Sisters Red (19 page)

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Silas grunts and falls backward, grimacing. "You still have to go out tonight," he chokes out as Scarlett extends a hand to help him up. Her hair is in a tight, high ponytail that wags back and forth with her laughter.

"I still won," she snickers in response. Sweat sparkles on her stomach, droplets running down the thick scar that crosses her abdomen. She has her shirt tucked into the bottom of her sports bra, like she typically does when she's training. She tugs Silas to standing as he rubs his stomach tenderly. She never trains like that with me--neither of them does. Ever since they began training together just a year or two after the attack, they've never held back on each other. It used to make me jealous, but somehow it comforts me now.
See, I'm not tugging my sister's partner away from her. The three of us are still a team.

"You got distracted," my sister tells Silas, mopping the back of her neck.

Silas grins at her. "Unfair. Rosie came in and surprised me."

"Yeah, yeah," Scarlett says. She knocks against his shoulder good-naturedly as she glances toward me. "What'd you buy at Kroger?"

"Uh... I bought..." It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts and remember. "I bought ice cream. And peas."

"For dinner?" Scarlett asks. Silas nods at me quickly--
yes,
the nod tells me,
say it's for dinner.

"Yep. I thought we could use the veggies and... dairy."

Scarlett doesn't look convinced, but she turns on the

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radio and rummages through the refrigerator for the pitcher of water.

"So how was the grocery store?" Silas asks me, so casually that I wonder if there's no double meaning to the question.

"It was fine," I say, but I can feel my eyes sparkle. Silas smiles at me and takes a long sip of water, hair falling in front of his eyes. I wonder how long I could look at him if I weren't always afraid of Scarlett catching me. Scarlett goes over to the radio, then scribbles something down on a pad of paper, sighing deeply.

"Two people died yesterday," she notes, interrupting my flowery thoughts. She shakes her head as she moves to join us in the kitchen. My mouth feels dry as guilt sweeps around me, and she continues, "Two girls. Fenris, I'm sure. They were on the opposite side of town from us, found decapitated. It's where most of the Fenris are, I think, though I'm sort of surprised they left so much... evidence. I wonder if location has something to do with the Potential?"

"No," Silas says, shaking the hair away from his face. "I don't think that makes sense. Otherwise they'd just hang out in one location instead of searching the city."

"Ah, good point." Scarlett nods and scribbles the thought down on the tattered notebook page of clues she's been working on. She digs out a spoonful of ice cream with a discouraged expression.

"Two?" I say. My voice sounds very small.

"Yes," Scarlett responds. "Both under eighteen, I think."

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"Two girls my age," I say slowly. I sink into one of the kitchen chairs and close my eyes for a moment. Two more girls died, and I was at the community center. Scarlett trained, researched, tried to do good, and I was drawing some guy's penis. It's okay. I can make up for it. "When are we going hunting tonight?" I ask my sister.

Scarlett looks mildly surprised and very pleased, but she answers, "We're not, actually. That was what Silas and I were sparring for. He thinks I need to get out more--"

"You do," Silas interrupts.

"--so we're going bowling."

"Bowling?" I ask, bewildered that Scarlett has other plans the one time I want to hunt.

"Yeah. He said he'd train with me only if we could go bowling tonight. Though we are still hunting on the walk back," Scarlett says, brandishing her spoon at Silas.

"Of course, of course. But first, we bowl!"

Scarlett rolls her eye at him, then looks back to me. "What he said."

I nod and try to swallow the thick lump in my throat. I owe my sister everything, and she's finally relenting, finally giving us all the free time I wanted. But only after I stole it.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SCARLETT

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BOWL."

"Right, and that's a problem, since this place really screams 'professional bowling,' " Silas snips back, rolling his eyes. The bowling alley--Shamrock Lanes--is lit up in dusky yellow lamps and bright pink and green neon lights. The floor is a shabby, faded leopard-print carpet that's worn to the cement underneath in some parts, and everyone working here seems to have a mustache. Even the women.

Pitchers of beer rest on the tables by every lane, and the thunderous roll of bowling balls and clattering pins is almost deafening. I get a few odd looks from girls with brassy peroxide hair. I glare at Silas and adjust my eye patch.

"Ignore them, Lett," he says gently.

"I don't care about them," I snap back. I
do
care about

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the fact that we should be hunting. But I don't think saying it for the millionth time will convince him. I turn my back on the idiots staring at me.

Rosie looks delighted, and the pink lights only make her flushed cheeks more alive, more inviting. She doesn't resemble me at all lately. Up until recently, I've always thought that Rosie looks the way I would have had I not been attacked, save for a freckle or two. Now I'm not so sure. You'd never catch me blushing. And could my face ever have lifted into that expression? Her muscles don't flex the way mine do; her eyes don't dart to assess every sound and movement in the room.

Silas doles out pairs of red and black bowling shoes that are coming apart at the soles. Rosie takes hers and meanders toward our lane--fifteen. I peer over Silas's shoulder as he opens his wallet.

"You have money," I comment.

"I have
some
money. Enough money for bowling."

"More money than we have," I complain pointlessly. I'm about to turn away when something in the billfold catches my eye. Something pale pink and out of place. "What's this?" I ask, and before he can answer, I sweep the slip of paper from the wallet. It's a paper rose, not entirely symmetrical and with creases that are a bit round.

"It's a flower," he answers casually as the clerk hands him a fistful of change. He whips the paper flower out of my fingers and places it back in his wallet.

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"So what's with the flower?" I ask as we walk toward my sister.

Silas grins, and his expression is unusually sappy. "It was a gift from a friend."

"Ah. A friend," I snicker, smacking him with one of my bowling shoes. "So is your new girlfriend in Atlanta, or back in Ellison? I'm impressed, Silas. You really don't waste any time."

"No! Really. A friend," he says slowly. I don't press the issue. Silas and I have always told each other most everything, but his array of girlfriends is a topic that's off-limits. I'm not sure if it's that he's shy to tell me or if he knows I don't want to hear about the myriad of beautiful, flawless girls he wants.
Must be nice,
I think,
to have enough time to both hunt
and
fall in love.

Rosie's pecking away at a keyboard when we reach her, typing LET, ROS, and SIL into the score screen. I shake my head at Silas and slide into a seafoam-colored plastic seat beside my sister. Our lane is shelved between several happy and drunk forty-somethings and a group of younger men. I try to avoid both groups' eyes, which isn't difficult with the sensory overload that is Shamrock Lanes.

At the opposite end of the bowling alley is a cover band of aging hipsters. They break into a very questionable version of some eighties song just as Rosie and Silas select bowling balls. I sigh and rise to select one as well.

"Who's first?" I ask.

"Silas is," Rosie says, beaming. It's hard not to feel rather

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lighthearted myself, surrounded by the two people I'm closest to, even if it's in a grimy place that reeks of cigarettes.

Silas does a goofy walk toward the lane and sends his lime green ball spinning directly into the gutter. Then Rosie, and finally me. I manage to knock three pins down, something I rub in Silas's face. He orders a beer for himself and swigs it between gutter balls, and we all--the entire bowling alley--try to sing along with the band when they put the lyrics up on the television screens. For what feels like the first time in ages, it's hard to think about hunting, as though the flashing pink lights have scared the thoughts to the back of my mind, where they linger, ever present but silent.

"Are you having fun?" Rosie asks me with a concerned look. She's been giving me that look a lot lately.

I smile despite myself. "Yes, I'm having fun. But don't tell Silas. He'll get all full of himself."

"Too late for that. Just got a spare, ladies," Silas interrupts with a buzzed-looking grin.

"I can beat that," Rosie replies, sticking her tongue out at him and approaching the ball-return bar. The young guys in the lane next to us howl with laughter as one swings the bowling ball between his legs, sending it slowly twirling down the hardwood. A few are staring at my sister. One in particular is taller than the rest; dark brown hair falls in front of his eyes, and he's got a willowy sort of build. Simply put, I can tell he's handsome despite the flashing lights and distracting sounds. I feel envious and protective all at once as the tall guy looks between Silas and Rosie. Probably trying to figure

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out if he has a chance with my sister. I force a low laugh at the prospect and squint my eye for a better look at his companions. They're
all
fairly attractive, with rock-star-trendy haircuts and stylishly torn clothes.

Wait. My heart beats faster as I rise and head toward the lane for my turn. Did I just see what I thought I saw? I close my eye for a moment and try to shake away the flashing lights as I approach the lane, Rosie cheering me on from the seafoam-green seats. One of the younger guys--the tallest one--stands up to bowl at nearly the same instant. I hold my bowling ball, waiting for him, and the sounds of the alley fade away. My mind clears, my eye narrows, the flashing lights dim. The guy extends his arm and releases his ball, sending it barreling toward the pins. That's when I see it: a clear, crisp black arrow, covering up a fading black bell. Almost as soon as I see it, it vanishes again, hidden underneath a thick-banded watch.

"Bowl already, Lett!" Silas shouts as the sounds of the alley careen back into focus. I toss my ball halfheartedly down the lane and turn back toward my sister and Silas without even watching it.

I don't need to say it. They see my expression and their faces fall. I pretend to look toward the snack bar as I study each of the guys. Fenris, all of them. Some are wearing long sleeves so I can't see the pack signs, but I know. I was so stupid--the lights and noise distracted me. We've been sitting next to wolves this entire time.

Wolves,
I mouth to Silas and Rosie as I sit down. Silas grits his teeth and nods without looking at the Fenris; Rosie's
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eyes flash their way. She smiles sweetly--I suppose one of them caught her gaze for a moment.

Silas and Rosie glance at each other, a sad look passing between them. A private look. They wanted to have fun tonight and think I can't imagine that. But our purpose comes first.

"Get them to the parking lot. I'll wait there," Silas says quickly. He stands and slips his bowling shoes off, making a big production of it, then hurries across the leopard-print carpet and out the door. The tall Fenris watches Silas leave, then turns a casual eye back to my sister and me, watching every move, waiting, wanting. I look pointedly at Rosie.

"Me?" she asks. What, she thinks I'm going to hit on them, now that they've seen me with the crazy eye patch and giant scar? Sure. Rosie nods when I don't answer and stands. She exhales like an actor beginning to focus, then grins and flips her hair, running on her toes toward her pink bowling ball. She dips low to throw it, arching her back so her curves are silhouetted by the neon green shamrock-shaped lights. The Fenris stare at her lustfully. Jealousy stirs up in my stomach again, but I force it back down.

"Nice throw," the tall one says, nodding at Rosie as she heads back to her seat. I get up to bowl my turn but try to listen in as Rosie talks to the Fenris.

"Come here often?" she asks.

"Often enough," the Fenris answers, voice gruff yet melodic. You'd never suspect he was dangerous. "You come here often?" He repeats my sister's question, flexing his biceps to show off a barbed-wire tattoo.

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"No... this is my first time."

"Virgin," the Fenris teases, and the others snicker. He seems to be the leader of this small group, though he's no Alpha, I'm somehow sure. Rosie smiles demurely.

"So how old are you, sweetheart?" he asks, flashing a white grin. Those teeth plan to rip her apart in just minutes.

"Sixteen."

"Old enough to drive! You know, I have a sweet car just outside. Brand-new convertible, bright red."

"Hey, man," another Fenris says under his breath. "You know we aren't supposed to... tonight."

"Man, go bowl; it's your turn," the barbed-wire Fenris says dismissively. A few turn to stare as a crowd of younger teenage girls bop by.

"So how old are
you,
then?" Rosie asks quickly, trying to get their attention back. She lounges in the chair and twirls her hair between her fingers.

"Twenty-eight," he answers with a smirk, shoving his hands into his pockets. To hide the transformation, I think. His eyes are so gentle, so full of kindness... It's disgusting.

"Aren't you a little old to want to show me your... car?" Rosie asks, raising an eyebrow. The Fenris grins hungrily.

"I'm not too old to show a lady a good time. Twenty-eight just means I have more... experience."

Twenty-eight. He
might
have more experience--I wish there was a good way to tell how long a Fenris has actually been a wolf, instead of just his age when he changed. Twenty-eight doesn't tell me much; neither does fourteen