Hawk shouts as I rise. “Phoenix, stop!”
I pull back my arm and throw my fist into the jock’s face.
Chapter 12
I manage to control myself enough so I don’t break his jaw with the force of my punch—there’s enough magical strength in me to do it easily—but he stumbles back and falls into a table, arms flailing and everything. My hand throbs and I try to shake it off. For a split second there’s dead silence. Then a teacher’s aide is shouting at me, the jock’s two friends are pointing their fingers in my face, and fevered talking breaks out all over the cafeteria.
Ignoring the commotion for the brief moment I’m allowed, I check on Ashley.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Tears run down her face as well as a little bit of snot forced out by her violent sobbing. The back of her shirt is drenched in chocolate milk. Protective rage burns through me and I would be happy to beat the jock into a slimy pulp, but I’m already in enough trouble as it is. Ashley’s other two friends rise from the table and escort her to the bathroom.
The teacher’s aide rushes up to me and then there’s a lot of confused shouting between all of us. The jocks, of course, blame me for attacking unprovoked. The spilled milk was an accident they say. They’re the victims here. I shout right back unafraid and try to explain what happened but the aide saw me clear as day decking the boy. A few teachers show up and I start to get embarrassed. Mr. Webster arrives only to make matters worse. He escorts the jock away to the nurse’s office and my English teacher goes to check on Ashley in the bathroom.
I, in the meantime, am escorted to the principal’s office. Score: high school, 1; me, 0. They’re going to tell Jefferson and he’s going to give me the boot. I screwed up. I can’t deny that. Jefferson’s pointed it out and Hawk’s mentioned it before—I don’t control myself. Now my reaction is going to get me suspended. I won’t apologize for hitting that jerk, though. He definitely had it coming.
I wait in an uncomfortable chair outside the principal’s office for a couple of minutes before I’m let inside. Principal Tippy adjusts his hair as I enter, literally pulls it from side to side. I knew his hair was too perfect to be real. It’s a piece. I take the offered seat and the door closes behind me.
Tippy temples his fingers. “One day,” he sighs. “One day here and you’re already starting fights.”
“No.” I try to say it respectfully like my brother might but it comes out aggressive. “I didn’t start the fight. I was defending a friend.”
“You threw the first punch.”
I hold up a hand. “Okay, maybe literally but not figuratively.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“You are not in a position to be talking back.” He sucks in a nasally breath and leans all the way back in his chair. “So, in your words, what happened?”
“I thought I’m not supposed to be talking back.” I’m going to get detention at the least. Suspended possibly. Jefferson called at the worse. I’m sour and pretty reckless at the moment. Might as well enjoy the ride down, right? Then some better part of me, my conscience maybe, retorts that I’m supposed to be making this right and not worse. What would a true IMS agent do? They’d protect their cover. I blurt out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just angry.”
He lifts his chin and makes a face a bit like a sturgeon fish. “All right. What are you angry about?”
Grateful he’s giving me a chance, I quickly summarize what went down in the cafeteria. He nods now and again and his listing hum continues in the background like white noise. I finish, but before Tippy can pronounce judgment, there’s a commotion outside the door. I angle myself towards it trying to hear what’s going on. Then the door suddenly flies open and the jock I sucker punched fills up the doorway. There’s a nice red mark on his jaw.
“Principal Tippy, it’s all my fault,” he announces. “I started the fight and she was just protecting a friend. I was harassing them all. She shouldn’t be blamed.”
We both stare at him. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s defending me? He’s willing to take the blame? From all of his talk in the lunchroom, that’s the very last thing I would expect from him. Then again, I don’t even know him, but still.
“I’m surprised to say the least, Mr. Jones.” Principal Tippy gestures to the other empty chair. “Please, take a seat.”
He has Mr. Jones explain what happened and asks me not to interrupt. I wouldn’t even have the words to if I wanted—Mr. Jones says basically the same thing I did but ends up spinning a picture of how very evil and maniacal he was and how I was the avenging heroine. Maybe not that dramatic but that’s the image it conjures up for me. There’s no way this guy pulled a 180 from spilling milk down a girl’s shirt on purpose to conceding everything in my favor. I just decked him five minutes ago, for crying out loud.
After his story, Principal Tippy lets out a sound like a dying wheeze. I watch him carefully to make sure he isn’t really kicking the bucket right then and there. He massages his forehead and smooths a hand over his fake hair.
“Physical confrontations are completely unnecessary and not allowed. However . . .” He holds up a spidery finger. “Given the circumstances I will be somewhat lenient. Detention for both of you. You will take it over your lunch hour for the remainder of the week. I want to keep you both away from a situation in which you may be tempted to reenact another scene of violence.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say and sincerely mean it. I can’t imagine if I had to explain this to Jefferson. Tippy’s saved me from a world of pain.
We’re dismissed and the second we’re outside the office Mr. Jones takes off and doesn’t give me a backward glance. I get a hall pass from the receptionist who is wearing yet another pink sweater and move out. The hallways are already empty because fifth period’s started. I hustle to my next class and when I get there I try to explain in an undertone to the teacher why I’m late. She raises her voice so the whole class can hear anyway and I’m set in the back in shame. I spend the rest of the period glaring out the window and trying to figure out why Mr. Jones helped me out.
I trudge to my locker after I live through that hour of misery and find Hawk leaning against it, a smile lurking on his face because he clearly knows something I don’t. He winks and moves to the side.
“You’re welcome by the way,” he says quietly and his words are almost lost in the noise around us. “I heard Mr. Jones spun quite the story.”
My mouth goes slack and my brother stands in a new light before me. “That’s impossible. You got that guy to vouch for me?”
He rummages through his locker like this is an everyday thing for him. “Like I said, you’re welcome.”
“But . . . how?” I shut his locker door so he’s forced to face me directly. “You can’t just smile and laugh your way into the good graces of some random guy in two minutes, then convince him to take the fall.”
He looks to the left, to the right, behind him, then leans in close and whispers, “Not all forms of persuasion are polite. It’s a secret.”
Hawk winks again, gives me a thumbs up, and jogs to his next class. I’m left dumbfounded. Did my brother blackmail someone to get me out of trouble? A swell of gratitude stirs in my chest for a moment before worry kicks in. I seriously hope whatever Hawk did doesn’t blow up in his face. I gather my books and move in the opposite direction for my sixth period class.
Like all the others, it’s wretched and boring and I want to slam my head against the wall. I do notice a number of students shooting me looks over their shoulders. I guess I’ve become a hot topic of conversation since the lunch hour. I haven’t seen Ashley again since and hope she’s okay. That friendship is probably burned to the ground already. I prop my chin in my hand and stare out the window for the next forty-five minutes.
The bell rings and there’s only one more class to go. Hawk gives me a low five when he passes me in the hall and it gives me a litt
le boost as I walk in, early for once, to my history class. There are only three people here besides me so far and I have the option of seats to choose from. I start walking towards the very back when I’m summoned.
“Ms. Mason?”
The teacher waves me over to his desk. Unlike most of my other teacher encounters over the course of the day, he starts ours out with a genuine smile. I instantly think he’s a pretty handsome guy, in a completely aesthetic way. He’s one of the youngest teachers I’ve seen and he sports short black hair that sticks up a bit in the front, a five o’clock shadow, and the bluest eyes of bluest blue. He’s got regular jeans on, a gray button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dusting of chalk over everything he’s wearing.
I stop in front of his desk and shove my hands in my pockets. “Yes?”
“I’ve got your textbook here for you.” He passes it over and I run my hand over the embossed letters, Advanced European History. “My name’s James Krushnic. I like to keep things open so students feel more comfortable asking questions and interacting so please call me Jim, or if you’re feeling dramatic, Captain Krush.”
I laugh a little at that and his smile widens.
He gestures to me with both hands. “See? It’s working already. Now, we’ve been working through the politics of Greece lately so you might be a little behind. I’m sure you can borrow some notes from one of your classmates to catch up. If no one wants to lend out their notes, then Captain Krush will make sure someone gives you their notes anyway. Any questions?”
“No, I think I’m good.”
“Excellent! Take whatever seat you like,” he says then bends over a paper he’s grading.
Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders and I slump into a chair furthest from the door near the windows, leaning my head back as far as it can go. At least I’ll be able to end the day on a relatively okay note. Before the class begins I notice a couple of students approach “Captain Krush” and chat with him. I guess his social tactics work. Class begins and Jim stands at the front. He’s energetic and engages with everyone in the room, even walking back to talk one on one with people. Then he runs to the front to write down an important name or date concerning Greek history. He cracks jokes, pokes fun at himself, and we’re laughing throughout.
At one point he comes over to me and asks, “Okay, so you have their politics, their economics, their customs, but what stands out as being the most memorable part of Greek culture to you?”
I don’t need to fumble for an answer on this one. There is something that came out of Greece that all IMS agents know. “Their mythology.”
Jim throws up his hands in victory and exclaims. “Their mythology! Exactly! Their stories, their lifeblood, the tales that have been passed down and remain well known even to this day.”
He bounces up to the front and scrawls “mythology” across the chalkboard. Unfortunately, the bell rings just then and he lets out a big comedic groan. Everyone laughs and starts to rise. He holds his hands out towards us.
“Wait, wait! Before you go, homework!” Now the rest of us groan and he laughs. “Oh, it’s not that bad! Just find a Greek myth. Find your favorite story and we’ll discuss tomorrow. Now, go! Run wild on the streets.”
I pick up my book and dash out as fast as I can. I dump everything into my backpack and walk alongside Hawk to the entrance.
“So, we survived,” he says.
“No, I survived. You thrived.” I study the toes of my shoes and the cracks in the pavement beneath me as we move into the parking lot. “And thanks.”
“Hey, I’ve got your back. Just like you’ve got mine.”
At the end of the last row of cars I spot Jefferson waiting in the truck. Even from here I can see him glancing at his watch and rapping his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The second Hawk and I slide onto the bench seat Jefferson throws the truck into gear.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says. His face is drawn and his hair a bit askew.
Crap. He couldn’t possibly have heard about my little incident today, could he? Principal Tippy didn’t say anything about calling my “uncle” to report the fight. Jefferson could have other connections, though, or has tapped the phones or something. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“What’s wrong?” Hawk asks.
“I got a call from Deputy Graham. There’s been another cattle mutilation. I’ve already taken pictures but I could use your help on this, Hawk.” He maneuvers the truck onto the main road out of town. “I was hoping you might use your abilities to catch a scent. Maybe figure out who it was.”
“Where are we going?”
Jefferson is silent for a moment and broods. “The Fergusons’ farm.”
The road flies away beneath the tires. A cattle mutilation at a home housing two werewolves can’t be a coincidence. Either one of them lost control and did it themselves or another werewolf is targeting them. Both cases are bad.
“Did it happen during the day?” I ask.
“Sometime this morning. Mrs. Ferguson went out for groceries and came back to find one of her cows scattered across her back field.”
“So it wasn’t her, and Ben was in school the whole day.” I catch Hawk’s eye. He’s thoughtful and grim. “They’re being targeted.”
Jefferson nods and turns us onto a side road. “Territorial instincts. Another werewolf must feel threatened by them and isn’t under the control of the serum.”
“The serum isn’t working,” I say. “Ben said it himself and from what I learned today, all of this started around the same time those shapeshifters infiltrated Werevine Pharmaceutical. They must have done something.”
“It’s possible—by a long shot—but I don’t think that’s what’s going on.”
“And why not?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s infuriating. We sit the rest of the ride in silence and pull up the rutted driveway to find an empty sheriff’s squad parked out front. Mrs. Ferguson stands at the top of her steps, her arms crossed and her face pinched. We exit and her expression sours even more.
“Oh, it’s you,” she growls. She’s glaring directly at me when she says it. Clearly I haven’t been forgiven for intruding on her son before. She stomps her cowboy boots on the ground then jerks her head to the side. “It’s this way.”
She doesn’t speak again even when Jefferson attempts to ask her how she’s doing. We just march through a gate in the wooden fence to her back fields, past a barn, over a hill, and to a horrible scene of gore. Entrails, flesh, and organs have been ripped apart and scattered across the hillside leading towards a forest of evergreens and poplars. Thankfully there’s enough of a chill in the air to dampen the smell somewhat but it’s still strong enough. I hold the edge of my sleeve over my nose and step carefully forward through the mess.
Blood taints the yellowing grass and chunks of pink matter spread in lines like the parts of the cow were dragged. I almost step on an eyeball and nearly gag. Hawk walks lightly beside me. There’s a darkness in his sweeping gaze as he inspects the carnage. It puts a chill down my spine. Sometimes it’s easy to forget about the monster inside of him. He contains it better than any werewolf I know, but it’s always there. Moments like these I can’t tell if a part of him likes the smell of blood soaking into the ground, the sight of butchery and destruction, or if he’s as disgusted by it as I am.
I manage to keep my lunch down and watch Hawk sniff the air before making his way towards the trees. Mrs. Ferguson follows in his steps and the pair of them stop at the edge of the woods taking deep breaths.
“I don’t recognize the smell myself,” she says. “And I know most folk in town.”
“So, it must be someone from out of town or new to the area?” I say.
“Or more likely someone who’s been recently changed,” Hawk corrects me. That darkness continues to linger in his eyes and shadows fall across his brow. “A person’s smell changes after they’ve been bitten.”
Jefferson lets out a
huff. “Well, that’s just great. That means we’ve got an unchecked werewolf running around and we don’t know who it is.”
There’s a shuffling in the woods and Deputy Graham emerges from the trees. He brushes himself off and marches forward to tower over everyone in our group.
“I followed the tracks for about a mile to the road but they disappeared at some tire tracks, so no point trying to sniff them out.” He gestures behind him to the trees a little out of breath. “It was definitely a werewolf.”
“Thanks, Jared.” Jefferson pulls up the collar of his jacket and retreats towards the farmhouse. We all follow in his wake and I end up walking beside Deputy Graham. He picks a path between the gore but manages to stain his massive hardy-man shoes with blood. His face is a little green.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods and forces a strained smile. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Spooky stuff, huh?”
“You’re telling me. I never imagined it would get this bad again, though.”
I frown and hold out a hand to slow his pace. The others continue on and we fall behind out of earshot. “Again? What do you mean?”
“This same sort of thing happened about fourteen years ago. I was just a teenager back then.” He stops and inhales the fresh air brought to us on a cold breeze. “A bunch of people were bitten, cattle started getting ripped to shreds, the city almost caved in on itself, and a good part of the population just disappeared. I, uh . . .” He clears his throat and adjusts the gun holster on his belt. “My little sister, she was . . . she disappeared with the others, but not before I saw her turn. That’s how I know about all this.”
We start walking again and it’s difficult to keep up with his long stride.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“I swore I’d find her one day. Maybe I still will.”
I nod and bite my lip. After fourteen years I doubt it’s possible but I’m not one to step all over someone’s conviction.
“So what happened?” I ask. “Did the IMS intervene?”
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 15
