Supernormal

by Caitlen Rubino-Bradway

  The door to Doc’s Fortress of Solitude opened and she came out, followed by—

  Ashley shot up, ramrod straight, gripping the seat of her chair with both hands. That guy. From the taco joint. The one that looked at her, the one that knew.

  “Ashley?”

  There was a creaking pop, and a crack arced down the seat of her chair, away from her fingers.

  “Ashley.”

  The doc’s voice jolted her back. She was looking at Ashley expectantly. Ashley nodded; it was the most she could manage on short notice.

  “I said I’m sorry we ran late. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  Ashley tried to nod again. It didn’t work, but it was sort of implied.

  The doctor turned to the guy, put a hand on his shoulder. “Good-bye, Cam. I hope I’ll see you again.” The guy nodded, and the doctor disappeared back into her office.

  Ashley tried not to focus on him, or the bubble of panic in her chest, expanding until it felt like her ribs would burst. How did he know? That question had been eating at her every fucking minute of the day. She had no goddamn idea, but she knew—she knew that he knew. It was driving her crazy.

  “Go ahead, ask me.”

  Her head snapped up in surprise. She hadn’t expected that voice. Low and calm and cool. An accent, too, but it seemed to fit with this long, lean boy who somehow made a T-shirt and jeans look like a suit.

  “Ask me,” he said again.

  “Can—can you sit over there?” she managed, nodding at the opposite side of the room.

  Cam hesitated.

  “Please,” she rasped.

  He didn’t go across the room. He took the seat right next to her, moving slow, steady. Like he was dealing with a wild animal—Which you are, Ashley thought, and hated herself in that moment. His scent was clouding her head; cool, clean and cool, it swirled through her in fresh, clear spirals.

  “You’re not going to do anything.” His voice was quiet, but the words caught her up short. She was leaning towards him, she realized, and flattened herself against the back of the chair. Ashley shut her eyes against it. Nose plugs. She really needed to invest in nose plugs, if there was such a thing. The doctors didn’t tell you about that. Oh, no, they mentioned the speed, and the strength, they put you into a coma lecturing about changes in your metabolism, she’d had days of eye tests after the damn implants went in, but they didn’t say a word about the nose.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  What? “What?” She opened her eyes to stare at him.

  Blue eyes. They filled her vision. He had such blue eyes, and something inside her wound tighter even as she managed to make her fingers relax. Boys shouldn’t have eyes like that. Made it hard to look at anything else.

  “I need to talk to you,” he repeated. “What are you doing after?” He nodded at the doctor’s office.

  The unreality of it startled her into laughing. She could feel the sound vibrating deep in her chest, raw against her ribs. “Are you—asking me out on a date?”

  “Let’s just call it coffee.” Dimples winked in his cheeks as he smiled. “But I could get prettied up for you if you want.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “High tea, then.” His expression turned serious. “But I do need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About what you almost did to that boy in Paco’s.”

  Ashley shot to her feet, away from him. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “I know what you almost did. What you wanted to do.”

  He wouldn’t stop staring at her. “What kind of freak are you?”

  “I don’t know. What kind of freak are you? Most girls I know wouldn’t be able to rip a man’s throat out.”

  “I didn’t—”

  The doc came out from her office. “Is everything all right?” She took in the two of them, then said, “Ashley, I’ve finished up, you can come in now. Good-bye, Cam.”

  “Good-bye, ma’am, and thank you,” he said, eyes still on Ashley. He nodded at her and left.

  Ch. 6

  He waited outside, but she must’ve seen him and headed off in a different direction. He was going to see her on Tuesday; still, when he got back, Cam called Brody’s, left his name and number, and asked Ashley to call him.

  She didn’t, but then he hadn’t expected her to. There was a fine line between concerned and creepy, and Cam had the feeling he was on the wrong side of it.

  Cam took to wandering around the island on his off hours. He’d pick a random direction and set off, getting in as much ground as he could, usually stopping by the police station on his way back. They knew his name now, even if they didn’t have any work for him. He wondered if it was normal for a town this size to have so many Missing posters.

  He told himself he wasn’t looking for her, that he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He was just walking, enjoying the sun and the solitude. It wasn’t a complete lie. But he still didn’t see anything, and it seemed she was very good at avoiding people.

  He picked the beach today. Meg said she liked to run on the beach. There was a trail that wound down through the sand, cutting behind the dunes. It gave him a measure of privacy and, every now and then when the dunes dipped, a glimpse of the sea. Maybe if he saw her, if she didn’t see him, she wouldn’t have time to run.

  Cam was a half-hour in when he heard something…off. Something that wasn’t the soft crash of the waves or the wailing of sea birds. It was a strange, wet, tearing sound.

  He followed the trail another ten minutes in. The noise paused, then came again. And there was something else. Almost like growling. But it wasn’t an animal. It was almost human.

  Cam ran. He didn’t think, he just ran, panic tasting like copper in the back of his throat.

  Another twist in the path brought him to an open stretch of beach, and to her. Her back to him, and she was clutching—a rabbit? The small furry body hung limp from her fingers. She was crouched over it, her teeth at its neck, her body shuddering as she ripped off ragged bites. Cam barely had time to stop, to take in, when she stopped suddenly. Turned. Blood dripped down her chin, staining her mouth ruby.

  She moved so fast; he didn’t have a chance. She was just there, fingers closing around his throat, sand rivering under his shirt and down his jeans as she pressed him into a dune.

  “You—”

  “Ashley—” He forced it out, forced himself not to panic.

  “—you’ve been watching me, you’ve been after me—why have you been after me?” Her voice was high, panicked; it didn’t sound human.

  “—told you—” It came out a croak. “—want to—talk—”

  “So talk,” she growled.

  He could feel her fingers digging into his neck as he forced in air. She had him pinned. Cam tried to struggle, to wrench her hands away, but it was like pulling at steel cords. God, she was so strong, how could she be so strong?

  “You’re going to have to hit harder than that.”

  The plea in her voice had him looking up. Going still. Calm, stay calm. “No.” He let go of her. “You won’t hurt me.”

  “I will—”

  “You won’t.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “I do.”

  “—you don’t know how easy it is for me.” Her fingers tightened around his throat. “If you hit hard enough, you’ll have a chance to run.”

  “No,” he told her. “Don’t be silly.”

  That set her back for a moment—a moment was all he needed. Slow, steady, he pulled his sleeve over his hand, and slowly, very slowly, cupped her jaw. Ashley flinched at the touch, but he didn’t let go. Gently, as if dealing with a child, he wiped her face clean.

  Underneath the blood, her face was very pale. “I did it. I did it. I thought—I didn’t think. It ran, I followed.”

  “And made a hell of a mess,” he said, folding his sleeve over to get to a clean part of it.

  “They
think I’m wild.” It came out from deep in her chest, agonized. “They think I can’t control myself.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  “No, they’re not!” She was shaking now. “I killed—I can’t handle it—they have to end it now—”

  “No, they don’t.” He gave her face a final inspection. This close, her scars were everything. The worst one pulled at her bottom lip, hooked under her jaw. “Much better.”

  Her thumb massaged the pulse point at the base of his neck. He could feel the strength radiating out it, the trembling that he knew was her holding herself back. It should’ve hurt. He should’ve been scared. “I’ll hurt you. I can’t help it. I want to.”

  “No, you won’t. I saw you in Paco’s. You wanted to attack that boy. You did not hurt him. You will not hurt me.”

  “You’re lying,” she said in a tight voice.

  “I am not. I won’t let you.”

  She laughed at that, relaxed her hold. Cam wrapped his hands around her wrists. She jerked back at the touch, but he held on.

  “You’re not going to hurt anybody. Not ever. Because I’ll be watching you. You try something, you even think about trying something, I’ll see you. And I’ll stop you.”

  “You can’t. You can’t know that.”

  “I’m psychic,” he said.

  “Bullshit,” she shot back.

  “It is not.”

  Somehow he was holding onto her. She was trying to pull back, and he was holding onto her. She was staring down at his hands on her skin, or at least he thought she was. It was hard to tell with those damn sunglasses. He felt her pulse hammering under his fingertips. Christ, he felt every bone. She was nothing but bones, nothing but points and angles and hard edges. Then he remembered her mouth. Her mouth had been soft.

  “You don’t know—what I can do. You can’t stop me. You won’t be able to. I can’t stop me,” she whispered.

  “I’ll find a way.”

  Ashley grabbed him then, her fingers digging in. He fought back a wince. “Promise.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Cam promised, “I’ll stop you.”

  He didn’t realize she let go at first. He felt the phantom pressure of her fingers even as he slid down the dune. Air rushed in, making his throat ache. “Ashley—”

  She shook her head fiercely. She was crouched over a few feet from him, as if she were trying to pull inside herself. After a moment she stood, and ran.

  Cam sat on the beach a long time, waiting for the feeling of her fingers around his throat to fade.

  Ch. 7

  She made it to Brody’s before puking. Up it all came—blood and meat and fur and bones. In deep, vicious heaves that wracked her whole body. It was almost punishment enough.

  At least she made it to the trashcan.

  He said he was psychic.

  She was going to have to tell Brody. Her fingers dug into the rim of the trashcan, bending the metal like taffy. Christ Almighty, she was going to have to tell Brody. About the rabbit. About the boy. All of it. And Brody was going to have to report it. Ashley spat out some more blood. That tasted like some of hers. Those bones had been jagged.

  He said he would stop her.

  How? It was stupid to think he could, stupid to want to think it. He had to be, what, one-fifty soaking wet, and she could take that in her sleep. It was a joke.

  Except he stopped her in Paco’s. He knew, and he stopped her. Just by looking at her.

  Christ, she was so sick of this. All of it. Sick of always being on edge, of always having to pull herself back, watch herself—always—because the one second she didn’t… So she wrapped the reins around her hands so tight they would never break free, ‘til she couldn’t remember what it was like not to feel tense or tired or empty.

  It was almost a relief, having to tell Brody. Brody’d call Director Cole—he had to call, had to. And that would be it. It was a relief. She wanted it to be over. Better for it to be this way, to be her choice in a way. Better to just stop wasting everyone’s time.

  But when she told Brody, he just got a shovel and some gloves and a plastic trash bag.

  “Aren’t you…?” Ashley swallowed and tried to control her voice. “You have to report this.”

  Brody leaned back on his heels and gave her a measured look. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because—” It was hard to look at him. Hard saying it. Saying it meant she let him down. “I did it—”

  “I know what you did.”

  “It’s happening. I’m going wild. I can’t—I won’t hurt—”

  “Let’s get this straight, Ash,” Brody said, and he sounded so genuinely angry it rocked her. “You are not in charge. Neither is Proom, and neither is that damn agency that hired him. This is my home and you’re under my roof, which means I say what happens and when. Got it?” Ashley nodded, and the anger on his face settled into determination. “Now. Let’s go clean up your mess.”

  So they marched back on the beach with the shovel and the trash bag. And when they got there—no rabbit.

  “This is the place,” Ashley said before Brody could ask. She could still smell the rabbit. She could still smell him. Sawdust and sweat and mint—

  Ashley tried not to think about it.

  She started sniffing. The thing couldn’t have gotten far. It hadn’t exactly been in a position to hop off on its own. The smell was still so clear, it wouldn’t be hard to… Ashley crouched down, letting her nose lead—

  “Two legs, Ashley,” Brody reminded her.

  Ashley bounced up onto the balls of her feet. “It’s here.” She kicked a small pocket of fresh-turned sand. “He buried it. Why would he bury it?”

  “Probably didn’t want to cart it to the trash with his bare hands,” Brody said. He tossed Ashley the shovel. She snatched it out of the air.

  “Why get rid of it at all?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want anyone else coming along and seeing it. He seems like a nice boy, probably something he’d do. Dig.”

  Seems like a nice boy. Ashley’s stomach plummeted. “You know him?”

  “Redhead, psychic.” Brody regarded at her for a second, then said, “That’s Meg’s nephew.”

  Ashley slammed the shovel into the sand. He’d gone down about a foot, but in her present mood, she got it in one strike. Brody held out the trash bag and she tipped it in then checked to make sure they hadn’t missed any stray pieces.

  Meg’s nephew. Didn’t matter if Proom killed her. Meg would.

  Meg didn’t knock. Meg never knocked. She had a key, but mostly Brody left his door unlocked. If anyone were actually stupid enough to break in, well, Ashley knew Brody’d just consider that entertainment.

  “All right, out of the way,” Meg said, lugging in a box. She set it on the counter with a thunk. Ashley waited, for the knife, or the rolling pin, whatever Meg would throw at her first. But Meg was still smiling, still relaxed, as she pulled the cutting board off a bottom shelf. “There’s more in the car. Would you mind giving Cam a hand?”

  Ashley froze, not sure who Meg was talking to—it couldn’t be her—‘course not. But Brody automatically headed out the door, and Ashley relaxed slightly. Meg kept talking, but Ashley had no idea what she was saying. She was listening to Brody’s baritone and the calm, careful, measured voice that was getting closer by the second. Ashley debated making a run for it.

  Except Brody came back then, a box tucked under his arm, holding the screen door open with the other hand. Cam was one step behind. He’d showered—Ashley could smell the soap on his skin. She risked one quick glance.

  Something was off about his neck; it was covered in pale, flesh-colored blotches that didn’t quite match his skin. And then her brain caught up, and her stomach twisted into a hot pit. Makeup. So much makeup.

  The shame was like gravity. It crushed her. It took conscious effort to turn away, feel hand over hand on the chairs to put the table between them. She heard the action around her as if it was happening in someone el
se’s house. Meg’s murmur of thanks. A dull thud as Brody set his box on the table. Brody’s voice, asking, “You bring the whole damn fridge?”

  “It ain’t wise to mock the lady who’s making you dinner.” Ashley heard the swish…clunk of cabinets opened and closed one after another. “Brody.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Brody clapped a hand on Ashley’s shoulder, guided her to a chair at the table. Ashley didn’t want to sit, but she didn’t really want to stand either. So she sat.

  “What happened to all your seasonings? Don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent look, I bought them for you, I came here and put them away myself.”

  Brody stayed there, standing by her. Between her and Cam. Did he see it? Did he see what she did? Again. “We don’t need all that fancy stuff.”

  “You don’t need black pepper. Salt.”

  “I plead the fifth.”

  There was the crack and hiss of a soda bottle opening. “Glasses?” Cam asked.

  “Do we have glasses?” Brody asked Meg. “We usually drink straight out of the tap.”

  “Yes, you’re savages, isn’t it hilarious? Top right cabinet, sugar.”

  Then Cam was there, a glass of soda in hand. Ashley looked up at him blankly. “Ginger ale. I hear it helps with a sore stomach.”

  “Ashley’s stomach is sore?” Meg turned around, mother hen activated.

  Ashley watched Cam. “Always.”

  Meg launched into a spiel about stress and tension and the old, familiar you don’t eat enough. Cam leaned across the table to hand her the glass. Their fingers brushed, and Ashley flinched. The glass shattered in her hand like spun sugar. Soda splashed over the table and soaked her clothes.

  The scent of blood almost set her on lockdown, but it was her blood, so she managed to hold on. She was shaking, hard, and Brody had a hand on her shoulder, just in case. She looked at Cam. He shook his head.