Technically, Jeremy is our grandfather since he foster-raised Dad. We never called him that or thought of him like that. He’s just Jeremy, as much a part of our family as Mom or Dad.
I sit on the other armchair. Logan and Dad take the sofa. Mom stands by the fireplace, which means this is a “serious family discussion.”
“Do you guys remember that youth conference I mentioned?” Mom says.
“You mean the bullet we dodged?” I say.
Mom came to us a couple months ago with this “cool new idea,” sponsored by the supernatural interracial council. A leadership conference for supernatural teens, where we were supposed to hold hands, sing Kumbaya around a campfire and come to a better understanding of one another. I’d rather start my summer facing down hell hounds.
I have total respect for the council. Mom’s the werewolf delegate, and I’m named after the witch leader—Paige Katherine Winterbourne. The part I like, though, is the idea of supernatural races banding together to kick ass as a unified front. I can totally get behind that. The touchy-feely togetherness side, though? Really not my thing. And this conference was clearly all about the touchy-feely.
Mom had wanted us to go as werewolf representatives. I’d been considering it, by which I mean awaiting divine intervention in the form of a thunderbolt that burned down the conference center. At the same time, those in charge of the conference—who were not on the actual council—had debated whether they should allow werewolves.
Before they could make a decision, all the spots were miraculously taken. Yeah, among supernatural races, the only ones less welcome than werewolves are vampires. We’re bloodthirsty monsters, don’t you know, likely to slaughter you in your sleep if we get a case of midnight munchies.
Bullet dodged, like I said.
That’s when I realize there’s only one reason for Mom to be bringing this up now.
“Whoa,” I say. “Wait, no. Don’t tell me—”
“Two spots opened up.”
“But they don’t want us, remember?”
“They’d changed their mind about that, remember?”
“They changed it in the same breath as saying ‘whoops, we’re full,” I say. “But now two kids canceled and the council found out, right? As sponsors, they’re insisting we be allowed to take those spots, despite the fact the conference staff doesn’t want us there.”
“All the more reason for you to go. Prove them wrong.”
Easy for Mom to say. She’s not the one being asked to spend a week where she very clearly isn’t wanted.
“I’m allergic to team-building exercises,” I say. “Also crowds.”
Dad snorts.
“Yeah,” I say. “Wonder where I get that from. Maybe the guy who grumbled and stomped and snarled about going to New York last month to give a lecture . . . which he’d agreed to give.”
“I agreed to a class of thirty,” Dad says. “Not three hundred.”
Logan’s lips twitch in a smile. “Imagine if that got out. The most feared werewolf in the country can be laid low by the prospect of interacting with humans.”
Dad twists fast, grabbing for Logan’s arm. Logan dodges and swings to his feet. When Dad tries again, they end up locked together. Dad flexes, testing his hold, considering the possibility of still throwing Logan over his shoulder. He could do it, but not nearly as easily—or gracefully—as he once could.
“Shit,” Dad murmurs.
“Yes,” Jeremy says, gaze still on his book. “One day soon, Clay, you’re going to try that and find yourself flying onto the sofa. Your son is growing up fast.”
“Nah,” I say. “Dad’s just growing old fast.”
Dad spins on me.
I stay on the chair, lounging back. “Try it, old man.”
Dad takes one slow step toward me, his eyes glittering. I grin, ready for the attack.
“Do I need to kick you out of the room?” Mom says.
“Yes, Kate,” Dad says as he stops short, “behave yourself.”
“I’d like to be kicked out of the room,” I say. “But I think she meant you.”
“Never.” Dad feints left, grabs Mom and drops back onto the sofa, plunking her on his lap. “Continue.”
Mom only rolls her eyes before turning to me. “Yes, I suspect there will be team-building exercises, but I’m sure the camping part would compensate for that.”
“They could provide an open bar,” I mutter, “and it wouldn’t compensate for team-building exercises.”
“Good thing there’s no open bar then. And the other kids are supernaturals your own age, which might be good.”
A chance for new friends she means. I drifted from my friend group in the last couple of years, and I haven’t replaced them. Mom might also be hinting about boys, since I broke up with my boyfriend recently. I definitely have no plans to replace him. First serious boyfriend, first serious romantic humiliation.
“I’m good,” I say, sinking into my chair.
Logan looks at Mom. “Is there any reason we both need to go?”
I nearly bolt upright. Logan go without me? We don’t do that. We’re the Danvers twins.
Does Logan want to go without me?
Mom glances my way. “As your mother, Kate, I’d like you to attend the conference. As your Alpha, I will not insist on it. Sending one representative is enough. Remember, though, that if you choose to let Logan go alone, it tells the supernatural world which of my children aspires to a leadership role . . . and which does not.”
I squirm at that. Logan and I aren’t competing for Alpha-hood. We’d co-lead before we’d fight one another. Yet I do want to be Alpha someday. I just don’t think it requires “youth leadership” conferences.
Mom’s right, though. Logan going alone sent a message. The wrong message.
I glance at my brother.
“It’s up to you,” he says, his voice neutral.
I flinch. He's hoping I'll stay home. We aren't in middle school anymore, the inseparable Danvers twins. Back then, I’d been the popular one, kids trailing after me like I was the Pied Piper, even when I just wanted to hang out with my brother. I was the girl who said what she liked and did what she liked, fierce and fearless, confident in her cloak of rebel-cool.
Then we hit high school, and it felt like everyone changed except me. I was still that girl, and suddenly, it wasn’t cool. It was just different. Weird.
Some kids embrace their uniqueness. I used to, but then . . . Stuff happened, and the last month at school has been hell, and I’m exhausted from pretending I don’t give a shit.
Now I’m listening to that neutral tone of Logan’s, and I know what it means. He’s okay with me staying home. Perhaps more than okay. Maybe, just maybe, it’d be nice to go someplace where he doesn’t need to deal with the baggage of being Kate Danvers’s twin.
“Maybe it’s better if Logan goes alone,” I say carefully. “If they have a problem with werewolves, I might just make things worse.”
He frowns at me. It’s a genuine frown of genuine confusion, and I love him for that . . . and miss him a little extra.
“One werewolf might be easier to accept,” I say.
“Are we supposed to make this easier for them?” Logan says. “Also, if there’s only one, then they can say I’m the exception.” He meet my eyes. “It would be better with us both there but if you really don’t want to go with me . . .”
“I will.”
The words come before I can stop myself. If Logan wants me along, then I’m there. Then I remember where “there” is. An interracial leadership camp. Where I will be an outsider, unwanted and unwelcome at a time in my life when I have never felt more of either.
I open my mouth to take it back, to pretend that I meant something else, but Mom’s face lights up. Then Dad twists to glance at me, mouthing a private “thank you,” with a wry smile that says he knows I don’t want to do this, and he appreciates me making the effort for Mom’s sake. It pleases her, and so it pleases him.
Shit.
I take a deep breath. “When do we leave?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“First thing in the morning,” Mom says.
“What?”
“The actual conference started tonight. Your uncle Nick has business in Pittsburgh, so he’s offered to drive you. You’ll leave after breakfast.”
Chapter Three
Logan
Kate and I are napping, curled up in the back of Nick’s car. We drifted off leaning on our respective doors, but I wake to Kate against my shoulder, my arm around her, as if in sleep we find what we’ve lost.
I keep my eyes half-closed and pretend I’m a kid again, dozing in Mom’s car, smelling leather seats and Kate’s strawberry shampoo, listening to her soft snores underscored by the thump of Nick’s classic rock. I linger there, watching the West Virginia state sign pass as Kate lifts her head, mumbling something that sounds like “Where are the pancakes?” She rubs her eyes, groans and flips over to her own side of the car.
I take out my cell phone to save myself from awkward silence.
Awkward silence with my sister. There’d been a time when I couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“Your mom told you two about the conference cell phone rule?” Nick asks.
“Cell phone rule?” Kate growls.
“Thanks, Elena,” Nick mutters. He glances at us through the mirror. “Your cell phones will be locked up at the conference. You get them back for twenty minutes each evening.”
“What the hell?” Kate shoots upright, seatbelt snapping. “That’s bullshit.”
“Yep,” Nick says. “Your mom may have used that exact word. But it’s the rule. So I’d suggest taking a few minutes to post your social media goodbyes.”
Kate doesn’t bother taking out her phone. After dumping her boyfriend, she wiped her social media accounts. My sister is known for her dramatic gestures, and if she’s decided to play lone wolf for a while, I won’t interfere. I just wish her social isolation didn’t extend to me.
As I check my own messages, I see the advantages of my sister’s choice. I have twenty Snapchats alone. Only half are from actual friends. Five are from girls I know by name alone. The first is a brunette I vaguely recognize, asking my opinion of her new bikini. At least she’s wearing clothing. I get plenty of pics where they aren’t.
I don’t date. I don’t have time. That’s my excuse, and I know it’s an excuse because it’s not as if the girls who sext me are looking for a long-term relationship. Somehow, that’s worse. They just want to be the one who lassos the class unicorn. Even those who seem interested in more than a hook-up don’t chase me because they like me. They just like what they see.
I delete all those messages unseen. Then up pops one that’s equally unwelcome.
Hey, Lo. Any chance of setting up that ‘accidental encounter’ with Kate? LMK.
Brandon. Kate’s ex.
He’s calling me Lo to be chummy, knowing only Kate uses that, but the bigger problem is him asking me to play mediator. I don’t know why Kate dumped Brandon. It’s none of my business, and I don’t appreciate him playing on our sorta-friendship to win her back. Every time he does, I get a little more annoyed with my sister.
I text Brandon a variation on the “family stuff, going offline” story. Nick takes an exit ramp and within minutes we’re rumbling along a dirt road into the forest. A few miles later Nick slows the car and squints at a sign with lettering worn and weathered to illegibility.
“Please don’t tell me that’s the camp,” Kate says.
We follow her finger to the forest. It’s all forest here, trees looming over the narrow dirt road. I shift and squint until I can make out a ramshackle cottage that looks as if a thunderstorm would flatten it.
“Yep, this is the place,” Nick says, putting the car in Park.
“What?” Kate squawks. “Hell, no. If you think for one second—” She catches Nick’s smile and scowls. “Ha-ha.”
“I was told to park here and call. The camp must be nearby but . . .” He scans the forest. “Maybe that’s not the right signpost.”
“Call anyway,” Kate says as she opens her door. “I need to stretch my legs, and I want to check out that cabin.”
“The one you just complained about?” Nick says.
“I’d complain if I had to sleep in it. Exploring it is a whole other thing.”
She climbs out, and I reach for my door handle, waiting for the inevitable, “Come on, Lo.” Instead, she jogs into the forest without a backward glance.
I used to follow. She’d get in her moods, and I’d go after her, standing between Kate and the world—interpreter, mediator, buffer. But a moat stretches between us these days, and I can’t seem to build a bridge. I’m not even sure I try.
That isn’t like me at all. I’m the calm one, the logical one, the easygoing one. Or I used to be. These days, there’s the me I used to be, the me I’m becoming, and the me that others see, and none of them are who I want to be, and I’m not even sure who that is.
As Nick places his call, I get out and inhale the sharp tang of pine. I roll my shoulders, working out the kinks. I sniff again, and my legs ache to run, even in human form. Just run into the forest and forget what I’m supposed to be doing here. Which also isn’t like me at all. I’m nothing if not responsible. Boring, responsible Logan Danvers.
Maybe that’s why Kate seems to prefer her own company these days.
A click as Nick pops open the trunk. As we walk to the back, he says, “The head counselor is meeting us here and walking you over.”
I reach in for my bag, but he stops me, glancing at where Kate disappeared.
“You guys okay?” he asks.
I shrug. “She’s not happy about being here, which means I need to listen to her bitch about it for the next week. Situation normal these days.”
Nick frowns, and he shoots me this look that makes me feel like I’m five, caught doing something I shouldn’t. Except when I was five, I never did anything I shouldn’t, not unless Kate talked me into it.
“Your sister has been having a difficult time lately,” Nick says. “Maybe you could be a little more understanding?”
I replay my words and wince as I realize I sounded like an asshole.
Part of me wants to admit he’s right . . . and part of me wants to snap back that she’s not the only one having a “difficult time,” and maybe she could be more understanding. Which tips me right into asshole-hood again.
Before I can speak, my phone buzzes. It’s Brandon, asking if he can come over, my “going offline” message having sailed right over his head.
“That’s not Kate’s Brandon, is it?” Nick says, unable to miss the message on my screen.
“Yeah.” I thumb the text away.
“You two are still hanging out after what he did to your sister?”
“What?”
“Mr. Sorrentino?” a woman’s voice trills.
Nick turns, and the woman stops with a little “Oh.” The woman is maybe thirty, wearing shorts, a Team Half-Demon T-shirt and a goofy smile as she stares at Nick.
Nick shakes the young woman’s hand and says, “Nick, please,” and then waits. The woman just keeps ogling.
“Logan Danvers,” I say.
She turns then, finally noticing me, and her smile—thankfully—changes to one of regular greeting.
“Tricia MacNab,” she says.
“Team Half-Demon, I see.” Nick gives her an easy grin. There’s zero flirtation in it, but she still perks up.
“It’s for orientation. All the kids and counselors get one as a fun way to introduce ourselves and our types. And then after that, the shirts go away as we work on forgetting our differences.”
“Forgetting them after you establish them?” I murmur, low enough that only Nick hears, and his lips quirk in a smile. Louder, I say, “I understand that you only found out we were coming this morning, so I know you won’t have Team Werewolf shirts.”
Please tell me you don’t have Team Werewolf shirts.
Her smile quivers. Then she says with a nervous laugh, “No, we don’t. But that’s why I came to meet you here. We’d like . . . At least at first . . . I think it’s best if we don’t announce what you and your sister are.”
I frown. “But we’re here as the werewolf delegates.”
“To help prove we’re not all the big bad wolf,” Nick says.
Tricia giggles, a little too high-pitched. “Oh, I know you aren’t. But we’re concerned it’s a liability issue when we couldn’t warn—I mean, tell—parents that there would be werewolves. You two will be our mystery campers as an exercise to prove labels don’t matter. Once everyone’s comfortable with you, we’ll have the big reveal.”
This makes no sense. If it’s a liability issue—which is really insulting—then revealing it later might only make that worse. Hiding everyone’s type would be the true exercise in breaking down barriers.
“Isn’t someone going to figure it out?” I say. “This is a leadership conference. The other campers will know a thing or two about supernatural politics. Introduce them to twins named Kate and Logan, race unknown, and someone is bound to realize who we are.”
Tricia waves off my logic with, “These are teens. They won’t know werewolf politics. Hardly any adult supernaturals do.”
Nick and I exchange a look.
“Did Paige approve this?” Nick asks.
Tricia stammers a non-answer about Paige not being directly involved in the day-to-day running of the camp. The day that Paige Winterbourne isn’t directly involved in something is the day my sister voluntarily wears a Team Werewolf shirt.
According to Mom, Paige is coming tomorrow. Until then, I’ll fend off Kate’s outrage by pointing out the alternative—that we’d need to design our own Team Werewolf shirts, probably with glitter pens.
As Nick talks to Tricia, I offer to fetch Kate, giving me a chance to warn her. Nick nods, and I take off, jogging toward the dilapidated cabin. There’s no driveway leading from the road. No path either as I have to cut through thick bush.
Wolf's Bane Page 2
