Other (17 page)

“Hey, don't be so hard on yourself.” Tavian tries to smile. “You need to take some time off from being a badass super ninja pooka.”

I manage to laugh. “I wish I could.”

“You totally can.”

“Not with some crazy murderer running around.”

“Gwen, none of this is your fault. You don't have to catch the bad guy.”

I stare at him. “If I don't, who will? The police? Like they care.”

“The werewolves care. You heard what they said about the killer in Canada.”

I chew on my lower lip, then remember what Chloe said. “Don't you think this sounds like the White Knights? You know, those people who burned crosses and lynched Others. Everybody thinks they're gone, but what if they aren't?”

Tavian shakes his head. “I don't know. We would have to find out more.”

“Yeah.” I heave a shuddering sigh. “I don't want to think about that right now.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone lighter. “So was Randall actually babysitting the werepuppies?”

I smile weakly. “Apparently.” I glance sideways at him. “Do you actually know karate?”

“Hell no. Wish I did,” he says wistfully.

“It was kind of funny.”

“Yeah.”

Splinters of sun pierce the thick canopy, and the earth exhales dancing tendrils of mist.

Tavian's fingers curl around my hand, and it's friendly enough for comfort. He's silent all the way back, until we reach his car.

“Let's do something that doesn't involve drama or danger,” he says. “Something fun. Got to balance out all the negativity with a bit of positivity.”

“Like?”

“How about the Evergreen State Fair? It just started.”

A smile creeps over my face. “Seriously?”

“Why not?”

“'Cause it's crazy. Considering the circumstances.”

“Then why are you still smiling?”

I laugh. “Because I like the idea.”

“Excellent,” Tavian says. “State fair, Saturday afternoon?”

“If you insist.”

He squeezes my hand, then lets go.

“Well,” I say. “I guess this is goodbye.”

An uncertainty, a possibility, wavers through the air between us. I blink, and it's gone.

“See you Saturday,” he says, and he walks away.

I watch him go, already missing him—as silly as that sounds.

seventeen

A
few days later, I find an envelope waiting for me on my desk. Written on the front, in red crayon:
GWEN
. Not another one of these. Do Chris and Brock really find it so amusing to send me lame-ass attempts at hate mail?

I tear open the envelope. It takes me a while to decipher the crudely written words.

Gwen I now you are lik me. The Bad Man nows you too. The Bad Man is scary. Write to me and put your letter by the river.

Your freind,

Maris

What the hell? Who is Maris? Or the Bad Man, for that matter? I knead my forehead with my knuckles. Could Maris be some sort of nearly illiterate Other hiding in Klikamuks, who saw me shapeshifting and wants to talk?

Maybe Maris saw the killer … maybe that's the Bad Man.

I log onto the Internet and type an email to Tavian. I copy down the letter and ask what he thinks of it, then hit
send
.

The Bad Man. Well, at least that narrows down the suspects to men. But who? Randall? Another werewolf? Even Chris or Brock?

Time to learn more about the suspects.

“Brock Koeman,” I mutter, my fingers clacking the keys.

There's not much about Brock online. Just a trashy MySpace page with a photo of him drinking, and the Klikamuks High football team's page. There's no mention of him being bitten by werewolves, though I suppose they wouldn't release his name since he's a minor. I don't find much more about his brother, Chris.

Oh well. They seem too stupid and klutzy to be killing Others anyway.

What's Randall's surname again? I wrack my brain. Ah, Randall Lowell. Not much information on him, either. Wait, what's this? An online newspaper clipping.
Randall Lowell, 27, found guilty of petty theft. Sentenced to 30 hours community service.
He has a criminal record, then. Did Chloe know that when she hired him? Surely she Googled prospective employees. Maybe she dismissed the theft.

This doesn't tell me much about Randall's possible murderous tendencies, though. I wonder whether he's always been a member of that Canadian pack or if he joined recently. So I search for “werewolf pack Canada Randall Lowell.” No hits. I change the search to “werewolf pack Canada” and get a ton of sites. Got to narrow the search. I add “Winema.” Bingo:
… current Alpha of the Bitterroot Pack, Winema Crawford, took control in …
The link leads to me to a page called
Werewolf Packs of the Western United States and Canada
. Wow—why didn't I look before? I guess I assumed they weren't online.

There's a list of all the packs in the area. Bitterroot Pack is near the top.

BITTERROOT PACK

A large, secretive pack originating in Alaska and western Canada, the Bitterroot Pack has long had an unstable relationship with humans. In some areas, particularly British Columbia, this pack has earned an infamous reputation. Although members of this pack have been convicted for crimes ranging from theft to assault, there is no conclusive evidence that a Bitterroot werewolf has ever committed rape or murder. The current Alpha of the Bitterroot Pack, Winema Crawford, took control in 1997 after the previous Alpha, John Skerry, died of exposure in Yukon Territory, Canada. Winema seeks to improve the pack's reputation and welcome lone werewolves into the community. Under her leadership, the Bitterroot Pack has left their traditional hunting grounds and now appears to be traveling south. Where they plan to settle is unknown.

I read this once more, then lean back in my chair and frown, trying to imagine them trekking through wintry Canada in search of food and shelter. How did they manage with the tiny werepuppies? I guess Randall joined them recently, since Winema wants to welcome lone werewolves. Most importantly, they've never been convicted of murder—though that could just mean they've never been caught.

I don't know. It doesn't make any sense. If the Bitterroot Pack has already suffered such persecution, they don't seem the type to go after fellow Others. Why would they be killing in such a calculating, methodical way? When I think of werewolves, I think bloody kills and carcasses that get eaten. Unless they're eliminating competitors or trespassers on their territory—but that seems too bloodthirsty and far-fetched.

Then who is the killer?

I love the smell of the Evergreen State Fair. Onion rings and corn dogs, cotton candy and Belgian waffles, elephant ears and bad popcorn with fake butter. Ah, the joys of fair food. Add the animal smells of manure and alfalfa and you have Eau de Fair. And it's always so loud—live bands dueling with endless calliope music, the hiss of balloons being inflated, the babble of conversation punctuated by wailing babies.

My cell phone rings, and I extract it from my purse. Tavian's number.

“Hello?” I say. “Where are you?”

“I spy a gorgeous redhead,” he says.

I blush. “Oh really.”

He laughs. “You're supposed to spy a handsome guy standing by the cotton candy.”

“Tavian. There's tons of cotton candy.”

“Turn around.”

I do, and see Tavian waving at me. I sigh and wave back as he strolls over.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask.

“No particular destination,” he says. “So long as it's fun. Hungry?”

“Kind of.”

After buying us each an elephant ear and a snow cone, Tavian slips his hand in mine. Startled, I glance at him, and a smile ghosts across his face. I twine my fingers with his, a warm glow in my chest. We thread through the crowd, hand-in-hand. I see moms pushing strollers, old guys with big cameras, kids running loose while blowing bubbles, college students with blond dreadlocks, and high-school punks in ripped black finery. We pass one of the many stages. A troupe of goth-slash-tribal belly dancers shimmies and clangs finger cymbals. A banner proclaims
Mordika's Fledglings
. I snort—Vampire wannabes. Cool clothes, though. Some people dressed as Klingons and assorted other aliens strut past.

“Look at them,” I say. “Sometimes I think ordinary humans are weirder than Others.”

Tavian laughs. “True.” He slicks back his hair.

Beneath his fingers, it fades to corn-silk blond from the roots to the tips. I stare at him. He grins and does it again, his hair turning cotton candy pink, then rainbow, then flame colored.

“Tavian!” I whisper. “Are you insane?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You don't like it?”

“Wow,” says a little boy. Ice cream slides from the cone in his hand. “Is that magic?”

Tavian winks. “Why, of course.”

“Cool!” says the boy.

I steer Tavian away. “Turn it back,” I say, “before somebody else notices.”

He shakes his head and flings the illusion away. We keep walking.

A tall, light-haired guy waves at me. Not Zack—Justin. What if he's with Zack's family? I glance around, but he seems to be alone. Probably just enjoying his vacation. Then, as quickly as he appeared, Justin melts into the crowd again.

I spot a table of oddly shaped glass bottles full of rainbow sand. Some of them have dyed chicken feathers stuck in the sand.

“Ugh,” I say, “who would even buy that crap?”

Tavian shrugs. “Who knows.”

“Aficionados of fine sand products,” a guy says near my ear.

I snap my head in the direction of the voice. “Ben! Don't scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” Smiling, Ben nods at Tavian. “Hello, stranger.”

“Hey,” Tavian says, looking more than a little bemused.

Then I glower, remembering the Christian pamphlet I got in the mail. I don't trust Ben's current Mr. Nice act, and obviously he's going to tell Zack about Tavian and me. Whatever. They're going to judge me, anyway.

“I'm Benjamin Arrington,” he says with a big smile. “Also known as Ben. And you?”

“Tavian.”

“Let me guess,” Ben says. “Your parents invented it, or they named you something longer and more embarrassing. Correct?”

Tavian laughs. “The second, actually. Octavian Kimura.”

“Cool.” Ben nods, grinning. “Thought so.”

I narrow my eyes, annoyed by his perpetual goofiness. “I saw Justin just a few minutes ago. You should catch up with him.”

“Justin?” Ben cocks his head. “Where is he?”

“He went that way.” I point randomly into the crowd. “See you later, Ben.” I grab Tavian's arm and march him away.

“Who was that?” Tavian asks me.

“Brother of my ex.”

“Your ex?” He gives me a look.

“Yeah, I know, it's weird. Let's just forget about him.”

Over the hubbub, a dog barks. Tavian stops walking, and I glance at him. His eyes narrow. A big dog bounds through the people toward us.

Bollocks! It's Blackjack.

The pit bull zeroes in on Tavian, who stiffens. The fur along Blackjack's spine bristles. He sniffs and slobbers on Tavian's snow cone. Tavian clenches his fingers into a fist, as if afraid of getting them bit off.

I glance around for something to distract Blackjack, and then see Chris and Brock marching through the crowd.

“Come on.” I grab Tavian's wrist.

I drag him, or vice versa. Hard to tell. We zigzag through the people and duck behind a booth selling jewelry. Panting, we crouch in the shadows. Barking approaches, and Blackjack galumphs past.

“Hey! Get back here, you stupid dog!” Chris bellows.

I stifle a nervous laugh. The Koeman brothers run past us in pursuit of the pit bull.

“Those guys are total assholes,” I say. “I've run into them before.”

Tavian sucks in air through his nostrils and exhales slowly.

“You don't like dogs, do you?” I say.

He shakes his head. “They don't like me.”

“A kitsune thing?”

Tavian nods, his gaze on the ground, then rolls up his right sleeve. Two crescents of scars mark his upper arm—pale permanent tooth marks. I run my finger along them. He flinches away as if they still hurt.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Ah, no, it's nothing.” He manages a lopsided smile. “Stupid, really.”

Before I can say something else, he straightens and walks out from behind the booth. He tosses his drooled-on snow cone into a trash can. I jog after him, frowning. How the heck can I tell what he's thinking?

I catch up with him. “Tavian, wait.” I squeeze his hand; I want to see him smile again. “Let's ride the Ferris wheel.”

His face brightens. “Okay.”

Final rays of sunlight gild the fair, and the kicked-up dust becomes a golden haze. As we buy tickets for the Ferris wheel and stand in line, the sun slides beneath the horizon in a blaze of tangerine clouds.

“Pretty,” Tavian says, looking at me.

When am I going to stop blushing around him?

We climb into a seat on the Ferris wheel. I slide closer to him. We stay silent until it climbs high above the crowd.

“Did you get my email?” I ask. “About the letter from ‘Maris'?”

Tavian nods. “I'm not sure what to make of it. Maybe it's a prank. Or maybe it really is an Other who wants to talk.”

“Who do you think the Bad Man is?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Well, maybe the killer. Or maybe just made up.”

“Do you think it's worth writing back and leaving a letter by the river?”

“I don't know. If you really think it's worthwhile.”

“What if—”

“Gwen.” He raises his eyebrows. “We're at the fair. It's time for fun and frolicking, not serious detective mode.”

I sigh. “Sorry.”

“It's cool.”

We look away from each other. My gaze drifts over flashing lights, flags snapping in the wind, and crowds eddying through paths.

“So, can you change into any animal?” he asks. “Or is it mostly a black horse?”

I smile. “Any animal. Did you Google ‘pooka' like I Googled ‘kitsune'?”

He laughs. “Yes.”

“Is it true that kitsune have nine tails when they get older?”

“I have no idea. Probably I'd have to be really, really old. I only vaguely remember my kitsune mother, but I'm sure she had only one tail.” A smile shadows his lips. “I can remember her stroking her tail to make
kitsune-bi
. It would light our way at night.” He laughs again. “And confuse travelers.”

“Kitsune what?” I say.

“Kitsune-bi is the Japanese word for foxfire.” Tavian stares out over the fair, his gaze distant. “She liked to play tricks on people. She would make plums roll in front of passersby, but when they picked them up, the plums vanished. And I remember her making a flower grow out of the snow for me. It melted.”

“Sounds lovely.”

I want to ask what happened to her, but I don't want to make him sad.

Evening ripens into a blackberry sky seeded with stars. The moon peeks above the horizon, fat and nearing full, dripping silver juice. Tavian lowers his face, his eyelashes dark crescents on his cheeks. Shadows sharpen his high cheekbones. We hover at the apex of the Ferris wheel. He leans closer, until I can feel the warmth of him and smell the wild spice of his scent. His hand settles on my shoulder.