by Harold Wall
It was no question.
"When I'm stressed out, or I'm angry or sometimes – I don't know, just because. It's a thing that happened and I live with it. Normally, it's ok. I relive it, it ends, I wake up glad to
be alive."
He gave a slow nod. "I have a few of those memories too."
"But last night it was different. The dream went wrong, and I wound up being hunted by a monster wolf. I knew I was dreaming but I couldn't wake up."
"So how did you?"
"I...stopped running. I stopped acting as if it was real and just forced myself to wake up." She swallowed. Even here, in the last flush of autumn sunlight, it felt too real. "I let him
catch me. I woke up right as he bit down."
He inhaled sharply. Sudden, dangerous fire flashed in his turquoise eyes.
"When Jo grabbed me, for a moment, she had his face. I just reacted."
"She had his face," he repeated.
"Yeah. Lack of sleep and nightmares equals fun hallucinations that will absolutely win friends and influence people."
"Maybe." He shifted, frowning. "Mike Stanislov wasn't nearby, was he?"
It clicked. "Didn't see him, but...you think he's up to no good?"
"I know he's up to no good. I just can't prove it. And you've managed sixteen years without screaming at the sight of us. It could be coincidence, I guess. But it feels like design."
She heard Mike's words: now we have their secrets.
"If it is him, can I stop it?"
He reached out as if to brush her cheek then drew back, something hesitant in his expression, something entirely unlike Riose. "I can teach you some things that might help.
But...the easiest way to teach you is from inside your thoughts. It can be quite intimate."
"Ri, if my choices are intimacy with you, or with the creepy nightmare wolf who wants to eat me, you are hands down the winner."
His smile gleamed, lopsided and a little wry. "Well, a win by default is still a win."Ness
was alone again at lunch. And in every lesson after. She sat as far as she could from the gossip girls, who did what they were so devastatingly good at. The snide comment,
not quite soft enough to be inaudible, the burst of laughter like gunfire, the flick of a sneering glance; those were the weapons Ness had given them, and now they were aimed at
her.
Celia didn't like it.
And she didn't know what to do. So she did nothing, and felt uneasy about it while Mike watched her.
"Celia!" Will caught up to her at the end of the day, his smile a little more tentative than usual. "We still on for tomorrow?"
"Of course," she said, trying to shake off her morose mood. "I'll even wear makeup."
"Damn it, that was my line." A pause. "Are you okay? I was kind of expecting a laugh, even a pity one. Mostly a pity one, in fact."
She dredged up a smile. "Yeah – just crazy sleepdeprived."
"Anything I can do ?" he offered, then reconsidered. "In a normal way, not a 'does this smell like chloroform to you' way."
"No, but thanks."
"Not a problem. At least if you fall asleep on me tomorrow, it's not about the quality of my conversation. What time should I head over?"
Oh god. "Depends. How do you feel about the Spanish Inquisition?"
"You mean your mom?" At her surprise, he gave her a very wry look. "At least I'll expect her. After Jordan and the STD spelling bee, word got out. The correctly spelled word, at
that. I'm ready. I have helicopter parents too."
"She's not a helicopter parent. She's a Black Hawk parent." She shamelessly stole Finn's joke. "Cool, kind of scary, and armed to the teeth. Come by at seven and see for yourself."
A thought struck her. "Wait, does this mean I'm going to get an interrogation of my own at some point?"
"Hopefully," he said, the devil dancing in his eyes. "See you tomorrow."
As he left, there was a swing in his step. And she felt lighter too, because he was cute and funny, and she had the feeling he might even impress her mother.
Before she left, Celia slipped into the bathroom to check her reflection. Her lipstain hadn't survived. As she was finishing repairs, she heard the heavy clunk of the door.
Then someone's body collided with her, hard.
"Hey, there's enough space for everyone!" she snapped and glanced sideways.
Kirsty was there, with a chronic case of resting bitch face. "There's not enough space for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means you need to stop trying to drag Will down with you." She flicked her plait behind her shoulder, and Celia recognised that gesture from too many hockey practices. It meant
trouble. "You've spent the last ten years slumming it with the subhumans, and now the tables have turned, you want out. Well, you don't get to escape by using Will as your meal
ticket."
"Are you and Mike taking the same brand of crazy pills?" she said, incredulous. She went to leave – and Kirsty blocked her. "I'm not doing this with you."
The shove sent her lurching into the unyielding edge of the sink, knocking the air clean out of her stomach.
"You don't get a choice about what you do," said Kirsty, her voice level and hard. Celia glimpsed her own stunned face in the mirror before she was yanked back up. The strap of
her bag went painfully taut on her shoulder. "You lost that privilege."
She whipped to face Kirsty, hauling her bag back. "You need to leave me alone and take your delusions somewhere else."
Kirsty sneered. "Will's ours. You don't get to seduce him."
"Will makes his own decisions. Now are you going to get out of my way?" Let the answer be yes, she thought.
"Are you going to keep away from Will?"
Celia met her eyes, the anger growing with the ache in her side. "No."
Kirsty shook her head, mocksad. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
"What's that supposed to" This time Celia saw the slap coming and darted back. "You have got to be kidding me."
"No joke, vamp tramp," spat Kirsty with loathing that seared into Celia like an iceburn. She recalled Sunny's face when she'd touched the graffiti, that toofamiliar expression – it
belonged to Kirsty. She'd seen it aimed at the other side in the middle of heated hockey games, before those vicious fouls and dangerous cannonball shots. "Drop him, or I'll drop
you."
Somehow, that steadied her. There was only one way out of this, and so Celia squared her shoulders. Her bag slid into the corner. Yes, she really was going to have a punchup in
the girls' bathroom.
She met those sleetgrey eyes and flashed her best condescending smile, and said, "Try me."
Then it got messy.The
silence was glacial: slow, cold, and capable of lasting an age. Nothing interrupted it but the angry sounds of her mother getting in the car. The seatbelt's click, the door very
pointedly not being slammed, the tick of the indicator as she pulled away.
"Well?"
Celia blinked and looked at her mother. "Huh?"
Jodie Slone didn't take her eyes from the road. "I was called out of work to find out my daughter has received a oneday suspension for brawling. While I enjoyed hearing the
principal lambast the pair of you about the code of conduct and damage to school property, and I certainly appreciated his implicit condemnation of my parenting and your manners,
I can't help but notice you were suspiciously silent on one key subject. How did it start?"
"Aren't you going to shout? Billy says you normally shout."
"Billy," said her mother tautly, "was in eight separate fights last year. Seven of them were related to his girlfriend and his need to defend the unconscionable things she says, which
I believe he describes as 'edgy' and 'misunderstood' instead of 'grossly offensive' and 'stupid'. The other was related to iambic pentameter. So yes. I will admit to losing my temper
&
nbsp; with your brother. You, on the other hand, get the benefit of the doubt. How did it start?"
"There's a guy at school who likes me. He's supposed to be taking me to Finn's party tomorrow," she said glumly. "Kirsty thinks I'm stealing him. I tried to just walk away and she
shoved me. So I asked her if she was going to let me go, and she basically said 'you drop him, or I drop you'."
"And you said?"
"No. She didn't like that. So she went for me." Celia shrugged, which hurt. "She knew what I'd say. She followed me in, and she picked a fight." She risked a sideways glance. Her mother's expression was neutral. "I didn't have a choice."
"I see." The car pulled into their drive. Her mother killed the engine. "I can't help but notice she left you some claw marks on your arms."
Celia glared at the ragged red lines. The teachers that has broken up the fight had cleaned both of them up, but it was going to be a few days before the marks of Kirsty's nails
were gone. "Yep."
"And a few other bruises, I'll warrant."
"My shoulder feels like ground beef," she admitted cautiously. She flexed her hand. "And my knuckles."
"Well, you did give her a beautiful black eye," mused her mother.
Hope rose in her stomach. "Beautiful?"
"I taught you selfdefence so you could look after yourself if it was the lesser of two evils." Her mother shrugged. "The other choice was being bullied. It seems to me you used it in
the way I intended." She paused. "Don't let anyone dictate who you can have a relationship with, Celia. Not even me."
"Does that mean I can go to Finn's party?"
"It does."
"And does that mean you won't interrogate Will?"
"Ah. A name. Will is the boy, I take it."
"Yes. Don't scare him off."
A snort. "Permit an old lady her fun, Celia."
It had been too much to hope for. "No spelling tests."
"First lesson in negotiation. Always bargain from a position of strength. Now, aren't you supposed to be helping Finlay set up his altar of debauchery in an hour or two? Go inside
and I'll get some ice for those bruises."
She grinned, even though it made her jaw twinge where a freefloating elbow had clipped it. "Thanks Mom."
"...mostly unscathed," finished Jodie Slone later that evening from the comfort of the Farriers' kitchendiner.
Jane Farrier whistled. Hair up in a messy bun, apron on, she was moving like a whirlwind through the kitchen. "Good on her. But really, with Kirsty? What went wrong with that girl
– I remember she used to play with our lot when they were in junior school."
"Whatever it was, it's beyond normal teenage scuffles."
"And Kirsty Ausner is not our problem," said Jane, ever the pragmatist. "This lasagne on the other hand..."
"You're sure you don't need any help?" asked Jodie as she shuffled the deck. It was as wellworn as her mother's tarot cards, and had that familiar slippery feel, like something
living.
"Jodha Asiya Slone, you know the rules," her friend said with only a hint of threat as she sliced shallots at a speed that would have impressed a professional chef. She swept them
into the pan with a flourish.
"Help," quoted a new voice, soft and a little timid, "is pouring the chef another glass of wine." The willowy blond woman in the doorway held out a bottle of red for approval. Kim
Orage always hovered in doorways as if she wasn't sure of her welcome. Even after fourteen years. "Speaking of…?"
"As Jodie is neglecting her duties, yes," proclaimed Jane, holding out her wine glass like a begging bowl.
"I am not neglecting you," she said firmly. "We've already got through a bottle." Jodie riffled the cards one last time and set them in the middle of table. "Cut, Kim."
Kim had the same measured smile as Riose, with less of his selfassurance. Funny that the son could be so very different from his gentle mother, who Jodie always had to remind
herself was not spun sugar. "Celia in a catfight, huh? Riose was so shocked he actually told me in person rather than by text."
"The Slone elbow prevails again," she said, giving her a hug and leaning back to admire the long teal maxi dress that was modestly cut, and immodestly clingy. "I wish I could wear
something like that."
"You could," said Jane brusquely. "And you should."
She knew where this was going. "No speculating on my sex life."
"What sex life?" demanded Jane, levelling a merciless stare at her. "There are sloths dangling from trees who get more action. Hell, from the sounds of it, your own daughter"
"Oh, gods, no!" Albert slapped down an armful of plates, looking horrified. Between Finn, Finn's parties, and his wife's carnage in the kitchen, it was a look he'd had a lot of practice
at. "Ladies, I thought we agreed no girl talk on bridge night. It's pure luck that Celia found us a fourth player, let's at least get the man hooked before he realises what he's signed
up for."
"Several years of watching our son slobber over his daughter," sighed Jane. "Darling, you must have the talk with him again. He keeps talking to me about her. He's writing her a
song."
"Someone, naming no names, thought his chronic oversharing would mean we'd never have to worry. It's too late now, we should have nipped it in the bud when he was five."
"He asked me what rhymes with inflaming ardour," Jane said mournfully.
"What did you tell him?" Jodie said, torn between horror and curiosity.
"What does rhyme with inflaming ardour?" mused Kim. "Complaining...harder?"
"Restraining order?" suggested a low voice, which belonged to the man filling the doorframe. "Normally I don't invite myself in, but the door was open and it smells damn good in
here."
"Ahah!" Jane spun round, holding an enormous knife, which probably wasn't the best way to greet a stranger. "You must be Kurt."
"I must," he agreed, sounding a little amused. Not much, Jodie suspected, would faze him. He was the sort of man who made everything else seem like background. A military
posture was offset a little by the shagginess of his dark hair, but nothing could soften the blackcoffee depths of his eyes.
And then he smiled, and Jodie realised she was entirely wrong.
Jane gave her hands a cursory wipe with a teatowel and waved. "Jane Farrier. Finlay's my son. I'm afraid he has a crush on your daughter. Hence the songs."
"I won't hold it against you."
"I would if I were you," said Albert, offering an enthusiastic handshake. "There's a ukulele involved."
Kurt looked dismayed. "Not near me, there won't be."
Kim was getting to her feet, hands gripping the edge of the table.
"And this," said Albert cheerfully, "is"
"We've met," said Kim and Kurt in unison, and she was very white, and he was suddenly that stern stranger again, and the air felt full of unspoken words.
"I didn't think I'd see you again after I left," she said, and her voice was tremulous. All of them knew what she meant: they had known Kim long enough, shared enough to have
heard something of her appalling marriage.
Jodie traded a look with Albert, saw his little nod, and quietly got to her feet.
"And you don't need to see him for another minute if you don't want to, Kim," said Jane, her voice iron and ice.
"No – no, it's not – it was just a shock." Kim straightened. Colour began to seep back into her cheeks. "Kurt was – Kurt was the mediator for my divorce."
"Really." Albert didn't sound impressed. "The one where you left with Riose and not much else."
Kurt said nothing, just stood there blankfaced and tense.
"That's not fair, Albert." It was a rare rebuke from Kim. "They brought him in to keep me there. Instead he did everything he could to free me. And he succeeded." She looked
squarely at Kurt then. "I never
said thank you."
His shoulders relaxed. "There's no need."
"There is," she insisted. "I was so shellshocked that I was out, that I never had to see him again that I walked away without even thanking you for everything you did. I heard what
they said to you after. And a friend of mine told me they made life difficult."
He laughed. "They made it mildly inconvenient at worst."
Kim looked around at them and flapped her hands. "Oh, sit down, all of you. He's one of us."
Jodie saw Kurt's momentary look of surprise before he hid it. "Wine?" she propsosed.
He held out a glass. "I thought you'd never ask. So what are we playing for?"
Albert said, "The glory of victory."
She chipped in, "Bragging rights."
"Suits me," said Kurt. "Is what Sunny said true? Did Celia break some girl's nose in the school bathroom?"
"You're right, Kim," said Jane cheerfully. "Gossip, gambling and booze. He is one of us."
There was a demonic screech. Before she could muster a syllable, he hared up the stairs two at a time. Crunch – that was the door making a nice dent in her wall, no doubt. Louder
screams, Kurt's frantic tenor, and then a few dozen kilos of chastened man tiptoed back down the stairs.
He gave her the beseeching look of a sinner waiting outside the confessional. "Apparently there was a mascara catastrophe." His eyebrows drew together. "Don't catastrophes
normally involve natural disasters?"
"Consider a badly tinted eyelash an unnatural disaster," she advised. "Anyone would think this is Sunny's first party." His face spoke volumes. "Oh. Oh."
Wine was necessary. She'd seen their dresses. No wait, maybe the whisky.
"What are your feelings on single malts?"
"Strong and highly proven, just like I like my whisky," he said. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
She placed a tumbler beside his chair, and carefully filled it with a couple of fingers of eighteen year old. Which she really hoped was not going to be happening to any of their
children tonight. She opened her mouth to say it, then stopped.
Jane would have found it hilarious, but Kurt was a man on the edge.
"Not drunk," she equivocated instead. "Just unsober enough to stop panicking."
"I am not panicking."
"Quite. While you continue to vigorously not panic over there, perhaps you can help me think up some awkward questions to ask Celia's date."
