Need

by Carrie Jones

  I rip a paper towel off the roll. “Disgusting.”

  “Zara? We can’t hide in your room again all night.” Nick reaches around me to grab the pan’s handle. He swirls the detergent around in there, spreading it out, so it touches all of the crud. “We have to get rid of this problem now.”

  “Now?”

  “While it’s still daylight.”

  “Look at Mr. Proactive.”

  “I’m serious, Zara.”

  He puts the pan back in the sink. We can’t do anything with it, not now, not without water.

  “I know. I know you’re serious, but I am not a snow person.” I rearrange my ponytail. My hair is not at its best due to the lack of a shower. I pull up my wool socks. I wear two pairs and they scrunch beneath my toes. “And where are we going to go? And what about Betty?”

  “She should have been here by now,” he says and my heart tries to hide behind my lungs, not listening, but I do. I keep listening even though I’m so worried about Betty. “We’ll go to my house. We’ll get Issie and Devyn and make a plan.”

  I point out the window. “And how are we going to get there?”

  “My car.”

  “The roads are bad. Betty said not to drive.”

  “I know, but sometimes you have to break the rules.”

  I give up. I don’t want to stay here without Betty. Especially not if the pixies are going to come back for a happy little return visit. I dash upstairs and get my Urgent Action letters.

  “You have mail?” Nick scoffs.

  “They’re Urgent Actions. They have to be sent out right away or else people could be tortured or killed or—”

  He touches my lips with his fingers. “You are worse than I am.”

  “Not true.”

  We bundle up and head outside. We wipe the snow from Nick’s MINI. The trees worry me. Not the trees, really, but what might be beyond them.

  The snow covers everything outside. It covers the branches and the cars, the land and the water. It covers the houses. Beneath it the world is lost. Beneath it the people are lost, the animals, the grass. Everything is just white. Blinding. White. Everything is gone. The hard lines of rooftops and tree limbs, the straight lines of roads, everything is blurred, covered, lost.

  “My dad would have loved this. Just pulled out some skis and said, ‘Let’s have an adventure,’ ” I say.

  “He sounds cool.”

  “He was cool.”

  “Must’ve been a were.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, letting that additional piece of knowledge bounce around the room, finally spoken out loud. “He said ‘Shining One’ in his note.”

  Nick grabs a brush out of the MINI and whisks off the fine remains of the snow, but there’s a crust of ice that covers the windows. He gets back in the cab and turns the defroster on full blast.

  I brace myself against the hood, watching the windows clear; zoning out, trying to process it all.

  “Zara?”

  Nick waits by the driver’s side door, which is open. Snow stains his hair white, sticks in his eyebrows. His face rivers into something warm.

  “You coming?”

  “Okay.”

  Betty’s house is only a few feet away. I could rush back inside, slam the door, lock it, and hide.

  I could hunker down.

  I could stop moving.

  Instead, I get inside the car.

  “Okay,” I say, slamming the door. “Let’s go.”

  The inside of the MINI is warm already because the engine has been running and pumping out heat. I sigh into the warm air and smile. I could sit in here forever, all cozy, safe, and warm, like Nick. I reach down and touch the fur I’d seen on the floorboards the other day. It belongs to Nick. I glance at him to make sure he’s not looking and sneak the fur into my pocket. No matter what happens I’ll have it to remind me of him.

  Not that anything bad is going to happen. Right?

  Nick grabs my hand and it’s like he’s reading my mind. Can werewolves do that?

  “It’ll be okay, Zara.”

  “I know,” I snuff in. My nose is getting stuffy. “I’m fine.”

  He squeezes my hand and lets go, which is totally unfair. I like his hand on mine.

  “I need two hands to drive in this,” he says.

  His fingers are thick and long, and unfurry.

  “I can’t believe those become paws.”

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  I eye him. His shoulders expand beneath his jacket and his legs, solid and long, seem enormous. I pull my seat belt on and click it into place.

  “We should get going. The driveway isn’t plowed.” Nick shifts the MINI into reverse.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We might get stuck.”

  He presses the accelerator and we scoot about three feet before smashing to a stop, trapped in the snow.

  He tries to rock it back and forth, a little forward, a little backward. His face tightens into a cranky mess.

  “This isn’t good, is it?” I ask.

  “Not good at all.” He shuts off the engine.

  “I could try to push it.”

  “That wouldn’t work. Not for the whole driveway.” He opens the door and hops out. “We’re going to have to shovel.”

  “Shovel?”

  I’ve never shoveled in my life. I’ve seen people on TV do it, and my dad had stories about shoveling for hours, trying to get out of the house during nor’easters, which are these monster blizzards that hit New England.

  I jump out after Nick, sinking in the snow. My pants are soaked already, and clumps of snow fall inside my boots, nestling in there.

  Snow sucks.

  “We’re going to shovel the whole driveway?” I ask, hands on my hips. “Just you and me? This is a long driveway. It’s half a mile long.”

  A bird calls in the distance. It’s the first bird I’ve heard since yesterday. Nick hears it too. He cocks his head and squints, listening just like a dog does. Something seems to register with him because his eyes shift into something more serious, more urgent.

  “Nick?”

  He wipes at his face like he’s trying to get rid of a fly. “I know. It’s a long driveway. Where are the shovels?”

  He strides back toward the house. I chase after him.

  “Nick? What if the road isn’t passable? What if the plows haven’t gotten out here yet? We can’t shovel the road.”

  He stops, turns around. His strong shoulders slump. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “One of us can go scout it out and the other one could start shoveling.”

  “No. No way. We have to stay together.”

  His face hardens again. I hate it like that. Panic rises in my throat, tightening it. I wince, remembering the arrow in his shoulder.

  He rubs his face again, really roughly this time, and it reminds me of how a dog scratches its muzzle when it has an itch, just this gruff swipe with the whole of the hand. God, he really is half canine or lupine or whatever the word is for wolves.

  “We have to do something,” Nick says. His nostrils flare. “I hate pixies.”

  “Hate is a useless emotion.”

  “What?” He whirls around and glares at me.

  I back up a step. The little hairs on my arms are standing on end. He scares me when he’s like this, all angry power. “My mom says that all the time. It’s one of her life quotes, she got it from my dad. Hate is a useless emotion. ”

  “That’s such a mom thing to say.”

  “I know. I’m going to kick her butt when all this is over,” I say. “And Betty’s too.”

  He laughs. “I thought you were a pacifist.”

  “Whatever.”

  We give up on shoveling. We give up on driving. We decide on snowshoes.

  Yes, snowshoes that I find downstairs by the railroad ties and some old barbed wire.

  We stomp through the white falling snow, moving steadily, not moving fast, but definitely moving forward.
<
br />   Together.

  We raise our feet carefully, just a little bit and a sweeping motion forward. One foot. Another foot. Clean snow smells hit our noses, mixed with pine trees and the wood burning in Betty’s stove.

  The snow nestles down, flowing softer, falling from the sky.

  “It’s pretty,” I admit, as we start trudging up a hill.

  “Really?”

  “But cold.”

  Nick bumps my shoulder with his, playfully. He kicks up some extra snow on purpose, whishing it onto my knees.

  “You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tell him.

  “Really?”

  “Especially with that doggy breath.”

  He scoops up some snow, makes it into a ball, bounces his hand up and down. “Take that back.”

  I giggle. “Nope.”

  I bend down to grab some snow and topple headfirst. The cold of it bites into my cheeks. I try to push myself up, but I can’t. I’m all awkward and clumsy with the snowshoes on.

  Nick laughs.

  I struggle some more.

  He grabs me under my arms and hauls me up. Smiling, he sticks out his tongue, and with tiny little movements starts licking the snow off my cheeks. It should be disgusting. It’s not. It’s all warm, and good feeling, and amazing. I close my eyes and let him.

  “You smell good,” he whispers.

  “I haven’t showered.”

  “Doesn’t matter, you smell good.”

  His voice, sensual and warm, mellows me.

  Our lips touch and part, touch again. I breathe him in. He moves his face away a little and studies me. I smile. I can’t help it.

  “I like you,” I say. “A lot. Even with the whole werewolf thing.”

  He smiles back. “I like you too.”

  “A lot?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he says, leaning in for another kiss. “A wicked lot.”

  It doesn’t matter about the snow. It doesn’t matter about the pixies. I could stay here forever, steadied in Nick’s arms, kissing his lips, feeling his warm, scruffy cheek next to mine. All the sorrow and the fear don’t matter at all anymore. That’s it. No melodrama or anything. That’s just it.

  Merinthophobia

  fear of being bound or tied up

  We kiss for a long time, a good long time. I don’t even notice that it’s cold and I forget to be afraid because that’s just how good a kisser he is. His lips move above my lips. My lips ache for the touch of him, the softness of his skin. We keep kissing. My hands wrap themselves in his hair. His hand presses me close into him, as close as I can be against him, and he is solid, strong, amazing. My hands leave his hair and journey down to the sides of his face, still tingling.

  “We should keep going,” he says, voice gruff and husky again. I love when his voice sounds like that, deeper than normal. His lips puff out a little more, too. “You’re blushing.”

  I pull my lips in against each other like I’m still trying to taste him. I move my snowshoes off of his snowshoes. It’s tricky.

  “You’re a good kisser,” I say.

  “So are you.”

  We walk and walk and walk. We make it out of the driveway and onto the main road, which hasn’t been plowed for a while. It’s got about four inches on it still.

  “I was thinking about Ian,” I say, sliding my snowshoes along.

  “Great. Just what I want to hear.”

  “No, no. I was thinking about how he’ll be sad about this.”

  “Oh, poor Mr. Homecoming King.” He teases and bumps me with his hip.

  I bump him back. “Mean.”

  An eagle shrieks. Still, I miss all the signs. Somehow Nick does too.

  Something falls over our heads and Nick snarls, an animal, guttural sound. It terrifies me more than the thing on my head. But I can’t stop the snarl. So I attack whatever is on my hair. I yank at it. My fingers snare into small metal loops. It’s a net. Someone has thrown a net over us.

  Nick clutches me, still snarling. His eyes have already turned. His forehead creases.

  “Nick?” His name comes out slowly. I’m pushing panic away, trying to will everything to be okay. Like I can.

  “Pixies,” he manages to say as he pushes at the net above our heads, all around us. “The net is silver.”

  “Silver?”

  He shakes his head. All of him shakes as he tries to maintain control.

  “Nick!” I shriek at him, terrified.

  Hands yank me away from him. They come from behind me and I can’t see what they’re attached to. They hold onto me with iron grips, far too tight, menacing.

  I twist against them. “Let go.”

  They don’t, they just grab me tighter. It’s like they’re trying to break my ankles. I’m yanked out of the net. They tumble me toward them across the snow. My body slips over one of the metal snowshoes I’ve lost in the confusion. I grab it and throw it backward, trying to hit someone.

  There is a lovely, satisfying sound of snowshoe hitting flesh and muscle, but the hands don’t let me go.

  I am obviously no longer a pacifist.

  My fingers try to grab onto the net. I’m pulled away too quickly, dragged through the snow. Everything is white and flying and painful.

  “Nick!”

  I claw at the snow, trying to slow down. There’s nothing to hold on to. I kick and kick. The hands clutch my ankles. Flipping my torso over I get one quick glance of their backs. They’re wearing parkas and hats and look normal, like people, but faster. I smash onto my face again and lift up my head just in time to see Nick snarling inside the net. He’s transformed again.

  “Nick!” I yell, but snow pours into my mouth. Sharp cold pain smashes through my teeth and into my skull. I cough and try again. “Nick!”

  He raises himself up onto four legs and howls, a long, searing cry of anguish and rage.

  My heart breaks for him, caught there. I have to help him escape. I have to get free.

  I kick again. “Let me go.”

  Pain shoots through my head. Fireworks. Explosions. All inside my brain. The white world goes dark and I know what’s about to happen. I’m the one leaving. I am the one gone.

  Nyctohylophobia

  fear of dark wooded areas or of forests

  at night

  I wake up in a room that’s vacant, large and cold, with just one air mattress on the floor. My head thrums and I lift my trembling fingers to touch a large lump on the side of my head. Did I hit a rock? Or did someone hit me? And Nick? Where is Nick?

  I sit up, pushing my hands against the cold blue air mattress. The world spins and I close my eyes for a second, but think better of it. The walls seem made of concrete, with big rivets in them, bolts that once held something. There’s one door, but it’s large and wooden and shut.

  Terror grabs me and doesn’t let go.

  I pull myself up to a standing position. My feet touch the cold cement floor.

  Jesus. Someone has taken my shoes.

  And my coat.

  “Nick?” I whisper, kind of hoping for the unhopeable.

  But he isn’t here.

  The memory of him, howling, stuck beneath the net, hits me in the stomach, spinning pain into me.

  “You better not have hurt Nick!” I yell at . . . oh, I don’t know what I’m yelling at.

  Striding across the cold concrete until I come to the door, I try it again. “Hey! You better not have hurt my friend!”

  I grab the wooden door handle and yank it. No go. I try pushing it. It doesn’t budge. Damn, why am I not stronger? The door has to be barricaded or locked or something on the other side. I step back and run at it with my shoulder, which is not only not helpful, it hurts. It never looks like it hurts when cops do it in movies.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “You guys went to a hell of a lot of trouble to just lock me up in a room,” I say and try the door again. Still nothing.

  “This is stupid,” I announce. “Really stupid.”

&n
bsp; Pulling in a deep breath, I try to think of something calming, something that would make me focus. Somehow, listing phobias dose not seem like a good choice. There is this quote they sometimes use in Amnesty stuff: “The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage.”

  Thucydides, a Greek philosopher, wrote that a hundred million years ago.

  So, I have to find courage.

  Walking back to my air mattress again, I survey the room. It isn’t much to look at. It’s about ten feet by ten feet, all concrete. No window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling but there isn’t any light switch to turn it off. There’s a heating grate in the floor, the kind that old houses have sometimes.

  I crawl over to it and peer between the slats. No heat comes through, but a little bit of light does. The sounds of faraway voices hit my ears.

  The opening is about three feet wide and maybe two feet deep. Can I fit in it? Maybe? Hope lifts my heart. I can escape and find Nick, maybe save him.

  Four screws hold the grate in place. I stick my nail into one and twist it. It turns. It turns a little bit.

  This will take forever, but it’s worth it. I pull in a deep breath. I wonder if Amnesty would send an Urgent Action appeal on my behalf if they knew: Maine Teen Unjustly Held Captive By . . .

  How would they fill in the blank?

  I move the screw a little more, until I can grab the screw head with the tips of my fingers. I turn it and turn it and it pops off. One down, three to go.

  Giggling, and possibly a tiny bit hysterical, I start on the second screw, using the same procedure. I have it halfway out when the locks outside the door slide out of place. I pocket the one screw I’ve freed and scurry over to the air mattress just as the door opens.

  I take a big breath and get ready. I don’t know what I expect to come through that door. But I sure don’t expect Ian.

  “Zara, you look shocked.” Ian smiles.

  He’s wearing normal clothes, a navy sweater with a shirt underneath it and jeans. His reddish hair is rumpled, but in a deliberate I’m-in-a-boy-band way.

  He shuts the door behind him and stands there for a second, just staring at me. “You really don’t know?”

  “Know what?” I ask through clenched teeth. I make myself relax my jaw and uncross my arms. Ian doesn’t need to know how angry I am, how scared.