Thirty-five

WE ZIGZAGGED THROUGH A dark commercial district, with Liam at our heels the whole way. When we reached a town house complex, he fell back, like he didn’t want to be seen chasing a couple of kids. He kept about fifty feet behind us, clearly planning to close the gap when we got to a more secluded place.

On the far side of the complex was a strip mall. When we reached it, we looked back, and he was gone. We kept going, though, until we were another two blocks away, behind a closed bakery.

I leaned against the cool brick wall, gasping for air.

“You wanted tips on self-defense?” Derek said, breathing hard.

I nodded.

“The first lesson our dad taught us? If you’re up against a better fighter, the first chance you get, surprise him with your secret move …” He leaned down to my ear. “Run like hell.”

A laugh bubbled up and my teeth stopped chattering. I took a deep breath and let myself relax against the wall.

“So he was as strong as you are?” I asked.

“Whatever those scientists tweaked, it wasn’t my strength. He might have been smaller than me, but he was just as strong, and he’s got a lot more fighting experience. I was seriously outclassed.” He wiped off gravel embedded in his chin. “You aren’t the only one who’s going to need training. My dad taught me to use my strength to my advantage. Only that doesn’t work fighting other werewolves.”

He rolled his shoulders, then pushed sweat-sodden hair out of his eyes. “We’ll catch our breath, but then we need to move. Once he figures out he lost us, he’ll go back and pick up our trail.”

“I’m good,” I said, straightening. “Any time you want to go—”

Something moved above our heads. I looked up as Liam leaped from the rooftop. He landed on his feet right behind Derek.

“Your boy’s not quite ready to leave, cutie. He has some business to finish first.”

Liam hit Derek with an uppercut that sent him reeling, blood spraying from his mouth. I fumbled for my knife, but it caught in the folds of my pocket. By the time I had it out, Derek had hit Liam back and now they were both on the ground, rolling, each trying to get a grip on the other.

How many movie fight scenes had I seen? I’d even written a few. But being there, watching it, with someone I knew in serious danger, made those movie fights seem like they’d been filmed in slow motion. This was a whirlwind of fists and feet and grunts and gasps and blood. Mostly what I saw was the blood, flying, spattering, dripping, as I darted back and forth, knife in my hand.

I thought of all the times I’d been in an audience, snarking about the stupid, useless girl hovering on the sidelines of a fight, holding a weapon but doing nothing, watching the guy get pummeled. I knew I had to help Derek. I knew he was in trouble, that most of that blood and those gasps and grunts were his. I wasn’t afraid to use the knife. I wanted to use it. But there wasn’t a chance. The fists flew and the bodies flew and the kicks flew, and every time I thought I had an opening, I’d dash forward only to find Derek in my path, not Liam, and I’d pull up fast before stabbing him.

Then Liam got Derek on his knees, in a headlock, his free hand in Derek’s hair. He yanked Derek’s head back, and I saw the girl at the truck stop, her throat slashed, and I didn’t stop to think whether I could do it, I ran at Liam and I drove the knife into the back of his thigh, ramming it in to the hilt.

Liam let out a howl and backhanded me. I sailed into the air, knife still clutched in my hand. I heard Derek shout my name as I hit the wall. My head cracked back against the brick. The floodlights overhead exploded into shards of light.

Derek grabbed me before I hit the ground.

“I-I’m fine,” I said, pushing him away.

I got my footing, wobbled, and found it again.

“I’m fine,” I said, stronger now.

I looked around. My knife had fallen beside me. I scooped it up.

Liam lay behind Derek, writhing on the ground, snarling as he tried to stanch the blood. We took off.

This time no one was chasing us, but it didn’t matter. We kept running, knowing Liam would come after us the moment he was able.

“We need to get you to a bathroom,” Derek said as we rounded a building.

“Me? I’m—”

“We need to get you to a bathroom.”

I closed my mouth. Derek was obviously in shock and he did need a bathroom, to clean up and check the damage.

“He’s going to follow our trail,” I said. “We have to trick him.”

“I know. I’m thinking.”

I was, too, recalling every fugitive movie I’d ever seen where someone evaded tracking dogs. I slowed when I saw a huge puddle from the rain and a trash-clogged gutter. The water stretched at least ten feet across. Then, I had a better idea.

“Climb on the curb and walk along the edge,” I said.

“What?”

“Just do it.”

We jogged along the curb until I saw a door to a small apartment building. I led Derek over and pulled on the knob. It was locked.

“Can you break it?” I asked.

He wiped off his bloody hands, then grabbed the knob. I tried to get a better look at him to see how badly he’d been beaten, but it was too dark, and I could see only smears of blood everywhere—on his face, his hands, his sweatshirt.

He yanked the door open. We went inside, circled around a bit, then came back out.

“Now we’ll follow the path we came on,” I said. “Along the top of the curb. Backtrack.”

When we reached the puddle, I stopped. “We’re going to cut through.”

Derek nodded. “So he’ll reach this, keep following our trail and think we’re somewhere in that apartment, not realizing we doubled back on our tracks. Smart.”

Wading ankle deep through frigid water seemed to knock away the last of Derek’s shock. Once we reached the other side, he took over and got us downwind so Liam couldn’t smell us. Then he hustled me into a coffee shop. There were only a handful of people inside, all clustered at the counter, chatting with the server. No one even looked up as we made a beeline for the bathroom.

Derek scooted me into the men’s room and locked the door. He hoisted me onto the counter before I could protest, then scrubbed his hands well, sleeves pushed to his elbows, like he was preparing for surgery.

“Uh, Derek … ?”

He wet a paper towel, and took my chin, lifting and wiping my face.

“Derek? I’m not hurt.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“But it’s not mine. Honest. It’s from—”

“The werewolf. I know.” He picked up my hand and started cleaning it. “That’s why I have to get it off.”

“Derek?” I leaned down, trying to see his face. “Are you okay?”

He kept scrubbing. “There are two ways to become a werewolf. Either you’re born one or you get bitten by one. If you get the saliva in your bloodstream, it’s like a virus.”

“Blood, too?”

“Dad says no, it’s just saliva. But he could be wrong, and you’ve got cuts and scrapes and blood all over.”

I had a few cuts and scrapes, and I was only flecked with blood, but I kept my mouth shut and let him clean.

As he did, I tried to check out how badly he was hurt. His scraped cheeks were pitted with gravel. His nose was bloodied. Broken? One eye was already darkening. Was that blood in the corner? His lip was cut and swollen. Were any teeth loose? Missing?

“Stop fidgeting, Chloe.”

I couldn’t help it. His injuries obviously needed more attention than mine, but there was no sense saying anything until he was done.

Finally, when he seemed to have scrubbed off every fleck of blood—and a few layers of skin—I said, “Okay, now on to you.”

“Take off your jacket and sweatshirt.”

“Derek, I’m clean. Trust me, I’ve never been this clean.”

“You’ve got blood on your cuffs.”

As I took off the jacket, the zipper snagged my necklace.

“It’s caught—” I began.

Derek gave the jacket a tug … and the chain snapped, the pendant dropping. He swore and grabbed it before it hit the floor.

“—on my necklace.”

He swore some more, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“The girl in the alley grabbed it,” I lied. “The clasp was probably weak. No biggie.”

He looked down at the pendant in his hand. “Wasn’t this red before?”

I hadn’t taken a good look at it for a couple of days—no mirrors and the pendant had been under my shirt. I’d thought the color seemed different before, but it had changed even more now, almost blue.

“I—I think it’s some kind of talisman,” I said. “My mom gave it to me, to ward off bogeymen—ghosts, I guess.”

“Huh.” He stared at it, then shook his head and handed it back. “Better keep it on you then.”

I stuffed it into my pocket, down at the bottom where it would be safe. Then I took off my sweatshirt and pushed up my sleeves. No blood had seeped through, but he still made me wash my forearms.

“Okay, now can we take care of the guy who was actually in the fight? There’s a lot of blood. It seems to be mostly from your nose.”

“It is.”

“You got hit in the chest a few times. How are your ribs?”

“Maybe bruised. Nothing critical.”

“Shirt off.”

He sighed, like now I was the one fussing too much.

“If you want me to leave, so you can look after it yourself …”

“Nah.”

He pulled off his sweatshirt and folded it on the counter. There wasn’t any blood below his collar, where it had dripped from his nose and lip. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re fighting with fists, not weapons. He said his ribs on the right were sore to the touch but, to be honest, I wouldn’t know bruised from broken. He was breathing fine, and that was the main thing.

“Okay, your nose. Is it broken? Does it hurt?”

“Even if it was broken, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me check your eyes.”

He grumbled, but didn’t resist. The bloodshot corner was already clearing, and I couldn’t see any cuts. He’d have a shiner, though. When I told him that, he just grunted. I wet a fresh paper towel.

“You have dirt in your cheek. Let me—”

“No.”

He caught my hand before I could touch his face. He took the cloth and leaned over the counter to wipe the dirt out himself. I tried not to wince as I watched. The gravel had gouged his cheek badly.

“You’re going to need to get that checked out.”

“Yeah.” He looked at himself in the mirror, his expression unreadable, until he noticed me watching, then turned away and stepped back from the mirror. I handed him another wet paper towel and he cleaned his neck and collar, freckled with dried blood.

“Still got that deodorant?” he asked.

I retrieved it from my jacket pocket and set it on the counter. He kept washing.

“In the playground,” I said, “when you were negotiating, you weren’t serious, right? About going with them? It was a trick.”

Silence stretched for way too long.

“Derek?”

He didn’t look up, just reached over and got a fresh towel, his gaze averted.

“Did you hear anything they said?” I asked.

“About what?” His gaze still on the towel, he folded it carefully before throwing it into the trash. “Hunting humans for sport? Eating them?” The bitterness in his voice cut through me. “Yeah, I caught that part.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

He lifted his eyes, gaze shuttered. “No?”

“Not unless being a werewolf transforms you into a wolf and a redneck moron.”

He shrugged and ripped off more paper towels.

“Do you want to hunt humans, Derek?”

“No.”

“Do you think about it?”

“No.”

“How about eating them? Do you think about that?”

He shot me a look of disgust. “Of course not.”

“Do you even dream about killing people?”

He shook his head. “Just deer, rabbits.” When I frowned, he went on. “For the last few years I’ve been dreaming of being a wolf. Running in the forest. Hunting deer and rabbits.”

“Right. Like a wolf, not a man-eating monster.”

He wet the paper towel.

“So why would you ever let these guys take you to—” I stopped. “The Pack. Is that what you wanted? Tell them you’ll go, and after they release me, tell the Pack the truth and use that as a … an introduction? Meet them? Be with your own kind?”

“No. That doesn’t matter to me. Dad says it does to other werewolves. It mattered to the other boys—they hated anyone who wasn’t one of us. Me? I don’t care. The only reason I’d want to meet a werewolf would be the same reason you’d want to meet a necromancer. To talk, get tips, training, whatever. Preferably from one who doesn’t think hunting humans makes good sport.”

“Like this Pack. They kill man-eaters and they don’t seem that thrilled about man hunters. Is that what you thought? You could go to them and they’d help you? When I asked if you were listening to those two goons, that’s the part I meant— about the Pack. What they’d do to you. Killing werewolves with chain saws and stuff.”

Derek snorted.

“You don’t believe it, then.” I relaxed, nodding. “No one would do that. Cut someone up with a chain saw and pass around photos? Those guys were just trying to scare you.”

“No, I’m sure there are photos. And I’m sure those guys believe the Pack carved up someone. But the photos must be fakes. You can do that kind of stuff with special effects and makeup, can’t you?”

“Sure, but why?”

“For the same reason you just said. To scare people. Liam and Ramon think the Pack really did it, so they steer clear of its territory. Doesn’t seem like a bad idea to me.”

“But would you ever think of it yourself?”

That look of disgust returned. “Of course not.”

“But you considered entrusting your life to people who would? Werewolves who play judge and jury for their own kind? Torture and kill other werewolves? Knowing that, you’d go to them, pretend you killed humans, and hope they’d go easy on you because you’re a kid? Or were those odds okay with you? If they decided you didn’t deserve to live, maybe they’d be right?”

I meant it as sarcasm. But when his answer was slow coming—much too slow—my heart hammered.

“Derek!”

He trashed the wet paper towel. “No, I don’t have a death wish, okay?”

“You’d better not.”

“I don’t, Chloe,” he said softly. “I mean it. I don’t.”

Our eyes locked and the panic buzzing in my head turned to something else, my heart still hammering, my throat going dry….

I looked away and mumbled, “Good.”

He backed up. “We gotta go.”

I nodded and slid off the counter.