Other (19 page)

This is crazy. My own mind is betraying me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to think nothing, to be nothing. I imagine my thoughts swirling down a drain, my skull emptying. Only then can I climb back into bed. Only then can I sleep—but I don't dream.

It's on the news, of course:

“Late last night, two teenaged boys, aged seventeen and nineteen, were hospitalized after being attacked by werewolves on the outskirts of the Evergreen State Fair. Police report that the boys were unarmed and attempting to confront the werewolves. One of the boys was treated for minor injuries and released. The other remains in the hospital in critical condition. Both victims are receiving anti-
lycanthropic
treatment. Police advise that everyone in the area avoid werewolves for their own safety.”

Werewolves. Plural. Chris and Brock must have lied to the police.

Megan stands in the doorway to the kitchen. “What's anti-lycanthropic treatment?”

“It's a drug,” I say in a monotone. “It's supposed to keep people from turning into werewolves after they've been bitten.”

Mum stares at me. “What time were you at the fair?”

“Not sure. Late.” I can't look at her.

Mum cocks her head, her eyes narrowing. “Did you see anything?”

My face flushes. “No.”

“Gwen, I want you to be more careful. I don't want you going places alone, is that clear?”

“I wasn't alone,” I say. “Tavian went with me.”

“For heaven's sake,” Mum mutters. She starts chopping carrots again, faster. “Our own backyard isn't safe anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? Werewolves!”

I think of Randall, but then I think of Winema and the werepuppies.

“That's like me saying, ‘Humans!' You can't make generalizations like that.”

Mum gives me an eagle-eyed stare. “I don't want you associating with those kind of people just because they're Others. They're not like you.”

“But we—”

“We?” Mum stops chopping carrots. “Since when was it ‘we'?”

“Never mind.”

I slip away before she can extract the truth from me. I'm not hungry anymore, especially since it feels like I swallowed a block of ice.

In my bedroom, my cell phone beeps. Voicemail. I lie on my bed and listen.

“Hey, Gwen! It's me, Tavian. I was wondering if you might be interested in hanging out with me sometime. And by hanging out, I mean the wonderfully witty pleasures of my company, enhanced by the deliciousness of a picnic.”

I laugh, and a wave of warmth thaws the coldness inside me.

“Anyway, I was thinking Wilding Park, tomorrow. Call me back if you're interested. I totally owe you a good time. Talk to you later!”

I replay the message, then close my eyes with a sigh. I curl on my bed and let thoughts pool in my mind. All I want to do is go out with Tavian, take a walk, sit together, talk, maybe do more than talk … Why don't I? It's not like I'm going to get picked off by the murderer as soon as I go on a date. That's just paranoid. Right?

What the hell. I'm calling him back to tell the truth: I'd love to go.

nineteen

T
omorrow turns out to be a beautiful, sun-drenched day sweet with the smell of clover and alfalfa fields. The ascending warble of Swainson's thrushes embroiders the air. I'm wearing a loose cotton dress in cornflower blue. The fabric clings to my sweaty back, but I like how it ripples around my ankles in the wind.

Wilding Park makes me remember the times that Zack and I spent there. I shut those thoughts from my mind as I sit on a bench overlooking the Stillaguamish River.

“Hey Gwen!”

I twist around and see Tavian strolling toward me. “Where were you?”

“Sorry I'm late. Got held up at the bookstore.” He stops behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Hey, what's that?”

I frown up at him. “What's what?”

He's looking at the back of my neck. “I didn't know you had a tattoo. Cool.”

“Yeah. I got it on my sixteenth birthday, when my parents finally relented.”

Tavian grazes the clover with his fingertips, and I remember how Zack always used to kiss it. I lean away from him.

“What?”

“It tickles.”

“Really?” He gives me a crooked smile. “Just how ticklish are you?”

I'm sure my smile looks fake, so I give up. “My ex liked that tattoo.”

“Oh.” Tavian sobers. “Bad memories?”

“Well, not necessarily
bad
memories …” I see his face and switch in mid-sentence. “But I definitely want to forget them.”

“Now's a good time to forget,” he says, his eyes mysterious.

My heart thumps like crazy, but he walks to his car and pops open the back door. He brings over a picnic basket and pulls out two bowls, balancing them like scales. “Do you want the
abura-age
or the
kitsune udon
?”

“The what or the what-what?”

“Abura-age is deep-fried tofu.” Tavian makes a salivating noise. “Kitsune udon is a soup of abura-age with udon noodles. It's got kitsune in the name because foxes love it.” He winks. “Myself included.”

“Well then,” I say, “who am I to stand in the way of a fox and kitsune udon?”

He laughs, then sits and hands me the bowl of abura-age. The fried tofu, golden and crispy, tastes delicious. I lie on the lawn, feeling so decadent just savoring the sunshine, the good food, and the sweetness of clovers. Wind sizzles through the dry rushes by the river, and swallows dart and chirp high in the turquoise sky.

My mind wanders back to yesterday. “Did you see the news last night?”

“No.”

“Chris and Brock are in the hospital, being treated for lycanthropy.”

“Ah.” Tavian stares at the grass. “So the police found them, then.”

I braid and unbraid my hair, my fingers restless. “I can't help feeling bad,” I say. “Even though they deserved it, probably.”

“Gwen,” Tavian says, “you're too sensitive.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you don't have to care about every asshole in the universe.”

“I don't!”

His hand closes around mine, stopping my fidgety braiding. “I just hate seeing you get all worked up over things that aren't your fault.”

I sigh and lay back in the grass, staring at the clouds.

“It's a nice day, remember? You're supposed to be
enjoying
yourself.” He pretends to be exasperated, a teasing smile on his face.

“I know,” I say, and it comes out more mournful than I intended.

“All right.” Tavian climbs to his knees. “You asked for it. I'm going to make this day
so
nice you won't be able to resist.”

I hide my laughter behind my hand, my face hot.

He plucks a silver rose from thin air and offers it in a grand gesture. “Remember?”

“Uh, no …”

“
Der Rosenkavalier
? The part where Octavian presents the silver rose?”

“Oh! Right.” Blushing, I bring the flower to my nose. I catch a whiff of an ethereal fragrance—what starlight might smell like—before the rose vanishes.

“How sweet,” I say.

“You want sweet?” he says. “I'll show you sweet.” He gives me a cherubic smile, then grabs my hand and plants a dramatic kiss on it. I clap my other hand over my eyes. Tavian leans into my face to sing part of a horrible sappy song with lyrics that say, “You're my one and only.”

I burst out laughing. “Dear Lord,” I say, “please save me from this lunatic.”

“Trust me, this is not Lunatic Tavian. He's somewhere in a straitjacket.”

I laugh until my sides hurt, then realize Tavian's still holding my hand and looking intently at me. My laughter fades. He brushes a curl from my face. The tenderness in his eyes makes me feel soft and shaky. I want to kiss him so bad, but I'm not sure if it's—finally—the right moment. Is it?

We drift closer, slowly, like two leaves in a pond. For an instant I expect a passionate, breathtaking movie kiss. It's not—but it's real. Tavian's lips clumsily brush my cheek, then meet my mouth. He strokes my neck, his fingers leaving tingling in their wake. A sweet ache blossoms in my stomach.

When he withdraws, I catch my breath and try to imprint this feeling into my memory.

“I've wanted to do that for so long,” he murmurs.

“You could have done it sooner,” I say, trying to sound teasing.

He smiles. “Alas.”

My happiness deflates a little, and I wonder why. Then I remember—that sounds so much like what Zack would say.

“What is it?” Tavian says.

“Got to use the bathroom.” I force myself to smile. “Excuse me.”

I walk briskly to the toilets. Two girls are chatting and washing their hands. I stand by a mirror and pretend to fiddle with my hair. The girls leave, and I knead my forehead. I thought I was done with Zack. Shouldn't Tavian be enough to take his place? No, not take his place. Our relationship is definitely different. Better, even.

Am I falling in love with Tavian? Am I holding myself back?

I argue with my reflection. Admit it—you're scared of getting involved with another guy who might hurt you. But this is different, since Tavian knows I'm Other. Even better, he's Other too. Then why don't we talk about it more? Because you're scared to show anyone your Otherness. To be that intimate.

“Bollocks, bollocks, triple bollocks,” I mutter.

A silver-haired woman steps inside just then. Her eyes get big, and I blush.

Okay. I'm going back out there, and I'm not going to let my past define my present.

When I return, Tavian's lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, a butterfly fluttering idly by his head. He's reading a manga, one of those comics, in Japanese. I creep up behind him, my hands bent like talons.

“I can see your shadow,” he says calmly.

“Gah,” I say.

He rolls over and stares up at me, squinting in the sun. “What were you going to do?”

“Do?” I smile wickedly. “Well, I was going to scare you, but I might change my mind.”

He laughs, low in his throat.

I drop to my knees and crawl around him. “As the lioness stalks her prey,” I say in a fake British accent, “she smells a hint of fear.”

He smiles at me and crosses his hands behind his head. “This should be interesting.”

I growl and narrow my eyes, then pounce on him. I pretend to sink my teeth into his shoulder. My hands press his wrists down. I growl again and nibble his ear, then lick his cheek. “Tasty.”

“This won't actually involve eating, will it?” Tavian asks.

“Be quiet. The lioness is getting impatient.”

“Oh, right,” Tavian says, smirking. “Mustn't piss off the lioness.”

“Silence, prey.” I whack him on the shoulder for being so cheeky.

He laughs and pretends to fend off my blows. We play-fight for a minute, and then we're kissing again. It isn't as hesitant as before, but long and sweet and lingering. I relax into his arms, leaning against him. He smells musky and male—very sexy. My nails sharpen into claws that dig into the lawn on either side of him. I feel fox-fangs graze my lower lip. I moan and press closer. He moves his face toward the hollow of my neck, inhales my scent, then nips my shoulder, just hard enough to make me gasp.

“Wait, wait,” I say. “Slow down.”

We break apart. Tavian pushes himself up on his elbows and stares at me with foxy, marmalade eyes. I'm sure mine are glowing.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Got carried away.”

“No, it's okay.” I rake my fingers through my tangled hair. “It's half my fault.”

I glance around Wilding Park to see if anyone's staring. Nobody meets my eyes, but I'm sure they saw us. My face feels hot.

“Do I look … normal?” I ask in a low voice.

Tavian arches an eyebrow. “Normal?”

Embarrassed by his direct stare, I blink and look away. “You know what I mean.”

“I don't see how what you are—what we are—isn't normal.”

I shake my head. “You're so comfortable with your Otherness. I'm not like that.”

He frowns, as if he doesn't even understand what I'm saying.

“This is way too public,” I say.

Tavian smiles. “Let's go somewhere private. Somewhere we can be ourselves.”

A flock of fluttering whirls inside my stomach. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head down and arches an eyebrow. “I think you know, Gwen.”

“Okay.” Before my confidence can fail me, I stand. “Let's go.”

We leave the mowed lawn of Wilding Park behind and wade hand-in-hand through a sea of grass higher than our heads.

“I like this,” I say.

“Perfect for hide-and-seek,” Tavian says, and I'm not sure if he's joking or not.

We swim deeper into the grass, startled birds peeping in our wake. Through the greenery, I glimpse slivers of the water. The poplars ruffle stiffly in the breeze. I drink in the cool liquor of river-scented air, then stumble and drag us both down.

“Sorry!” I say.

He laughs. “Klutz.”

We sink into the grass, tangled together. I test the feel of his body against mine. My skin heats as he stares into my eyes. Tavian looks … beautiful. The blue-black sheen of his hair, the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheeks. His hands cradle my hips. Our lips meet again. We kiss for a long, long time. My pooka side paces inside me, but I'm not sure it's eager to emerge.

Sweat trickles down my nose and lands on his face, and I grimace. “It's so hot.”

He smiles. I love how it makes him look foxy. “There's one solution …”

“What?”

He pulls away from me and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Care to join me?”

“Uh …”

He laughs, flashing sharp teeth. “Shapeshifting?”

I shiver with delight, with fear. “Oh. Okay.” I don't know why I'm stammering. “Sure.”

Tavian turns his back on me. “I won't look if you don't want me to.”

“Thanks.”

I can't help glancing at him as he tosses aside his shirt. My gaze lingers on his golden skin, the muscles in his back and shoulders. When he starts to unzip his jeans, I wade deeper into the grass, aware that he's hearing me leaving just now.

With shaky fingers, I tug off my blouse and step out of my skirt. I bunch my underwear and hide it inside the skirt, hoping it's not too ugly—and hoping he won't even come across it in the first place. Talk about awkward.

Okay. Hurry up and shapeshift. I concentrate on
fox
, an animal I can't remember becoming before. My pooka side remains restless but unwilling. I clench my fists and thighs to urge it on. Nothing happens.

“You okay?” Tavian calls.

A mental image of him naked in the grass nearby flashes through my mind. “Yeah!”

Do it, Gwen. I shut my eyes and try to visualize a fox. I keep thinking of Tavian, already transformed. My heartbeat races and I force myself to breathe. The muggy air feels like wet wool in my throat, and sweat rolls down my back.

“I'm going to wait for you,” Tavian says. “Tell me when you're ready.”

“I won't be able to talk,” I say.

“Same here. Just yip or something.”

“Okay.”

Why isn't this working? What am I doing wrong? My stomach cramps, but nothing happens. I drop to my knees and bow my head.

“Tavian,” I gasp. “I can't do it.”

“Gwen? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” My throat tightens. I can't breathe. I suck in air. “I just can't.”

“Wait. I'm coming.”

I shake my head, but of course he can't see me.

Grass rustles nearby and Tavian jogs up to me, zipping his jeans. His eyes glimmer orange, and his ears have already sharpened into foxy points. I huddle on the ground, crossing my arms to cover my nakedness.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, not looking at him. “Most of the time I have to force my pooka side to quiet down, not the other way around.”

“Gwen. Relax.” He drops to his knees beside me. “Just let it happen.”

“I am!”

“You can't force it.”

“It's not working. Especially not with you watching. I don't want you to see.”

“Why?”

“It's ugly, I'm sure.”

“Gwen.” He kisses my cheek. “I know you can do it.”

I nearly start grumbling about the futility of pep talks, but he leaves me then. Part of me wishes he had some magic trick to make it happen, but of course it's all within my own power. I exhale and make myself unclench my muscles. Tingling builds in my chest, and then a wave of transformation sweeps over me.

I suck in my breath, my vision blacking. Warmth spreads through my body. My eyesight returns slowly, and I find myself staring at two paws—my paws. Dizzy, I sit up and wrap my bottlebrush tail primly around my legs.