“I’ll probably be out late tonight,” my mom said. “There’s chicken in the fridge. All you have to do is microwave it.”
I sat at the table with a bowl of cereal, watching her gather her purse and keys. “Why do you have to stay late? It’s Sunday.”
“Inventory and ordering night, remember? I told you about it a couple of days ago.”
“Oh, right, I forgot,” I said.
Inventory night happened once every three months, for my über-organized mother. She and Julie—her one employee—would stay late and go through everything in the stockroom to make sure it matched up to her many spreadsheets. I couldn’t think of a single thing more boring but it made my mom happy to check things off lists.
She eyed me. “You okay? You seem distracted. Are you still feeling sick?”
I shifted under her stare. “I’m fine. I just forgot.”
She didn’t look convinced. “You didn’t even go out yesterday, just sat in your room all day. Maybe I should make a doctor’s appointment for you.”
“Really, Mom, I’m fine. I just needed some more rest. You know being sick always wears a person out.”
I had spent all of Saturday in my room, just not for the reasons she thought. After the weird feeling I’d gotten in the mall parking lot, I’d decided it was definitely time to do something. And after my botched phone call with Wes, I’d decided maybe I’d be better off doing it on my own, so I’d spent most of Saturday reading through the book Fee had given me—the Draven.
Most of it was reminiscent of my high school English book, in that it was completely boring and irrelevant. But the section on basic fighting techniques had been helpful. I’d even practiced some of the stances to get a feel for them. And there was a section on weapons, too, that made me feel slightly better about my own homemade ones. Apparently, the weapon of choice for most Hunters was a wooden stake. The whole silver bullet thing was a myth and besides, guns couldn’t get through most security and really tended to draw attention. So, I still had my plunger handles in my backpack because despite being rudimentary, they were better than nothing.
The Draven had taught me something else, too. The more I read, the more I realized that Hunters were serious about the whole “born and bred to kill” thing. It made me understand what Wes had said about picking a side; if I was going to be true to my nature, it would mean killing first, and asking questions later. No wonder he needed to know where I stood. Not that I could ever raise a hand—or stake—to him. I still felt nauseated whenever I thought about what I’d done to Liliana.
But the thing that kept bugging me the most was that the book kept coming back to the fact that being a Hunter was a bloodline thing. You got it from your parents, or parent, but usually both, since marrying outside your race is apparently frowned upon—and since my mother still showed no sign of carrying around some knowledge of a secret identity, I still hadn’t decided what to do about that.
My mom was eyeing me, though, and critically. Careful to keep my face blank, I returned her gaze as innocently as I could. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, well, I’ll see you later. Call me if you need me.”
“I will. Love you.” I forced a smile and kissed her cheek as she left.
I finished my cereal and set the bowl on the counter before heading back to my room. There’d be plenty of time to wash the dishes later. It’s not like I had any plans. Sam and Angela had three-way called me yesterday, demanding to know how the phone call to Wes had gone. I’d filled them in and noticed how they both went conspicuously silent after. It hadn’t cheered me. Then they’d both let loose with the usual “he probably really was busy” and “his loss” sentiments. That hadn’t helped, either. So, I’d told them I was helping my mom at the store and would see them Monday. I just couldn’t take any more sympathy right now. I was feeling sorry for myself just fine.
In my room, I sat in my desk chair and tried to come up with something to pass the day. I contemplated the merits of using the time to finish my English paper that was due in two weeks. Okay, maybe I wasn’t that desperate yet. I flipped my computer on and surfed Internet news, reading national headlines first, then local. Near the bottom, one in particular caught my eye: “Animal Attack in Mountainview. Two Dead.”
I clicked on it and scanned the story: “Two local college students were found dead in the woods last night. Their throats had been ripped open and their bodies covered in cat-like scratches. No witnesses have been found, and the police have no leads on a suspect as of yet. Empty beer cans were found scattered around the scene as well as the remains of a small fire. Police are assuming the couple had camped out for the night when they were brutally attacked. Both were students at Frederick Falls Community College. Their names will be released after the families have been properly notified.”
I sat back and stared at the screen. A sinking feeling consumed me. Based on the sketchy details, I had a pretty good idea who—or what—had caused these deaths. For the first time, I felt a little less guilty over killing Liliana. If her kind did stuff like this, maybe they deserved it.
“I see you’ve heard.”
I swiveled in my chair, recognizing the voice even before I turned. Wes stood in my bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame. His jacket, jeans, and boots were of the same variety and color he always seemed to wear and his hair was just as stylishly disheveled. Something fluttered in my chest and landed in my stomach. “You have a knack for the unexpected entrance.”
He shrugged. “It’s a gift.” He nodded to the computer screen. “You saw the article.”
“It’s awful.” I didn’t follow his glance to the computer. I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off him. I stared up at him, trying to somehow read his thoughts through his expression, and overcome with relief and excitement at seeing him again. “But what are you doing here?” I blurted.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, you made it sound like you’d only be back if it was an emergency and you didn’t sound thrilled to hear from me the other night.” I couldn’t help the note of accusation that crept into my voice.
A look of regret passed over his features. “Sorry about that. I was involved in something that made it … difficult to talk on the phone just then. I was glad that you called, though.”
“Oh.” My insides soared with that one single comment, my brain already trying to dissect what it really meant.
He watched my expression for a moment and then sighed. “Actually, I am here for a reason, though. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“That attack, the one you just read about,” he said, slowly, “there’s something else that wasn’t in the papers.”
Something twisted in my chest. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like where this was going. “What?”
He hesitated, shooting me a worried look. “There was a message, of sorts, left at the scene. It was addressed to you.”
“What do you mean a message? What did it say?”
He handed me a photograph of some words written in red lettering, painted across some sort of black tarp. A tent, maybe? It read: “Dear Tara, Consider this a preview. See you soon.”
“I took it before I cleaned it up last night. This was their tent. I disposed of it before the police got there,” he explained.
“And the red lettering?”
“Blood. Probably theirs.”
I swallowed hard and looked away from the picture. I could feel his eyes on me, scrutinizing, and my temper flared. “I’m not going to freak out, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” I snapped.
“Good.” His expression lightened only barely. “My memory altering skills are slightly tapped at the moment.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. No way was I letting him remove my memories again. I’d been in the dark long enough, and even if I wasn’t sure where I stood, or if I truly wanted this life, I’d still rather live with it than live a lie. “Wait a second. Last night
?”
He nodded.
“So you knew about it when I called and you didn’t tell me? That’s why you acted so weird on the phone?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to scare you or push you too hard, too fast. The other day, when I saw how you reacted, I knew telling you this would only make it worse. It would be better if you stayed away from it all, anyway.”
His keeping things from me, which I was quickly learning was his chosen approach, was irritating, but I didn’t want to end what seemed like the most honest conversation we’d had so far. I tried to keep my emotions out of my voice. “Why? Why are you even bothering? You don’t even know me.”
“And you don’t know me, but you don’t scream for help no matter how many times I show up in your bedroom, uninvited.”
He had a point. “That still doesn’t really answer my question.”
When he answered, all traces of humor or sarcasm were gone, replaced by something that resembled compassion. “Because I know what it’s like to try and figure out what you are, with everything coming at you at once. And because no one should have to do that alone.”
“Thanks,” I said, unsure of how else to respond now that he wasn’t teasing or dancing around a question. I decided to take a chance that my luck—and his mood—would hold. “Why did you have to do it alone? Didn’t you have Jack and Fee?”
“Yes, and they’ve been great, putting up with me when they shouldn’t. I was the one who made it a solitary experience.”
“Losing your parents made it harder, I’m sure.”
“I don’t remember much about them. I was only two when it happened.” Despite his words, there was evidence of old pain in the way he spoke. I decided to let it drop for now, especially knowing how much I hated when people asked about my dad.
“So, you want to help me figure things out?” I asked, changing directions.
He shrugged. “If I can.”
“Then maybe you can answer some questions for me.”
He nodded, so I got up and went to my bed and retrieved the Draven. I opened to a marked page to a drawing that depicted a drawing of a Werewolf fighting a Hunter; the Werewolf lunged with clawed feet and the Hunter wielded a wooden stake. “I’ve been reading through this book and it just doesn’t make sense, based on what I’ve seen of you and Jack and Fee. All it talks about is how much Werewolves and Hunters hate each other.”
Wes stepped closer and eyed the picture for a brief moment, before retreating to the desk chair. He settled into it with the stiff crunch of leather.
“You can take that off, you know,” I said, eyeing his jacket. He looked at me and I felt my cheeks heat up as I realized the invitation he could’ve mistaken it for.
“I know,” he said, without removing the jacket. He cleared his throat before going back to my question. “So the Draven is right, in that aspect. Weres and Hunters are mortal enemies, as a general rule. Most will attack each other on sight, while some are willing to wait until provoked. But mostly, yes, they hate each other.”
“So, what it says, that Werewolves can’t be trusted and that a friendship between a Werewolf and a Hunter is basically unheard of, that’s true?”
“The Draven is old and was written only from a Hunter’s perspective. Times have changed.”
“Then it’s more common now?” I asked, confused.
“No, not common, exactly,” he said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “It’s complicated.”
“Explain it to me, then, because I don’t understand. This book tells me that you’re supposed to be my enemy—and I’m yours.”
“I told you, that book is outdated. It has a narrow view of things. It doesn’t give you the current … politics of our world. A lot has happened between the two races since it was written.”
“Like what?”
He settled back in his chair, like whatever story he was about to tell was a long one. “Up until about thirty years ago, the two sides were separate and distinct. Each side saw the other as an enemy and fought to the death to destroy each other. The Hunters were aggressive and relentless, sending search parties out; they made a serious dent in Werewolf population for a while. All of this I’m sure you read.” He nodded toward the open book in my lap. “But then something new began to happen. Werewolves starting forming groups—combining packs—which was unheard of for our kind. Before that, they had never been able to exist in packs larger than three or four without fighting for the alpha spot and destroying each other in the process. In this case, their common purpose united them, though, and they began seeking out the Hunter settlements, ambushing them. They focused mainly on the children, knowing it would diminish the rising ranks and future generations of Hunters.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s awful. Children?”
He nodded, grim with some memory that he was too young to have experienced himself. It made me wonder what he was leaving unsaid. “After that, the Hunters went into hiding. They scattered from the settlements—bought houses, got jobs, paid taxes. They hoped to stay hidden long enough to raise their children and teach them to fight properly before the packs could find them again.”
“Did it work?”
“Mostly. They were a lot more secluded from each other that way, so there wasn’t any real way to know when an attack might be coming. Because of that, they formed bases—boarding schools of sorts—for Hunter kids. It provided a safe haven and the illusion that their numbers really had been depleted. The kids went to school there and learned to fight from the best Hunter warriors available. Because of that, the next generation of Hunters was even more skilled and vicious than the last. It changed the way the war between the two was fought. Hunters continued to send out search parties, but they were stealthier, more discreet, and more successful.
“Some of the new generation of Hunters began believing times had changed enough to try a new approach. Peace. They formed a group, calling themselves The Cause, and began seeking out Weres with the sole purpose of preaching to them. They fought only when they needed to defend themselves and avoided killing, only injure and retreat, hoping to win others to their side.”
“What happened? Did they bring peace?” I leaned forward, completely wrapped up in his story. There was nothing like this in the Draven. Between that, and the earnest way Wes spoke, I knew there was something very important about this particular bit of history.
He continued, without really answering my question, as if he’d told this story many times, without deviating from the script. “There was a man during that time. His name was Sebastian Saint John and he was a Hunter. He befriended a Werewolf named Audrey and they formed an alliance. When others of their kind heard, they were angry, but Sebastian had a way with words and Audrey was gentle. They spoke of peace to anyone who would listen. Many came around to their way of thinking despite their controversial message and a council was formed—six Werewolves and six Hunters—to govern relations between the two races and form a treaty.” He got up and went to the window, no longer facing me. I knew without seeing his face that he was somehow no longer in this room, but far away, wherever this Sebastian was.
“It probably would have worked, but those who didn’t want it were loud and began recruiting for their side. In the end, a group of thirty Werewolves came and attacked the council in the middle of the night. All twelve of the council were killed. Negotiations fell apart after that. The families and friends of the dead council members came together, and the Werewolves responsible for the killings were hunted down and destroyed. That was the last act performed as a joint effort by the two races.”
He continued to stare out the window when he’d finished. I wished he’d turn so I could read his expression; something about his tone suggested that the story he told was more personal than he let on.
“How did you know them?”
“What?”
“How did you know them?” I repeated. “I can tell this story means something to you, so how did you k
now the people who died?”
It took him a long time to answer. So long that I wondered if he even remembered the question. Finally, he did, in a voice so low I almost didn’t hear. “I guess I didn’t. Not really.”
I waited, but he didn’t say more. I wanted to press it, but I didn’t. I knew better. There was something else, though I didn’t know how it related to now. “But that makes it sound even more like we shouldn’t be friends,” I said, finally.
“It explains the risk of it, though. Which is something you should consider before spending more time with me or Jack or any of us.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to hear the warning in his words, but it was too late. I was involved in this world, in a big way, like it or not. And even though I knew next to nothing about it, I wanted to be involved. This “Cause” that Wes spoke of was a way to be who I was and still do some good. I wanted that.
He turned from the window, irritation flashing in his eyes. “I’m serious,” he snapped. “You’re a walking target if you’re with us.”
“What happened to picking a side?” I shot back. “You made it sound like it was either you or them. Do you want me to choose them? Would that be safer?”
He regarded me and then his shoulders deflated almost imperceptibly. “You’re safer with us,” he agreed quietly.
“Besides, it sounds like someone’s already put me on their radar, even before I decided whether I was going to use my powers for good or evil. So, it sounds like I don’t have much of a choice, except to be good.” I shrugged. “So that’s what The Cause is for? They want to bring peace?”
When he turned to face me, his expression was clear of the heavy emotion that had colored his tone before, but he didn’t move away from the window. “There are a few, from both races, who still believe in the possibility of it.” He shrugged, like it was as simple as that.
But I knew it wasn’t that cut and dried. There was more. I could hear it in his voice when he’d told the story. It had lingered in his eyes when he’d turned, if only for a second. Sadness. And pain.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said, letting the book fall shut. It made a snapping sound that only crisp, dried paper could make.
“Go somewhere?”
“Get out of the house, do something fun.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, with what happened last night. That note—”
“Was vague and nondescript. Besides, I’ll be with you.”
“So you trust me now?”
I thought about his question, and the many meanings it could hold. Something about the intense way his dark eyes held mine told me to choose my answer carefully. “To keep me alive, yes.”
“Where do you want to go?”
I shrugged and then went to the closet to find my boots. “I don’t know. Anywhere. What do you like to do for fun?”
“Fun,” he repeated, the word sounding almost foreign and unused on his lips. “I don’t know. There’s not a lot of time for that.”
“There’s time now,” I pointed out, and suddenly I was determined to do something fun and unimportant with him, if for no other reason than to see if he was capable.
“What do you like to do?” he asked.
“I like pool,” I said, then cringed when I remembered what had happened the last time. “But it’s probably not a good idea to show my face in Moe’s for a while,” I added.
“I know a place.”