Blood and Chocolate (18 page)

Gabriel raised his hands to quiet the swell of voices. “We all have dealings with
Homo sapiens
in our everyday lives,” he said. “It would look strange if we didn't mix. Any one of us could have talked. Even you,” he said to Astrid.

Astrid snarled at him. The others in the room looked at each other uneasily, suspicion in their eyes.

Having a leader was supposed to bring them together, Vivian thought, but here they were, still in fragments, kept apart by mistrust.
It's my fault, if I'm the killer,
she told herself.
And it's my fault, anyway, because I told Aiden about me, and now he can use that as a weapon against us all.
One way or another she was bringing danger to her people.

The meeting split up, and the first patrols went on their way. Esmé, paired with one of the girls who used to clean at the inn, was on the first shift. So was Tomas; his partner was Bucky. Vivian and Willem weren't to go out until one. Willem said he'd come back later.

Vivian stood outside and exchanged small talk as the pack dispersed.

“Don't see you much lately, Vivian. Come for dinner some night.”

“Hey, why don't you run with us sometime?”

“Givin' your mother competition in the looks department nowadays, babe.”

“Are you eating all right, darling? You look pale.”

She gave meaningless, noncommittal answers, suppressing the urge to embrace each person and beg forgiveness. What if they died because of her?

Finally they were all gone—all except Astrid and Rafe, who leaned against a garden wall across the street and groped at each other shamelessly.

Vivian turned away in disgust and saw someone coming—a male. Had one of the pack forgotten something? She inhaled sharply. It was Peter Quincey. Why was Aiden's best friend walking down her street?

26

Peter Quincey stopped short when he saw her on the path.

“You were looking for me, Quince?” Vivian asked, trying to sound casual. There was no sign of his usual easy grin, and she felt a pang of regret that he could no longer smile at her.

“Yeah. I mean, no,” he said. “I was gonna put this note through the door.” He held up an envelope in his right hand.

“From Aiden?” Hope fluttered through her like birds' wings.

“Yeah. God knows why.” His caustic tone pained her.

He thrust the note at her, and she snatched it away. She tore open the envelope and read greedily. It was an invitation to meet Aiden that night at the rocks down by the river. “Be there at two
A.M.”
he wrote. She would have cheered but for the words at the end: “For the sake of what we used to have, I hope you'll come.”
Used to have,
she thought bitterly.

“He can stick his note up his ass,” she said, and shoved the letter at Quince's face.

Quince grabbed it in self-defense, tottering back a step, and she was rudely pleased to see him look ungainly. “You know, I liked you at first,” he said, “but you're a real two-faced bitch.” He crammed the letter into the pocket of his baggy shorts and retreated down the sidewalk.

Vivian yelped a humorless laugh. He was too witless to know the truth of his words.

Across the street Astrid and Rafe now stared her way with mocking leers on their faces. She gave them the finger before she went inside.

In her room, she brooded over the letter. What if he hadn't meant it to sound so final? Perhaps he really wanted to make up. No. She was sure Aiden only wanted to see her so he could repeat that it was all over and demand that she stay away from Kelly. She was damned if she would meet him to be demeaned by that crap. But if that was all he wanted to say, why send Quince with a note? Why meet her at two in the morning in a deserted place?

Then she remembered what Gabriel had said would happen if Aiden knew what she was—“I swear to the Moon, he'll try to kill you.”
It's not possible,
she thought. Aiden wasn't capable of murder. Or was he, if he believed it was what he was obliged to do?

I don't want to find out,
she thought.

But what if she didn't meet him? Would he stalk her? Would he discover the pack's secret? How long before he persuaded others of the truth? She knew it was possible for others to believe; she'd seen her last home burn.

I'm the weak link,
she thought.
I'm a danger to my people. I need to be removed.

She could run away. But where to? The idea of being alone chilled her.
And what if I continue to kill?
she thought.
Each time I kill I take the risk of being caught. And if I'm caught they might trace my family.

One thing she was sure of: She couldn't stand the shame of a trial by her own people. She couldn't turn herself in to the pack.

There was only one real answer, of course—to protect her family, her pack.

She would have to kill herself.

The breath seemed to leave her body for a moment. Time stood still. That was the answer. It was so sparkling clear that it hurt like ice water and left her brain cold, numb, and awake.

But how did a werewolf kill herself?

Silver bullets,
she thought, and snorted. Sure, those were always lying around the house.

She stood at the window and inhaled the perfume of her last night.
It must be fast,
she thought—she must find a way that left no time to chicken out—and it had to either sever her spine or do so much damage she couldn't use her metamorph powers to heal.

Hanging was an option, but you had to do it right so the fall broke your neck; if not, you just strangled. Strangling was painful and didn't kill. The same applied to jumping from a tall building—you couldn't be sure you would do enough damage to die. She could lie with her head on the railroad tracks, maybe, but only freight trains ran at night, and they moved so slowly she would chicken out for sure.

Finally the perfect, fail-safe solution came to her. There was a can of gasoline for the lawn mower in the garage. There were matches in the kitchen. She thought of the inn going up in flames, her father trapped within. Fire—a family tradition. It seemed so right.

As she went downstairs a flash of fear shot through her, but she smothered it with the certainty of duty. She hadn't died in the fire that had taken her father's life. She should have. This would set things straight.

In the kitchen she scribbled a note. She wanted it clear she was dead, and why. She didn't want Esmé searching uselessly for her, deluded by false hope. The quicker Esmé accepted her daughter's death, the quicker she could get on with her life. This new lover seemed like he might stick around. That would help.

I am the killer. I don't remember doing it but it had to be me. I don't know what made me go crazy. It wasn't your fault. Now I'm killing myself to make you safe. I'm sorry. I love you.

Vivian felt funny writing “I love you”—they didn't talk to each other that way—but this was her last chance. She put the note on the table under Esmé's favorite mug.

Vivian collected the gas and matches and left by the back door. She walked through the woods to the river mechanically, the can banging against her thigh. Twigs snapped, crickets scuttled from her tread, and a night bird gave an occasional soft cry. The noises were crisp but unreal, like the sound track of a movie. She felt as if a stranger stalked through the trees in her body.

She followed the river in the direction of the city. She didn't want to give the police a clue to who she was or where she lived. She didn't stop until she came to a spur of woods that grew far out into the river meadow. Within was a small ruined building, part of some Sanitary Commission station at one time.

She climbed inside the shell of stone and looked around. Beer cans and trash littered the place, and a soiled red baseball cap lay crumpled in a corner. There was an odor of urine. She guessed people would steer clear of this place for a while after tonight. A small grim smile twitched her lips. Maybe they'd even think it haunted.

Get it over with,
she told herself, and ignored the cold tingle of dread the words evoked. First she kicked what she could of the trash into a pile in the middle of the room and placed the matches out of the way, on a tumble of bricks, to keep them dry. When she tried to unscrew the cap of the gas can, however, she found she had no strength.
This is stupid, so stupid,
she thought as she groped and strained with trembling hands. She clenched her teeth and forced her fingers to grip. The cap turned with a crunch and an acrid smell laced the night.

Vivian raised the can to douse her front and gasped with the sudden cold. The fumes she inhaled made her sneeze again and again. She wanted to throw the can to the ground and run, but she forced herself to stay. When her eyes cleared she tipped the can over her back and lifted it high to wet her hair. She poured the remainder of the gas into the trash at her feet.

This won't hurt for long,
she told herself as she reached for the matches, and hoped like hell she told herself the truth. She thought of a Viking funeral: a dragon ship blazing in glory drifting to sea. It helped a little. “I'm sorry, everyone,” she whispered. “But you're better off without me.”

The sulfur head crumbled against the strike plate; the match wouldn't light.

“Can't I do anything right?” she cried. She threw the match aside, and fumbled for another with fingers grown thick and useless.

“Vivian!”

She looked up to see a boy and a dog come over the wall.

Not a dog. The shape bubbled and stretched and turned into Willem. “Shit man!” He held his nose.

“Vivian,” Ulf cried again. “It wasn't you.” His face was streaked with tears.

She stared at him stupidly long enough for Willem to snatch the matches from her.

Gregory stepped over one of the lower walls.

“Is he coming?” Willem asked.

“Yeah,” Gregory said.

Then Gabriel was there.

“Oh, baby,” Gabriel said gently, wiping the sodden hair back from her face. “You need a bath.”

27

Vivian's knees gave way, but Gabriel caught her before she fell and swept her into his arms. “It's all right now, it's all right,” he whispered against her bedraggled hair as he carried her down to the river. She crushed herself against his chest to stop the trembling, and when he lowered her gently into the river she was reluctant to let go. But she slid from his grasp to strip off her ruined clothes, then submerged herself in the tepid water.

“What does Ulf mean, it wasn't me?” she asked as she emerged dripping from the river.

Greg handed her his T-shirt. It came to her knees.

“Tell them,” Willem ordered, his hand on Ulf's shoulder.

Ulf lowered his eyes and bit his lip. “Astrid came home with a meat-boy tonight,” he said in his quiet, high-pitched voice. “Her and Rafe. They thought I was out but I went back for my sleeping bag and some comic books, and got sidetracked reading an old Sandman. Then I heard Mom come home with Rafe making a bunch of noise. I thought they were drunk and I ignored them until I heard a cry. I looked out my door and saw them kill him.”

Gabriel cursed, and Ulf backed up the riverbank. “It's okay, little brother,” Gabriel said. “I'll not bite.”

Oh, sweet Moon,
Vivian thought.
I almost killed myself for nothing.

“They didn't see me,” Ulf continued, watching Gabriel warily. “I left while they were rolling him up in the carpet they'd done him on. I climbed out the window and went over to Willem's.”

“He wouldn't tell me what was wrong at first,” Willem said. “But you know Ulf, it was obvious something was.”

“How could I turn in my mother?” Ulf wailed.

Willem put his arm around the smaller boy. “I brought him to you, Vivian. I thought you'd know what to do. But then I found your note.”

“He called me,” Gabriel continued impatiently. “I left Finn in charge and came with Greg as fast as I could. Willem had already followed your trail. I followed his.”

Sweet Moon, did he think her a coward?
She couldn't let him think that. “I was doing it for the pack,” she said. “To protect them from me.”

Gabriel's dark brows knit into a frown. “But why did you think the killer was you?” he asked. He folded his arms and waited for some sense out of her.

It was Rafe who had said she'd been heading for Tooley's that night, and Rafe had given her the booze—Rafe who despised her and now consorted with Astrid, who hated her, too. “Ulf,” she said. “Did they say anything about setting me up?”

Ulf swallowed. “No. They just went through his pockets. Mom found some letter on him. When she read it she laughed.”

Dread buzzed in Vivian's chest like an evil black fly. “What did it say?” she demanded.

Ulf flinched. “I don't know. But after Rafe read it he said, ‘I'd rather be there at two o'clock.'”

“Quince,” Vivian squeaked, and covered her mouth.

Gabriel took her arm. “Was he your boyfriend? The one you wanted to make jealous?”

“No. His friend.” Tears blinded her. “He brought me a message from Aiden. Astrid and Rafe were across the street when we talked. They must have followed him.” Sudden panic gripped Vivian. “What time is it?”

Gregory looked at his watch. “One-forty-five.”

“They're going to meet Aiden.” She turned to Gabriel. “You've got to stop them. Please. Go after them.”

“Where?” he asked.

“The rocks by the river behind my house.”

“Greg, get back to my place and tell Finn,” Gabriel said. “See how many pack members you can find. Willem, you and Ulf see who's still at Tooley's. We'll need some strong teeth tonight. I'm calling a Judgment.” The boys took off.

“Vivian, you get that kid out of there before Astrid shows up. I'll round up whoever's at your house, then I'll be right behind you in time to meet Astrid.”

“No,” cried Vivian. “I can't go.”

Gabriel stopped in his tracks. “Why, for the Moon's sake?”

“He's frightened of me,” she said. “He won't listen to me.”

“You told him,” Gabriel said. His tone was resigned, as if he'd already guessed.

She nodded miserably. “But only about me, no one else,” she explained in a rush. Sweet Moon, she hadn't signed his death warrant, had she?

Gabriel took a deep breath. “Not good, but not the worst of our problems right now. We can't risk another body showing up in our territory, especially if there are others who know that he was meeting you. Chase him out of there if you have to.”

An ache swelled in Vivian's throat. “But what if he's going there to kill me?”

“If you don't, he may be the one to die. Do you want that, Vivian? You wanted him as a mate, remember. We don't abandon our mates.”

He abandoned me,
she cried inside. But Gabriel was right. She owed Aiden help. His life was in danger because of her.

“Come on,” she said. “We're wasting time.”

They raced up the river side by side, their backs to the tardy moon, and Vivian wished she could lope on all fours, but if Aiden saw her in fur it would terrify him. When the rocks rose ahead, their paths diverged, and Gabriel sped to her house. It was then she saw two shapes, close to the ground, come coursing down the meadow. Even in moonlight she could tell that one was foxy red.

A ripple flowed through her, but she forced her limbs to stay straight, although every molecule screamed that the best way to protect Aiden was to change. The effort gave her cramps, and the sweat of panic broke on her brow. She skidded around the rocks on loose scree. There he was, crouched in the rubble.

Aiden leaped to his feet as she ran toward him, his face etched sharply in the light of the moon.

Vivian reached for him. “We've got to get out of here.” He jerked out of her grasp. “Come on,” she pleaded. “I can't explain now.” A twitch in her back and a stab of nausea made her stagger; maybe she'd have to chase him after all.

“Don't touch me,” he cried, and brought up his arms. He aimed a gun at her with both hands like a cop on TV. He would shoot, she knew by the look on his face.

“Oh, Aiden.” Her words were a broken sigh.

“I've come to release you from your torment,” he said.