I couldn’t focus during first period Communications. Ms. Gwendolyn was rambling on about the common fey languages in South America, and with every weird word my chin floated closer to my desk. Eventually my cheek pressed against the wood, and I saw visions of Mya. Her tan skin, her thick, dark hair, the way her eyebrows quirked over those grass-green eyes.
Something smacked the floor. My eyes shot open. I found myself staring at Leo. He smirked, motioning toward the corner of his mouth. Sitting up, I wiped a pool of drool off my desk as Gwendolyn picked up a fallen text book.
The rest of the day proceeded in a similar fashion, except for last class.
Instead of P.E., PIU had Hunters High students take what we called “Training,” the most important class of all. Like Homeroom, we were assigned to groups that never changed throughout our four years. We had the same coach and the same students every time, although occasionally the period changed. Training was like it sounded: long, hard, sweaty workouts—all of which were designed to teach us how to handle Otherworlders should words go wrong. Not all of them are friendly when they find we can see through the veil, through their disguises. We were taught to fight and perfect our abilities, to distinguish the smell of a gnome versus the smell of a dwarf, and to track creatures long after the footprints disappeared.
No matter what country you visited, Otherworlders complied with the laws and registered with PIU or they were held captive until they agreed to do so. We couldn’t have supernaturals running around the human world, even if they glamour up. It’s bad for both our kinds. Eventually, most captives see things our way.
We were on the basketball court that day. It was sprinkling outside, making me feel like I was stuck in a mist machine. As I looked up through the treetops, I wondered if it would rain later. Hopefully not. Rain would make tracking Mya’s scent difficult.
A whistle blew. “Line up for roll call!” Coach Fugleman ordered.
I squeezed in between a pair of twin girls, both with black hair and eyes that frequently looked my way. Diana and Zelda. Their parents had named them after princesses apparently; one princess a real person and the other, Peter told me, was a fictional videogame character. I couldn’t decide whether that was messed up or kind of cool.
Fugleman moved slowly down the line. I watched the bulky old man in his tracksuit, wondering if that’d be me someday, training kids how to stun a redcap or hogtie an attack unicorn. Mom was bugging me now that I was halfway done with school. “What career field do you want to go into, Jared?” she’d ask on the rare occasion we ate dinner together.
Finders make money, of course, but the pay is crap unless you have a degree from Hunters High and some kind of college-level training. Mom didn’t want me to stay in this field forever, but I felt like I wasn’t good at anything else. Sales were a no-go. A customer would ask, “What does this do?” and I’d snort and say, “Like I know.” A behind-the-desk job would kill me. I didn’t like mechanics much either.
“Jared,” Diana spoke, interrupting my thoughts. Her nose wrinkled as she eyed my clothes. “You smell bad.”
“What?” I lifted an arm, giving my armpit a sniff. It smelled like Old Spice to me.
“No, not like B.O.” She grabbed my wrist and yanked my arm down to my side. “You smell like dog. And rust and salt or something.”
“Rust and salt?” I’d been around neither one, far as I could remember. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I yanked it up and gave it a whiff. It was a clean shirt, fresh out of the drier. I cocked an eyebrow at her.
Diana’s eyes narrowed. She leaned into my shoulder, nose in my hair. I stiffened, surprised that she invaded my personal space like that. Not many girls have the guts to invade my bubble. My face warmed as I realized her boob was touching my arm.
She backed away, looking disturbed. “You smell like Siren Lake,” she whispered.
I couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Oh. Really?”
“Do you want to get killed, Jared? They’ll only be tolerant of you and your goons for so long. Just because you aren’t normal doesn’t mean you aren’t edible. They will eat you alive.”
I rolled my eyes. What was she, my mother? “Relax, Diana. I’m still standing here in one piece. Plus, my trips to the lake are over. I have other priorities.”
“Like what? Bonking freshmen behind the auditorium?”
“Oh, give me a break,” I snarled. There went my damn face again, heating up. “Seriously, why would you bring that up? That was well over a year ago.” And to be honest, I felt bad about it for some reason, even though said freshman didn’t.
Diana snorted, looking away. “Not much has changed, apparently. Only now you’re going way out of your league to get some.”
“You’re just jealous because it wasn’t you.”
She shot me a disbelieving look, but now her cheeks were red. “Oh, you think you’re good enough to get it from me?” She laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ferlyn. Boys who are stupid enough to go after nymphs? You might as well tape a big I’m desperate sign on your foreheads.”
I shook my head, sliding toward Zelda. Diana was really starting to piss me off, so I just mumbled, “Whatever,” and turned away.
Fuglemen mumbled last names under his breath as he went by. I casually leaned away, hoping that my scent wasn’t as noticeable to him as it had been to the evil twin. I made a mental note to take a shower when I got home, and to wash my jeans and shirt from last night. If Mom got a hold of those, I’d be in deep shit.
The second Fuglemen was out of earshot, Diana’s figure moved toward me again. I jerked toward her. “What now?”
“They didn’t bite you, did they?”
“Uh, do I look bitten?” I snapped. Her expression turned quizzical. “What? Are you concerned for me?”
“No.” Her voice was chilly. She slid away, eyes on the trees beyond the gates. “I’m asking because it isn’t rust and salt I smell on you. It’s old blood.”
I stopped glaring, straightening up. Blood? So that was what I smelled on Mya. Her buddy in the club had smelled like it, too. Really need to get online. I felt antsy all of a sudden. I wanted to go home and do more research on the skinwalkers before going out tonight.
Chapter Eight
The front door squeaked as I entered the house. Kicking my shoes off in the pantry, I picked up on an odd fragrance: rose-scented candles and Italian cooking. Not a usual smell for the Ferlyn household.
“Mom?” I called. Usually she didn’t come home until five, and here it was only three. It had to be her, though. Jess couldn’t cook outside of macaroni and cheese from a box.
A minor crash echoed out of the kitchen, followed by scuffling sounds. My stomach rolled with a bad premonition. Dropping my backpack by the coat closet, I slowly started toward the noise.
Mom stood by the sink, buttoning her shirt up. Beneath her curling bangs, her pale face had gone pink. “Hi, honey,” she said.
Standing beside her was the devil. Well, no, not literally, but he was damn close, in my opinion. His hot red hair, like the flames of hell, waved around his face whenever he moved. He leaned against the counter, watching me with dark eyes that resembled bottomless pits.
“Hello, Jared,” the devil addressed me in his unattractive, Irish accent. “How was school?”
I resisted the urge to use profanity. “Fine.”
“Good.” He nodded then took his attention to the oven. I noticed his fly was unzipped. I cringed in absolute disgust. “Darling, will you check the chicken?”
“Yes, Charles, I will.” Mom wouldn’t look at me. She turned toward the sink, plucking out an object I couldn’t quite see. It looked like a broken wine glass. Is that what I heard crash?
Oh, man. I leaned against the entryway, feeling sick. I didn’t want to deal with this right now. Actually, no, that was a
lie. I had several ideas on how to deal with this. I had few doubts that I could crumple Charles Finney. I did, after all, have three years of Training behind me, and once I’d taken down a Khmer dragon with three heads. I could easily take down Mom’s perverted, human boyfriend.
But Mom would throw a fit. And I needed to set an example for Jess should she suddenly come downstairs, since these two obviously weren’t setting one. Mom bent down to pull a pan of olive-oiled chicken from the oven. As she did so, Charles’ eyes honed in on my mother’s thin frame, on her lower half.
Well, I’d tried to be civil.
“Dude, screw off,” I said. “Seriously, you pervert, that’s how you stare at a plate of meat not a full-grown woman with kids!”
“Jared!” Mom snapped her head up, nearly dropping dinner on the floor. Her eyes were large, silently asking me, what the hell is wrong with you?
I rolled my eyes, leaving the kitchen. If I stayed any longer, I wouldn’t just crumple Charles—I’d kill him. Snatching my bag off the floor, I stomped across the living room, heading for the stairs.
Mom mumbled an apology to him, saying she’d be right back. A second later, she stomped across the carpet, coming after me. “Jared Theodore Ferlyn!”
I didn’t turn back. Bouncing up the stairs two at a time, I curled my hands into fists. It was all I could do to not spin around and rampage back into the kitchen, like a bull that’d seen red.
A hand caught my shoulder, turning me around. I glared down at my mother, whose round cheeks had become rounder than usual. Her face tended to puff up when she was mad. I could almost feel steam coming off her head.
“What is wrong with you?” she spat. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Oh, so sorry if I ruined your early homecoming,” I snarled back. “What, did the bedroom get so boring you had to bring him into the kitchen? Shit, I make food on that counter, Mom!”
“You clean up your mouth or I’ll wash it out with soap, young man! You will not use profanity when talking to me. We were not doing that. Jeez, Jared!”
“Come on, I saw what was going on. I’m not blind or stupid, thank you!”
I stepped back from her, glancing down the hall. The door across from mine was closed, covered in butterfly stickers and animal posters. The room behind it was unusually quiet.
I lowered my voice. “God, Mom, grow a moral compass. Jess is home and everything! If she’d have come downstairs and seen you with that mole rat . . .”
I trailed off. One, because it made me want to puke thinking about my mom and that perv doing anything like that, and two, because I couldn’t imagine how traumatized my little sister would be. She wasn’t even a teenager yet. Hell, she wasn’t even a tween. If you said “birds and the bees” she’d point out one of the blue jays in the yard or the wasp nest above the back patio.
Mom sighed, dragging her hands through her curls. Dark circles, darker than usual, rounded her eyes. “Look, I get it. You don’t like Charles, and I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “But I can’t turn him into Nick—”
“Oh, here we go.” I threw an arm in the air, turning toward my room. Something in my heart tore open as she spoke of Dad, of the man who’d disappeared on us some years ago. Instantly, I went into shut-down mode. This conversation was over.
“Jared, you always tune me out when the topic of Dad comes up. You can’t just bottle this up, don’t do this to me today—”
Mom rambled on, but I did the usual: I zoned her out. There was nothing left that I wanted to hear or say. She couldn’t convince me to like her slimy boyfriend—not in a hundred years—and there was no use in talking about someone who no longer existed in my world. Plucking a twenty dollar bill from a pocket in my backpack, I chucked the bag in my bedroom and shut the door.
“Jared, what is that for? I just made dinner.”
“Going out. Be back later.”
“Jared, damn you,” was the last thing I heard as I jogged back down the stairs, slipped on some flip-flops, and slid out the front door.
I hopped down the porch, taking a deep breath as I started through the neighborhood. I lived in the suburbs, in a housing development named Markson. It was one of those ugly developments where the houses are all similar in shape and painted tan, cream, or light blue. We lived a ways from town, but the sidewalk hooked up with the main drag eventually. I passed the bus stop, too impatient to wait. Plus, if another freaking person got in my way, I would end up in juvie with attempted murder on my permanent record.
Forty minutes later, I came into Loralin’s Old Town. Three in the afternoon to six at night were Old Town’s busiest hours, mostly because everybody from New Town—the place with all the big office buildings, grocery stores, and strip malls—came this way from work.
I didn’t like New Town. Too crowded, too new and clichéd. Old Town had spunk. Stores here were in single-floored buildings, usually small and family-owned. White lights twinkled in many windows year round. We had a Pink Ladies Coffee House instead of Starbucks, owned by this group of chubby ladies in their fifties who wore poodle skirts and boomed Elvis music throughout the café. Every block had some kind of funky junk shop to pick through (my favorite was Joe Billy’s, owned by a beer-bellied redneck who watched Larry the Cable Guy at the front counter). Almost every brick wall had some kind of spray-painting, whether it was a heart with some couple’s names in it, or a detailed Chevy Camaro with a girl on the hood.
Yeah. Old Town was my kind of place.
Now, what to eat? I searched for restaurants. Since my last meal had been from the gruesome pots and pans of the school cafeteria, I was ravenous. Everything sounded good right now.
A few tables and chairs came up on my right. Fact: where there is outdoor furniture, there is food. A glass door appeared, a sign with a cartoon sandwich hanging above it, with Heavenly Subs written in bold letters. Good enough for me. I slid into an empty table, not wanting to go inside. Seconds after I picked up the menu, a middle-aged gal with poufy hair and leggings from the eighties asked me what I wanted to drink.
I hogged down a huge BLT. Traffic stopped backing up around five, which was about the time I ordered a slab of chocolate cake to finish off my dinner. The hot orange, evening sun rested on the shiny skyscrapers of New Town. Shops turned on their lights. I began to relax, the incident with Mom and the devil somewhat behind me.
It wasn’t the first time we’d fought. It wasn’t the first time I’d walked out on her, either. Mom and I didn’t really get each other, and a long time ago that wasn’t such a problem. We’d had Dad, the mediator. Then he left and things fell apart. Part of that was my fault, too, but I just couldn’t admit it for some reason. Maybe because Mom never owned up to her half of it. I don’t know. I just knew that I couldn’t wait to have my degree and do Finding for a living, making me enough money to move out.
I had just paid my dinner bill inside and was coming out the door when a spot of black caught my eye. Not sure if it was intuition, or just me randomly turning my head, but I glanced across the street.
I froze on the sidewalk.
Her tan legs were crossed, sitting at an outdoor table made of iron, owned by the coffee shop on the corner. She had a magazine propped in her lap; she brushed crumbs off her tube top, unaware of my presence.
Mya. I crouched behind my chair, wondering how long she had been there. While it was hard to hear or smell an Otherworlder in a busy place, I should have at least sensed something the second she showed up.
The crosswalk was just up ahead, drawn across the intersection and ending behind her chair. I rocked on the balls of my feet. If I could get over the crosswalk, she’d never see me coming. You’re not getting away from me this time, Otherworlder. I hopped up, trying not to run as I headed toward the intersection.
She was still reading. She turned the page, unaware. I smacked
the button on the light post, waiting for the red hand across the street to change. I jiggled my leg, antsy, debating on what technique to use should she attack. The chances of her coming at me were high—I hadn’t forgotten the way she’d crouched outside the club, ready to leap.
The light across the street stayed red. I groaned, turning to look at her again.
Uh oh.
She uncrossed her legs, sitting forward. Tossing the magazine on the table, she crumpled up a small paper bag. My stomach dropped as she stood up, slipping inside to toss her trash.
My heart pounded. Hurry up, stupid light. I was not going to lose this girl just because of some dumb traffic signal. Maybe it was all the pent up energy from fighting with Mom, but I was ready to take her down. Even without weapons, I could do it. I would see her tagged or in captivity before the night was over.
The coffee shop bells jingled. Mya stepped outside, zipping up her jacket. Suddenly she stopped. Her nose twitched. Her eyes locked onto mine. I read the fear in her face and finally picked up on her familiar scent.
And she was off, bolting down the sidewalk away from me.
Adrenaline coursed through my system. The crosswalk signal was still red, but it no longer mattered. I tore across the road, ignoring the honks of oncoming vehicles and the squeal of breaks. Mya darted around a corner into an alleyway. I ran right after her.
I can’t let her get away.
Chapter Nine—Ilume
I should’ve kept to my original plan.
Originally, I intended to just stop into town for some breakfast. Maybe grab a coffee and a sausage wrap, or even a double patty cheeseburger, picking off the bun and condiments.
Predator Girl (A Paranormal Romance) Page 4
