett. She looks nervous, steely eye darting across the cityscape. She never looks nervous. Her mood makes my own nerves spike, a feeling that isn't helped by the sheer busyness of the city. People are everywhere, more people than I've seen in my entire life, more cars, more buildings as far as the eye can see, a maze of silver and gray concrete illuminated by vivid signs, flashing lights, bright yellow taxis. Scarlett sinks down in her seat slightly, lets her hair fall in front of her scarred eye, and tugs her sleeves down to cover her arms.

"Wait--there it is, Andern Street," Silas mutters, wheeling the car to the right. The street he turns down is dark, as if a thunderhead is hovering over us despite the sunny day. There's a church on the corner that's in bad need of new paint and covered in barred windows. The other buildings on Andern Street are old and crumbling, and a crowd of shady-looking men hang out on the street corner.

Silas begins mouthing the building numbers and slows the car.

"This is it," he says with an air of finality. "Three three three Andern." He looks over at Scarlett and me as we duck in our seats to look up at the building.

Nestled between two old office buildings and across from a vacant lot, it has the look of something that was once

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elegant, beautiful, even: white paint peels off the boards, rusted sconces swirl by the door with a sort of Victorian air, and an octagonal cupola on the roof reaches to the sky. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn, all mismatched so that the building is a bit like a patchwork quilt. It looks soft somehow, as if the entire place were constructed from the same material as a beehive and could be crushed and scattered with one heavy gust of wind or a well-aimed rock. A group of homeless men leer at us, weathered faces scrutinizing me and then moving to Scarlett, whom they stare at with looks of amazement. She adjusts her eye patch.

"We're on the eighth floor. Just stairs, no elevator," Silas says as if he's afraid we might change our minds.

"Do we have a view of anything?" Scarlett asks, ignoring the hoboes.

"Yep. The street, and we have access to the roof."

"Good," Scarlett says sincerely. "Good for a lookout-type thing, I mean."

"Right," I add, only because I feel as if I have to say something. I turn to look across the street. The vacant lot is surrounded by a dilapidated chain-link fence, tall grass, and two buildings that look like they're abandoned. In the lot I can see the frames of old cars, skeletons of a time when this street was a little more... alive. Silas does a three-point turn in the middle of the road under the hard stares of the homeless men--who I now think might actually be residents of our building--and parks in front of the vacant lot in what's barely enough space to be considered a viable parking spot.

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Screwtape begins to howl again. I can't say I really blame him, if he can see his new home. I flash back for a moment to the sunny cottage, the bright flowers, the breeze that smelled like sweet hay, and the low rumble of cattle.

Silas opens the driver's door and the wail of a police siren screams nearby. He glances up at the building, then back into the car. Scarlett is hurriedly gathering her things, so Silas's eyes linger on mine, some sort of concern flickering there.

"I'm fine," I say softly. I realize only after the words have passed my lips that he didn't even need to ask the question. I pivot into the backseat and take Screwtape's basket cage from Scarlett. Silas pops the trunk, swings my duffel bag over his shoulder, and grabs a beaten red toolbox. One of the men catcalls at me, and Scarlett snickers.

"Go on, Rosie, kick his ass," she says under her breath. She's overprotective when it comes to wolves but thinks it's especially hilarious how human men assume that girls can't defend themselves.

The building is unlocked, the front door swinging open so quickly that it almost hits Scarlett in the face. The inside has the same sense of beauty gone to seed: cracked tile floors, heavily worn banisters, and a chandelier that's missing so many beads that it's practically just a ball of lights tied to the ceiling. The staircase spirals upward, each apartment jutting off a landing. Halfway up, a heavily muscled man flings his door open and scowls at us as we pass, a sickly sweet scent pouring from his apartment.

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"Great. We live in a crack house," Silas says once the man has slammed his door shut again.

By the time we reach the top floor, my muscles and Screwtape are screaming at me with equal intensity. Loud music thuds at us from below, so audible that the stereo might have been right next to us. Silas sets our bags down and fumbles in his pocket for a key, but there's no need--when I lean against the door frame, the door swings open and crashes into the wall behind.

"Well then," Scarlett says. When neither Silas nor I move, she forges ahead into the apartment. Silas and I make brief eye contact before following her.

The apartment is open, no walls separating one space from another. The patterned tin ceiling is high above our heads and causes our footsteps to echo as if we are in a museum; truth is, that's sort of what it feels like. The walls are covered with tacks, to which fragments of posters still cling, and one corner is filled with magazine clippings of women in various stages of undress. The windows are huge, but several are cracked and a few panes are missing entirely. The place smells musty and damp, like a basement. Outside on a heavily rusted fire escape are a few potted plants, long dead and keeled over the sides of their containers.

There's furniture--sort of. A bed that looks to be straight out of the sixties lurks in an offshoot of the main room. There's a round dining room table that actually looks fairly decent, save the neon pink graffiti that covers the oak top. And the couch... well, the battered brown couch looks

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comfortable, but there's no way I'll sit on it unless it is covered with a blanket or twelve. I feel a wave of pity for Silas, having to sleep on it.

Silas looks casual, if a little disgusted by the place, and Scarlett is... well, Scarlett. Once freed from his basket, Screwtape finally stops growling and begins to stalk cockroaches and sniff around for mice as I unpack the bag of kitchen things, afraid to put anything in a drawer. Scarlett and Silas angle the mattress against the wall and take turns beating it with a broom. They hang a flowered sheet up over the entrance to the little bed area where Scarlett and I will sleep.

Three hours later, the apartment still looks terrible. But at least it's terrible without random beer bottles and cigarette ashes covering the counters. Outside, a dog barks wildly.

"I have to go pay our rent," Silas says with a halfhearted look around the room.

"I have to get you money to pay our share," Scarlett adds, rummaging through a bag. I look away; I'd rather not know which of our grandmother's items she's decided to pawn.

"You coming with us, Rosie?" Silas asks, leaning against one of the many iron pillars that break up the apartment.

I know I should go, because I know Scarlett hopes to go hunting afterward--I see her securing her hatchet to her belt. But the truth is, I don't want to hunt. I want to be at home. How long have I wondered what life would be like outside of Ellison, only to yearn for the small town now that I'm in Atlanta?

"No, I was thinking I'd stay here and finish unpacking,"

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I answer, lifting myself up onto the countertop. Scarlett gives me a long stare, and I know she can see the frustration in my eyes. She nods.

"Okay. Keep your knives on you, even in here," she says and tosses me the belt that has both bone-handled knives stored securely on it.

Silas smiles gently at me, and then he and Scarlett leave, pulling the door tight until the lock pops shut behind them. Their footsteps echo loudly as they descend the stairs, and I hear the junkie's door fly open as they pass him again. I sigh and lower myself into one of the chairs. I set my feet on Silas's toolbox--I think it belonged to Pa Reynolds.

"Don't be silly, Leoni," Pa Reynolds said as he unloaded tools from the back of his ancient pickup truck. There was sawdust in his hair, and his overalls were permanently grass-stained. "A man's--or woman's--home is his castle."

"That doesn't mean I should get free labor," Oma March said, arms crossed.

"But I am your humble servant, my queen," Pa Reynolds said through a grin.

They were close in age, and there'd always been a sort of friendly flirtation between our grandmother and Silas's father. Looking back, I suppose it was normal for them to find comfort in each other. Silas's mother, Celia, had died when Silas was eight years old, and Pa Reynolds's brother

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Jacob--the only one of his seven siblings that remained in Ellison--was so much younger that he was more like another one of the kids. I got the feeling Pa Reynolds longed for some companionship and understanding from Oma March, even if it came in a schoolboy tone that made us cringe.

As I stroke Screwtape's fur and look warily at the rusting pipes on the ceiling, I wonder what he would do to fix this place. Outside, the bells of the dilapidated church chime the hour--tinny, mechanical sounds that are more jarring than peaceful. Screwtape hisses at the noise, and I sigh. I'm not sure even Pa Reynolds could turn this place into a castle. But hey, maybe Silas can.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

SCARLETT

I CAN FEEL THE FENRIS ALL AROUND ME IN THIS CITY
, like they've touched every surface and traveled every sidewalk. All the streets are a blur of metal, glass, and people. It's so incredibly different from Ellison. People don't stare at me here. They don't stare at anyone--they look straight ahead and storm to their destinations as if they're on terribly important missions. I suppose we have that in common.

The pawnshop is dingy, overcrowded with things that smell like other people's homes: fabric softener, cigarettes, spices from cooking. I weave through to the front of the store, where a mannish, bored-looking woman watches
The Jerry Springer Show
on a tiny television. I turn over two bracelets and dip out of the pawnshop a few moments later, a thin fold of money in hand.