Other (2 page)

I got a few sympathetic comments about my post from my friends—most are of the online variety—and another from an anonymous poster. Anonymous said,

i think my ex girlfriend gave me that werewolf disease. i'm starting to feel really screwed up around the full moon. i'm scared. can you help me?

Lycanthropy can be transmitted via bites, and it's also an STD. Same with vampirism and all the other bloodborn ways of becoming Other. The first transformations can be brutal on the mind and body. Is some poor clueless guy really asking me for help? I type a quick reply.

Are you sure it's lycanthropy? You should check out WereRecovery.com. They have a lot of info. Hope this helps. I know lycanthropy can be hard to deal with sometimes.

Within a minute, the guy replies.

so your a werewolf? knew your a bitch. you and your fucked up faerie friends disgust me.

My face flames, then goes cold. I see a faint golden glow reflected on my monitor—my eyes, burning with anger. My fingers rattle the keys.

If you don't like my blog, don't read it. And for your information, I am not a werewolf. Though I'm sure you are a pathetic little parasite infecting the Internet. Crawl back up whatever asshole you came from.

I almost post the comment, then hesitate. Do I really want this marring my blog? With a sigh, I delete all the comments by Anonymous.

A new comment pops up. I hope it isn't Anonymous, back for a flame war. But it's Takehiko, one of my online friends. He's a talented artist who draws manga. Like, cartoons of these Japanese fox spirits.

Allow me to sic many rabid foxes on Mr. Anonymous Moron.

I reply, relieved.

Don't worry. I've banished the comments to oblivion via the delete button.

Good riddance.

Takehiko doesn't write more. Alas.

He posted a cute photo of himself on his blog awhile ago, then deleted it, probably out of shyness. With his high cheekbones and dark eyes shaded by tousled, spiky hair, he almost looks like a Japanese version of Johnny Depp. Yes, I'll admit I have a mild and purely fanciful e-crush. Though I already have a boyfriend.

Oh, look. An email from my aforementioned boyfriend. My heart does a little skip.

From: Zack

Subject: How art thou today, milady?

I'm already smirking. Zack has a wicked sense of humor. He's also really into medieval history, so we've had this fake courtly speech thing going on.

Good morrow, Lady Gwenhwyfar.

I blush. I've told him not to call me that, multiple times. Leave it to my mother to bestow upon me a ridiculously convoluted Welsh name. I'm amazed anyone can even spell it. Hey, I couldn't until second grade.

Fair Gwen, I am not skilled at expressing mine feelings well. For I am but a humble knight, and no sweet-tongued troubadour. But for you, I shall try. It hath been far too long since I gazed upon thy scarlet locks and comely face. Mine fellow knights thinketh me moonstruck with love. But you knoweth these art mine heart's true wishes. ‘Tis a fine day, as both dragons have left the castle unguarded. Wilt thou be at the gates today? Mayhap we shall stroll through the park on this fine day. I shall look for you and hope.

Your faithful knight,

Sir Zachary the Smitten

I grin. “Dragons” is code for Zack's parents, “castle” for his house. His parents forbid him to have girls in his bedroom, so of course he invites me over every chance he gets.

Humming, I trade my pajamas for a strawberry print tank top and black leggings. I try to tame my wild red curls, then grab the Bean—my purse, the exact shape and color of a kidney bean—and head for the door.

“I'm going to Zack's!” I call, before my parents can detain me.

“Be safe!” Mum calls from her office, clacking away on her keyboard
.
She works as a programmer for a little software company. They make computer games, mostly science fiction role-playing ones. They used to do fantasy RPGs, where you chop up trolls and werewolves, but that stuff isn't politically correct anymore. Besides, mainstream America seems wary of anything magical. I ponder public opinion about Others as I ride the bus, but come to no great revelations.

Zack's family lives in a neighborhood of posh house-clones. Manicured shrubbery, three-car garages, a fountain across the street. His house has an imposing arch over the door, as if the building has a huge ego. The designer decorations change like clockwork with the seasons, from artificial evergreens to pastel eggs in sterile nests.

I ring their doorbell and hear a cheery chiming version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I'll admit I freaked out when I first learned just how religious Zack's parents are, since Christians and Others have been enemies since biblical times. But they seem like such genuinely nice people.

Of course, they don't know what I am. Neither does Zack.

The door sweeps open. As usual, I'm dazzled by his smile. “Hey, Zack.”

“Greetings, Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

I roll my eyes and start to say something, but Zack bends down—he's quite tall—and silences me with a kiss. His hand curves around my waist as if it's meant to fit there. His touch kindles a warm glow inside me. I still can't believe this guy is my boyfriend and has been for over a year. A knot of guilt tightens in my stomach. Why haven't I told him I'm Other, even after all this time, all these opportunities?

I pull back, face flushed, and attempt not to look giddy. “How's it going?”

“Great.”

I close the door behind me. The soft click of the lock makes my heart beat a little faster.

Zack pulls a rubber band off his ponytail. He shakes out his long blond hair, smooths it with his hands, then twists the rubber band around it again. I can't help staring. He's just so … handsome. Once, when we went to a medieval fair, I rented an ill-fitting wench dress and he got fake chain mail. I looked hilariously sluttish, but he looked like a real knight. A crusader, with the cross necklace he always wears.

“Come on up,” he says, climbing the stairs to his bedroom.

Zack's room has a faintly dusty, boyish smell to it. Hard to describe. Like a mixture of his sweat, laundry detergent, and an overall lived-in smell. I like it, and always breathe deep when I step inside. He has a tapestry of King Arthur above the headboard of his bed, a replica broadsword mounted on the wall, and shelves burdened with books. Like I said, he's really into medieval stuff. I spot new knight figurines on his desk.

“Cool,” I say, reaching for one.

He catches my wrist. “Caution: wet paint. I was just working on them.”

I nod and crouch to look closer. The detail's fantastic: feathers on their helmets, tiny dragons and unicorns—Others—on their shields. That is, Others hunted to extinction back in ye good olde medieval times, when killing dragons filled people with religious zeal, and the healing powers of unicorn horn filled them with greed.

I wonder what Zack's parents think of Others. What he thinks.

“So, did you want to go out? Maybe to Wilding Park?” I ask.

“Sure.” He smiles. “We can spend a little time here first.”

Zack strokes aside my hair and kisses the four-leaf clover tattoo at the nape of my neck. For luck, he always says. And it always liquefies my knees. I sink onto the chair at his desk, trying to look as if I planned on it. He spins me to face him. I stare into his eyes, blue as the hottest flame. Shivers race down my spine.

I hook my fingers behind his neck and drag him into a kiss. His soft moan urges me on. I tug him to his knees and dig my nails into his shoulders as if marking him as mine. His arms tighten around my waist. I nip his ear and he seems to like it, so I test my teeth on his shoulder. When I bite his neck, he yanks back.

“Ouch!” He touches the teeth marks, and his fingers come away red with blood.

I'm breathing hard, my eyes stinging. Glowing. I turn away and shut them fast. Oh crap. I run my tongue over my teeth and found they've sharpened into feline fangs. What happened? I've never lost control before.

two

I
keep my eyes shut—I can't bear to look at Zack. Any second now, he's going to say something horrible, be horrified of me. My muscles tighten, but I'm not sure why. An instinct to brace myself, perhaps, or run away.

“Gwen?” he says. “Are you okay?”

When I'm sure my eyes are normal, I open them. Instead of disgust and shock on Zack's face, he looks surprised, bemused. I look at his neck and wince, though the bite isn't as nasty as I thought. I grit my teeth until they return to human bluntness.

“Sorry,” I say. “I … I got a little carried away.”

Zack arches an eyebrow. “A little?”

Scalding blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away from him, my hair curtaining my face.

“Hey.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Don't be embarrassed. I like seeing a little of your wild side.”

I laugh feebly. “Yeah.” If only he knew just how wild.

Zack touches the bite again. “Let me clean it up.”

He heads for the bathroom, and I slump in the chair. Bollocks. Why do I feel so turned on? And why is that waking up my Otherness? I shouldn't have shapeshifted last night. I must have really riled up my pooka side.

Zack returns, holding a tissue to his neck. He brings it to his face. “I think it's clotting.”

Clotting. How romantic. “I'm so sorry,” I say.

He stares at me. “You, uh, have some on your mouth.”

I lick my lips and taste blood. My stomach squirms. He hands me another tissue, and I wipe it off.

The corner of Zack's mouth curves upward. “Bloodsucker.”

I try to laugh, but my face burns. “Ugh. Vampires are disgusting.”

“I don't know.” His smile widens. “They're kind of sexy.”

If only he knew what I'd just blogged about. I wish he'd stop joking around and say what he actually thinks of Others, bloodborn or natural born.

I wrinkle my nose. “I don't think so.”

He nods. “My parents say they're soulless. Children of Lilith and all that.”

My heartbeat stumbles, then comes back, pounding harder than ever. Some Christians interpret the Bible to mean that Lilith's demonspawn offspring are what we now call Others. Does Zack actually believe this?

“Oh?” I try to sound flippant. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “Probably just stories to spice up the Bible.”

“You do know that vampirism is nothing more than a glorified disease. They shouldn't even be called Others, probably. Not the same at all.”

“Same as what?”

My heart thumps against my ribs. “Others who are natural born. You know. Not bitten.”

“Close enough,” he says.

I really, really wish I could set him straight.

“Anyway …” Zack slides his hand up my back.

I exhale. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue. My fingers brush the bite on his neck. He flinches, but lets me touch it.

“That's one heck of a hickey,” he says.

I groan. “Heck of a hickey? Lame, Zack, lame.” But I'm smiling.

“I tried,” he says, leaning in for a kiss that I dodge.

I glance at the clock. “We should get going if we want to catch the bus to Wilding Park.”

“All right,” Zack says, and I can't read his voice.

As we sit together on the bus, he puts his arm over my shoulders and stares out the window, his eyes cool. I never thought we would be together so long—or get so intimate. I still haven't told him I'm a virgin. Or that I'm Other.

I can't keep lying to him. He doesn't deserve it. I don't.

Zack and I walk through Klikamuks, hand-in-hand. Wilding Park is in the middle of town, on the Stillaguamish River. Dollops of lemon meringue cloud float high in the sky. Balsam poplars rustle by the river and scent the air with their honey-spice resin. Kids scamper around, shrieking, and a guy does tricks with a kite.

We lounge on a lawn spangled with dandelions and I inhale the clover-sweet hay-smell of grass. I want to shapeshift into a cat, curl up, and snooze. Cats can get away with that. I sigh and shut my eyes. Maybe the rest of today will be peaceful.

“Your hair,” Zack says.

“What about it?”

“It looks like a halo.” He fingers one of my curls.

I smile, keep my eyes shut, and let myself relax. Zack's sweat has a subtle musky aroma, sweet as rain and earthy as truffles—intoxicating. Warm breath fans across my face. My eyelids snap open. Zack is leaning over me, a hairsbreadth away from kissing me. He touches my cheek, strokes my neck, and lets his fingers linger on the pulse leaping there. The cross dangles from his neck, winking in the sun. I can't look away.

“Where did you get that from, anyway?” I say, to distract both him and myself.

He frowns. “Get what?”

I catch the cross between two fingers. “This.”

“My grandmother gave it to me before she passed away.”

“Oh.”

Zack leans closer to me. The scattering of blond stubble on his jaw glints.

“All these people are watching,” I say.

His mouth twitches. With amusement or annoyance? “You never cared before.”

Before I can speak again, he knots his hands in my hair and kisses me without restraint. I clench fistfuls of grass.

I remember my first kiss with Zack (my first kiss with a guy, if you discount a kindergarten birthday party). We met when we were both volunteering at the Klikamuks Public Library. One evening, the power went out. Pitch black. We blundered into each other, whispering, laughing. Zack found a flashlight and turned it on—but it dropped from his hand and rolled onto the ground when our lips met.

When he withdraws, he frowns. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, somewhat breathlessly. Though of course it's a lie.

“You seem tense. You're not still worried about the bite thing, are you?”

I shrug, awkwardly with him leaning against me like that. I've got to tell him. It's no use trying to keep pretending I'm fine.

“Don't worry about it,” he says. He runs his hands through my hair. I wish he wouldn't—it's making this harder.

“I want to ask you something,” I say.

“Go ahead.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. He lifts one eyebrow.

“You don't know everything about me,” I say. The words sound staccato, squeezed by the tightness in my throat.

He nods. “That's okay. I want to get to know you better.”

“Yeah,” I say lamely.

Zack plucks a dandelion and starts tearing off petals. A brutal version of she loves me, she loves me not.

“Let's go walk by the river,” I say. “Find someplace more private.”

His eyes brighten, and I regret my choice of words. I want to talk, not make out.

We zigzag down a paved trail to a beach along the Stil­laguamish River. Egg-sized pebbles clatter underfoot. The river always smells like green, sun-warmed water. It usually tastes good, too: lukewarm, a little cloudy, and sweet. But when I cup my hands and bring river water to my lips, a sour smell stops me. I hear the faraway drone of an airplane and faint conversation, but no birdsong, no peeping frogs.

“So quiet today,” Zack says.

I nod and twist my toes inside my sneakers. I let him lead me to a bench nestled in salmonberry bushes.

“Zack?” I say.

“What?”

As lame as this sounds, I don't—can't—say anything.

“Maybe we've both been trying to say the same thing.” He clasps my hand and rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

“Um …” I laugh nervously. “Have we?”

“It's okay.” Zack circles his arm around me. “I totally understand.”

“You do?”

“It has to be the right time. I believe sex should be special.” He flushes slightly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I blink several times and withdraw. “I'm glad you think so.”

He nuzzles the hollow of my neck, sending a stab of desire through me.

“Let's walk.” I'm amazed how lighthearted I sound.

Zack tries to hold my hand, but I pretend not to notice. I reach for a pebble glinting with mica. Then I freeze. Right beside my foot, a dead brown bird lies spread-winged, still as a stone, its beak open piteously.

“Oh.” The word escapes me as a puff of air. “Poor thing.”

“Don't touch it,” Zack says. “It could've died of disease.”

I frown at the bird and keep walking. Beneath the fallen leaves of a bush, I find a dead tree frog. Then another, nearby.

My frown deepens. “Maybe some pesticide got into the river.”

“Probably,” Zack says.

We find two more frogs by the riverbank. They lie with their legs splayed and pale bellies bared. They look pitiful.

“It's got to be poison,” I say. “Maybe we should stay away from the water.”

Zack nods.

I walk away from the Stillaguamish and climb a pebbly slope. On the other side lies a backwater pool. And—

“Holy crap.” I suck in my breath. “Zack!”

He jogs up the slope and stops beside me. “What … ?”

Two bodies float in the pool. A man, facedown, duckweed clinging to his shirt. A woman, staring heavenward. Her long, dark tangle of hair drifts over her marble-pale arms. Waves lap her pregnant belly.

Zack presses his hand to his mouth, even though I don't smell anything. They must have just died. I slide one foot forward, then the other. I see myself reflected in her unseeing blue eyes. She was—still is—beautiful. A mosquito larva swims between her cupid's bow lips and rests on her pearly teeth. Her skin looks silvery, though that might be the water. I squint at her hands, at a translucence between her fingers …

“Gwen.” Zack sounds hoarse. “Let's go. We need to get help.”

“They're already dead,” I say flatly.

“We need to tell someone.”

I nod, but don't move when he tugs on my arm. I can't stop staring.

“It's okay,” Zack says. “Come on. It's okay.” He seems to be saying it to himself.

When I at last look away, I realize what I saw. Webbing between her fingers. “Water sprites,” I whisper.

Zack doesn't say anything. I hope he didn't hear me. After he calls 911, we clasp hands and walk away from the pair of bodies. I can't stop shivering, even in the sun. We huddle together on a log until the police come.

The police head for the bodies and check futilely for signs of life. A woman with steel-wool hair introduces herself as Officer Sharpe from the sheriff's office. She asks for ID. Zack digs out a driver's license and I show my learner's permit. Officer Sharpe inspects them. Another officer starts questioning Zack.

Officer Sharpe asks me why we were here and how we found the bodies. I try not to wilt under her stern stare. My voice quavers as I answer, and sweat wets my armpits. Please don't ask me if I'm Other. Not in front of Zack.

The CSI unit arrives and ropes off the pond with yellow tape. Surely they'll uncover the truth about the water sprites.

“Gwen?” Officer Sharpe snaps me out of it. “Did you?”

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“Did you know these people?”

I shake my head hard. Too vigorously, maybe, because Officer Sharpe frowns and scribbles something on her notepad.

“Did they drown?” I ask, playing dumb. Water sprites breathe water just as well as air.

“We won't know until we run some tests.” She scribbles some more. “You're free to go. We might follow up with a detective.”

“A detective?” My voice sounds squeaky.

“Don't worry,” Officer Sharpe says briskly. “Standard procedure.”

I exhale and move into Zack's arms. “I want to go home.”

He hugs me. “Let's go.”

We're silent all the way back to the bus stop, until we sit on the bus stop bench.

“Poor people,” Zack says softly. “I wonder how they drowned.”

I say nothing.

That night, I dream of cold white flesh and death-clouded eyes. My toes touch the shore of a black pool. Water sprites reach for me, pondweed clinging to their arms.

“Help us,” they whisper.

“I can't,” I say, my gut twisting. “You're dead.”

They stroke my ankles with icy fingers. “You are one of us.”

I run away and let them die.