I make a wide berth around a group of enforcers, in their standard gray uniforms, who stand under a light pole, smoking cigarettes and watching people pass by, their presence—and their guns—a not-so-subtle reminder that laws are not to be broken.
Not that my mom cares about laws.
A woman pushing a jogging stroller smiles at me as we cross paths, and I wave in return. I spot a homeless man huddled on his usual bench, clutching an upside-down newspaper and muttering. Strands of silver streak his tangled chin-length brown hair.
“How’s it going today, Mr. Strahan?” I stop, fish the dollar I was going to use to buy water out of my pocket, and stuff it into his hand. It isn’t much, but at least he can buy an order of fries or something to ease his hunger pangs. He stops muttering to look up at me, his blood-shot eyes fixing me in a piercing gaze.
“It’s still here.” His voice is husky, like he hasn’t spoken in more than a whisper in a long time.
I smile. “What’s here, sir?”
He points to the sky. “It’s the moon. Power.”
“Yeah. There was a blood moon last night. It was supposed to be really pretty, but I couldn’t see it from my window.” Citywide curfew starts at dusk, and we aren’t allowed outside our living quarters until morning. “Could you see the moon from the shelter?”
He’s already muttering again, so I continue on my way. As my muscles warm up, I can already feel the energy inside me calming down, no longer threatening to tear my life apart. Since I never use my magic, it tends to build up and then comes out in an explosion like it did last night. But running helps. I have to get outside to fill my lungs with fresh air and sprint until my legs burn and my heart feels like it’s going to burst. I need to jump and climb and use my body to exhaustion. Exercise is the only thing that keeps the boiling mess inside me at a simmer. The only way I can keep my powers hidden.
As I get ready to sprint, a pair of boots pounds the gravel behind me. Seth. I grin and pour on the speed, taking off before he can catch up. The running track bends left, but I hurdle a park bench and dart down a trail through the trees. The scents of pine and fir dance in the air as the canopy of branches dapples the rising sunlight.
I dash between the pines, and my shoe catches on a root. I go down, tumbling over myself until I skid to a stop just short of knocking my head against a tree trunk. Seth slows his pace slightly but doesn’t stop.
“You okay, Red?” he calls as he approaches. A mischievous grin fills his face when I wave my hand to dismiss him. He winks as he passes and picks up his pace.
My elbow burns, and blood drips down my arm, the crimson liquid turning black as it mixes with dirt. The cut hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the sting of that nickname. Especially coming from Seth.
I scramble to my feet and sprint ahead, trying to salvage what’s left of this race. I can’t let him beat me, even if it’s on a technicality. Seth may be strong and fearless, but I’m faster. My muscles burn as I pump my legs and carefully scan the forest floor for roots. I’m gaining on him, but he’s almost reached the finish line—the shore of a small lake a mile west of where we started.
I pour on one last burst of speed, but it isn’t enough. By the time I reach the lake, Seth is bent over, his hands on his knees, panting. “Not too bad, Red,” he says between breaths. “But I did beat you this time.”
That’s the second time he’s called me Red. My hands vibrate with the urge to smack him with my energy. I tackle him instead.
I plant my shoulder squarely in his stomach, knocking the wind out of him as I take him down. With the element of surprise on my side, I’m able to wrestle his stocky frame to the ground. I pin his thick arms under my knees and press his shoulders against the dirt with my hands. He could easily toss me off, but he lets me have this little victory.
“First of all, you only won because I fell. And second . . .” A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, and I release his shoulder to wipe it away. Staring into his chocolate puppy-dog eyes, I almost forget why I’m mad. Almost. “Don’t ever call me by that name. You know I hate it. And you of all people should know how offensive it is.”
He smiles, the glint in his eyes turning devilish. In one swift movement, he frees his arms, grabs me by the waist, and plants me firmly on my butt in the dirt. Then he kneels in front of me and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“First of all,” he says, attempting to mimic my voice and chuckling when he fails miserably. “First of all,” he says in his own velvety tone, “a win’s a win.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a finger. “And second, you know that nickname has nothing to do with your skin and everything to do with that stupid cloak you wear all the time. Your mom’s a seamstress. She could’ve at least made you a nice jacket or something not so . . . medieval.”
I’ve worn a red cloak of some sort since I was a small child. When I outgrew it, my mom would sew a new one, secretly stitching four stones into the hem—coral, opal, onyx, and turquoise. Those four stones together form a circle around me and—according to Apache legend—have a sacred power on their own. But my mom enchanted them to make what she swears is the perfect wolf repellent. I suppose the cloak was cute when I was little. People called me Little Red Riding Hood, and I kinda liked being compared to a storybook character.
But as I got older, the nickname eventually shortened to Red, and it stuck. I hardly ever wear the cloak in public anymore. It’s usually stuffed in my backpack when my mom’s not around. But the name is mine now, and my blood boils when I hear it.
Seth stands, crossing his arms over his chest, and grins down at me like he told a hilarious joke and expects me to laugh. “Come on.”
I shake my head and rise from the ground, dusting the dirt from my pants. “I know where the name came from. I just don’t expect to hear it from you, Seth.”
He turns to face me, sighs, and pulls me into a hug. His chin rests on top of my head, and I press my ear to his chest. The rhythmic thud of his heart, his strong arms wrapped around me, his musky scent . . . this is the Seth I know.
The sun rises behind the mountains, turning the sky shades of gold and pink, making the lake sparkle as if a million diamonds dance on its emerald surface. The only sounds are Seth’s beating heart and the breeze rustling through the trees. My Sense has settled to embers, glowing slightly beneath the surface. If I try hard enough, I can forget it’s even there. I feel normal. I can get lost in moments like this.
Seth brings me back to the present. “I need to get back to my shift.” His chest vibrates as he speaks, tickling my ear, and I reluctantly pull away from our embrace.
“Do you have to?” I lace my fingers through his. “You’re almost a full enforcer. Surely you’re allowed a little break?”
He jerks his hand from mine and rakes his fingers through his buzz-cut hair. “That’s careless, Wren. William said he spotted the wolf outside the walls last night. We’re patrolling the area to look for signs.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Did you see the wolf yourself?”
“No. But William saw a dark mass in the trees. That had to be him.”
“Come on, Seth. You don’t seriously believe the wolf is still out there, do you? It’s been years since anyone has seen it. In fact, I heard they rounded all of them up, that they’ve all been captured and are imprisoned in Washington. I doubt they left our wolf behind if they caught the others.”
Anger flashes in his eyes, and he marches toward me, taking me by the arm, gripping me tighter than necessary.
“Ouch.” I try to keep my voice calm as I gaze at his fingers digging into my flesh. A fresh bead of blood rolls down my elbow, leaving a red trail on my forearm.
He widens his eyes in surprise and releases his grip, stroking my arm as if to take away the anger he just expended on me. “I’m sorry, Wrennie. But you have to understand . . . In enforcer training, I’ve learned things. Things I’m not supposed to share with anyone.” He looks around
like he’s afraid we’re being watched before stepping in closer. He places his hand on my cheek as if he’s about to kiss me, and my heart does this weird fluttering thing.
Instead, he leans in and whispers in my ear. “There are five wolves left. They’ve managed to capture the rest, but these five . . . they’re strong and tricky. Wolves are territorial. They won’t roam far from their homes, so we know where each one is. One of them is here; there’s no doubt.”
“Wolves are territorial, but shape-shifters aren’t normal animals. They used to be people.”
“Maybe so. But since they can’t control the wolf spirits that possess them, we’re treating them like the monsters they are.”
I shudder. Hundreds of these shape-shifters—humans by day, wolves by night—used to roam the country, massacring thousands. Most of them have been captured now, but because of them, the government has banned all use of the Sense, moved everyone into the big cities, and built walls around them to keep us secure.
“If we can capture our wolf, we’ll be safe.” He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me closer, and my heart starts to pound. “No more curfews. Maybe we can even extend our borders; there hasn’t been a wildfire in years. But until then, we have to follow the rules. It’s for everyone’s safety.”
He kisses me on the cheek, a small grin masking the concern in his eyes. “Go home. Okay, Red?”
A flush of icy anger washes away the warmth in my chest. I push him away. “Don’t call me that!”
He lifts my amulet by the chain. “It would help if you didn’t always wear the color.” Another peck on the cheek. “Go home, please.”
He turns and sprints up the path. He’s probably expecting me to follow, but I’m too flustered. He called me Red three times in a span of thirty minutes. What’s gotten into him? Ever since he joined the enforcers, he’s been . . . different.
My amulet warms my skin, and I’m glad he didn’t touch the stone. Would he have known it was enchanted? The two-inch teardrop-shaped red coral stone is set in sparkling silver, and my mom enchanted it to protect me from the wolf. I don’t mind it too much, since it looks like pretty jewelry. Of course, she would prefer if I wore the stupid cloak all the time, but the necklace was her compromise. She says the wolf is attracted to my enlightened blood. I say she’s overprotective.
Seth doesn’t have the Sense, and I have no idea what he would think if he found out I’m infected. It’s a question I’ve pondered many times since we started dating, but since he joined the enforcers, it’s best he never finds out. Now, part of his job is to make sure not an ounce of magic exists in our community. In our entire country. Not even a magic necklace.
This stupid amulet. The stupid wolf. Stupid Sense. Why can’t my life be normal? I unclasp the necklace and hurl it toward the lake. But as soon as the amulet leaves my grasp, panic sets in.
What have I done?
My mother’s energy created it. I can’t throw it away. I race to the edge of the lake, frantically searching the rocks. Where is it? Where is it? I rake my hands through the moss-covered stones, causing mud to cloud the shallow water. Her heart would break if she knew I threw it away. How could I be so stupid?
As the muck settles, a glimmer of silver beneath the water’s edge catches my eye, and I dive for the pendant. Relief washes through me as I pull the necklace from its place, wedged between two rocks. I wipe it on my pants and feel the warmth pulsating from the stone. Thank goodness, I didn’t lose it.
Shoving the amulet into my pocket, I start the mile-and-a-half run home. I don’t understand why people are so scared of that stupid wolf. No one has seen it in ages, and it’s been years since it killed anyone. I’m way more afraid of what the enforcers will do to me if they ever find out I still have the Sense. That their sick attempt at a cure didn’t work.
I’ll have to go straight to school after my mom’s flower-picking session, so I throw my running clothes on my bed and take a quick shower. My cut has stopped bleeding, so I rub a bit of enchanted salve on the wound to close it up and pull on a clean pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt.
I don’t have much time for primping—not that I ever bother with makeup or anything—so I throw my hair into a quick braid and fasten the end with turquoise beads. Since no one close has died in several years, my black hair hangs down to the small of my back. My mom taught me hair is sacred to the Apache, and it’s one of the few traditions we’re still allowed to honor. The death of a loved one is the only occasion for a haircut. Luckily, there are no laws controlling hairstyles yet.
My black, lace-up boots are on the shoe rack by the front door, so I pad across the beige carpet in my socks. Our apartment is small—if I stretch out my arms in my bedroom, I can almost touch both walls—but it’s cozy enough for my mom and me. We’re lucky. Some families have three or four kids, plus two parents and even grandparents, living in the same size space. The city’s population tripled when they shut down the suburbs and moved everyone in. Some people, like Mr. Strahan, can’t even afford a small place like this. Hundreds of people live on the streets during the day and cram into one of five homeless shelters at night.
I lock the door behind me and trudge down the stairs. My mom waits for me on the landing, holding an empty basket. “Are you ready to go pick flowers for our living room?” She stresses the “for our living room” part a little more than necessary. She winks and laces her arm through mine, and we walk to the park.
Cutting down an alley, I glance up at a man leaning out his apartment window to hang laundry on a line stretching to the building across the street. Though we’ve never met, he smiles and waves. He appears to be Quileute, which makes sense, with his former tribal land so close to New Portland. I wave back, and his smile widens, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling. Would he be so friendly if he knew my mom and I are infected? I doubt it.
As we weave our way through the mass of people on the main road, my mom smiles at anyone who will make eye contact. Few will. I wonder how many of these people know she’s a healer? How many of them would turn her in if they found out? Do they still suspect me of having the Sense? I can drive myself crazy with suspicion if I let my thoughts go, so I try to rein them in.
We make our way to the edge of the park and turn down a small trail into the trees. A nice patch of elderflower grows just over the hill, and my mom secretly tends to it, pulling weeds and fertilizing the land to keep the crop healthy. We’re lucky to have a little bit of nature within our city walls. Though I’ve never had the chance to leave New Portland, I’ve heard other communities are far worse off.
As we reach the clearing, my breath catches at the beauty of the field. Hundreds of white flowers blanket the landscape, peeking out of the fog, their delicate petals open wide to reveal soft yellow stamens. My mom traipses into the blooms, stooping to pick the best ones. I try to commit the picturesque scene to memory—my beautiful mother picking flowers, the hood of her crimson cloak slipping over her head as she bends down.
Her cloak.
I instinctively reach for the amulet she gave me, my heart racing when I realize it’s not around my neck. It must be in the pocket of the pants I went running in, lying on my bed. Apprehension slickens my palms, and a prickling sensation causes my neck hairs to stand on end. Surely the wolf isn’t around. It’s daytime. Even if someone did see it outside the walls last night, there’s no way it could possibly be a threat at seven in the morning. Still . . .
I grab a bunch of flowers and yank them out of the ground. Wolf or no wolf, my mom will kill me if she discovers I’m out of the house unprotected.
“Here you go.” I shove the blooms into her basket. “I think that’s enough now, don’t you? We should probably get going. You know . . . school and all.” I let out a nervous laugh.
“What’s gotten into you, little bird? We have plenty of time.” She smiles, shaking her head, and goes back to flower picking.
She’s right. We do have plenty of time, and if she hasn’t noticed I’m
not wearing the amulet by now, she probably won’t. I take a deep breath, filling my senses with the sweet aroma of the blooms, and relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
“Did elderflower grow on the reservation?”
She pauses, her eyes shining like she’s considering a fond memory. “No, it was mostly desert where I grew up. We used a certain cactus flower to help with—I mean to decorate our houses.” A conspiratorial grin lifts the corners of her mouth. I smile in return and continue harvesting flowers, more gently now, my mind at ease. My mom grew up on an Apache reservation in New Mexico, but when they moved everyone into the cities, she came to New Portland, far away from our ancestral home.
“I wish I had my photo album. I’m sure there are pictures of the flowers in it. And pictures of Grandma and Grandpa. You have his eyes.” She’s mentioned the album many times before. Each person was only allowed one suitcase when they closed the reservation, and she didn’t have room to bring it with her.
“Why did you decide to move all the way to New Portland during the Exodus? Wouldn’t it have been easier to stay in New Mexico? Move to New Albuquerque or something?”
She looks at me with a strange expression: a mixture of sadness and pity. “I didn’t choose to come here. This is where I was assigned.”
“Assigned? Who told you—”
A rustling in the woods across the meadow catches my attention before I can finish my sentence. We’re the only people out here. The sound of tree branches snapping and crunching underfoot fills me with dread. “What’s that?” I grip my mom’s arm to gain her attention.
“What’s what?” She continues gathering flowers, oblivious to the predator hiding in the brush.
I hear another crunch and a gush of breath like something big is exhaling. “That, Mom. Don’t you hear it? I think it’s the wolf.”
She freezes. “But that’s impossible. It gets its power from the moon. It can’t come out in the sunlight.”
Something big grunts, and more branches snap. My mom’s head whips around as she peers into the trees. Her mouth hangs open, and the basket of flowers drops to the ground as she reaches for my hand. “It can’t be.” Her voice is barely a whisper; her fingers tremble in my hand.
Soul Catchers Page 2
