by Skye Malone
But she was human, and until a few months ago, we’d all thought I was too. That even though I had the tall, muscular greliaran build, that’d been the only thing I inherited from Dad.
It’d been so hard to tell her when I found out that wasn’t true.
Carefully, she lay the folder down. “Is Chloe a greliaran?” she asked, her skepticism clear. Chloe didn’t look a thing like most of us.
I shook my head. “No, she’s just–”
“Does this have something to do with your uncle Richard or that man today?”
“Not specifically,” I allowed.
“Then what is it, Noah? How is this greliaran stuff?”
I grimaced. “Chloe’s… different.”
“Different?”
My mouth tightened. I knew what would happen if I told her Chloe was dehaian. Setting aside the obvious questions, Mom worried about that too. We had better control than many of our kind, but she still dreaded the possibility that her sons might kill something, or someone, simply because they couldn’t stop themselves.
But I wasn’t sure there was another explanation to give.
“Dehaian. And her parents aren’t. She’s adopted. It’s sort of a big mess.”
She blinked, thoughts running behind her eyes and settling on the one I’d known I’d see. “Noah…”
“It’s fine,” I insisted. “I’ve been around her for weeks. Everything’s fine. That…”
My brow furrowed in frustration. I should’ve told her the truth when I came home. I just hadn’t wanted to talk about anything.
“That’s where Chloe was, Mom. Not kidnapped. I took her to the ocean. I was there when she changed into one of them. And I know her parents are pretty over the top about this, so I’m concerned that… I don’t know. I just don’t want anything to happen to her.”
She paused. “You’re okay?”
“Yes.”
A breath left her.
“We only want to make sure she’s okay too,” I said. “Chloe’s going to text Baylie so we know where they go, and we’ll follow them there. That’s it. And if this is nothing… we’ll come straight home, alright?”
Her mouth tightened. “Alright.”
“Thank you.”
“Be careful.”
I nodded.
Without another word, I headed for the guest room Maddox and I used whenever we came to visit. Snagging my backpack from a chair, I paused only long enough to scan the space for anything I might have missed, and then I hurried for the stairs.
Baylie was waiting on the porch, her phone in her hand and her thumb moving absently over it. She looked back when I closed the door.
“Nothing yet,” she said.
I hesitated and then sank down next to her.
“She’ll text,” Baylie assured me.
My gaze on the street, I didn’t respond. I just hoped she was right.
The sooner we were going after Chloe, the happier I’d be.
Chapter Eleven
Chloe
Mom and Dad weren’t acting like themselves – or rather, they’d inexplicably gone back to acting like themselves after talking to Chief Reynolds, which was a huge change from earlier and it was creeping me out. I didn’t know if Zeke had noticed, or if anyone else would at all, but I could see some kind of eagerness in Mom’s eyes. Like she was excited about whatever the chief had told her. And Dad just looked as determined as he’d been that night he drove us back from California. Like, come hell or high water, he was going to get us to our destination as fast as possible.
It gave me a bad feeling, like I needed to be running.
Even if there wasn’t anywhere to go.
I couldn’t leave. Not really. Zeke’s offer aside, I didn’t know people outside Reidsburg and I couldn’t imagine staying on my own would go too well. I’d heard horror stories about life on the streets. I had no interest in being one of them.
And I couldn’t keep Zeke away from his family forever. He needed to get home. Help Ina. Warn Jirral. Niall was still out there and Zeke had probably been here too long already.
So I had to keep going, even if right now, my parents made my skin want to crawl.
We passed a sign for the Nebraska border. Carefully keeping my eyes to my parents and willing them not to turn around, I eased my cell from my pocket.
Baylie had asked me to text and tell her where we went, and from the fact they hadn’t taken my phone away, I suspected my parents hadn’t noticed the hand sign. We had dozens of such signals, all designed to compensate for Mom and Dad’s insanity and used at random in the hopes they wouldn’t figure them out. We’d coped for years that way, trying to overcome the times they’d grounded me or arbitrarily decided I had to stay away from Baylie for weeks on end. From sign language to codes we’d leave on our bedroom windows, we had countless systems for avoiding my mom and dad. When we were kids, we’d even created an entire language based on the placement of our various toys on the windowsills.
I was sort of proud of that last one, actually.
Lowering my phone so it would be hidden between my leg and the door, I eyed it askance while I thumbed through the screens to create a text message to Baylie. I was grateful she’d brought my stuff back with her when she left Santa Lucina, and that my parents hadn’t decided to take away my cell in the meantime. I’d missed having a way to communicate that was my own, and not just some phone I’d borrowed from a stranger.
And that meant I could reach sane people at times like this.
The correct screen came up and, still watching Mom and Dad, I swiped in a message as fast as I could and then hit send.
I tucked the phone under my leg, where it’d be easy to reach again.
They didn’t look back. I glanced over, catching sight of Zeke watching me from the corner of his eye, between glances to my parents as well.
I hid a smile. I didn’t know why they hadn’t tried to make him leave. Perhaps they’d just been so eager to get out the door, they’d not wanted to stop and argue – though for them, that was odd as well. But I was glad he was still with me, even if I knew he needed to be leaving for home soon.
And even if everything felt weird now.
The thought killed my smile and brought back the discomfort I’d felt since the police station. It wasn’t Zeke. He was the same as he’d been this morning, last night, and all the days before. It was me.
And Noah being here.
Being the way he used to be.
Pretty much convincing me that he’d never been the monster he seemed.
And that he’d been saving my life when he’d treated me so horribly.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t know what to do. I… I hadn’t known any of that when things between me and Zeke had changed. I’d thought Noah hated me. I thought everything I’d believed about him had been a lie. And now that it was clear it wasn’t… that he hadn’t…
I shifted uncomfortably on the seat. I just didn’t know what to do. I wanted things with Zeke to be like they’d been.
And I wanted to figure out this weird, raw feeling that surrounded every thought of Noah too.
Miles and fields sped by, not seeming terribly different than anything that’d come before. Around two o’clock, Dad pulled off the highway for food, and dutifully, Zeke and I ate the burgers my parents purchased, though I suspected that like me, he wasn’t hungry at all. Several hours later, the Iowa border fell behind us, and gradually all the fields turned to corn. I texted Baylie again.
And the drive went on.
As the clock crept toward seven, Dad steered the car from the highway toward a small town. A large welcome sign covered in civic club emblems sat at the city limit, greeting us on behalf of anyone who was anyone to the Village of Midfield, Iowa. Warehouses with tractors parked outside followed, and then a church or two, and just as we lost sight of the fields around the town, Dad turned onto a residential street lined with old oak trees.
I slid the phone from beneath my leg. Quickly, I thumbed through the screens and got a blank message ready.
Dad pulled into the driveway of a massive, three-story Victorian house. Situated on a broad corner lot, the building looked like a palace trying to pretend it was a house. An enormous, castle-like turret was attached to one corner and rose to a point above the rest of the roof, while a large gazebo stood affixed to the opposite end of the wraparound porch. Stained glass in jewel tones glittered in the windows, reflecting the early evening light, and a fenced widow’s walk perched at the apex of the roof like a watchtower for guards. The predominant color was olive green, with white trim and brown accents, and everything from the siding to the bushes around the house’s foundation appeared crisp, cleaned and set just-so.
I glanced to the glistening brass numbers on the porch and then typed the address into my cell.
Dad turned off the engine. I hit send and hid the phone.
Mom glanced at me, and in her eyes, I could see that same, strangely eager light. A hint of a smile twitched her lip, and then she buried it and turned back to push open the door. With a quick motion, Dad put the keys into his pocket and got out as well.
I looked to Zeke. Caution clear on his face, he paused and then followed them from the car. I climbed out after him.
We walked toward the house. The street was quiet behind us, and the only sound came from small birds calling in the trees. Every house in the town could have been abandoned from the silence that surrounded them, and I fought the urge to take Zeke’s hand, if only for the comfort that touching him would bring.
Dad and Mom climbed the broad steps to the porch. A dark wood door waited for us, with an oval of cut glass running its length and gauzy white curtains shielding the view of the house’s interior. With a quick motion, Dad knocked.
Mom glanced back at me. She couldn’t hold in her smile this time, the expression all quivering and hopeful and so weird I wanted to turn and run.
And then the door opened.
An old, African-American man stood there, all of five feet tall. Short-shaved white hair surrounded the gleaming top of his bald head and suspenders held up his khaki pants, while his wool, button-down shirt appeared neatly ironed.
“You’re here already?” he cried in surprise. “We weren’t expecting you for a week!”
I glanced to my parents. They wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The little man didn’t seem to notice. He shuffled quickly out of our way on slippered feet and treated us all to a smile so happy, it deepened every wrinkle on his considerably wrinkled face. “Oh, come in, come in.”
My parents moved past him, leaving me and Zeke to follow.
The man’s smile softened when he turned it on me. “Hello, my dear. You must be Chloe. I don’t think we’ve ever met.” He glanced to my parents. “Have we met?”
Dad shook his head.
The old man looked back at me, still smiling. “There you go then. I’m Harman Brooks. Do call me Harman. Did you have a good trip?”
I hesitated, feeling a bit taken back. “Um, sure.”
“I’m so glad. Come in, come in.”
He motioned again.
With a nervous glance to Zeke, I walked through the doorway. A floor of dark hardwood and walls of white plaster waited inside, stretching down a long hallway that ran to the other end of the house. A sitting room was to our left, with stiff Victorian furniture that looked like no one ever used it, and a large library lay to our right. To one side of the hall, a stairway with an ornately carved banister led to the second floor, while the vaguely rosin-like smell I associated with older people filled the air.
“Who’s your friend?” Harman asked me.
“This is Zeke,” I said.
Harman looked to my parents again. “Is he the one you mentioned to Barry?”
My brow furrowed at the police chief’s name. They’d told him about Zeke?
Dad nodded.
Harman shook his head as though amazed, but he didn’t say anything else. Reaching up, he took my hand and tucked it into his arm with a little pat. “Well, I can’t tell you how glad I am you made it here,” he said as he led me down the hall toward the back of the house. “Your parents came by – what was it? Seventeen years ago? Such a long time. Though I guess it’s always like that for the elderly. Folks stop by and then go on their way. It’s truly nice when they do come around, though.”
He looked up at me with a warm smile.
I did my best to return the expression, and then glanced back to Zeke the moment Harman turned away. Caution still on his face, he followed me, while my parents trailed us both from a few yards back.
“They never did say why they were visiting, you know,” Harman continued. “All those years ago. I wish they had, but that’s neither here nor there. I understand, after all. You really are such a lucky girl, having them.”
I didn’t know what to say.
We reached the living room, where the chairs were visibly softer and the furniture looked like it’d actually been used. An ancient, boxy television had managed to find a home between the numerous bookshelves on the rightmost wall, and its screen played images of some storm out on the west coast. Several hardbound books were stacked neatly on an end table near an old recliner, and a steaming mug of tea waited nearby. A sunroom stretched off the back of the space, its windows giving a view of the opulent flower garden in the backyard, while on the opposite side, another archway led to the library again.
A squeak like the springs of an old chair drew my attention. Around the corner of the open doorway to the library, a teenage, African-American girl stuck her head out. A multitude of narrow, curling braids hung past her shoulders and her face had an elfin cast to it. Maybe a year or so younger than me, she regarded us all with a guarded look in her strangely tan-green eyes.
Harman saw me glance to her. “My granddaughter, Eleanor. Come on out here, dear.”
The girl left the library and walked into the living room, her expression unchanged.
“Eleanor is just a marvel. She’s spending her summer helping me transfer my old catalogs and notes into a… what did you call it? A database?”
At his glance, the girl nodded.
“Database,” he confirmed. “Amazing thing. I’m a historian, you know. Well, since my retirement, anyway. But collecting the stories and myths from our rather special history is a passion of mine, and of a few of my friends around the country. There’s not many of us, though. But Eleanor, she’s the next generation. So smart, so dedicated. She’s bringing us all into the new century.”
He grinned broadly, sharing the expression between me and his granddaughter alike.
The girl’s mouth twitched up and she ducked her head as if embarrassed, though the worry didn’t leave her eyes.
“Grandpa,” she tried in a soft voice, “do you think maybe we could–”
“Ellie,” he reprimanded her with a knowing look.
Her mouth tightened and her gaze flicked from me to the television and back before dropping to the floor.
My brow furrowed.
“So how was the ocean, my dear?” Harman asked me.
I blinked, my focus pulled back to him.
“Barry relayed what you told him,” he continued with an understanding smile. “I must say, I just can’t even imagine…”
His eyebrows rose and fell and he gave a vaguely theatrical shudder.
I glanced to Zeke uncomfortably. “It was fine.”
Harman grinned as if I’d spent an hour detailing the whole story. “Amazing,” he said, patting my hand again. “Simply amazing.”
Shaking his head, he gave an odd sigh, the sound almost regretful. “Well,” he continued, leading me to one of the easy chairs. “Have a seat.” He motioned for Zeke to do the same on the couch across from me. “Would you all like some tea? Perhaps orange juice?”
I looked to Zeke briefly. “Orange juice is fin
e.”
Harman smiled. I was beginning to think he never stopped.
“Excellent. Such healthy stuff, orange juice. Could you help me with that, Linda?”
Mom nodded tightly. Tension was creeping back into her face and I studied her warily while she followed him toward the kitchen.
Awkward silence settled over the room. By the hall, Dad stood, glancing between the kitchen and us alike. On the couch, Zeke scanned the room as though watching for an attack, while by the library archway, Eleanor fidgeted and wouldn’t look away from the ground.
Mom and Harman returned. The old man carried a tray with several glasses of orange juice on it. A plate sat beside them, and in her hands, Mom held a metal canister of tea cookies.
“So I think we’ve got everything ready,” Harman said, setting the tray on a table by the wall behind me.
Eleanor turned and walked out of the room.
My brow furrowed again as she went. “Um, could somebody tell me why we–”
“Chloe,” my dad interrupted. “Don’t be rude.”
I paused, staring at him. “I just want to know why–”
“Here you are,” Harman chimed in at my side. He handed me a glass of juice.
I held the drink, not taking my eyes from my parents. Something felt really wrong, even with cheery little Harman.
Dad’s mouth tightened and he glanced to Mom. “We think Mr. Brooks can help you with your problem,” he told me as he paced across the room to the television. He rested a hand on top of it.
“My problem?” I repeated. I glanced back to Mom, who had opened the canister and was arranging cookies on the plate. At her side, Harman hovered as though supervising their placement.
“Chloe,” Dad sighed. “You have people after you because of what they think you are. What he is.”
He jerked his chin toward Zeke.
I let out a breath in a scoff and set the glass down on the end table. “Dad, those guys aren’t our fault. We didn’t–”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
I stared at him. “So what does that mean, then?”
