The Last Changeling (3 page)

4

T
aylo
R

If Saturday was weird, Sunday was royally messed up. I woke up at dawn and snuck off to the cemetery, just like usual. After that, I stopped off at the mall to pick up two disposable cell phones, because, you know, covert ops were a part of my life now. Things didn't really go wrong until after I got home.

It was close to ten-thirty, and Princess Sleeps-A-Lot was still in bed.
No biggie
, I thought,
I'll just program her phones before she wakes up. Everything will be great!

Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. I'd barely emptied the blue plastic bag when the knock came at my door. The knock of horror. The knock of death.

“Taylor? Honey, are you in there?”

No, worse. The knock of my mother.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered under my breath, because moms are more scared of swear words than they are of video games where you get points for killing prostitutes. My gaze shifted to the bed, where Lora-the-possible-teen-prostitute lay sleeping. She looked so innocent, curled up into a ball. I thought I would do anything to protect her.

“Taylor?”

“Just a second!” I yelled as Mom jiggled the handle. Thank God I'd remembered to lock my door. Now I just had to remember to
think
. I sprinted across the room and knelt beside the bed. The blankets were all tangled up around Lora's legs and some of them had dirt streaked across them, which was strange. I didn't remember her being covered in dirt when I'd brought her home. Then again, it had been dark and I'd been in a daze.

I was in a daze now. “Code red.
Code red
,” I whispered, though it probably sounded like gibberish to her. But she must've understood, because her eyes popped open and she sat up.

“What happened?” she asked. Her cheeks were red, like she'd been sitting in front of a fire, and her hair was everywhere, and
how does she look this good when she's just woken up?
Nothing about the morning felt fair.

Nothing about the morning felt
right
.

But now I had her full attention, and the handle of my door had stopped jiggling. For one perfect moment we just stared into each other's eyes.

“My mother,” I mouthed, “is at the door. I'm so sorry.”

Without a word, Lora slid the blankets off her legs and climbed out of bed. She pointed to the bathroom, tilting her head to the side, but I shook my head.

“She goes in there sometimes,” I said. “She pretends that she's looking for clothes, but really she's just snooping. I do my own laundry—”

Lora frowned, and I realized I was rambling. Who cared why my mom went into my bathroom? I needed to get Lora
out of here
. But how? It's not like she could go out the window.

I swallowed, unprepared for the heaviness in my chest. Meanwhile, Mom was knocking again, and Lora was looking at me with those big, frightened eyes.

Okay, I can do this.

I bolted to the bathroom. I was leaping over mountains of clothes, evading tall moms in a single bound. Kneeling next to the shower, I twisted the knob that was notorious for spitting out freezing-cold water. Still, I whispered, “Warm up, warm up, warm up,” because sometimes, when you really want something, it just happens, right
?

Icy spray assaulted my face. My lungs constricted and certain parts of me probably turned blue, but I didn't pull my head away until it was soaked. Reaching blindly across the tub, I added a little shampoo to the mix, because authenticity is important when tricking your parents. Then, with the door only partially closed, I stripped. I took off everything except my boxers, and once I had a towel around me, I took those off too. I couldn't risk the towel falling and my mom realizing this had all been a scam.

Of course, if the towel fell off now, my mom would see me naked, and that was just as horrifying. So basically, I couldn't risk the towel falling down, period. Holding on to the ends with one hand, I clutched it tightly to my waist and hurried back into the bedroom.

Lora was standing by the window, her hand on the half-open sill.

I shook my head. There was no way I was letting her climb onto that ledge and risk falling to her death. Sure, we were only two stories up, but if she tripped and fell headfirst, that wouldn't make a difference. Then she'd be lying there, in a pool of her own blood, silent as a stone, and—

Stop.

I held Lora's gaze, pointed toward the bathroom, and made a motion like I was opening a shower curtain.

She nodded.

Then, with a heavy heart and a sudsy head, I turned to face the door. Using my free hand, I undid the lock, yanking the door open with more force than intended.

“
What
?” I said in my best bored-but-irritated voice.

“I … ” Mom stared at me, in all my half-nakedness with suds on my head, and heaved a gigantic sigh. “Oh, honey, I'm sorry.” She brushed past me into the room. She was wearing this flowery blue shirt you'd expect to see on a Sunday school teacher, with TV-commercial khakis, and her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a braid. “I thought something was wrong.”

“I was just about to rinse,” I said.

She nodded, looking around real causal-like, but her nostrils were flared like she could
smell
the deception. She was dangerously close to noticing the dirt on my sheets.

“Mom. I'm getting shampoo in my eyes,” I lied.

Her gaze snapped back to me. “I only need a minute,” she said, searching my face for wayward suds. “I received a call from—”

“Ow—fuck!” I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Taylor Christopher Ald—”

“What? It
hurts
.” I wiped at my brow, which only managed to spread the shampoo around. “I have to rinse
now
.”

I turned before she could say anything else. I'd almost made it to the bathroom when I realized she was following
me. Which meant I had to stand there, with shampoo actually in my eye at this point, or get into the shower with Lora and
take off my towel
so Mom wouldn't think something was up.

Um.
Seriously?

I started to panic. It's the only explanation for what happened next. I stumbled to the sink, splashing water into my eye to try to cool the burn. It helped until my mother said, “What are you doing?”

“You said you wanted to talk.”

“But … ” She pointed to the shower, and the water that must've been pretty hot, because the bathroom was filling up with steam. For a second, I wondered if Lora was standing in there in the scalding hot water because she didn't know how to cool it down.

Okay, no one was
that
clueless. Right?

Still, a terrible feeling settled into my chest. I needed to get in the shower, even if it meant humiliating myself in the process. Lora could actually be hurting herself for me, and my mother was pretty close to calling me on my bullshit anyway. As stealthily as I could, I slipped through the crack between the shower curtain and the wall, prepared to bare all.

What would she think when she looked at me? Would she be horrified, thinking I was going to hurt her?

Would she laugh?

My hands shook as I struggled to open the towel. With shampoo dripping down my face, it took longer than it should have for me to realize what was wrong with this picture.

The shower was empty.

I mean,
I
was in it, but Lora wasn't.

She was gone.

Outside.

Gone.

The truth hit me like a fist to my gut. Why would Lora go stand in the shower and risk getting caught when she could just go out the window instead? My heart thudded as I reached into the scalding water and turned the knob to the right. I jerked it too hard, and the water came out too cold, but I didn't care. It actually helped to numb my fear as I rinsed out my hair, panicking all the while.

Had she run away? Would I never see her again?

Or worse, had she …

“Honey, I got a call from Hal Munskin,” Mom said, breaking into my thoughts. “The guidance counselor—”

“What?” The heat of shame prickled over my skin, making me dizzy. I turned the water to freezing. “Hackneyed Hal called—”

“
Mr. Munskin
, Taylor, and he said you've stopped going to your sessions—”

“I don't need to talk to him.”

“You need to talk to somebody. It hasn't been that long since—”

“I know how long it's been,” I spat, fury bleeding into my voice. It was bad enough that she'd pawned me off on a counselor instead of talking to me herself. But a high school guidance counselor? “His job is to help people with their college essays. He's not equipped to deal with … ”

Loss?

Grief?

Crippling guilt?

“Anything real,” I finished, twisting the shower off. For a minute I just stood there, shivering in the cold. I knew I needed to get Mom out of there, but I couldn't move.

“Sweetie, I just need to know you're all right. At least if you lived in the house, I'd be able to see for myself … ”

Oh. So that's what this was about. “I can't move back in,” I said, so softly I didn't think she'd hear me.

But she did. Super-sonic mom hearing, I guess. “You say that, but your father's been talking—”

“He doesn't want me there.”

“It's not that. He's just worried—”

“Look, Mom, I really can't do this right now.” I threw my towel around my waist, holding tightly to the ends. “I've got a lot of homework to do. And some of the guys are going to call later, to talk about, uh … soccer techniques.”

Sure
.
B
ecause that ever happens.

But she didn't know that. And my comment seemed to have the desired effect. I could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “You're making a lot of friends, aren't you?”

“Yup. Tons,” I lied. “I think it's been really good for me to be part of a team.”

“That's good. Great. Well, listen, why don't we talk later … ”

“Sure,” I said, pulling back the curtain. I had this big, fake grin plastered on my face. “But don't worry, okay? I'm feeling a lot better. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Good.” She exhaled, the lines softening on her face. “Maybe tonight, you can come by—”

“Mom, I really need to get to work.” I ushered her out of the bathroom, glancing quickly over at the window.

I saw nothing.

“Those teachers are really working you hard,” she said as I stubbed my toe on my desk chair. The pain was sharp and immediate.

Mother f—

I closed my eyes and saw Lora's body, lifeless and bloody, lying on the ground beneath the window.

I closed my eyes and saw Aaron.

Maybe I did need therapy.

“It's the end of the year,” I said, shaking as Mom stepped through my door. “Things'll calm down soon.”

Now she wouldn't look me in the eye. It was like she was holding something back. But I couldn't worry about it because I was
so clos
e to being free from her. “Listen,” I said, easing the door closed inch by inch. “I really am fine. I promise.”

Some lies are necessary.

Mom smiled. I smiled back and shut the door, locking it.

Then I bolted over to the window.

“Please be all right,” I whispered. I couldn't yell, because Mom might hear me, but I couldn't bring myself to look down either. If Lora was dead, there was nothing I could do about it.

My eyes started to stray down, without my permission.

But I couldn't do it, wouldn't do it, couldn't do it.

“Lora,” I hissed, terrified my mom would come out of the garage and see her clinging to the ledge.

Sure, that's why I'm terrified.

“It's all clear,” I said into the empty air, my eyes straying to the base of the garage. I saw cement and the manicured edge of the grass.

No blood.

No bones bent.

A rustling sound caught my attention. I turned to the left, relief flooding my body as Lora's face appeared around the backside of the garage. She was following the little ledge, impossibly light and fast, like a walker on a tightrope. I wanted to close my eyes until she reached me, but I couldn't afford the possibility of her slipping just as she came into my grasp.

When she finally reached the window, she practically fell into my arms. Or maybe I was reaching for her. Then I was pulling her through the frame, whispering god knows what to who knows what god.

What I know is this: Lora climbed onto the bed just as my mom stepped out of the garage. I closed the heavy blue curtains, blocking us in. Still, long after I'd whispered “Please never do that again,” and Lora said “I promise,” I knelt there, hands clutching her arms, thankful beyond words that she was alive.

5

E
l
o
r
A

Once the madness had died down, Taylor spent the afternoon convincing me to stay another night. His argument hinged on the fact that his mother
surely
wouldn't visit again for another few weeks, as was her schedule. He made grand promises about stopping by the house every day, if necessary, to make sure she wasn't tempted, and ended the entire speech by gifting me two cell phones.

Quite convincing.

Still, the thing that swayed me had nothing to do with his bargaining, and everything to do with the way he'd looked at me when I'd climbed back into his room. His hands had been shaking and his eyes were alight with fear. He'd been
terrified
. No human on earth could have faked that level of concern.

So I decided to give him one more chance.

A
fter that, Taylor explained how to operate my cell phones, and together we “surfed the web” for articles on transfer students. It quickly became clear that I would need to provide the high school with some kind o
f record, regardless of whether I had actually ever been to school. Taylor felt the best course of action was to purchase a fake transcript, but I had a feeling I could create one myself.

“How hard would it be to make these?” I asked.

“It wouldn't be easy. You see how perfect it looks?” He pointed to the place where tiny letters were arranged in lines. “It's not watermarked or anything, but I'd still be nervous trying.”

“I bet I could do it.”

“Really?” A slow smile spread across his face, born of mischief. “What program would you use?”

“Oh, I don't know. I guess I would ask my friend Taylor for a recommendation.” The moment I said it, my heart squeezed. Never in all my life had I considered calling a human a friend. But I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't meant it.

I
couldn't
have.

He stared at me with bright eyes. “Excel,” he said after a moment.

“I'll try.”

He laughed, taking control of the mouse. “I have a feeling it comes naturally.” He clicked twice. “Here. Use this program. The grid will help you line up everything perfectly.”

“I will do my best,” I said, feeling antsy. Even with the program, I'd have better luck glamouring my own transcript. But to do that, I'd have to get him out of the room.

“Are you hungry?” I asked tentatively. I had heard, somewhere, that humans ate constantly.

“I could eat.”

“It's not too much trouble?”

“No, it's not too much trouble to expect to eat.” His smile was sheepish. “I should have offered.”

“We've been busy.”

“I'll go look for something. Any dietary restrictions I should know about?”

“You mean, for instance, my body can't process meat?”

“Sure. Anything like that.”

“My body can't process meat.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It sounds strange, doesn't it?” Humans tore down rainforests just to make grazing ground for cattle—how could they understand that too much iron was poison in my veins?

But Taylor just smiled, a lopsided grin that made me want to dance a jig. “It's not strange at all. Last summer I worked at a fast food place. Ever since, I haven't been able to eat red meat without feeling sick.”

I fought to contain my relief. “Spinach isn't great, either.”

“Tell me about it. I'll see what I can find.”

The moment he was gone, I set to work glamouring the most realistic high school transcript I could. I had to use the Internet search engine to understand the meaning behind the letter grades, and then I had to exercise restraint in choosing my own. When Taylor returned nearly twenty minutes later, I was reclining in the desk chair and admiring my work.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, holding two plates in his hand as he shut the door. “My mom caught me and wanted me to eat dinner with them. We got into this whole big thing—here.” He held out a plate. From what I could tell, the plate held potato mash and corn.

“I thought it was customary to dine with one's family,” I said.

“Not necessarily.” His tone had a defensive edge. “She goes to bed early, because she teaches, and my dad has a lot of late meetings.”

“Meetings for what?”

“Oh, right.” Taylor tapped his fingers on the desk as if bored. “He's a low-level employee at Benson and Wallowitz. It's the city's leading accounting firm.”

“That's interesting.”

“Not really. He wanted to be a marine biologist.”

“To study the creatures of the sea?”

“Yep.”

“Fascinating. What happened?”

“I did.” Taylor laughed, picking up the glamoured transcript. “You made this with Excel?”

“I'm a fast learner.”

He touched the page gingerly before handing it back to me. “This is really your first time using a computer?”

“I told you it was.”

“Amazing. Oh.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out something sharp and shiny. “I almost forgot.”

Oh, Darkness.

The fork glinted in the light, its tines taunting me. My thoughts began to race. My gloves were on the other side of the room. I couldn't very well use wind to lift the utensil in front of Taylor. And then there was the little issue of putting iron in my mouth.

Then again, many metals used by humans did not contain iron. But was it worth the risk? And the burn?

“Taylor,” I said, my voice small and defeated.

“What did I do?” He studied the fork for an answer. “Is it dirty?”

“No, it's fine, it's just … I can't really use certain metals,” I explained, searching for words and failing. Would something so small be the thing to expose me? “I'm just—”

“Allergic?”

“Allergic.” I repeated the word, hoping he would take it as agreement.

“What about plastic?” He slid the fork back into his pocket. He wasn't mocking me or trying to make me feel foolish.

What game is this?

“That would be lovely,” I said. A crow cried outside the window, and I glanced at the cell phones on the bed. “Take your time.”

After he left to fetch the new utensil, I tore a corner off a small piece of paper and wrote the words
Green, begin. Red, end.
I wanted the instructions to be simple, and vague in their origins, in case the phone fell into the wrong hands. That way the interceptor would have no cause to believe it came from a faerie. I slipped the paper and one cell phone into the bag the phones had come in.

Moving to the window, I let out a squawk, calling to the crow who lived in the tree. The bird left her post, gliding down to the windowsill.

I held out the little blue bag.

The crow fluffed her feathers, cawing pleasantly, and I whispered softly in an old fey dialect that animals could understand. “Take this to the marshes below the Dark Forest, to a marsh sprite by the name of Illya. Her wings are green and veined as leaves; her amphibian frame, spotted with black. You will know her by her eyes, cerulean around a golden iris. Unusual among her kind.”

The bird dipped her head and took the bag in her beak.

“Thank you, friend.” Stroking her feathers with one hand, I dropped a glamour over the bag to help it blend with the approaching dusk. The crow nodded once and, rising from her perch, disappeared into the sky.