He exhales loudly, looks up at the night sky. “Maybe we’re supposed to do something important. Something bigger than just survive.”
“Like what? Save people?” I ask, thinking of the eight missing girls, of Naida, of the girls who have already RSVPed to this year’s festival. If I save them, have I fulfilled whatever fate had in mind for me when it doomed my sister to vanish?
“Yeah, maybe so. Like Sophia.”
I bite my lip. I nod. He’s right, of course—it’s just that I no longer think of Sophia first anymore when it comes to people I want to save.
Ansel looks relieved when we hear Sophia’s feet on the stairs, climbing up to the bedrooms. He rises, knocks my hair into my face teasingly, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m going to bed. You staying out here for a while?”
Not without a gun is what I want to say, but instead I shake my head and follow him into the chocolatier. He flicks off the porch lights, and just as I’m about to turn around and shut the door, my eyes land on something by the foot of a rocking chair.
“What’s this?” I ask, motioning Ansel back out. He frowns and flicks the lights on again.
“Goddamn,” he says, shaking his head.
I reach down under the rocker and remove a shell, a blue and gray swirl that looks like a wave crashing into itself over and over. I turn to Ansel and hold it out.
“Oh, no,” he says. “I’m not taking another one of these things inside.” He takes the shell from my hand and, with the power of a former football star, hurls it into the forest. I hear it bounce into the leaves.
“ ‘Another one’?”
“Counting the one you found, and the one she found in the middle of the night”—he probably means the night she was drunk—“this makes four since we’ve been here. I found one a week ago and showed it to her. She freaked out. I’ll tell her about this one later, but I’m not bringing it inside again.”
Seashells. They must be a piece to the puzzle of Sophia Kelly—I just don’t know where they fit. “She’s never explained them to you?”
“Not a word. She won’t even answer when I ask about them,” he says, looking at me grimly.
“There are more in the shed out back,” I tell him. “Two boxes. They’re all wrapped up in cloth. I wonder why won’t she talk to us about them…”
“Yeah, well, if you want to try to get an answer out of her, be my guest,” Ansel says, “but I’ve tried. Believe me. She shuts down. When the second one showed up and I tried to work it out, she wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I mumble, more to myself than Ansel.
“She’ll tell us when she’s ready,” Ansel says, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. I glance at the spot where the shell disappeared into the trees, another bread crumb in the mystery of Sophia.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The day rockets by. No, that’s a lie—the day drifts along lazily, dotted with helping Sophia fill bags and test out a chocolate fountain. Yet still, when it’s dark outside and approaching midnight, I’m struck by how soon this moment has come. I peer out my window, worrying Samuel will be here early, that it’ll start to rain, that he’ll change his mind and I’ll have to shoot another tennis ball seven times.
Strangely, I’m not worried about dying. I should be, I know I should be, but all I can think about is hunting. I feel powerful. Vengeful, almost. I won’t vanish—I can’t vanish.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
11:55. I rise from my bed and tie my hair back. I choose my clothes carefully—casual enough that if my brother or Sophia catches me, they’ll pass for pajamas, but not so light that they’d impede my trudging through the forest.
Shoes in hand, I tiptoe out my door—earlier I complained about Luxe waking me up and got Sophia to lock him in her bedroom so he couldn’t give my escape away. My heart bounces furiously in my chest as I creep past my snoring brother and down the stairs.
They don’t wake. I turn the upstairs AC on so the fan drowns out any additional noise and slink under the Nietzsche quote above the front door frame.
Samuel is here. Somewhere. I can feel him, oddly enough, even though I don’t see him.
“Gretchen,” his voice calls out, louder than I’d have personally risked. I squint through the porch lights and finally make out his form by a tree. I hurry over to him. His eyes are sparkling in the starlight, and he looks younger than normal.
“You ready?” Samuel asks, looking into my eyes for a long time as he hands me a rifle.
“Yes,” I answer immediately. I’ve never been so ready.
Samuel smiles and nods, then motions toward the forest. “After you, then.” That’s what I like about Samuel. He didn’t have to ask if I’m sure. He touches my shoulder meaningfully—proudly, almost—and grins.
I step in first, and Samuel follows.
We crunch into the forest, our hushed whispers mirrored by the sounds of tree leaves sliding against one another. I have a moment of tense fear; it bubbles up in my chest and surprises me, an emotion illustrated by memories of the night Samuel saved my life.
I ignore it. We push forward.
“I’ll cut back this way,” Samuel whispers after we’ve been walking almost a half hour. “I’ll walk beside you a hundred or so yards out. I’ll have a gun on you the whole time. Well, not on you, but on anything that comes near you. I promise.”
“Right,” I say.
Samuel gives me a sharp nod and long look before disappearing into the forest; I can’t hear his footsteps after a few minutes. I move forward, slower now, breathing heavily to make up for the lack of Samuel’s breath. The younger part of me, the scared girl, she wants to rear back up, to demand I run through the trees and out of the darkness. But she’s overpowered—easily overpowered—by whomever this is that I’ve become. When a branch nearby cracks, I’m surprised to find I want it to be a witch. I want to see yellow eyes. I want to see them, then destroy them.
It’s not a witch—just a raccoon, I think—something small that darts into the undergrowth. I turn around, waiting, watching.
Two hours later, I’m still waiting. I’ve readied my gun for a startled doe, a falling branch, even no noise at all, just my mind playing tricks on me. I flick the safety on and off, check the number of rounds, spin in circles around trees, even hum to myself. My legs are tired and I’ve walked through so many spiderwebs that I keep feeling invisible spiders on my arms. With a defeated sigh, I turn and walk toward where I think Samuel is.
I can see him standing, leaning against a tree. “Can we try again tomorrow?” Samuel shrugs.
I trudge closer, toward the patch of moonlight right in front of him.
“What, you’re mad?” I ask when he lowers his head.
“Uh-uh,” he mumbles, shaking his head. His eyes raise a little, meet mine tentatively.
His eyes are not green.
They are yellow.
I spin the rifle over my shoulder so fast that I almost miss catching it. My aim locks, everything lined up on his head. The man grins and takes a step closer. I should fire, I should kill him now, but he still looks… human, and that makes it impossible to squeeze the trigger. His hair is dark brown, but it’s speckled with deadened silver and is rapidly growing into dirty fur. His teeth are grayed and pointed slightly, and his fingernails are yellow and black, diseased looking. He stretches his mouth open, and the jaw disconnects, cracks and pops, lengthening into a ragged mouth. My heart twists, stomach churns in disgust, as the world slows down.
The monster crouches, his pupils dilate wildly, and his back legs crunch and burst into fur. His teeth jut outward and erupt into long canines. My heart is stopping, the air in my chest stalling as the monster tilts his head to the side, studying me with wild, crazy eyes that are too wide for his face. I stare—I need to move, but all I can do is stare in wonder, in horror. He went from man to monster so easily, so—
The monster lunges.
; The world speeds back up, flies into fast-forward. I fire.
It doesn’t stop him.
The werewolf crashes into me, topples me backward. My head hits something; everything goes gray. I lose track of my senses—I can smell the rot in the wolf’s fur but can’t see him, can’t feel his weight. I scramble, grasp at the ground with my fingers, squeeze my eyes shut and try to slow the whirring in my head. It won’t be long before he bites down, before I feel his teeth. I have to—
Someone says my name, someone who sounds far away.
I gasp for breath; my vision gets clearer. Samuel is standing above me, eyes shining through the moonlight. He reaches down, hauls me to standing with rough hands.
“Talk to me, Gretchen,” he says, shaking my shoulders. I’m confused—what happened? I look around, turn in circles.
“Where did he go?” I finally wheeze, coughing. I look around frantically, certain the monster will come raging from the darkness at any moment.
“What?” Samuel asks, putting a hand on my cheek to stop my frenzy.
“He jumped on me, he…” I shake my head, confused, as if my mind is moving faster than it should be.
“He’s gone, Gretchen.”
“You shot him?”
Samuel shakes his head, smiling. “No. You did. I was on my way; I saw you aim. You hit him just as he was lunging for you. He knocked you over, but he was shadows before you hit the ground. By the time I could have fired, he was gone.”
I don’t believe him. I relax my hand on my rifle, stunned. He’s lying. He must have shot the wolf. I didn’t even think I hit him. I search Samuel’s eyes for the lie, for the truth, but all I see is sparkling, nodding.
“I killed him?” I whisper.
“You alone,” Samuel finishes firmly.
And then it hits me. I grin, I laugh, I shout all at once, and a feeling of warm freedom sweeps through me. I don’t need to be afraid, not anymore. My mind swirls. I’m happy. I’m happy.
I’m free.
I shake my head as my heart pounds in excitement. “I…” I don’t even know what to say to Samuel, how to tell him what he’s given me. “Thank you, Samuel. I mean, it sounds stupid and like it’s not enough, but thank you.”
Samuel’s grin softens a little, becomes proud instead of ecstatic. “You’re welcome, Gretchen,” he says quietly, and I suddenly realize his hands are back on my shoulders, as though we’re dancing.
And then it’s silent—nearly so, anyhow. The woods fall still, with just the occasional swirling of fireflies and croak of a tree frog.
“I…” Samuel looks down. One of his hands slides off my shoulder, down my arm, then brushes along my fingertips just long enough that I could have ignored the touch if I’d wanted to. But something happens, as if my body made the decision before my mind could reconsider; I turn my hand over and entwine my fingers with Samuel’s. Our eyes simultaneously move from our interlocked hands to each other’s gaze. A cloud drifts in front of the moon, making everything darker, Samuel and I mere silhouettes in the night.
“No one likes me,” Samuel says quickly, warningly. “They all think I’m crazy. And I’m, well… I’m not easy to get along with.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not that bad,” I say, though it isn’t until the words are leaving my mouth that I realize I’m whispering. “Once someone learns how to ignore half of what you say.” Somehow his doubt gives me power, and I take a small step forward.
Samuel exhales and looks down—when he looks back up, I can just barely make out his bright green eyes in the blackness. He takes a tiny step toward me and then lets the hand still resting on my shoulder drift down to my lower back.
“Promise you won’t ever hate me,” he murmurs, so softly that I almost miss it. “I can’t have you hate me too.”
“I could never hate you,” I say back, breath trembling in my lungs from a strange new longing, strange new desire for Samuel to pull me closer. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
My body kicks in, does what my heart wants, long before Samuel has the opportunity. I grab Samuel’s arm and pull myself toward him.
Samuel releases my hand and brings his palm to cradle my cheek, and then the scent of bright leaves is all around me. When our lips meet, the scent swallows me, everything blurs, and I’m certain there’s nothing to fear in this forest. There’s nothing else here—no witches, no mysteries, nothing but Samuel and me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Killing a werewolf is no small task. You’d think I would remember every last moment—the scent, the feeling, the sight of a monster leaping toward me. But that’s all blurred in my mind, overpowered by the sensation of kissing Samuel. I remember every moment of that— every sensation, every time he touched my skin, every time I took a breath and my lungs were filled with the scent of leaves and sandalwood.
We kissed in the forest—I can’t remember if it was for hours or minutes. I locked my hand in his as we walked back to the street and didn’t want to let go when he dropped me off at the chocolatier. Part of me thinks it’s a mistake—that he’s just confused. When I wake Wednesday morning, I spend a few moments trying to convince myself that I’d just invented the entire evening.
No. No, I don’t have that good of an imagination. Besides, if I try very hard, I swear I can still feel his arms around me. I couldn’t have made that up. I rise and pull on shorts, then look for my brush to pull my hair into a ponytail. I desperately need a shower. But I’m hungry, way too hungry to wait on food. Wonder if it was the kiss or the hunting that left me famished?
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Sophia says with a grin as I make it downstairs to the chocolatier storefront. She’s fully dressed and holding a clipboard, doing inventory. I glance at the clock above the register—it’s noon. My eyes race to the RSVP board by default. Six new ones. Seventeen altogether.
How many of those seventeen will vanish this year?
“Wow,” I mumble, turning away from the cards. “Talk about oversleeping. Guess I was tired.”
“No worries,” she answers. She’s particularly bouncy today, long waves of hair framing her heart-shaped face like a picture.
“You’re in a good mood,” I note with a grin.
“It’s been a good morning,” she says, nodding. Her cheeks flush pink and I groan.
“Ew—is this a story about my brother?”
“No!” Sophia objects, laughing loudly. “Well, not like that. I mean, I’m mostly happy because I got six more RSVPs to the festival. But Ansel… um…”
“Tell me,” I say, letting my head fall backward. “Just leave out the squickable details.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sophia assures me. She’s bubbling over with the desire to tell me—I can see it from here, even through morning bleariness. “We just had a really nice night. There was some kissing. That’s all. See? Not squickable at all.”
I know I should recoil over what exactly “a nice night” might entail, but seeing as how I was kissing Samuel just last night, I find myself smiling. “Fine, fine, that’s not so bad,” I admit. I’m not sure if I’d be so cavalier, though, if my head wasn’t swimming with the memory of how tightly Samuel had held me.
“You’re still okay with it?” she asks, and I can tell that if I said no, she would break my brother’s heart. The trouble is, I want to say no—but not because I don’t want them to be happy. Because I don’t trust her, and I know my brother does.
I nod, looking away. “Sure, it’s fine.”
Sophia grins and grabs a Coke from the refrigerator. “Are you going on another walk today, by chance?”
“No, why?”
“Well… I have to look for the festival tablecloths. They’re somewhere in the attic. With the mice,” Sophia says, wrinkling her nose.
“And you want help?” I ask knowingly. Sophia nods. “Okay, okay, but let’s do it now, while I’m too tired to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Deal,” she says. She motions for me to follow her upstai
rs, where she tugs down a ladder from the ceiling. Heat rushes out like a wave.
“I’m having second thoughts,” I tease as we climb. Sophia starts to laugh but instead coughs violently as a tornado of dust swoops around us.
“Okay, they’re near the door somewhere, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have hidden them—I use them every year…”
“Why not just keep it all in one spot?” I grasp either side of the hole in the ceiling and yank myself upward, into the attic.
“Things after the festival are hectic. I always end up throwing stuff around,” she says thoughtfully, then takes a few steps away from me. I narrow my eyes and look around the dark attic, shrouded in golden light from a tiny arched window at one end. There are boxes everywhere, clothes racks covered in dry-cleaner bags with formal dresses and suits inside them. Piles of books, mostly candy related, trunks and old side tables and a laundry basket full of shoes. Sophia shuffles behind a stack of boxes taller than she is.
“Just look around. They aren’t in anything, I’m sure… probably just on top of something,” she calls out.
“Right,” I murmur, and carefully step across the plywood floor toward the opposite corner of the attic. More trunks, old desk supplies, an ancient television… There’s a stack of what looks like fabric on top of another laundry basket, this one filled with newspapers. I drop to my knees and grab the fabric. No good—baby blankets. The top one has Sophia’s name embroidered on it; it’s pale violet and well worn, with frayed hems. I glance over my shoulder cautiously before moving on to the second blanket in the stack. Not terribly surprisingly, it reads Naida, pink embroidery on a graying blanket that I think was originally yellow. I flip the top layer back, to the third blanket in the stack.
Lorelei.
I do a double take and pull the blanket out; it unfurls like a flag across my lap. It’s brand-new, a sunny yellow with perfect creases, as though it hasn’t been unfolded in ages. Lorelei Kelly… I fold the blanket up quickly and set it back underneath the other two.