Other (3 page)

On the morning news, I learn their names: Nadia and Douglas Nix. They lived in a suburban area on the outskirts of Klikamuks. I didn't even know they existed. How many of us are out there, too scared to even admit our Otherness? And they died before I could ever meet them … all because of pesticide in the river.

Pesticide. Wouldn't it take a
lot
to kill two people? And the nearest field is maybe ten miles from Wilding Park. If some farmer really did dump a lot of horrible chemicals into the river, there would be dead fish all over the place, not a few animals by one backwater pool. Unless, of course, somebody poisoned it on purpose.

Were the water sprites murdered?

When I tell my parents my theory, they both sit at the kitchen table and stare at me.

“Gwen,” Mum says, her face tight. “What you saw must have been … shocking. But there's no proof of poison.”

“It was an accident,” Dad says. “Let the police handle this.”

“It wasn't,” I say. “Water sprites
can't
drown.”

Dad scratches his beard. “How are you sure they're water sprites?”

“They had webbing between their fingers.”

Mum shakes her head. “That's a medical condition, you know. In humans.”

“How common is it?” I say.

“I'm not sure,” she says. “But Gwen … I wouldn't worry.”

“On the Internet,” I say, “it says water sprites have thin skin, like frogs. The poison must have killed them that way.”

“You can't believe everything on the Internet,” Dad says.

“Whatever!” I throw up my hands. “I know what I saw.”

My parents share a long-suffering look that irritates the crap out of me. I stalk upstairs and shut—okay, slam—my bedroom door. I hate how they think they know everything about every Other on the planet just because I'm half pooka.

I grab my cell phone and call my number one confidant. Drat, voicemail. Oh well, I'll leave a message and then go to her place. “Hey, Chloe, it's Gwen. I'm going to head over to the B&B and see if you're there. I need somebody to commiserate with. Life sucks, as usual. Not to sound emo or anything. Okay, see you later. Bye.”

I jog to the bus stop, my throat tight. I neglect the bench and kick pinecones into the ditch until the bus comes. I need to talk to somebody. On the ride to Klikamuks, the heat of my anger cools and my skin feels clammy. The bus rumbles over a bridge and crawls along Main Street. Tourists prowl the sidewalks, lured by antique stores with silly things like amethyst cut-glass vases, Victorian ladies' gloves and boots, and porcelain cat figurines. I get off and walk past cottages with gingerbread trim, then stop outside a sunny yellow B&B called Bramble Cottage.

It looks oh-so-quaint, a perfect tourist trap. Postcard-worthy roses clamber over the walls. Almost all are abloom, and perfume drifts across the street. The owner, Chloe Amabilis, happens to be a garden addict—and a dryad.

I hadn't even met Chloe until two years ago, when I got lost in the forest and she saw me shapeshifting. I almost panicked, but after a tense standoff, she revealed she was also Other. I was totally flabbergasted to discover a dryad. They're an endangered species—only a handful remain after centuries of logging. Dryads used to be worshipped in Greece as the guardian spirits of trees, but now a lot of people see them as squatters on valuable land. Chloe emigrated to America in search of friendlier forests.

I hear hammering inside Bramble Cottage. When I open the door, I see a guy on a ladder tacking up wooden trim in the foyer. His paint-flecked jeans droop low, weighted by the tools on his belt. I try not to stare at his butt.

This has to be the new guy Chloe's been going on and on about. Chiseled, rugged, stubbly. Just her type. When he sees me, he pulls off his headphones. I hear classical music. Huh. For some reason, I expected heavy metal.

“Are you Randall Lowell?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He has a low, husky voice. “How'd you know?”

“Chloe mentioned you.”

“Ah.” Randall brushes his hair—shaggy dark brown, with a streak of silver—from his eyes. “She's upstairs.”

“Thanks.”

I climb the creaky narrow staircase, gripping the banister. I don't know why more Victorians didn't break their necks. Upstairs, sunbeams stripe the faded pink carpet and the botanical prints of magical herbs. On the wallpaper, faeries are darting through vines. Not the fluttery Tinkerbell kind, which is a stereotype started by faeries to befuddle humans, but exquisitely elegant winged people with fire in their eyes.

“Chloe?” I call.

“In here,” she says, behind a half-open bedroom door.

I step inside. A cabbage-rose rug covers most of the floor. Chloe is dusting a collection of rose-shaped chamber pots. A sunbeam slants through the dormer window and glimmers on the corn-silk hair swaying at her slender waist. She wears a dress of unbleached, 100 percent organic cotton, being a true tree-hugger. I clear my throat, and Chloe glances back at me, her eyes the serene green of a woodland glade.

“Gwen.” She touches my arm, and I catch a whiff of her sweet scent. Sometimes it reminds me of an orchard of ripening pears; other times, of hay drying in the sun. “Is everything all right? You look a little pale.”

“Except for discovering two dead bodies, I'm okay.”

“What?” Chloe's eyes widen. “You aren't joking, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Let's go upstairs to my room,” she says. “I don't want any guests interrupting us.”

“Definitely,” I say, with a crappy attempt at a laugh.

I follow Chloe upstairs to her attic bedroom. There's a prim little bed in the corner, though she prefers slumbering in trees as often as possible.

She sits at the foot of her bed and pats the quilt beside her. “Now tell me everything.”

three

A
s I talk to Chloe, I twist a strand of hair around my finger, tighter and tighter.

“Randall mentioned rumors about water sprites,” she murmurs, “but I didn't believe him.”

“Well, I'm pretty certain. Considering how I actually saw them and everything.” My sarcasm doesn't quite mask the wobble in my voice. “And the more I think about it, the more I think it couldn't have been an accident.”

“Murder?”

“Yes. My parents don't believe me at all, which I find absolutely insane.”

Chloe purses her lips. “I didn't see the bodies, so I can't be sure.”

“I just can't believe they lived right here in Klikamuks! How many Others are there?” I laugh bitterly. “Why can't I meet any live ones?”

She gives me a serious stare. “Others have good reason to be secretive. You know that.”

“Of course,” I sigh.

Chloe told me how there used to be more Others in the area, ages ago, back before Washington was even a state. She would dance by moonlight with wood wives, sprites who emigrated from the forests of Germany in search of virgin trees. The native Others, whose names Chloe can't pronounce, would join them on occasion with drumming and dancing of their own. But those days are gone.

The more humans there are, the fewer Others. A pretty reliable ratio, wherever you are. Though some of the more communal Others have adapted to the urban life—I hear there's a big population of faeries in New York (you can spot them at operas and posh parties), and gnomes scurry in the subway tunnels. And, of course, vampires always live where there are plenty of humans, their preferred prey.

“Perhaps your parents are right,” Chloe says softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone may have dumped a hazardous liquid into the pool rather than disposing of it properly. Death by carelessness.”

“Maybe.” I growl and rake my fingers through my hair, then wince as they snag a snarl.

“Gwen. I know you're upset by this, but there's no need for excessive stress.” She lays her hand on my knee. “You need to hang loose.”

Sometimes Chloe gets her decades of slang mixed up. I laugh. “Hang loose?”

“Archaic already?” she says, sounding faintly surprised.

“Oh yeah,” I say.

“By the way …” Chloe lowers her voice. “Did you hear them last night?”

“What?” I say, my train of thought derailed.

“I was sleeping in my favorite bigleaf maple when I heard howls.”

“Oh! Right.” I mime smacking my forehead. “Werewolves?”

“Perhaps,” Chloe says, her eyes guarded.

“I wish they hadn't come here.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes,” I say, even though I know she doesn't want me to.

Chloe frowns out the window.

“Well,” I say, “they're going to stir up a lot of trouble.”

She purses her lips. “Can you be sure of that?”

“No, but they're not exactly a poster child for Others.”

“Gwen,” Chloe says, “it's not as if all werewolves are inherently evil.”

I sigh dramatically. “A bunch of them are criminals who bit other criminals on purpose.”

“And even more of them are innocent people trying to live as normally as they can with an ostracized, contagious disease.”

“That's what all the bloodborn Others are,” I say. “Diseased.”

“And if you had a disease, would you want people to treat you differently?”

“Why are you always the voice of maturity?” I mutter. “It's no fun.”

Chloe looks twenty-one, but being about two centuries old, she has plenty of words of wisdom. And she's not afraid to share them.

“Gwen,” she says. “Just leave the werewolves alone.”

“So long as they leave me alone.”

She stares at me. I hate how she can make me squirm. An awkward silence stretches out, like bubblegum between sidewalk and shoe.

Finally, I say, “You know Zack and me?”

“Yes.”

“I still haven't told him. About me.”

“You really should.”

“I know.” My face warms. “This morning … we got kind of carried away …”

“Carried away how?”

The heat in my face intensifies. “It's not what you're thinking. I bit him.”

Chloe's mouth wavers between a frown and a smile. “Some people like that.”

“I mean I
bit
him. Drew blood.” I lower my voice. “I shouldn't have shapeshifted last night. It really stirred up my pooka side.”

“Has this happened before?”

I shake my head.

Chloe sighs, her forehead furrowed. “Gwen, if you're not ready to tell him the truth, you're not ready to sleep with him.”

“I know!” My voice sounds shrill. I glower at myself.

Chloe looks me in the eye. “Promise you'll tell him soon. Okay?”

“Okay. Sheesh. It's like I have two mothers.”

“It's for your own benefit.” Chloe smiles. “It's a lovely day outside. You should be out frolicking or something.”

I punch her lightly on the arm. She laughs, then heads downstairs. I follow.

Randall hops off the ladder. “Hey, boss. I finished the trim. What next?”

“Boss?” Chloe sniffs. “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

He grins. “Okay, but you are my boss. Right?”

I waggle my eyebrows suggestively at Chloe. She steps on my toes as she passes.

“Come out in the garden,” she tells Randall. “I need help with some trellises.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And don't call me ma'am, either.”

“Yes, ma—”

She stops him with a glare, though she's smiling.

Randall looks at her with puppy-dog eyes. “What am I supposed to call you?”

“Chloe,” she says. “Just Chloe.”

I hum a James Bond theme song and stroll outside, feeling much better.

“Gwen!” Mum calls. “Come see the news!”

I close all webpages and jog downstairs.

On the TV, an unblinking woman with fakey blonde hair delivers the eleven o'clock news. “… Family on the outskirts of Klikamuks saw two near their home.”

“Two what?” I say.

Megan sits on the couch, her wide eyes full of reflected light. “Werewolves!”

She says it like it's something exciting, straight out of a movie, and I can't pretend that a thrill didn't just skitter down my spine. Sure, there might be a lot of bloodborn in the world, but that doesn't mean you see them too often.

“I
knew
it,” I mutter.

It switches to a shot of a family standing in the rain. The pasty-faced dad points to a forest behind a chain-link fence. “They were right there, behind the fence. God, I hope it's tall enough to keep them out.”

“It used to be so safe around here,” the mom says.

A little girl with white-blonde pigtails pipes up. “I saw them. They were huge. The boy one pee-peed on the fence.”

The dad nods. “Do you think they're claiming this as their territory?”

We never get to hear an answer, because it cuts back to the newswoman. “Sheriff Royle has some comments as well.”

Sheriff Royle leans against the door of his police cruiser. He hooks his fingers in his belt and stares into the camera with half-closed eyes. “Local law enforcement is well aware of the threat. We're doing everything we can to keep the people of Snohomish County safe.”

“And have werewolves perpetrated any crimes?” asks a newsman.

Sheriff Royle squints. “Why, of course. Killing game outside of hunting season. We can't prove anything else till we catch them, though there's been a surge in vandalism. And a masked man robbed an espresso stand two weeks ago, remember?”

“An espresso stand?” Dad says. “I didn't know werewolves like coffee.”

“Nicholas,” Mum says. “This is serious.”

“Wonder if they crave caffeine on the full moon?”

“Dad,” I groan. I can't believe my own parents sometimes.

“Wait, what's this?” Megan says, turning back to the TV.

The fakey blonde newswoman returns. “Late last night, a clerk discovered the body of a female vampire in the alley behind the 7-Eleven in Klikamuks. Her wounds were most likely inflicted by an iron stake, and her fangs had been removed. Police are working to identify the body.” She speaks so calmly that I shiver.

“Vampire?” Dad says. “Sounds like clan rivalry.”

Mum frowns. “I didn't think there were any vampire clans in the area.”

Dad shrugs. “Vampires roam.”

I stare at my parents. I can't believe how calmly
they're
talking.

“Vampires and werewolves are mortal enemies, right?” Megan says.

I snort. “That's Hollywood for you.”

Megan sighs and shakes her head, as if she's so much more mature than me.

I stalk upstairs. My collection of fish toys stares at me from a big glass fishbowl on my nightstand. I hug a ratty old shark to my chest, feeling small and childish. I slide open my window and lean into the darkness rushing past like a river. The rich smell of rain-soaked earth fills my nostrils.

Werewolves. I hope they aren't as dangerous as some of the stories make them sound. As I told Chloe, I've heard that a bunch of them were criminals who got bitten and hid out in the woods, away from law enforcement, occasionally skulking into town to steal and rough up anybody who got in their way. Nothing more than thuggish brutes. How big is the pack? Why did they come here? Would they be friend or foe to an Other like me?

My legs tense, seized by a sudden urge to run. Not away from the werewolves, but toward them.

Wait a minute. Reality check, Gwen. Just because the werewolves and I are both Other doesn't mean we'll hold hands and skip in a circle together, best friends forever. They're probably just as bloodthirsty and beastly as everyone thinks. Not that I've ever gotten close enough to a werewolf to interview one. That might be interesting … though I doubt we'd have anything in common at all. I inhale slowly and shut the window.

The morning dawns overcast, with a mizzle drifting down from the blank white sky. That's a cross between mist and drizzle, for those who are rain challenged. Dad bursts into my bedroom just as I'm getting dressed.

“Daaad!” I wail.

He shuts the door. “Sorry, Gwen!” he says cheerfully. “Feel like driving today?”

“Driving where?” I ask, somewhat suspicious.

“Into town. So you can practice for your license. Oh, and I want to buy cashews at Safeway. Your mother forgot to get some.”

I knew it. Dad needs to satisfy his cashew craving. “Okay,” I say. “But let me eat breakfast first.”

“You're the last one down,” Dad says.

I grunt neutrally and try to tame my hair.

The drive to Klikamuks is uneventful—except for the old lady in a slow Buick who I get stuck behind and don't have the guts to pass, and the driver who honks at me because I don't screech into a roundabout without yielding to traffic, and the panic stop I do for the stupid bike rider who materializes out of nowhere. When I finally park outside the Safeway, the car still intact, I peel my sweaty hands from the wheel.

I always find grocery stores surreal. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, wide aisles tempting me to run, vivid ads tugging my gaze this way and that. It seems so far removed from actually eating. Sometimes I have a strange impulse to climb shelves or rip open packaging and taste everything. But I mustn't succumb to pooka mischief.

I follow Dad to the Promised Aisle that contains cashews. He really is addicted.

We pass various products inspired by Others. There's unicorn horn soap (they stopped adding horn ages ago, ever since unicorns died out, but still claim it has “added purity”). Vampire toothpaste (which really should be fangpaste) promises to bleach bloodstains. A lot of seafood is supposedly caught in mermaid-safe nets. Marketers prefer “good” Others like mermaids and unicorns.