by Carrie Jones
He limps away, leaving me sitting on the bench, alone, holding a water bottle with a little bit of blood in the bottom.
My phone rings again. I answer and put it to my ear without looking at it. My eyes are still on the werewolf as he walks away.
28
CHRYSTAL
“What the heck is wrong with you?” I don’t shout it, but I want to because I’m so mad at him, at the risk he just took. “You were just talking to him. You were sitting. Right. Next. To. Him! He could have killed you!”
“I know … I know.…” Logan holds a water bottle in front of him like it’s a magic elixir. “It’s just … He wasn’t that bad. Tormented. Not downright evil.”
I think my mouth must drop open. I shut it. Someone’s listening to hip-hop in a nearby apartment. The bass booms of it only make me angrier. “He has killed people. Your dad is in massive pain. Your sister is kidnapped so do not tell me that he’s not quote-unquote downright evil.”
“He’s … He is evil, but I sort of get it.”
I stare at him. “And now you just let him walk away. We don’t even know where he lives.”
“Yeah, but—but…” Logan lifts the water bottle. Bright-red stuff fills up about a quarter inch if it. “He gave me this. He said it’s a partial cure.”
“It’s his blood?” It makes me feel sick to my stomach to even think it.
“Yeah. He said it’s a partial cure!” Logan repeats this like he’s trying to convince both of us, but it’s obvious that he believes it. He’s so psyched, he’s practically bouncing all over the place. He almost reminds me of my dad in hyper mode.
I talk slowly to make sure I get through. “Good. That’s beyond good, if he’s telling the truth, but, Logan … don’t you understand?”
He looks clueless. “Understand what?”
A plastic bag, the kind you get at the grocery store if you don’t bring your own canvas bag, rolls across the sidewalk. The hot wind catches it and blows it up into a tree. It snags on a limb and stays there—a dirty yellow thing mixing with the green leaves. It doesn’t belong, just like the werewolf doesn’t belong.
I turn away from it, scan the area once again, looking for the guy, for a clue. Giving up, I turn back to Logan and say, “He obviously has Kelsey. He might have my dad. This is the school my dad was coming to when he was meeting his friend. I have to follow him and see who he is. With my own eyes.”
Before he can say anything, I take off in the direction the creature went, but when I round the corner, there’s nothing except buildings and trees. It’s a dead end. Still, I make note of the location. We’re off campus now. There are a lot of two-story houses, all with a twenty-year look of rundown. It’s the kind of landscape that people write blues songs about with all its peeling wood siding, chipped paint trim, roofs that look like they can barely withstand a gust of wind.
Logan catches up to me in a second. Sweat marks his T-shirt. “You see him?”
“No,” I say. Dread fills me. It’s more housing, more streets. He could be anywhere. He could be watching me right now. Something creeps along my skin and I know it’s just my own sweat, but it still freaks me out.
He could be anywhere.
He could be laughing at us right now.
I’d really like to give him the finger. But that’s only half of me. The other half is truly freaked out and expects him to come bashing through a window or rushing down the road at any second, teeth bared, howling, ready to kill us both.
“Tell me about what happened. I want to check to see if Dr. Borgess is in his office, and then we can go see your dad.” I pause. “And Kelsey. We have to find Kelsey. How are we going to find her?”
“I don’t think he’s going to hurt her, not yet,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because of you. He wants you.”
* * *
Hurrying, I take Logan to an academic building and directly to Dr. Borgess’s office, but he’s not there. I call his cell. He doesn’t answer. I knock on the door. It swings open. “Let’s go in. I’ll leave a note on his desk.”
“That sort of seems like trespassing.”
“Seriously, Logan? We have bigger things to worry about here than breaking baby laws.”
“That’s not it. I just … I want to get out of here—soon. That guy was … He was creepy. And Kelsey … Let’s just hurry.”
“I want to get out of here too, but this is where my dad was going.”
“Dr. Borgess already told you that he hasn’t seen him. He told you that when you called.”
I sort of crumple against the desk, leaning over it. “I know. I just … I still have hope, okay?”
The word leaves his mouth slowly: “Okay.”
I straighten up and finish scrawling out a note. My finger taps the computer screen. It’s one of those giant monitors that’s connected to a laptop. “Look at this.”
“A giant picture of a wolf is the screensaver?”
I move the mouse, but the screen is locked. “Damn it.”
“You were just going to go through his files?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t you?”
“In a movie one of us would be a hacker or a computer genius.”
“We need new identities.” I leave the desk, motioning for him to follow me to the office door. “I thought being a bass player was the ultimate end goal, you know. But now?”
“You want to be something else?”
“I want to be the person who ends this,” I say. “What do you want to be?”
“I want to be the guy whose family is safe.”
“Good goal.”
“Yours too.”
I give him a weak fist bump. I don’t know what else to say.
We hustle out of there, quick and fast like a good riff in a very bad song—we stick out, and it’s time for us to leave.
* * *
But even as we drive, it’s all bothering me.
“Why does he need a mate if he can just make little werewolves?” I ask.
“He wants his own family, I guess.” Logan shrugs. He puts his free hand on the seat next to his butt, but I don’t grab it. We feel distant all of a sudden. I don’t know why. Maybe because we’re both stubborn. Maybe because I’m mad that he went and discussed my fate with the werewolf guy and then just let him go. If anyone is going to make a bargain about my fate, it should be me. If anyone is going to decide if a trade is okay, it should be me. It’s my life. Not his. He’s not even my official boyfriend. Just a guy. Just a guy I kissed. Just a guy we live with now.
And I know that’s not quite right. Even as I swallow my anger, I know that it’s not quite right. Family is important. My family is so broken and I’ve liked Logan’s so much. I mean, I just trusted his mom right off, telling her and Kelsey pretty much anything they wanted to know. I even like his dad. They’ve all been so kind. It can’t be easy for them to have strangers in their home.
My mom would never do anything like that.
My mom …
I whisk out my cell with one hand, and tap on her name in my contact list. Yes, she is in Europe. No, I have no idea what time it is there. It doesn’t matter.
She answers. There’s a lot of background noise.
“Mom?”
“Chrystal!” she yells into the phone.
“Dad’s missing.” I guess maybe I should have started it off easier.
“Oh, honey … You know how he is. He’s probably just lost track of time.”
Logan looks at me. I sigh, and push the back of my head into the headrest. “No, Mom. He’s been missing awhile. Things are crazy here.”
“Where are you, honey, Indiana?”
“Oklahoma.”
She starts laughing at something someone said.
“Well, we are having the best time,” she says after a good twenty seconds. “It is just beautiful here. And everyone is so lovely and foreign.”
“They think your mom is beautiful,” Husband #3 yells into the phone.
<
br /> She starts giggling again.
“Mom … Mom…” I work to get her attention. “Mom, can you listen?”
“I am! I am listening.” She laughs again, which makes me doubt it.
I forge ahead anyway. “Look, what do you know about your family being werewolf lovers or something?”
She is silent for a second and then says, “Please don’t tell me your father has started to believe that crap.”
“It’s not crap, Mom. Things are happening.”
“It’s a wives’ tale. An old wives’ tale. Look up my maiden name. It’s a fairy tale, baby. Made up by silly people who wanted to believe their lives were worth more than they were.”
“So we mated with werewolves?”
“Oh my gosh, the words you choose, young lady. ‘Mated’!” She snorts through the phone line. “No! It’s all rubbish. Look it up on the Internet, baby. Our food is here. Kiss! Got to go. Love you! Your father will be back soon,” she says, rushing this last sentence out as an afterthought. “Do not worry.”
The line goes dead even as she starts laughing about something again.
“She tell you anything?” Logan asks.
“Nope.” She never does.
I hold the container like a holy grail all the way back to the house, which is where we are going first, not the hospital. It turns out we have to make a little spell first, which is not good, especially since it takes time where we could be actively searching for poor Kelsey. Not so good? The fact that this is only supposedly some kind of half cure. Also not so good? The fact that the wolf guy offered Logan a chance to turn. What? Is he really trying to make some sort of werewolf army? It makes me shudder imagining more than one werewolf.
“Would you do it?” I ask him.
“Do what?”
“Turn.”
He stares at me for a second and his hands clutch the wheel. “No. Not unless…”
“Not unless what?” It feels like he’s holding something back. It’s felt like that this entire trip.
He swallows hard. “Not unless I had to.”
I stare at my own hands around the water bottle, the thick blood that swooshes in the bottom of it as we hit a bump. “Why would you have to?”
“To save you or to save my dad or my sisters or Mom or even David or anyone really, I guess.” His face whitens. “I’d hate to, though—hate to be like that.”
“Even with the power? The regeneration stuff? All that strength?”
“Honestly, Chrystal. I’m the kind of guy who writes crappy poetry on the front porch, who plays Sorry! with his sisters every damn week. I’m not into power.”
“It’s not crappy poetry,” I say. “It’s better than a lot of song lyrics that are popular right now.”
“Yeah, it is,” he says, laughing. He doesn’t ask me if I’d change. I guess we both know I might not even have the choice, not if the beast has its way. But that’s not going to happen. We’re too smart for that to happen.
* * *
The reporters are gone by the time we get back. Logan jumps out of the truck and talks to Sam, who has just returned to the house. He spent the morning at the feedstore. I carry the water bottle inside as they talk.
I insert a long pipette and syringe that I found in my dad’s stuff into a bottle. I click and extract one molecule of the thick, bright blood. I remove the syringe and put it on a slide, then place a protective slide cover over it. Doing the same procedure, I get two more drops before Logan even comes back inside. I put two in the fridge to preserve them. The other one I keep out. Maybe heat will affect it. Maybe not. But I want to see.
“What are you doing?” Logan’s at the door.
“Preserving some samples,” I say, putting the equipment that’s been contaminated in the sink. “I want to see if it’s chemically different from our blood, maybe bring a sample to Dr. Borgess. I only took three drops. I’m sure it won’t affect anything, Logan. I swear.”
He nods. He bounces on the balls of his feet. “I got the wolfsbane.”
We boil the water and stare into the pot even though it’s so hot out already and the steam is impossibly warm against our red faces.
“It takes forever,” Logan groans.
Tiny little dots appear at the bottom. They look like molecules almost, but I know they’ll expand into bubbles, rise to the surface.
“It’s almost there,” I say. “You have the wolfsbane?”
I don’t know why I ask it. I know he does. The water boils. “Finally!” Logan breathes, and he drops the soft purple flower in. It curls. I start the timer and we watch as the seconds pass. I have a long spoon to take out the flower. The buzzer dings, loud and angry, and I scoop the purple blossom out before Logan can say anything. It’s limp and darker now. He pours in the blood, which gloops out of the plastic bottle. I expect it to separate the way human blood would, or to glob all on the bottom like honey does at first, but instead it turns a bright pink and then crackles before combining with the water. After about thirty seconds it turns into the color of a deep-red wine.
“Weird,” Logan whispers.
“Think it’s done?” I ask. “You sure he didn’t say how long to cook it?”
“He didn’t. He just said to add the blood.”
I move the pot onto a burner that isn’t turned on and shut off the stovetop. “We only need a teaspoon?”
Logan nods.
“Do you think we used too much water?” I ask. “You’re sure he didn’t say how much water.”
Nerves seem to beat through Logan. “Chrystal! I would have told you.”
The silence between us is huge. “I know … I know … It just doesn’t seem scientific,” I explain. Then I try to make him feel better because I know how stressed he is. “If he didn’t say, it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry.”
I pet his arm. He pulls me into a hug. It is a nice hug and it makes me feel a tiny bit better, but not completely.
“I know,” he says apologetically. His voice is rough with emotion. “I’m sorry. I just want so badly for this to work.”
“It has to work,” I say. “He needs us to trust him enough for a trade, so this has to work.”
His hands drift up to my face and we pull away so that we can look at each other.
“You’re so logical,” he says.
“It’s self-preservation,” I explain with a shrug. “From living with my dad. Someone has to be logical, you know?”
He laughs, but it’s short and bitter. I bet he’s like me. I bet there are so many emotions stringing along inside him that he can’t decide which one to pluck and let loose into the air. Finally he whispers, “We can do this. We’ll find Kelsey and your dad. We can save my dad, too, right?”
“Yes,” I say, pulling away enough to grab his hand and lead him to the door. “Yes, we can.”
29
LOGAN
They won’t let Chrystal into Dad’s ICU room. I try to argue with the nurse, but Mom simply says my name in a voice that is hollow with defeat and I give up. Chrystal puts a hand on my arm.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Go ahead.”
I give her a quick hug and take one more look at Mom. She’s sitting in a very square padded chair, but she’s just slumped there, worn-out, dark circles under eyes, her hair unwashed, no makeup. I notice again how she looks twenty years older than she did a few days ago.
She whispers, “Kelsey.”
“I know, Mom. We’ll find her.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes.
A surge of hate for the werewolf passes through me. I think of how Chrystal defined evil: something that hurts me or my friends. Something that kills or tortures to get its own needs met. So what if that guy/werewolf didn’t mean to do this? He did it. He’s torturing my family.
* * *
Dad looks awful. They haven’t shaved him, so he has a full beard, which isn’t so unusual for him after a few days without shaving, but the hair is too long. And worse, it’s too high on his face and low
on his neck. Tubes still run from bags to his arms. Another runs from beneath the bedsheet to a bag at the end of the bed. Fluid in, fluid out.
At least he’s off the ventilator. Before the nurse leaves me alone in the room with him, I ask her about it.
“We took him off it early this morning,” she answers. “He was breathing on his own again after a really rough patch in the evening. We’re watching him closely,” she promises. “If he needs it again, he’ll have it. It’s right there, ready for him.”
She points to a white machine with all kinds of tubes going every which way. I thank her and she leaves with a smile on her face, telling me I have ten minutes.
“Dad?” I say, going to the bed and taking his hand. He doesn’t respond. Nothing. Just ragged breath and the soft beep-beep of a heart monitor machine.
“I talked to him today,” I explain. “That son of a bitch. He gave me this.” I pull the little bottle out of my pocket and kind of shake it. It had cough syrup in it before, but it was almost empty. I dumped the little bit left down the sink and Chrystal rinsed it out several times with hot water. “I don’t know if it’ll work, Dad. He says it will help you, but only for a while. He says … he says he’ll give me more if we give him what he wants.”
I have to quickly swipe a hand across my face. It comes away wet.
“Chrystal would probably do it. I need you, Dad. I can’t let her do it, of course. I can’t. But I don’t know what else to do.”
I pause and look at the red elixir. “This might not work. It might … it might even kill you. I don’t know. Is it worth it? If it doesn’t work, is it better that you’re dead?”
I can feel my resolve starting to slip. If I keep talking, I’ll talk myself out of this. I know Dad would rather be dead. He told me as much.
I rip the lid off the bottle, then take Dad’s jaw in my hand and pull it down. I pour at least a teaspoonful into his mouth, close his jaw and cover his mouth and nose. He struggles, but just barely. I see his throat move as he swallows.
“God help me if that bastard lied to me,” I whisper as I put the bottle back in my pocket.
