Sisters Red

by Jackson Pearce

  "Um, if I may add," a male voice calls out. The driver's side of the Chevy squeals open and Silas leans out, face still shrouded in darkness. "I helped her. I'm just saying. If it makes you feel any better... she needed help. So, you know... that'll teach her." There's a hint of humor in his voice, and somehow, it makes my anger dissipate the smallest bit.

  "Thanks, Silas," Scarlett mutters. "Get my things out from under the seat, will you?"

  Scarlett sidesteps me and throws open the front door, dashing the yard in light that illuminates Silas's face for a fraction of a second before the door shuts. I squint to get another look--Silas looks different from what I remember. But what, exactly, has changed? The line of his jaw, or the length of his hair, something in his eyes--were they always that shade of ocean gray? I can't pinpoint what exactly is different about his face, his body, him.

  Upstairs, Scarlett's bedroom door slams, interrupting my thoughts. I roll my eyes and turn to hobble back inside. The

  26

  jagged edges of the gravel hurt a lot more now that I'm not on an adrenaline rush.

  "So, Scarlett hasn't changed much," Silas says from behind me. I nod and then wince as a particularly sharp rock lodges itself in my heel. "You need some help, Rosie?"

  His footsteps quicken behind me, and before I can respond, I feel his calloused hands on my waist. I accidentally slide back against his chest and inhale the scent that has always clung to his whole family--something like forests, damp leaves, and sunshine. I suppose when your father is a woodsman you're bound to carry the scent of oak in your veins. One breath is all I get the chance for, though; he kicks the door open and sets me down on the front stoop, then takes a step back. I turn to face him, hoping to thank him for the help and in the same sentence admonish him for carrying me like a little girl.

  Instead, I smile. He's still Silas--Silas who left a year ago, the boy just a little older than my sister. His eyes are still sparkling and expressive, hair still the brown-black color of pine bark, body broad-shouldered and a little too willowy for his features. He's still there, but it's as if someone new has been layered on top of him. Someone older and stronger, who isn't looking at me as if I'm Scarlett's kid sister... someone who makes me feel dizzy and quivery. How did this happen?

  Calm down. It's just Silas. Sort of.

  "You're staring," he says cautiously, looking worried.

  "Oh. Um, sorry," I say, shaking my head. Silas shoves his

  27

  hands into his pockets with a familiar sway. "It's just been a while, that's all."

  "Yeah, no kidding," he replies. "You're heavier than I remember."

  I frown, mortified.

  "Oh, no, wait. I didn't mean like that, just that you've gotten older. Wait, that doesn't sound much better..." Silas runs a hand through his hair and curses under his breath.

  "No, I get it." I let him off the hook, grinning. Something about seeing him nervous thaws some of my shyness. "Do you want something to eat?"

  "You're sure you and Lett don't need... sister time?" He glances up the stairs warily.

  "No," I answer, stepping backward into the kitchen. "In fact, I really don't want sister time right now."

  "Hey, now. Appreciate the sibling time."

  I cringe. "Sorry, I forgot. Your brothers and the triplets still aren't talking to you?"

  "Lucas is coming around, slowly. I'll manage. But hey--when did you start to cook?" He changes the subject as he follows me inside and plops down into one of our mismatched dining room chairs.

  "I don't, really. I just picked up a few of Oma March's old recipes because I got tired of eating Chinese delivery."

  "Ah yes. I'd forgotten Lett's love affair with Chinese food," Silas says, grinning affectionately. "She's been stressed lately?" It's a measure of how tense Scarlett is--when it gets really bad, cheap Chinese is her only comfort food.

  28

  "She didn't exactly handle you leaving that well," I say, frowning. I missed Silas too, but not the way Scarlett did. Did he miss her, his partner, that way? Do I want to know if he did? Guilt flashes over Silas's face, so I hurry to continue. "Cooking is nice, though. You know, something to do that isn't quite as hunting-centric..." I blush, afraid I've said too much.

  But Silas surprises me by waving his hand dismissively. "No, I get it. I just spent a year doing non-hunting-centric things. Sometimes you need a break."

  "Yeah, well, don't tell my sister," I mutter, glaring at the ceiling. "She wants me to be a hunter but won't let me solo. I just can't make her happy."

  "I didn't know you'd grown to love hunting so much," Silas notes, sounding genuinely surprised.

  I backpedal. "I... I mean, it's not about liking hunting. It's about the fact that I spend hours training every day for solo hunts she won't let me do. If I have to live the life of a hunter, I'd like to actually, you know, hunt."

  "Ah," Silas says, though I'm pretty sure I didn't make any sense. "Well, not that I'm in favor of her stealing hunts from you, but I'll confess it's hard to think about little Rosie March on her own, killing wolves, and not get overprotective." He pauses, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. "Even if you aren't exactly 'little Rosie March' anymore."

  My eyes find his, trying to analyze the meaning of his words, of the change in his tone. But just as I finally take a breath and will myself to speak, the pipes from the upstairs

  29

  shower rattle above us. I turn back to the oven, out of my trance. I'm overanalyzing things, as usual.

  "What are you making, then?" Silas asks, voice back to normal.

  "Um... meatloaf." The sexiest of foods.

  "It smells great," Silas replies kindly. I look over my shoulder at him and smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a gray blur dart from the stairwell to the living room couch, accompanied by the tinkling of bells.

  "Is that my arch-nemesis I hear?" Silas asks, turning toward the blur.

  "Screwtape? Yep."

  "I wonder if he still hates me," Silas says as the cat edges out from the couch, pale green eyes like little limes in the dark. As if to answer Silas's question, Screwtape takes a flying leap onto his lap and begins to purr wildly.

  "I'm not falling for this anymore, cat," Silas says firmly. He moves to push Screwtape away, but as soon as his palms are within a few inches of Screwtape's wild fur, the cat extends his claws into Silas's thighs. Silas winces and muffles a yelp.

  "Need some help?" I say, trying to hide my laughter.

  "That'd be great," he answers tensely. I hurry over and scoop Screwtape into my arms. The cat instantly melts against me and rubs his face against mine, the scent of catnip on his breath. I crinkle my nose.

  "Thanks." Silas sighs in relief. "I can hunt wolves, but it's a cat I can't handle. Not terribly manly of me, is it?"

  "I won't tell anyone," I answer with a soft smile that he

  30

  returns. The oven buzzer rings out behind me; I hurry over to whip the Sexy Meatloaf out of the heat.

  Scarlett trudges down the stairs, fresh from her shower. If you don't take one right after a hunt, the scent of the Fenris somehow gets into your skin and sticks around for ages. Her hair is pulled off her face and the eye patch is gone. There's a long, diagonal scar where her eye would be that slices from the crown of her head across her high cheekbones. She'd never admit it, but I know she's self-conscious about the scar. In fact, I can remember her taking the eye patch off only around me and Silas. She gives me a sort of apologetic look, but I glance away.

  "TV?" Silas asks her. Scarlett nods in response and Silas turns on our tiny television to the news, as if he'd never left.

  We begin to eat while Scarlett watches the television intently until a story about a rash of Atlanta murders is over. Most of the world isn't on to the Fenris, even though they've apparently been around for centuries, but you can learn more about them than you'd expect by watching a newscast. Some people see a string of murders or a strange disappearance as a lunati
c on the loose, but we see a Fenris being sloppy. But the truth is, usually a Fenris attack in disguise doesn't even make the news, unless the girl is particularly beautiful or her family particularly rich; it's just written off, another statistic of a missing young woman.

  When the report turns to some political sex scandal, Scarlett turns the set off and looks at Silas. "You want to start

  31

  hunting with us again, now that you're back?" The question carries a heavy intensity, and if I were Silas, I'd be afraid to say no.

  I'm not sure what answer I'm hoping for. I've gone hunting with Silas a thousand times before, but in the past, I usually ended up standing in the background while he and Scarlett fought together, a blur of movement and ferocity that I've never felt able to match. Will that have changed, as Silas has?

  Silas shrugs. "Sure. Especially if you're finding them in a place as small as Ellison. That must mean there are too many wolves in all the nearby cities."

  Silas talks about San Francisco, so avidly that I think he's trying to fill the air with words before it can be consumed with awkward silences. I don't know why I feel those silences lurking all around us, but every time Silas and I make eye contact, I can sense them there, waiting to slip in and make me blush. I try to avoid his eyes, stealing glances at his arched brows and bow-shaped lips whenever he's looking away. Trying to avoid the awkwardness mostly diverts me from feeling jealous--Silas got to see other cities, travel across the country, do things, while I sat here in Ellison.

  "You can stay here tonight if you want," Scarlett offers as she sets her empty plate by the sink. "I mean, I imagine your house is coated in dust."

  Silas laughs, deep and honey-toned. "I slept in a car for two weeks on the drive back here. And before that, on Jacob's

  32

  couch. Trust me, dust is fine." He stands and pushes his chair in. "Thanks for the offer, but I do need to go."

  "Hunting tomorrow, then?" Scarlett asks.

  "Maybe. I think I'll be taking care of house stuff all day tomorrow, to tell the truth. Inheriting a giant house sounds like a great idea until you realize you have to replace shingles and everything. I have a sinking feeling that Pa Reynolds is laughing it up in that nursing home, if he remembers it."

  Scarlett and I grin simultaneously. Pa Reynolds--the man who took care of us, who gave Scarlett the information she needed to begin to hunt, the man who raised us when our mother wasn't around after the attack--now has Alzheimer's and, as best as I can tell, scarcely remembers anyone who comes to visit him. It's painful to think that Pa Reynolds, who was a veritable encyclopedia of information about the Fenris and the forest, has no memory of who he is. But we smile, as does Silas, because it's the sort of thing that you'll cry about if you don't treat it lightly.

  Silas turns to me, exhaling. "Thanks for dinner, Rosie."

  "Anytime," I reply. Silas waves and leaves; a few moments later I hear the rumble of his car pulling out of the drive. Scarlett sits down beside me and doesn't speak for a moment. I avoid her eye. Just because I'm sort of dazzled by Silas doesn't mean I've forgotten how mad I am at her.

  "Rosie? Come on. Don't be mad."

  I don't answer. Screwtape leaps into my lap; I scratch under his chin until he erupts into purrs.

  "I couldn't help it," Scarlett says sincerely, folding her

  33

  arms. Her voice is softer than normal. I sigh, set Screwtape on the ground, and turn to go to my bedroom. My sister knows I'll forgive her. I'll always forgive her. I have to. It's one of those things that's just necessary when someone has saved your life.

  34

  CHAPTER THREE

  SCARLETT

  I WAKE UP AT DAWN, EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T FALL INTO bed till close to four. I lie in bed staring at the faded flower wallpaper, tracing the little line of bluebells from floor to ceiling with my eye. I didn't pick it out--this was our mother's room and is far too country and girly for my tastes. I sigh and try to fall back asleep, but there's no use. I've always been able to function just fine on three hours of sleep. If I sleep any longer, I have nightmares. Not nightmares, I suppose. Flashbacks: The Fenris breaking down our door. My grandmother screaming in German. The feeling of his teeth on my arms, my legs, my face.

  It's enough to make anyone an insomniac.

  I roll over and crinkle my nose. I should shower again. I can still smell the Fenris on me. I think. It's hard to tell,

  35

  at times, if the scent is really there or if it just somehow haunts me.

  The Fenris. I sigh. The only thing worse than making Rosie angry is knowing I have to make up for making Rosie angry. Otherwise, something is wrong. It's hard to explain, but when she's angry, it feels as though someone has put me together incorrectly, like a bookshelf with a row of upside-down books. I can't help being protective, though--I can never shake the mental image of Rosie making one little mistake. One slipup, and it's all over. What kind of hunter would I be if I couldn't keep the one surviving member of my own family safe?

  That's why I hunt: to kill the monsters that destroy lives and ruin families. I don't know when it will end, exactly--there's not really a finish line, unless I somehow kill every Fenris in existence. That feels like dreaming to win the lottery, but it's still a dream. All the fear, the darkness... gone.

  I throw my feet over the side of the bed and tiptoe across the worn hardwood floors, stepping over the floorboards that I know will creak. Periwinkle sunshine pours in through the tiny octagonal window at the end of the hall. It casts shadows off the ceiling beams and doorknobs that dapple the ground in light, like a forest floor. The house is silent, but outside, the earliest birds are calling out in the brush and I can hear the low, rumbling sounds of cattle. I love this time of morning; being inside is like hiding out behind some secret screen in the middle of rolling southern farmland.

  I creep closer to Rosie's door, stepping over Screwtape. He claws my leg in annoyance, all gray fur and teeth. I shake

  36

  him away, and he scampers off with an indignant look. I pause, hand wrapped around the doorknob.

  One, two, three.

  I fling the door open, letting it slam into the wall behind it. I sprint forward, leaping through the air at the very last moment and pouncing on Rosie in her tiny twin bed. She screams and leaps up, hair frazzled and eyes only half open, pink quilt clutched to her chest.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she demands groggily. She falls back onto the bed beside me and yanks the quilt over her head.

  "I'm apologizing for the... uh... 'thing' that happened last night."

  "By jumping on me? Your apology sucks."

  "Not this--this is just me being your annoying older sister. The apology is that... we can have a movie night tonight. And you can pick the movie."

  Rosie sits upright and eyes me cautiously. "Any movie?"

  I press my lips together to hide my distaste at the idea of Rosie's movie selection. She likes love stories. I can't help but think they're a waste of energy.

  Rosie folds her arms. I nod reluctantly.

  "And you let me have the solo hunt next time?" she adds.

  "I promise... I promise to try."

  Rosie rolls her eyes, but we both know it's as good as I'll do. "Okay. But then you also have to promise you won't back out of the movie again."

  "I promise."

  37

  "And promise me you'll get out of my room and let me sleep like a normal person," she says as she melts back into her mattress. I laugh and retreat just as Screwtape leaps onto the bed and nestles in beside Rosie's legs. I yank the door shut behind me, snickering as it crashes closed and I hear Rosie groan in annoyance. What are older sisters for? The upside-down books are righted again, though. I can go on with my morning.

  I duck back into my bedroom just long enough to throw on a pair of jeans and pull my hair into a ponytail, then slip out the downstairs screen door.

  Our backyard is bordered by the cow pasture and t
all grasses and mostly consists of a garden that Rosie and I attempt to tend. I peer at the soil. Nearly time to plant snap peas, which I'm supposed to do by moonlight, according to my grandmother. I'm not sure that it matters, but I'll do it anyway. It was always difficult to tell when Oma March was imparting wisdom and when she was merely storytelling. More than once she replaced our nightly fairy tales with something clever inspired by her philosophy books or a rhyme intended to help us learn German. We absorbed it all, never realizing she was teaching us.

  The German didn't really catch on beyond a few phrases, but there were bits of philosophy that stuck with me. Descartes, Hume, Plato... I look at the sun, squinting. My favorite was a story she told several times before I realized it was more than a fairy tale:

  "Once upon a time," Oma March said, her singsong voice carrying across the bedroom Rosie and I shared. 38"Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a cave--"

  "What was his name?" I interrupted.

  "It doesn't matter."

  "He has to have a name!"

  "All right, his name was John. And he lived in a cave with his sister, Mary," my grandmother continued as Rosie and I snuggled close to each other beneath fleece blankets. "John and Mary were born in a cave and lived in the cave their entire lives. They always stayed far back in the cave in the near darkness, because if they tried to leave, they saw giant dark monsters on the wall. John and Mary didn't know it, but the monsters were only shadows."