Sisters Red (24 page)

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"Three classes? You... you think we have time for dance classes?" Scarlett asks. She looks shocked, then hurt, then furious, and her eye sears into mine.

"They weren't long, a half hour, hour each..." My words trail off as Scarlett leans back, away from me.

"I've... I've been living,
breathing
hunting. We're running out of time and..." She seems at a loss for words and crosses her arms over her chest. She won't even look at me.

"Look, Scarlett, I'm sorry, I just--"

"Did you know about this?" she snaps at Silas. Silas looks away, then nods grimly. Her mouth drops open and she shakes her head. "Forget it. Just forget it. Explain the money," she says flatly.

I run through the story quickly, Silas looking both angry and protective, Scarlett's eye cold and expressionless. "His dad gave me the money," I finish. "I guess he's afraid we'll sue or something. It won't be long till they can't control him anymore, though. He's already a monster..."

"You don't suppose he's the changed Potential, is he?" Scarlett asks, more to herself than to Silas and me.

"No." I shake my head. "I can't see how that's possible. He had too much self-control for a newly formed Fenris. Besides, his father said that he's been this way for a year now--I guess he turned twenty-eight last year and was bit during his phase? He was a Coin, by the way, but he's an Arrow now..." My sister's face darkens.

"Did he say anything else, though? Anything that might give us another hint as to who the new Potential is?" Silas

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asks gently. I can tell he's trying to get both of us back on Scarlett's good side.

I shrug sadly. "Not really. That he had a bunch of brothers, and so did his--" I freeze. My eyes scan the room. I jump up, ignoring the burning, dizzy feeling in my head, and stride across the room to grab
Myths! Legends! Monsters!
I leaf furiously through the book.
Come on, where is it?
Surely it isn't this simple. I finally find the page I'm looking for. I look up to meet Silas's and Scarlett's curious gazes, holding the book in triumph.

"He's the seventh son of a seventh son." I fold my legs beneath me and sit on the floor. Silas and Scarlett rise and hurry toward me, looking from me to the page.

"So? I'm the sixth son and ninth kid in my family, you're the second one; what does--" Silas begins, but Scarlett cuts him off with a steely glance.

"The seventh..." She trails off and then darts across the room to grab a stack of papers. She tosses several onto the floor before holding up the printout of Joseph Woodlief's obituary. "So was Joseph. Seventh son of a seventh son."

"The seventh son of a seventh son, every seven years," Silas murmurs with a bit of pride in his voice that I think is directed toward me. We meet each other's eyes and I slowly flip
Myths! Legends! Monsters!
closed.

"Do you suppose that's it? That's all there is to it?" Scarlett whispers, collapsing backward onto the couch.

"Even if it isn't, how many seventh sons of seventh sons can there be in this city?" Silas says. He takes my hand, and

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even though Scarlett is watching, I can't bring myself to pull it away. "We... we have it. We just need to find him."

We don't speak. I squeeze Silas's hand and he smiles at me as Scarlett stands and begins pacing, deep in thought.

"Good job, love," Silas whispers to me. When Scarlett's back is turned, he pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead adoringly.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SCARLETT

THE SEVENTH OF SEVEN. I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S
that simple. Actually, no--I can't believe
Myths! Legends! Monsters!
was right. Well done, Dorothea Silverclaw. I wonder if that thing about salt on the windowsills really will keep demons away. I guess it never hurts to be careful.

I can't sleep. My head swims with thoughts that feel as if they could eat me alive. I turn over in bed and look at my sister resting like Sleeping Beauty, hair splayed around her face. She figured it out, the last key to who the Potential is.

And she lied to me. She kept secrets from me. No, she
and
Silas kept secrets from me. Have I really been left out? Deemed unworthy to know something as simple as my little sister taking dance lessons? I'm losing her. I've practically lost hunting.

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What will I have left, other than a face full of scars to remind me that I'm worthless without my sister or the hunt?

She's lucky she had vital information, or I would have yelled. But she and Silas--it's as though they have some connection that I can't be a part of... I raise my arm and watch the moonlight reflect off my scars. I sit up on my elbows and peer through the crack in the curtain at Silas. His chest rises and falls in slumber, mouth slightly open and one leg kicked off the couch.

I sigh. The Seventh of Seven. Focus on that, not on the fact that Rosie lied. If we can just find him,
use
him, then we can go back to Ellison. Back to living in Oma March's cottage, back to hunting together in the woods behind the little town, back to the way things were with my sister, when there were no secrets.

And what if she doesn't want to go back? The thought stings with cold possibility. Rosie kept secrets because she didn't
want
to quit the classes. I'm not stupid--I'd choose tango over werewolves any day--but I have no choice. I'm scarred, tied to the hunt. But Rosie... she's half Dragonfly.

I research during the day. Recopy my notes. Stop by the library twice. Rosie sits for most of the day with a bag of ice taped around her side, cooling the slightly swollen wounds on her waist, and a cup of hot tea. Its vapors seem to stave off the cold rain that's been pattering outside. I come up with three

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names, pulled from the phone book, public records, and newspaper articles--though none of my research extends far past the Atlanta city limits. Still: Neal Franklin, James Porter, and Greg Zavodny. A bubble of hope swells in my chest as Rosie and I review each of the three.

"I don't think Franklin is the Seventh of Seven," Rosie says, readjusting her ice pack. "They mention six older siblings, but I get the feeling one of them is a girl. Otherwise, why not just say 'six older brothers'?"

I reread the article and reluctantly cross his name off the list, knowing Rosie is probably right.

"And Zavodny... I don't know, Scarlett. The man is really, really old."

"The wolves must find them and change them early on, before they have a chance to get into their eighties," I mumble. "I don't know if this guy could have eluded them all these years."

"Right." Rosie sighs in agreement. The hopeful feeling in my chest is sinking quickly.

"So... Porter. The guy we have the least amount of information on." We have a high school graduation announcement that mentions six siblings--but doesn't specify their ages as older or younger. In fact, the only reason we have his name to begin with is that Silas and Rosie started searching the paid birthday ads in the newspaper and saw he just turned twenty-eight.

But no address. Unlisted in the phone book. Doesn't appear on any search engine.

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I sigh. "I've got to get out of here." The drive to hunt runs through me until it feels as if I might erupt. Silas is out paying our rent for month two when I leave, and Rosie looks so pitiful with the bag of ice, surrounded by books, that I let her off the hook despite myself--maybe being insanely kind and understanding will bring her back to me?

"So, wait, are you just going to walk around looking for Porter?" she asks as I quickly sharpen my hatchet.

"Porter. A wolf.
Anything.
I've got to do something, Rosie," I mutter as I fling open the door, then storm down the steps.

I wander the streets of the business district, cloak fluttering in the wind and hatchet strapped tightly around my waist. It's a shame I can't go to the hospital and take out the Fenris from Rosie's class. It won't be too much longer till his soul is completely gone and he can't be contained. But something tells me hospital staff wouldn't be too cool with a scarred-up girl with an eye patch coming in and hacking up one of their patients, criminal though he may be. It's probably not worth the risk of their strapping me down and pumping me with drugs.

A few businessmen are leaving their offices late and cast me wary looks as I glare at them with my good eye. Homeless people, the occasional couple walking home from something or another. But no Fenris. Not even a Dragonfly. When I begin to seriously consider shouting James Porter's name into the streets, I realize I should probably go back. I trudge toward the apartment, frustration bubbling inside me.

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The junkie below us is clearly brewing up a new drug cocktail; the smell hangs over the stairwell like a thick cloud. I hurry past his door to my own, where I tug off my eye patch as a puddle of rainwater forms beneath my feet.

The door is cracked the tiniest bit, releasing a pale golden strip of light into the otherwise dark landing. I hear Rosie--I think it's Rosie, anyhow, but the voice is different. It's older, more mature, and softer, like a woman's voice instead of my baby sister's. I frown and press my back against the wall by the door, running my fingers over the ridges of peeling paint as I crane my neck and try to peer inside to see the cause of the change in her voice. I know that spying on my sister isn't exactly moral, but I can't help being curious.

I can't see much except a sliver of the kitchen and a tiny ceramic lamp that's struggling to illuminate the entire apartment. Beyond it, out the window, the Atlanta skyline glows in the darkness. Rosie's voice again--it must be her--fumbles through the silence, but I can't make out the words. Another voice, this one deep and honey-toned... Silas. He speaks with a gentle, melodic rhythm that makes him seem far more than three years my senior. I lean farther toward the crack of the door, inhaling the delicious scent of the orange blossom tea that's brewing on the stove. I begin to reach for the glass doorknob, wondering what they're talking about that makes their voices seem so foreign.

Silas steps into my line of sight and leans against the kitchen counter, and in almost the same instant, Rosie comes into view, black hair fluttering around her heart-shaped face.

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She pulls the teapot off the stove and wipes her hands on her jeans, laughing at something Silas has said. He smiles broadly with a strange look in his eyes. I grab the glass doorknob, nearly charging in and demanding to know what's up, but something stops me.

Something is different, something that goes beyond the change in Rosie's voice, something that feels heavy in my mind and makes my stomach writhe. I can't pinpoint what exactly it is until Silas steps behind my sister and delicately runs his fingers through her hair, his hand gentle as if he's touching a priceless jewel. Rosie blushes as he leans into her and whispers something in her ear that makes her lips curve up in an elegant smile. I recognize the look in Silas's eyes--adoration. I furrow my eyebrows and try to shake away the feeling of being punched in the face.

I must be mistaken. I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing.

But worse yet: it doesn't shock me. Because somehow, somewhere deep, I
knew.

I squeeze the knob so tightly that its faceted surface cuts into my palm. He's my best friend; she's my
little
sister. No. This isn't her. This isn't us. We aren't silly girls who flirt with boys and laugh at their terrible jokes and touch like Rosie and Silas are doing right now, their fingers intertwined as she turns around to face him.

Rosie laughs. She reaches around Silas's neck--he looks taller, older than normal--and twirls the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers. His arms circle her waist

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protectively, one hand half hidden beneath her silk shirt as it rests on the tiny, smooth small of her back. Everything about them is silky and gleaming, all smooth skin and shiny hair and languid voices. I can feel the scars on my body more than ever before, thick ropes working to strangle me. I swallow hard.

Silas leans in. My chest tightens and I beg for him to stop, but no one hears me--I'm not even sure if my pleas are spoken aloud. Rosie tilts her head back. His arms draw her closer, encasing her slight frame.
Stop, both of you--we're hunters; we're in this together, remember? We promised one another; we promised one another ages ago. We're in this together.
Their lips meet.

And I am more alone than ever before.

The door creaks open, loose on its hinges, and I make no effort to stop it. Rosie's and Silas's heads turn toward the noise, and then their faces pale when they see me standing in the door frame. Screwtape runs from the kitchen and dives under my and Rosie's bed, as if he senses my anger, the storm brewing in my heart. Rosie doesn't speak, though her mouth opens as though she's trying to form words. She unwraps herself from Silas's arms but takes his hand into hers. I don't move. I don't think I can move, not when I can still see the places on her neck where Silas kissed her.

"Lett," Silas finally says, his voice hoarse.

"No," I whisper in response. "No, no, no..." I scarcely hear my own words over the sound of my heart,
our
heart, pounding.