Other (15 page)

“A certain someone who's very suspicious,” I say.

“You know you're being maddeningly vague,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”

So I do, in a condensed version.

“Wait.” He snaps his fingers. “So he just left, like we thought he would?”

I nod. “I almost followed him, but—”

“Too dangerous.” Tavian leans back against the side of the window seat. “He'd know it was you. Now we know where he lives—”

“Where he says he lives, at least.”

“—and we should investigate another day.”

“We need to check out Kliminawhit.” I lower my voice. “I don't know about you, but I've heard howling and gunshots coming from the forest. You know as well as I do that the pack's hiding there, and they're being hunted.”

Tavian sighs. “Do you really want to take on an entire werewolf pack all by yourself?”

I narrow my eyes. “I'm not
that
reckless. But if Randall actually is the murderer, I won't be able to sleep if I know he's running loose.”

Tavian narrows his eyes right back. “I didn't say we should let him run loose.”

“Well, what did you mean?”

“We should do this together. Right? That's what we agreed on.”

“So what's your brilliant plan, then?”

“We go to Kliminawhit this weekend, and—”

“That's four days away. We should go tomorrow.”

Tavian snorts. “Eager, aren't we?”

I cross my arms. “I want to get him before he gets us first. I'm tired of sitting around.”

“Hey, at least you found out where Randall's living. At least you didn't spend the last three hours sorting trashy old romance novels.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Actually, I was watering roses before Randall came.”

“Even so, you weren't reading about Miss Rosabella Sluttington falling onto a bed of petals with her lover, Lord Studly Champion.”

I laugh. “I see your point.”

Tavian grins, and damn, he's cute. Flutters take flight in my stomach.

“So,” I say, trying to sound blasé, “we head to Kliminawhit tomorrow?”

“Sure.” He rummages inside the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his cell phone. “Here.”

I hold his cell phone in the palm of my hand.

“Your number?” he says.

“Wow.” My face heats. “That's blunt.”

Tavian smirks. “I'll give you mine if you give me yours.”

Good lord, I'm blushing now. “Sounds practical.”

Trying to be casual, I enter it myself. He does the same with my cell phone. No big deal, right? Friends do that kind of thing. Friends who're working together to track down a killer. Nothing particularly odd about that.

Tavian glances at me, his black eyes sparkling. “If your boyfriend asks why you've got my number, you can say we're blog buddies.”

I laugh, then cough. “Actually, I'm single now.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

What's that supposed to mean? I'm tempted to ask, but I restrain myself.

“Call me,” he says, handing me back my cell phone. “I'm free any time tomorrow.”

His fingers linger on mine until I blink and pull away. “Will do.”

fifteen

T
he next morning, I call Tavian, my stomach doing acrobatics. The plan: he'll drive to my place, and we'll walk to Kliminawhit from there. I wait for him at the bottom of our driveway, on the pretense of picking blackberries. I end up eating several handfuls despite the jittering in my stomach. When I hear a car nearing, the jittering multiplies. But it's only the USPS jeep, here to deliver mail. Oh well, I might as well get it.

I cross the street to our slightly rusty mailbox. Junk, junk, bills, junk. But at the bottom of the heap, I come across a white envelope marked
GWEN
. I open the envelope and pull out a paper, folded poorly in half, with childish handwriting in red crayon.

I KNOW YOU

Below these words is a crudely drawn four-legged animal. With hooves. A horse? A pooka … ? Who sent this? How do they know what I am? Did they see me shapeshifting in the forest?

Icy shivers trickle over my skin. But maybe it's just Chris and Brock, trying to scare me. That makes sense. Morons.

Anger flares inside me, melting my fear, and I crumple the letter into a ball and stuff it into the pocket of my jeans.

A coppery orange Honda Element coasts down the street, slows, and pulls over. Tavian lowers the window and looks over his reflective sunglasses.

“Excuse me, ma'am. Does anyone named Gwen live around here?”

I laugh, the letter not so important now. “New car?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents buy it for you?” I try to sound teasing.

He shrugs, takes off his sunglasses, and slips them into a pocket on his jacket. “They're pretty well-off.”

I wonder just how well-off. “You going to park there?”

“I guess. Does your family know I'm coming?”

“Not yet. Wait, do you want to meet them?”

Tavian arches an eyebrow, then kills the engine and hops out. “Why not?”

I scratch the back of my neck and shrug, then start walking up the driveway.

Foxgloves and nettles sway on either side of my driveway, beautiful and stinging. Steeplebush flowers—tight pink spikes of starburst blossoms—perfume the air with their nectarine scent. Bees hum and butterflies zigzag through the air, and I feel a whirring like their wings inside my chest.

“I'm lucky my parents adopted me,” Tavian says, out of the blue.

I glance at him. “Oh?”

“My mother raised me until I was about six. My real kitsune mother, I mean. She had to leave one day, and she never came back.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He shrugs. “You don't have to say that. It's weird when people apologize for something they had nothing to do with. After my mother left, I don't remember much. They found me eating beetles and snarling at humans.”

I make a face. “Beetles?”

“Like a fox. An orphanage tamed me, and by the time I was seven, a Japanese-American couple adopted me. The Kimuras. My parents.”

“They knew you were a kitsune?”

Tavian nods. “From day one.”

“That was open-minded of them,” I say, trying not to assume too much.

“Oh, definitely.” Tavian squints wistfully at the sky. “What are your parents like?”

“Well, you're going to meet them in a few minutes.”

“Cool. So your dad's the pooka, right?”

“Oh, I've never met my biological dad.” I frown at the gravel, then laugh humorlessly. “Sorry. I don't usually talk about this.”

“It's okay,” Tavian says in a light tone. “I know what you mean.”

I sigh. “My mum scarcely knew my biological dad, either. Back in Wales, she'd see a pooka following her around, sometimes as a horse, sometimes as a handsome man. Somehow they fancied each other, and … you know.”

“Yeah.”

We reach the top of my driveway. Someone tugs aside a curtain in an upper window—Megan, in her bedroom. Clouds clot in the sky behind my house, as if the roof is damming their flow. Birds fly low—rain's coming.

“I guess I'd better introduce you,” I say.

“Announce my arrival,” Tavian says, with a mild laugh.

I pretend to cuff him on the head, then reach for the front door. It whisks open just as I touch the doorknob, and Megan stands there, slightly out of breath. Jeez, she must have run downstairs when she saw us coming. She looks Tavian up and down, measuring him with her gaze.

“Who's this, Gwen?”

“Tavian,” he says, shaking her hand.

“Megan,” she purrs, with a blatantly flirty smile. Oh, horrors. She glances at me. “I didn't know you had a new boyfriend already.”

Red alert! Red alert! It accurately describes my face, anyway.

“No,” I say quickly. “We just—”

Mum steps out from behind Megan, patting down her frizzy hair. “Gwen! You didn't tell me you invited someone over.”

“I'm Tavian Kimura,” he says, “and you must be the mother of these lovely ladies.”

Mum laughs, one of those polite I'm-so-flattered laughs.

“Mind if I borrow Gwen for a moment, Ms. … ?”

“Williams. Where are you going?”

“For a forest walk.” He smiles, acing the suave act. “I'll return her in mint condition.”

My blush reaches plasma hotness. Mum and Megan share a glance.

“That sounds lovely.” Mum's eyes narrow a bit, but she keeps smiling. “Stay on the path, Gwen. Watch out for wildlife.”

I sigh. “Mum, I live here.”

She tilts her head, giving me a definite you-know-what-I-mean-young-lady look.

“I'll make sure your daughter's safe, Ms. Williams,” Tavian says, piling on the charm.

Mum's smile becomes a little more genuine. “All right, then. Have a nice walk.”

I grab Tavian's hand and march toward the forest before we're delayed any longer. As soon as we're in the trees, I let go.

“Great,” I mutter. “Now they think you're my boyfriend.”

“What's the problem with that?” Tavian says innocently.

Is he joking, or does he mean that for real? Not sure what to say, I just roll my eyes.

After a pause, he says, “I like your name. Gwen Williams.”

“Actually, that's not my whole name.”

“Oh? What is it?”

I sigh. “Gwenhwyfar Williams.”

“Gwen-wee-what?”

I repeat it, slowly. “Gwen-
whee
-var.”

“Gwenhwyfar,” he says, mangling it only a little. “Now that I know your true name, do I have any power over you?”

I throw back my head and laugh, but I can't hide the flush in my cheeks. “You wish.”

“Well, I like your name. It's pretty.”

I snort. “You don't have to spell it.”

We push farther into the forest. Clouds flow above us, mirrored by a tide of mist. The trees look like columns in a forbidden temple. The trail meanders along Boulder River, through trees in their pelts of moss and plumage of ferns. We hear the river's endless shushing, and glimpse it when the maples and thickets thin, then hear only our footsteps and the plip-plopping rain, just beginning to fall. At a curve in the path, Tavian stops at a bigleaf maple.

I caress its trunk. Chloe would have loved it. “So old,” I murmur.

Tavian sniffs the air, then buries his nose in the moss.

“What?” I say.

“A werewolf brushed past this tree not too long ago.”

I shudder. “We must be close to the Kliminawhit Campground.”

“I wonder if they're stalking campers.” Tavian curls his lip. “Morons.”

“Yeah,” I say half-heartedly.

Among skeletal, lichen-shrouded alders, I see a flicker of movement. A squirrel? Or just the swirling mist?

We walk closer, our shoulders bumping.

“I smell something,” Tavian whispers. “Like old blood.”

“Blood can't be good.”

He grimaces. “Let's keep walking.”

Under the pewter blanket of sky, Kliminawhit Campground looks abandoned this afternoon. Leafy bushes crowd the road, and brambles creep over paths. In a campsite with a sign saying
Campground Host
, a yellowed rectangle of grass marks the spot where there must have been a trailer some time ago. A crow lies near a hunk of meat, its head flung back, claws clenched, wings twitching.

“Poison,” Tavian says, and I shudder.

We crisscross through the trees. A familiar baby blue pickup is parked by Campsite 15.

“That belongs to the werewolves,” I say.

I stroll into the campsite, trying to look casual. A peek into their tattered tent reveals only a few blankets. Scattered bones, little ones, lie on the ground by the campfire. The ashes look fairly new.

“Where did they go?” I ponder aloud.

“I don't know,” Tavian says. “They're probably still close.”

We follow the road through the campsite loop. In a spot I thought was unoccupied, I see a rusty wheelbarrow hidden beneath the fresh boughs of Douglas fir. I tug aside a branch and find a battered cooler, a sack of kibble patched with duct tape, and an ugly maroon duffel bag.

“Randall,” I mutter. I unzip the duffel bag and find a bunch of shirts and jeans. Nothing incriminating. I shift the clothes aside and discover a seriously grungy chew toy that appears to be a mangled hedgehog, many years old.

“Tavian?” I say. “What the heck is this?”

I glance over my shoulder and see him sink into a crouch, his teeth bared.

“What—?”

Something cold and wet touches the back of my hand, like a dog's nose.

Slowly, I look down, fully expecting to freak out. A wolf pup is sniffing my hand. Then he wags his stumpy tail.

I can't help smiling. “Hello,” I say. “I didn't expect to see you.”

Tavian's eyes gleam orange. “Gwen …”

“Calm down. It's just a werepuppy.”

“There are two of them.”

Another pup prances up on big clumsy paws. She bows, her forelegs flat on the ground and her butt in the air. They both have blue eyes.

I can't imagine who would be cruel enough to kill a werepuppy for the $150 bounty.

“You want me to play?” I ask.

The pup yips.

I pick up a twig and toss it. Both pups scamper after it, pounce, and tumble into a tangle of snarling fuzz. They scuffle, and the girl pup emerges victorious. She struts away, the twig in her mouth, then starts gnawing on it.

“You're so cute,” I say, still smiling.

“Cute?” Tavian stares at me. “You shouldn't play with them.”

I sigh. “Tavian, just once, would you not look at me as if I'm insane?”

“We need to keep going,” he says, even edgier than before. “We're here to look for evidence against Randall, right?”

“I know, I know …”

Of course I do. I'm just not sure I want to see what could be waiting for us.

The twig snaps. Both werepuppies trot over to me. I crouch and hold out my hand. The pups sniff it, making little whistling noises. One of the pups licks me with a slimy pink tongue. It tickles like crazy.

“Stop,” I giggle. “Stop!”

The pup licks harder, then nips my finger with needle teeth.

“Ouch!” I yank back my hand. “Don't bite!”

Tavian's at my side in a flash. “Did it draw blood?” He grabs my hand and turns it over.

“No, luckily. Besides, I'm not sure werewolves can infect people who're already Other.”

“You're half-human,” Tavian reminds me.

The pup flattens his ears and whimpers. His fur shrinks back, revealing pink skin, and he turns into a chubby baby. Tears well in his eyes. He takes a shuddering breath, then starts to bawl. The girl pup howls.

“Shhh,” I say. “Be quiet!”

They bawl and howl louder.

“It's okay!” I try to use a singsongy voice. “Don't cry, little pups.”

Tavian snarls. I glance at him, surprised. A thunderous growl rumbles behind me. I whirl around to see Randall. He has shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair looks even shaggier. Thin red slashes mark his cheek. From the fingernails of a victim? Blood spatters his flannel shirt, and a lot of blood crusts his left sleeve.

“Oh,” I say, and my mouth stays in an O.

Randall advances on us. “What the hell are
you doing here?”

Tavian snarls again. “Don't come any closer.” He looks feral—bared fangs, orange eyes.

The werepuppy flees between Randall's legs, and the baby keeps bawling. Randall grabs the hedgehog chew toy from his bag and chucks it at the baby, who starts sucking on it. I try not to laugh at the absurdity.

Randall wrinkles his nose at Tavian. “You stink like a fox.”

“That toy belong to you?” Tavian sneers. “Had it ever since you were a werepuppy?”

“Shut up,” Randall says, his cheeks reddening. I bite back a smile as he turns to me. “And
you
… I don't even know what you are.”

My eyes start stinging, glowing. “How long have you known I'm Other?”

“Since I met you.” Randall sidesteps around Tavian, who moves to face him.

He's been keeping tabs on the Others in the area?

“What happened to your arm?” I say. “Somebody shoot you?”

Randall's hair bristles into silver fur. “You should get out of here. Now. Before the rest of the pack comes.”

I stand my ground. “I want to know why you lied to me.”

“About?”

“Chloe's earrings. I saw you leave them at her grave.”

“So?”

Tavian flashes his fangs. “So, it looks very suspicious.”

“Why should I fucking care what you think?” Randall says.

Tavian steps forward, and I grab his arm. Things could get really bad, really fast.

“Randall,” I say, my heart beating a million miles an hour. “If you cared about Chloe, we have something in common.”

Randall narrows his eyes, and I see a gleam of something—guilt? Sadness?

“Listen,” Tavian says. “We're trying to figure out who's been killing Others. Either you're our friend or our enemy.”