Sweetly (27 page)
I
slump down onto one of the asphalt hills, the conversation with my brother from earlier in the day still roaming my mind.
Saving Sophia. The way we couldn’t save Abigail from the witch.
I turn to look at Samuel, who’s staring up at the sky beside me. The old drive-in is already almost engulfed in darkness; I wonder if this is around the time movies started, back when this place was open. I wish I’d been here. I wish I’d known Live Oak before it was full of For Sale signs and monsters.
“It’s still not the werewolves I’m most scared of,” I say quietly. “It’s not knowing what will happen. Not understanding what Sophia will do tomorrow night at the festival. I thought everything would be fine once I knew what the witch was, but there are so many other mysteries now.”
“You can’t save everyone.” Samuel’s words are so blunt that they surprise me, so opposite of my brother’s mentality that they feel foreign. He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to save the girls in Live Oak for two years. Sooner or later, you have to realize—you can’t save them all.”
“Then how do you choose?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“Where the wolves are concerned,” Samuel says, inhaling, “you don’t really get a choice. It’s whomever you get to first.”
Maybe
that’s
what really happened in the forest twelve years ago. Maybe the witch just got to Abigail first. Maybe it’s just that easy, just that stupid, how people live or die. I nod at Samuel but look away, embarrassed at the tears that are building in my eyes. He takes interest in a bunch of clover bursting through the loose pavement while I gather myself together.
“You ready?” he says as the sun fully disappears behind the trees and the dilapidated movie screens.
“Yeah,” I say through a deep breath out. “One night to kill as many monsters as possible.”
“Don’t think about that,” Samuel says sternly. “The minute you start thinking of it that way, you’ll lose your focus. I don’t want to go hunting with you if you aren’t focused. I swear to god, I’ll never forgive you if you shoot me in the leg.”
“What about the arm, then?” I tease as he helps me to my feet.
“As long as I get a free shot at yours,” he answers. He points to one of the old screens. “So here’s what I’m thinking—what if you stay here, and I climb up on that for a better vantage point.”
“Are werewolves going to come out here? Without the trees nearby?”
“I think so,” Samuel says, walking away backward. “And I’ll have a clear shot, just in case you need help. Between the two of us we can’t lose. You just stay still and…”
“Look tempting?” I finish his sentence.
“Something like that,” he says, tripping a little over one of the hills. He slings his rifle over his shoulder and grabs hold of a thin, rusted ladder that leads up behind the screen—for a moment I’m pretty certain I’ll have to haul him out of the debris when the whole thing buckles beneath him. But it seems stable enough once he’s reached the top, standing on a platform that runs the length of the screen. He knocks a piece of the screen out so he can aim and sticks his rifle through it.
“Move backward,” he calls down quietly. I obey, backing up till I’m at the top of one of the hills.
“You’re going to be able to hit one from there?” I say doubtfully, looking at the space between us.
“You don’t trust me?” he asks, grinning—I can just make out the sparkle in his eyes and the white of his teeth in the dark.
“I’ll never forgive you if you shoot
me
in the leg,” I tell him firmly.
“Yeah, yeah. Now be quiet.” I’m about to remind him that he’s the one who started talking but instead just scowl at him and bend to run my hands over the moss poking through the broken asphalt. A few moments go by; Samuel vanishes entirely in the darkness. Fireflies arrive, glowing bright green. I catch them, watch them blink in my hands, then let them fly away.
“You need to make more noise,” he calls quietly from above.
I stomp around, brush my feet across the pavement, kick a few rocks.
“More noise that makes it’s obvious you’re a girl, not a wild boar,” he says.
“Are you calling me a wild boar?” I hiss.
“Sing or something.”
“I don’t sing.”
“Then you don’t kill wolves. Sing,” he whispers, but he can’t hide the hints of humor in his voice. I catch the cocky grin on his face in the moonlight and glare.
I meant it when I said I don’t sing, but I bitterly hum, quietly at first until Samuel waves his arms, indicating I should get louder. I show him my middle finger but oblige, and finally my lips form words.
“In the Big Rock Candy Mountain, there’s a land that’s fair and bright.”
I sing in a half whisper. Something moves in the forest that surrounds us—something small, a bird, maybe, or a raccoon.
“I haven’t heard this song in years—I don’t suppose you can play guitar too?” Samuel asks.
“Shut up—I’m attracting werewolves,” I snap back.
“Oh the birds and the bees and the lollipop trees…”
I make it through the song twice, then peer into the trees. This may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I hum another verse, letting a few words slip through my lips. I’m about to tell Samuel his idea was moronic when there’s a sharp crack. I hear Samuel shift and know his gun is aimed, waiting for something to spring from the woods. I don’t raise my own, not yet.
“Where the rain don’t fall and the wind don’t blow…”
I whisper, urging my voice to get louder. The fireflies are scattering—soon they’re far from me, leaving me on a lake of black pavement alone.
Don’t give up now. Don’t be afraid.
“I’m going to stay where you sleep all day—”
A stick pops in the trees, something moving fast. I whirl around, gun raised.
Just in time.
The wolf glares at me from the edge of the tree line, the opposite end of the drive-in from Samuel, hatred and hunger radiating from his golden eyes. He’s dishwater gray, with greenish teeth. He hunches down, prepared to leap—but I’m prepared to shoot. I breathe slowly, carefully. One shot.
Don’t shake, Gretchen.
Think of what’s at stake.
My mind flashes through the eight girls, Naida, and Sophia, and I tighten my finger on the trigger. The monster growls, a hisslike noise. He springs forward. Fast. I fire.
He crashes into my knees, which buckle beneath me. I careen onto pavement, skinning my elbows and shins. A gun sounds out, not mine, but it doesn’t stop the monster. The werewolf pins my arms by my side and lowers his head toward mine. Blood from a bullet wound on his shoulder spouts like a grotesque fountain. It splatters onto my neck and rinses over the werewolf’s canines. Another shot, one that ricochets off the ground beside me, and suddenly it feels as though my upper arm is on fire. My gun is pinned beneath me, its corners cutting into my back as the monster presses against me, heaving. A third shot. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to inhale.
Then the wolf is gone.
I cough and gasp when he becomes shadows, lungs burning, staring at the sky. The scent of the monster is thick in the air and sticks to the sides of my throat. There are footsteps running toward me, but I’m too busy trying not to faint to focus on them. I reach up and gingerly wipe at the wolf’s blood on my neck, then stare at my fingers. It was so close to me, so close to killing me.
Hands are on my back, on my arms; Samuel is on his knees beside me. He hauls me to sitting, leaning my body against his for support. The fireflies move in, sparkling around us as I catch my breath and the world stops spinning.
“Are you hurt? Let me see your arm,” he says, pulling my arm to his face to see in the darkness. It’s bleeding and burns when he touches the skin around the line-shaped cut. I shake my head, cringe as the sting from the scrapes on my elbows sets in.
“Sorry,” I say as I strain to breathe normally. He brushes my hair from my face roughly. “I couldn’t shoot him in time.”
“It’s fine. Come on,” he says. “You can walk, right? I can’t believe I hit you.”
“Yeah, what—did you
shoot
me?” I ask in surprise, looking at my arm. The line-shaped cut makes sense now, the fire I felt on my arm.
“It just grazed you. I couldn’t get a decent aim on the second shot. I thought I’d be able to kill the wolf long before he got to you, but the next thing I knew, he was on you…”
“So you shot me?” I ask, alarmed.
“I have excellent aim.”
“What if this had been my head!” I say, pointing to the mark. It oozes blood slowly in response.
“Then you wouldn’t be yelling at me,” Samuel says. “Come on. Movie screen wolf hunting doesn’t work, apparently.”
“No kidding.” I rub the bruise that’s forming on my chest from the monster’s weight.
“Be ready to shoot, in case there are more,” Samuel says. I tug the rifle over my shoulder, check the safety, and take a step.
To my surprise, instead of broken concrete, my foot rolls over something smooth and hard. I raise an eyebrow and lean down to pull whatever it is off the dark ground.
My hand comes up with a perfect peach-colored seashell.
A
shell?” Samuel asks quietly.
“They… the werewolves are the ones bringing them,” I say in shock. “No, it doesn’t make any sense. Witches don’t deal in seashells.”
“Clearly they do,” Samuel says, but seems as amazed as I am. “You said there are more—how many?”
“I think this is twelve,” I say after I count in my head. “But in the shed, there are more.” I inhale as I realize what this means, as everything slides into place in my head. When I speak again, my voice shakes. “She knows about them, Samuel. She knows about the wolves, and she’s never said anything.” I can’t breathe, as though the wolf is on top of me, pressing down on my lungs all over again.
“Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe she’s marked,” Samuel says, eyes wandering through the circle of trees around us. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” We begin to walk quickly, whispering to each other as we hurry down the drive toward his bike.
“Why mark her? Why not just kill her? Did Layla and everyone else get shells?” If she really is marked, how much danger is she in? I speed up, worried.
“Layla never got shells,” Samuel says quickly. “I’ve never heard of this until now.”
“So… Sophia is special too, somehow, that they’d mark her?” I mutter as we emerge on the street. My mind is racing, too full of ideas to think clearly.
“How many shells are in the shed?” Samuel asks.
“Um… eight. Three in one box and five in another.”
Samuel freezes. I slowly turn to look at him, confused.
But his eyes say everything, explain far more than words could.
“Three, five. Three girls the first year, five the second year,” I say breathlessly. Samuel’s jaw tightens, but he nods.
“Twelve this year,” I murmur. “Including this one. That’s why she panics when she gets them.”
“We’ve got to stop the festival,” Samuel says firmly.
Samuel yanks the bike off the ground and I jump on, grab his waist tightly. I rehearse what I’ll say to her, what I’ll tell her. I can do this, I tell myself. I can make things right. I can save us. I can stop the first sign of Live Oak’s end days.
We roar into the night, past the point where he normally drops me off. The chocolatier appears ahead, glowing like the stars above. He slows as we near it, then stops by the mailbox. I swing my legs off and turn to face Samuel.
“Let me talk to her. She won’t listen to you.”
Samuel nods curtly. “Want me to wait?”
I pause for a heartbeat. “No. No, it’ll be fine. I’ll tell her, and then… she’ll listen. I—”
“You know where to find me if you need me,” Samuel cuts me off.
I kiss him, and he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against him, letting his other hand wander through my hair. I grab his shoulders and hold them tightly, kiss him back as though I’m drowning and he is air. He releases me but watches as I run down the chocolatier’s drive and up the steps.
I fling open the door and hit the stairs just as I hear Samuel’s motorcycle rev up. Luxe bounds out of my room to meet me at the upstairs door, panting as though he thinks I’ve woken up merely to play with him. I brush past him and dive onto the couch where my brother is sleeping.
My arms hit pillows that squish beneath my weight. I toss the pillows aside from where they’re carefully tucked under the blankets. He isn’t here. He has to be here—he has to get out. I leap back to my feet and run to Sophia’s room, flinging open the door.
“Sophia!” I shout. She shoots up in her bed, hair frazzled, eyes wide.
“What, Gretchen? What is it?” she asks frantically. I’m about to answer when I see movement beside her in the bed. Sheets move, swirl, and finally, my brother’s head emerges.
“What are you doing?” he asks, cheeks flushing. “I thought you went to bed early.”
There are a lot of things I want to say about finding my brother sleeping in Sophia’s bed—I want to admonish him for hiding it from me via pillows on the couch, I want to demand to know why they were keeping this level of a relationship from me—the level where being in bed together no longer means they’re simply having sex, but that they want to just
sleep
side by side.
