I fold my arms over my chest and lean back against the counter. I have noticed she's lost weight, and I've noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way she twists and turns in the night like she never did before. The wolves haunt her, while I lie awake longing for the boy only a few yards away... I'm a terrible person.
"I'm sorry, Rosie," Silas says when he sees the sadness in my eyes. I shake my head, trying to brush the look away, but Silas isn't easily deterred. He hesitates, then leans on the counter beside me, moving slowly as if he needs verification that each move is acceptable, wanted.
"Hey," he says, resting two fingers on my arm. It starts as a friendly gesture. I press my lips together as he slides his palm up my arm and around my shoulders. Silas pauses, and though I'm not certain, I think he realizes that the touch is far more than friendly as well--a thought that makes me dizzy but practically forces me to move my own hand to the small of his back. I close my eyes and inhale, and I feel Silas's breath on my forehead, hear his relaxed heartbeats. His lips
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are so close to me, I could easily tilt my head back and kiss him if I were braver. It's hard to not sigh, like the exhausted breath is building up in my chest and I'm holding it back, though more than anything I want to release it, to truly hold myself against him--
Scarlett's shower cuts off. Silas snatches his arm away and I lean back up, head swirling from the quick change.
"Um... right," Silas says, looking startled. He looks at me. "Okay, back to studying Potentials, wolves, important stuff..." He shakes his head as if he's casting away a mental fog.
I bite my lip. I want to get out of here--I need to get out of here, or the thumping desire for Silas is going to consume me. There's no way Scarlett won't figure it out if I can't escape and get my mind off him. It's just for a little while--I can go get groceries or something. Silas will help her research. We can't keep paying for Chinese food. I meet Silas's eyes, dashes of sky colors in the monotone apartment.
"I'll be back," I say, then dart for the door.
"Wait!" he whispers sharply. He lunges toward the couch and tosses me the belt with my knives on it. "Just in case." I catch it with one hand and swing it around my waist. Silas gives me a sly smile--does he know the effect that smile has on me?
I manage a feeble smile in return and leave. I inhale deeply once I get outside. Have I even been outside in days? The scents of cigarette smoke and fresh air mingle in my nose. I
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hurry off our dilapidated block, rubbing the bills together in my pocket as I head toward Kroger. Just a few groceries and I'll go back.
A sharp breeze whips over me, swirling my hair into knots. Cars honk, traffic halts in the intersection, and I dart between taxis to cross the road. Maybe a short class--I've been hunting-focused for so long. Silas's face keeps flashing through my mind, encouraging me, supporting me.
Just one really quick class. Thirty minutes or less.
The community center is several blocks away, but I run; if I'm focusing on avoiding the crowds of people on the sidewalk, on putting my feet one in front of the other, then I can't focus on the tiny spark of guilt in the back of my mind. I dart through the community center door and hand the smiling woman behind the desk my class card.
"Which class?" she asks.
"Um..." I scan down the board. Cake Decorating, Belly Dancing, Stock Market Trading...
"Natural Drawing," I say quickly. "Wait--do I need drawing stuff?"
"No, supplies are included with the course. It's in room three and probably starting shortly. Are you eighteen, dear?"
The question throws me as I step away from the desk toward the classroom. "Um, yeah," I answer quickly. The woman nods and turns back to her desk.
Well, I'm sixteen, close enough. Scarlett is eighteen, which makes Silas... wow. What does someone Silas's age want with a kid like me? I enter the room and take one of only two
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available easels that are close to a chair sitting in the center of the classroom. Mostly middle-aged women chat hurriedly on either side of me, but I barely hear them. Maybe I'm mis-interpreting everything with Silas... maybe the fluttery feeling is just on my end.
Two men enter the room, one old and mustached and the other young and tawny-headed, wearing sweats and a worn T-shirt. He looks like Silas, actually--god, what am I, obsessed? But there really is something of the woodsman in the younger man's face, with his full lips, his slightly curled hair that turns like tendrils around his ears... I look away before studying him too closely.
"All right, ladies, are we ready?" the older man says enthusiastically. There's a loud rustling of paper as we all flip the enormous sketchbooks on our easels until we find blank sheets. I draw a few soft lines on my page, unsure what--
Non-Silas rips off his T-shirt, revealing lightly defined muscles on his pale chest. I raise an eyebrow just as he tugs at the waist of the sweatpants. They drop to the floor in a fluid, sweeping motion.
There's nothing underneath them. At all.
My charcoal slips through my suddenly sweaty fingers.
Non-Silas steps out of the puddle of his clothes and moves to the center of the room, fluorescent lights reflecting off his slick abdomen. He's smiling as though he isn't naked, smiling as though I didn't somehow manage to get the seat closest to him. As if I can't see... um... everything only a few feet from my face, making my mind clumsily spiral. I
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squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; he looks like Silas in the face, and because of that I keep wondering if he looks akin to Silas everywhere else.
"All right, ladies, this will be a seven-minute pose. Ready?" the older man says, positioning himself behind the other empty easel. The roomful of housewives nod in one hungry motion. I quiver. "Go!" the older man says, starting the stopwatch. Non-Silas poses, something reminiscent of Michelangelo's David, only instead of marble eyes looking into nothingness, non-Silas is staring almost straight at me.
Draw. I'm supposed to be drawing. I grab a new piece of charcoal from the bottom of the easel and begin hastily making lines in my sketchbook. I can't not look at him, or he'll think I'm not drawing him. I glance hurriedly, trying to avoid the region my eyes continuously return to. I start to feel fluttery.
How long has it been? Surely it's been seven minutes. I try to add some tone to my drawing's chest. I wonder what Silas's chest looks like... Stop! Stop stop stop stop stop--
"Right, then!" the older man says as his stopwatch beeps loudly and the scratchy sound of charcoal on paper ends. Thank you, sir, thank you--
"Annnnd next pose!"
Non-Silas turns his head away, till all I can see is his wren-colored hair and his side, including a side view of... how many times am I going to have to draw this man's area? What's worse is that he looks even more like Silas now that
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I can't see his eyes. Just like Silas, I bet. My eyes linger longer than necessary now that non-Silas isn't staring straight at me.
By the end of the class, I've drawn eight mediocre pictures of him, each one with a large white void in the crotch area. The housewives compare drawings with ravenous looks in their eyes as non-Silas tugs his pants back on and leaves the room, nodding politely. I picture him naked again.
I sprint from the class, abandoning my sketches--how could I explain them to Scarlett or Silas? Stop thinking of Silas, stop thinking of Silas. I dart into the Kroger, relieved when the cool air of the frozen-foods section splashes over my skin. I grab ice cream and frozen peas--anything cold. I hold the bag of frozen peas against my neck as I wait to check out. Finally, the flustered feeling drains away and I manage to go a few moments without thinking about the nude man I just saw.
I hurry back to the apartment, wondering how long I've been gone. I push the door open, then promptly drop the frozen peas.
Silas grins at me, shirtless, slightly toned chest glimmering in the sunlight pouring in through the dirty windows. His pants are slung wantonly low on his
hips, and I can't help thinking about the drawings I left behind, the way non-Silas's abs looked nearly identical to real-Silas's, and therefore everything might look identical... My face flushes and I exhale shakily.
Then Scarlett kicks Silas solidly in the stomach.
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Silas grunts and falls backward, grimacing. "You still have to go out tonight," he chokes out as Scarlett extends a hand to help him up. Her hair is in a tight, high ponytail that wags back and forth with her laughter.
"I still won," she snickers in response. Sweat sparkles on her stomach, droplets running down the thick scar that crosses her abdomen. She has her shirt tucked into the bottom of her sports bra, like she typically does when she's training. She tugs Silas to standing as he rubs his stomach tenderly. She never trains like that with me--neither of them does. Ever since they began training together just a year or two after the attack, they've never held back on each other. It used to make me jealous, but somehow it comforts me now. See, I'm not tugging my sister's partner away from her. The three of us are still a team.
"You got distracted," my sister tells Silas, mopping the back of her neck.
Silas grins at her. "Unfair. Rosie came in and surprised me."
"Yeah, yeah," Scarlett says. She knocks against his shoulder good-naturedly as she glances toward me. "What'd you buy at Kroger?"
"Uh... I bought..." It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts and remember. "I bought ice cream. And peas."
"For dinner?" Scarlett asks. Silas nods at me quickly--yes, the nod tells me, say it's for dinner.
"Yep. I thought we could use the veggies and... dairy."
Scarlett doesn't look convinced, but she turns on the
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radio and rummages through the refrigerator for the pitcher of water.
"So how was the grocery store?" Silas asks me, so casually that I wonder if there's no double meaning to the question.
"It was fine," I say, but I can feel my eyes sparkle. Silas smiles at me and takes a long sip of water, hair falling in front of his eyes. I wonder how long I could look at him if I weren't always afraid of Scarlett catching me. Scarlett goes over to the radio, then scribbles something down on a pad of paper, sighing deeply.
"Two people died yesterday," she notes, interrupting my flowery thoughts. She shakes her head as she moves to join us in the kitchen. My mouth feels dry as guilt sweeps around me, and she continues, "Two girls. Fenris, I'm sure. They were on the opposite side of town from us, found decapitated. It's where most of the Fenris are, I think, though I'm sort of surprised they left so much... evidence. I wonder if location has something to do with the Potential?"
"No," Silas says, shaking the hair away from his face. "I don't think that makes sense. Otherwise they'd just hang out in one location instead of searching the city."
"Ah, good point." Scarlett nods and scribbles the thought down on the tattered notebook page of clues she's been working on. She digs out a spoonful of ice cream with a discouraged expression.
"Two?" I say. My voice sounds very small.
"Yes," Scarlett responds. "Both under eighteen, I think."
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"Two girls my age," I say slowly. I sink into one of the kitchen chairs and close my eyes for a moment. Two more girls died, and I was at the community center. Scarlett trained, researched, tried to do good, and I was drawing some guy's penis. It's okay. I can make up for it. "When are we going hunting tonight?" I ask my sister.
Scarlett looks mildly surprised and very pleased, but she answers, "We're not, actually. That was what Silas and I were sparring for. He thinks I need to get out more--"
"You do," Silas interrupts.
"--so we're going bowling."
"Bowling?" I ask, bewildered that Scarlett has other plans the one time I want to hunt.
"Yeah. He said he'd train with me only if we could go bowling tonight. Though we are still hunting on the walk back," Scarlett says, brandishing her spoon at Silas.
"Of course, of course. But first, we bowl!"
Scarlett rolls her eye at him, then looks back to me. "What he said."
I nod and try to swallow the thick lump in my throat. I owe my sister everything, and she's finally relenting, finally giving us all the free time I wanted. But only after I stole it.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SCARLETT
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BOWL."
"Right, and that's a problem, since this place really screams 'professional bowling,' " Silas snips back, rolling his eyes. The bowling alley--Shamrock Lanes--is lit up in dusky yellow lamps and bright pink and green neon lights. The floor is a shabby, faded leopard-print carpet that's worn to the cement underneath in some parts, and everyone working here seems to have a mustache. Even the women.
Pitchers of beer rest on the tables by every lane, and the thunderous roll of bowling balls and clattering pins is almost deafening. I get a few odd looks from girls with brassy peroxide hair. I glare at Silas and adjust my eye patch.
"Ignore them, Lett," he says gently.
"I don't care about them," I snap back. I do care about
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the fact that we should be hunting. But I don't think saying it for the millionth time will convince him. I turn my back on the idiots staring at me.
Rosie looks delighted, and the pink lights only make her flushed cheeks more alive, more inviting. She doesn't resemble me at all lately. Up until recently, I've always thought that Rosie looks the way I would have had I not been attacked, save for a freckle or two. Now I'm not so sure. You'd never catch me blushing. And could my face ever have lifted into that expression? Her muscles don't flex the way mine do; her eyes don't dart to assess every sound and movement in the room.
Silas doles out pairs of red and black bowling shoes that are coming apart at the soles. Rosie takes hers and meanders toward our lane--fifteen. I peer over Silas's shoulder as he opens his wallet.
"You have money," I comment.
"I have some money. Enough money for bowling."
"More money than we have," I complain pointlessly. I'm about to turn away when something in the billfold catches my eye. Something pale pink and out of place. "What's this?" I ask, and before he can answer, I sweep the slip of paper from the wallet. It's a paper rose, not entirely symmetrical and with creases that are a bit round.
"It's a flower," he answers casually as the clerk hands him a fistful of change. He whips the paper flower out of my fingers and places it back in his wallet.
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"So what's with the flower?" I ask as we walk toward my sister.
Silas grins, and his expression is unusually sappy. "It was a gift from a friend."
"Ah. A friend," I snicker, smacking him with one of my bowling shoes. "So is your new girlfriend in Atlanta, or back in Ellison? I'm impressed, Silas. You really don't waste any time."
"No! Really. A friend," he says slowly. I don't press the issue. Silas and I have always told each other most everything, but his array of girlfriends is a topic that's off-limits. I'm not sure if it's that he's shy to tell me or if he knows I don't want to hear about the myriad of beautiful, flawless girls he wants. Must be nice, I think, to have enough time to both hunt and fall in love.
Rosie's pecking away at a keyboard when we reach her, typing LET, ROS, and SIL into the score screen. I shake my head at Silas and slide into a seafoam-colored plastic seat beside my sister. Our lane is shelved between several happy and drunk forty-somethings and a group of younger men. I try to avoid both groups' eyes, which isn't difficult with the sensory overload that is Shamrock Lanes.
At the opposite end of the bowling alley is a cover band of aging hipsters. They break into a very questionable version of some eighties song just as Rosie and Silas select bowling balls. I sigh and rise to select one as well.
"Who's first?" I ask.
"Silas is," Rosie says, beaming. It's hard not to feel rather
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lighthearted myself, surrounded by
the two people I'm closest to, even if it's in a grimy place that reeks of cigarettes.
Silas does a goofy walk toward the lane and sends his lime green ball spinning directly into the gutter. Then Rosie, and finally me. I manage to knock three pins down, something I rub in Silas's face. He orders a beer for himself and swigs it between gutter balls, and we all--the entire bowling alley--try to sing along with the band when they put the lyrics up on the television screens. For what feels like the first time in ages, it's hard to think about hunting, as though the flashing pink lights have scared the thoughts to the back of my mind, where they linger, ever present but silent.
"Are you having fun?" Rosie asks me with a concerned look. She's been giving me that look a lot lately.
I smile despite myself. "Yes, I'm having fun. But don't tell Silas. He'll get all full of himself."
"Too late for that. Just got a spare, ladies," Silas interrupts with a buzzed-looking grin.
"I can beat that," Rosie replies, sticking her tongue out at him and approaching the ball-return bar. The young guys in the lane next to us howl with laughter as one swings the bowling ball between his legs, sending it slowly twirling down the hardwood. A few are staring at my sister. One in particular is taller than the rest; dark brown hair falls in front of his eyes, and he's got a willowy sort of build. Simply put, I can tell he's handsome despite the flashing lights and distracting sounds. I feel envious and protective all at once as the tall guy looks between Silas and Rosie. Probably trying to figure
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out if he has a chance with my sister. I force a low laugh at the prospect and squint my eye for a better look at his companions. They're all fairly attractive, with rock-star-trendy haircuts and stylishly torn clothes.
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