Other (14 page)

I spit Tavian's shirt from my mouth. I have a sudden urge to groom myself, so I go ahead and start licking my front leg.

Tavian huddles on the ground, his eyes like saucers. “Oh. My. God.”

I narrow my feline eyes. Bollocks, why can't pookas talk in animal form, like the stories say? I stalk toward my clothes, my head held low. Tavian continues goggling. I growl, a low rumble, and he retreats. When I nudge my clothes with my nose, he finally gets it and turns his back on me—reluctantly.

I shapeshift fast, quivering with the effort, and yank on my clothes.

“What are you?” Tavian says, his voice carefully calm, his back still to me.

“What did you expect?” I tug my hair through the neck of my shirt. “You knew I was Other, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

I grab his shoulder and spin him around. “You can't tell anyone.”

He stares into my eyes. “I knew you were Other since the moment I met you. You smell like magic. And I haven't betrayed you.”

“I smell like magic?”

A slight smile tugs at his mouth. He leans a little closer. “Now, especially.”

I pull back, not ready to get touchy-feely, and pluck leaves from my hair with shaking hands. “What does it smell like?”

“Lightning,” he says.

“Ozone?”

“Kind of. But sweeter.” Tavian touches the back of his neck, and his fingers come away red with blood. “Ouch.”

“Oh,” I mutter. “I didn't mean to hurt you. Sorry.”

My head spins. It's probably not the blood—I have a strong stomach—but shapeshifting so rapidly.

In the smallest voice that's still audible, Tavian says, “I am, too.”

“What?”

Tavian draws a shaky breath. “I'm Other.”

The strength goes from my legs as if relief cut the strings holding me up. I drop to my knees with a sigh.

“Gwen?” He sounds a different kind of scared. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say.

That's not entirely true. The world whirls around me, and my stomach clenches on emptiness. The cougar thing drained me. Woozy, I lower my head. Triple bollocks. That's what I get for show-offy transformations.

“What kind of Other?” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Through the hair curtaining my face, I see Tavian's worried expression.

“Kitsune,” he says. “Japanese fox spirit.”

“I know.” Oh, man. I feel really, really dizzy. “I Googled it.”

“I'm half human, actually,” Tavian adds.

I fall sideways. It seems pointless to try and sit up straight.

“Gwen?” His voice sounds distant. “Are you going to faint?”

“Not if I can help it.”

But then I do.

fourteen

W
hen I open my eyes, I see Tavian kneeling near me.

“Gwen! You okay?”

“Basically.”

“I was going to get help, but then I thought I should stay with you, and then …”

I blink and sit up. I still feel lightheaded, but not in imminent danger of fainting now. Note to self: eat more.

Tavian's eyes never leave my face. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes!” If I could die of embarrassment, I would keel over right now. I spot the envelope, half-covered by leaves, and pick it up and open it.

“Oh, that.” Tavian rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

It turns out to be a card with a Japanese woodblock print of white lilies on the front. Inside, it says, “I share your sorrow.” Tavian signed it with rather spiky handwriting that reminds me of crickets, for some reason.

“This better not be some Mr. Nice Guy ploy,” I say gruffly, to hide how I really feel.

“My mom bought it for me,” he says. “Didn't like anything I picked out.”

I keep staring at it. My eyes sting, and I blink fast.

“My grandmother died two years ago,” he goes on. “So I know how you feel. I mean, it's different for everybody, but anyway …”

“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

We avoid each other's eyes.

My stomach growls. “I need to eat. It happens after I shapeshift too fast.”

“Okay.” Tavian scrambles to his feet. “I saw some blackberries over there. Stay here and let me get them for you.”

I nearly say I'm not an invalid, but it's cute to see him so concerned.

“By the way,” I say. “I'm half pooka. My dad's a Welsh shapeshifting spirit.”

Tavian glances back, his face illuminated by a smile. “Cool. We're both halfies.”

After a moment of sitting on the leaves, I get bored. I climb to my feet and follow him on still-watery legs. All right, so I stagger like a drunken sailor. When he spots me, he darts toward me as if I'll fall.

“I'm okay!” I say.

Tavian nods, but keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

A thicket of blackberries grows in a jumble before us. I pick berries at a manic pace and cram them into my mouth. Sweetness bursts on my tongue. I moan, my hunger satisfied. Tavian looks sideways at me, and I blush.

“Here,” he says.

I cup my hands, and he pours berries into them. I eat them like an animal.

Tavian raises his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Feeling better?”

“Definitely. It's amazing how fast sugar enters your system.”

I keep guzzling berries. Our fingers brush, sending a tingle through my skin.

“You say you're Other,” I say. “Prove it.”

He meets my gaze for a long moment, and panic stabs me. Did he lie?

“Okay,” he says.

He shuts his eyes and sucks in air through his nose. He clenches his hands, then flings them outward. A wave of gold ripples from his feet and out through the leaves around him in a rattling cascade. He now stands on a carpet of coins.

Magic prickles my skin. It feels like cold fire.

“Wow,” I whisper.

He opens his eyes. The sky darkens to a glorious violet and orange sunset.

“Turn it back,” I say in a small voice.

Tavian blinks, and the real colors rush back into place. He stumbles forward and catches himself with his hand.

“Illusions,” he says. “They take a lot of energy.”

“What else can you do?”

Tavian smiles at me, and it makes him look very foxy. No, I don't mean
that
kind of foxy. Then his dark eyes shift to amber. His ears sharpen into furry fox-ears, white on the inside, black on the outside.

“And that's as far as I'm going,” he says, flashing fangs as he talks.

I'm grinning despite myself. “What, your shapeshifting also involves a lack of clothes?”

He nods, then his ears change back to a boy's, so easily it makes me envious. Maybe he's had a lot more practice fine-tuning control.

“I'll bet you're a cute little fox,” I tease.

Tavian gives me a cool look. “I prefer not to be called ‘cute' or ‘little,' thank you very much.” He grins again. “I should get a T-shirt that says that.”

“Sorry.” I laugh. “I'll try not to mortally wound your ego.”

“So,” he says, “what were you doing in that tree?”

My grin turns into a grimace. “Nothing. Sometimes I like to be above everything.”

Tavian turns back to the blackberries.

I hate this. I hate the gnawing inside me, the unspoken words. So I say them.

“It's where she died.”

“Who?”

“Chloe.”

He meets my gaze, his eyes sharp. “What happened? The news was so vague.”

“What, you want details?”

He nods. “Unless you'd rather not.”

“I found her hanging.” I realize I'm gripping the brambles in my hands. Blood trickles between my knuckles. “Her throat was slashed.”

“That must have been … awful,” he says.

I let go of the brambles and stare at my wounds.

Tavian eyes widen. “You hurt yourself!”

“It's not very bad.” Part of me likes seeing the vivid red, proof that I'm alive.

Frowning, Tavian pulls a handkerchief from a pocket in his jeans. “Don't worry, it's clean.” He tears it in half.

I hold out my hands, a mute patient, and let him bandage me. I don't wince.

He looks at me, his face pale. From my blood or my story, I can't tell. “Someone's killing Others,” he says. “Even if the police don't believe it.”

“I know! I can't believe how incompetent they are. It's such a relief to talk with somebody who knows what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Tavian flashes a smile, then sobers. “We're both in so much danger right now it's not even funny.”

“I know.” I set my jaw. “I'm going to find whoever killed Chloe.”

He meets my gaze. “I'm with you.”

“Really?”

“I owe you.”

“Good,” I say grimly. “I've already got a prime suspect.”

He looks startled. “Who?”

“Randall.”

“Who's he?”

“Chloe hired him to renovate her B&B a few weeks ago. He's most likely the last person who saw her before she died, and he told me they got into an argument right after she dumped him like I kept saying she should do. I saw him leave her favorite earrings at her grave. That's really suspicious. And he's a … he's
creepy
.”

Tavian squints. “Creepy how?”

“He's …” I drop my voice. “He's a werewolf.”

“Really!” Tavian raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like he's the killer.”

I hesitate. “I'm not sure, yet. But he's a prime suspect.”

“Any other suspects?”

I shrug. “No.”

Tavian ruffles his spiky hair. “What do you propose we do?”

“Gather evidence. Make sure he doesn't skip town.”

“What, stalk him?”

I smile grimly. “If necessary. You game?”

Tavian stares into my eyes. “I'm game.”

Of course, real life gets in the way of detective work. Namely, Tavian's job at Slightly Foxed Books and mine at Dad's hardware store. I'm working less hours than Tavian, though, so I have time for a little snooping around, if not the guts to do it alone yet.

On a particularly summery, baking-hot day, I go downtown, allegedly to buy some new sandals. Actually, I'm thinking of checking out Bramble Cottage. I haven't been there since it happened. I'm afraid of what I might find.

Chloe's beautiful rosebushes are wilting, dry on the verge of dead, and I can see their spiny skeletons. Wind-loosened petals seesaw through the air and settle on the yellowing lawn. I frown. Nobody waters the garden?

I stride down the sidewalk and try to open the front door. Locked, of course. I jiggle the doorknob, then shade the glass of the door window and peer inside. Bramble Cottage looks so old and empty inside. It's sad. I spot a garden hose snaking through the grass, so I twist the faucet and start watering the roses. The dirt's so dry that water makes silvery pools on top of the dirt instead of soaking in. Poor roses.

The sun heats my skin, and my mind drifts. What was Chloe thinking the last time she went to the forest? She said she felt like she was being followed … but maybe she knew her killer. And trusted him.

I feel a tightening in the pit of my stomach, a stinging in my eyes. There has to be something in Bramble Cottage that will help me catch Chloe's killer. And I need to find it. I should call Tavian and see if his shift is over.

The water darkens the sidewalk. I turn off the faucet, then admire the reviving roses. My mouth feels as dry as dirt. I crouch and bring the hose to my lips. When I try to stand, my hair snarls on the thorns, like it knotted itself.

“Bollocks,” I hiss. I drop the hose and fiddle with my hair. I really should brush it more often.

Footsteps crunch the dry lawn behind me.

“Excuse me?” says a low, husky voice. Randall.

Heart thumping, I jump back and only succeed in yanking my hair. “Ouch. Damn.”

“Hold still.”

I freeze as Randall untangles my hair from the thorns. Freed, I step away. His calloused fingers brush my cheek, and I shudder.

I face him. “Why are you here?”

Randall twists a rose from its stem with casual violence, then buries his nose in it and inhales deeply. The silver streak in his hair glints. “I came to get some of my stuff. I didn't get it all before … you know.”

“I know.”

His eyes smolder. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Watering the roses. Of course.” He scares me, but I'm not going to show it. “Oh, that reminds me.” I try to keep my voice bland as I lie. “Chloe said you had something of hers that she wanted back. She was going to give them to me.”

Surprise flits across his face. “What?”

“Her maple-blossom earrings. Do you have them?”

“No. Sorry.” Randall glances at the B&B. “I've got to get moving.” He digs a key from a pocket in his jeans and unlocks the back door.

Holy crap. He could have gotten inside at any time.

The back door of Bramble Cottage stands ajar now. Here's my chance. I slip inside and tiptoe through the rooms, looking for signs of a struggle or golden bloodstains. Dust specks dance in sunbeams. Floorboards creak under my feet.

My breathing sounds loud in my ears. I stay tense, ready to transform and fight. Then footsteps thump nearer, and I stiffen.

Randall collides with me on his way down the rickety Victorian stairs. “Sorry.”

I notice that he's carrying an ugly maroon duffel bag. “What's in that?”

“Clothes,” he says.

“What, you've left them here for more than a week after … ?”

His eyes bore into mine. “Is this the first time you've been back?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't know about you, but I didn't feel like coming until I had to.”

I force myself to stare steadily back, trying to decipher his eyes. Did he lie low because of the police? Did guilt or grief keep him away?

“Excuse me,” he says, edging past.

I follow him out of Bramble Cottage. He locks the door behind me.

“So, where will you go now?” I try to sound casual.

“Kliminawhit Campground. Not like I can afford a hotel.”

Wow, he's essentially homeless. Wait, isn't the pack of werewolves around there? That means he lied to Chloe—he told her he wasn't with them.

Again, Randall stares at me, his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Well,” I say quickly, “at least it's nice this time of year.”

He shrugs. “See you.”

“Yeah, bye,” I say.

He shoulders the duffel bag and strides away. No car, apparently. I should totally follow him to Kliminawhit and see what he—along with the rest of the pack—is doing out there in the wilderness. But with Tavian as backup.

Fingers a bit unsteady, I unzip the Bean and find my cell phone. Brilliant. I totally forgot to swap numbers with Tavian. Guess I'll have to tell him in person.

My nerves settle down as I leave Bramble Cottage behind me. At a crosswalk, I recognize Justin's white van waiting for the light to change. I return his friendly wave, trying to keep my face normal though I'm sure I look somewhat pale. When I open the door to Slightly Foxed Books, the marmalade tabby leaps from a window seat and chirps. I try not to trip as it winds around my ankles like a furry serpent.

“Heathcliff likes you,” Tavian says, emerging from behind a bookshelf.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds froggy, and I clear my throat. “Guess who I just ran into.”

“Who?”

I sit on the window seat, and Tavian sits beside me.