Sunblind (26 page)

“I don't know which photo I prefer,” Nadine says. “Essie before or Essie after.”

Time spent in study hall is not meant to be used for ‘show and tell', but that's exactly what Nadine is doing. When she holds up the two images, she actually makes me flinch. I've seen Essie's face on the cover of the
Three
W; that's old news so to speak. But I have not seen the picture from her autopsy report. I don't even ask Nadine how she got the report. It doesn't matter; it isn't going to change the data. Or the photo.

Yes, I was at Essie's side when she died, but I wasn't myself; I was a wolf, and my vision was being filtered. Now the image is crystal clear, and I can see exactly what Essie's body looked like moments before she left this earth. She looks just like Jess did and my father, and I have to swallow hard to avoid throwing up my lunch on the table.

So much of Essie's face is covered in streaks of dried blood. Her nose is hanging loose to one side, her left earlobe is missing, and there's a deep gouge over her left eye. No wonder her spirit left her body so easily; who would want to remain in such a useless host?

“Which one do you like, Dom?” Nadine asks. “Intact or mutilated?”

Sitting across from me, Nadine lifts one picture and then the other as if she has to get ready for a date and she's asking me to decide between two dresses. I'm surrounded by chatter, nonsensical murmurings, and I wish I could switch places with anyone else in this room. But that would make me as vile as Nadine, because I would be forcing someone to live my life and deal with all the pain and insanity and heartache that's been thrown at me like a downpour, making me feel like I'm drowning and I'm never, ever going to get dry.

In the corner of the room I see Gwen half-studying, half-chatting with The Worm. She catches me looking at her, and her face lights up. She waves at me, all smiles, and when I lift my arm to wave back it feels like a cement block. Why is it getting so hard to be normal? Why is it becoming so hard to do the things I used to do?

“C'mon, Dom, which one?”

No! It's more than just a comment; it's more than just a stupid joke. It's someone's life. It's my friend's life! And Nadine has absolutely no remorse over what her grandmother has done, over what she helped her do.

“Why are you doing this, Nadine?” I ask.

Most of the students in study hall are doing anything other than studying, so while the conversation isn't as loud and as animated as it is during lunch, it's noisy enough that we can't be easily overheard. And even if we are, who's going to believe the real story, that a werewolf is chatting with a witch, trying to find out her motivation. Nadine doesn't answer; she doesn't reveal her intentions. She just tilts her head a bit so her face looks lopsided.

“And don't tell me it's because your grandmother's forced you to do all these things,” I say.

Nadine straightens her head and juts out her chin; it's the picture of defiance. “My grandmother hasn't forced me to do anything,” she replies. “I feel blessed to have been born with such power. I wouldn't change it for anything.”

“You could change how you use it,” I remind her.

Slowly, Nadine looks at me as if I still can't comprehend first-grade English. “You still have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?” Nadine asks. “We are descendants of Orion . . . the
Hunter.
To us, the rest of the world is prey, waiting to be captured or destroyed. The more we conquer, the more powerful we become. And you've been my prey for longer than you can imagine.”

I can feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands. I'm forcing my body to remain rigid and my voice to remain calm. “I know what you've done to me,” I say.

“Not everything,” she says, like a mischievous imp.

She killed my father! What else could she possibly have done?

“Remember the Lorazepam I gave you in the syringe to knock you out?” she asks. “It was really a placebo, completely harmless.”

As despicable as Nadine sounds, she's fascinating. “You let me transform in front of my friends when you knew I could easily kill them?” I ask, stunned by her callous nature.

“Of course I did,” she replies, nodding her head, all smiles. “We had to test the limits of the wolf's strength. He's a strong one, I have to say, and I'm surprised no one died that night. Though Arla did get one heckuva scar.”

She's barren and hollow and hateful. Maybe she has been brainwashed since she was a little girl; maybe she was born that way. Whatever the reason, I honestly don't think there's any hope for her. Or her artistic talent.

“Your drawing sucks.”

Confused, Nadine turns the newspaper around so she can peer at the front page. It takes her a moment to see the drawings along the border of the article; she probably doodled them absentmindedly and forgot about them. I can't.

“You got the color of the full moon right,” I say. “But the wolf is all wrong.”

Looking at the drawing more closely, as if it were a piece of fine art, Nadine purses her lips and shakes her head. “I disagree,” she replies. “That's what you look like when you're killing people.”

I remember Caleb's instruction—act thoughtfully. Placing my arms on the desk in one horizontal line, one hand on top of the other, I lean forward and face Nadine, my red hair, unruly and a mass of curls, hanging in the space between us. She doesn't move back; she allows her personal space to be violated, but I can tell that the close proximity to me is making her uncomfortable. Good.

“The wolf shouldn't be a pretty redhead,” I whisper. “It should be black and rotting and old. Like your grandma.”

Involuntarily, Nadine starts to crumple up the paper in her fist. Obviously, I wasn't supposed to know about Luba's involvement or her ability to become a wolf. Ah well, two more secrets that are no longer secret.

“How did you find that out?” Nadine asks.

Her voice is so fragile she almost stutters. She sounds almost human.

“Just how stupid do you think
I
am?”

Sometimes people react mysteriously. I truthfully didn't think that what I said was so terrible, but before I know it Nadine leans across the table, grabs my throat, and starts choking me.

Immediately, my hands fly up to my neck, and I easily pry her off of me. She must be so angry with me that she forgot to use her magic, so when she is flung back in her chair and has to grasp at the desk to stop from toppling over, she's nothing but a girl trying not to fall on the floor. When I look at her, however, I don't see a girl. I see an enemy.

Leaping over the desk I feel like a wolf in flight, my body extended, and I can see the flash of fear take over Nadine's eyes. It only lasts a second, but it lasts long enough for me to know that despite all her bravado, despite her lack of morals, I can defeat her.

“Get off of me!” she wails.

I know there's a crowd around us; I can sense them and smell them and hear them, but it doesn't make me stop. Watch me if you want, watch what I can do!

My lips hiss into her ear when I speak, and I can feel saliva growing in my throat and dripping out of the sides of my mouth.

“You will
not
defeat me!”

Underneath me, Nadine's clawing and pushing and pulling become more frantic. On her own, without her brother and her grandmother, she's nothing; she's useless. Against one opponent she might have some success, but against two—the wolf and me—she's bound to fail. Until she gets reinforcement.

“Get off of her, you crazy bi . . . !”

The element of surprise on her side, Rayna Delgado is able to push me off of Nadine with one unexpected shove. By the time I get up, Mr. Dice, the study hall monitor, is already standing in between Nadine and me. There's nothing else I can do unless I want to start an all-out brawl with the shoo-in for teacher of the year. Willing myself to calm down, suppressing both my own anger and the wolf's primal instinct, I finally feel in control. Just in time to hear Mr. Dice sentence both of us to detention.

“I think you should rethink that, Mr. Dice.”

Although he's a new teacher, he's not accustomed to being contradicted so openly by a student. Especially one as unstudious as Rayna.

“Would you care to explain that comment, Miss Delgado?”

“Look at her,” she says, waving her arm up and down like she's one of those vapid spokesmodels on a game show and Nadine is the grand prize. “She's hurt. She needs to see Nurse Nelson.”

She isn't hurt. If I had wanted to hurt her I could have. She's just out of shape, so she's winded. Can't he see that?

“Take her directly to the nurse,” he replies. “I'll check in on you in a few minutes.”

Okay, he either can't see it or he's just taking the cautious route.

It's odd that Rayna came to Nadine's defense. I know that they've been hanging out together, but I didn't think they were friends. Maybe it's the result of magic, or maybe Rayna has just been looking for an opportunity to strike out against me ever since our awkward moment at the Wyatt house. I don't have time to dwell on it, because Mr. Dice grabs me by the arm, my own private escort to Dumbleavy's office.

We walk down the hall silently, the students parting like they're the Red Sea and Mr. Dice is playing Moses in some Japanese production of the Bible story, but when we get to the end of the hall we make a right instead of a left. In other words, we're walking in the opposite direction of the principal's office.

“Uh, Mr. Dice, where are we going?” I ask.

When he doesn't respond I'm not sure if I should be concerned or curious.

“Mr. Dice . . .”

“Keep walking.”

The last classroom on the left is not actually a classroom; it's the rehearsal space for the drama club. During the school day it's usually not in use unless kids are rehearsing for
Grease,
this year's musical, and the cast needs to run lines or go over some choreography in private. Why is Mr. Dice taking me to an isolated part of the school? Why did he lie to me and to everyone in study hall when he said he was taking me to the principal's office? And why am I not running away from him?

Because I see a yellow light spilling out from underneath the door. Jess is waiting for me. Turns out she's waiting for us both.

Before the door closes behind us, I notice something different. Jess isn't floating in the air; she isn't sitting cross-legged and hovering a few inches above a desk; she's kneeling on the floor, and when we enter she bows.

“Hello, Masut
,” she says.

I cover my eyes because the golden light is brighter and more glorious than ever before, because the light has been doubled. The light isn't just coming from Jess; it's coming from Mr. Dice as well.

“Jess, haven't I told you before that you don't have to bow in my presence?” Mr. Dice asks this in the same tone of voice he would use if he were asking a student to stop chewing gum in class.

“Yes, Masut
,” Jess replies, though she remains kneeling and bent over so her forehead touches the floor.

“So you can get up,” he informs her.

“Yes, Masut
.”