It is a thong. But at least there's a bra, too. A push-up one. I stare at the scraps of fabric, wondering how anyone's supposed to wear these with a smile on their face. Guess I'm about to find out; I made dinner for Gran, helped her shower and dress for bed, washed and put away the dishes, mopped the floors, and wiped dust off the curtains and shelves for whoever comes tomorrow. I even cleaned the damn toilet. Now that Gran sleeps, I have nothing left to do but try on this early birthday gift.
There's still an hour of sunlight left, but I draw the windowshade in my bedroom, anyway. Who knows if that creep has a telescopic lens pointed over here. Then I sigh, strip down, and put on the underwear.
The closet door has a mirror attached to it, and that's what I use to look myself over.
Yeah. Okay, no. Elliot can't possibly expect me to look good in this. The problem is, I'm not a delicate person. I guess my waist is small enough, but my shoulders are wide, and my hips, as one of Gran's friends put it while giving me the most awkward compliment ever, are great for birthing. Which means tiny little straps make my upper body look like it belongs to a boxer, and my lower body like a roast tied up with string. Maybe I can convince him to go right to the nude photos.
I glance at the card that was in the box with the underwear. Try some gold earrings; it'll go great with the blue.
Real gold? He's dreaming if he thinks I have any of that. But Gran has earrings. Some of them might be gold-plated.
Everything valuable is kept in my room; has been for a couple of years, now. It takes several minutes of digging through drawers to find the wooden box holding Gran's jewelry. Nothing fits what Elliot suggested, but then at the very bottom, I find an envelope with a name written on it. Inez.
My hands jerk with surprise. That's my mom's name. The envelope looks dirty and worn, and I have to open it carefully to keep the paper from falling apart. The only things inside are a pair of earring studs and a necklace, both silver. The studs look tarnished, but the necklace gleams at me; it must be protected with an anti-tarnishing spell. Even though Elliot specified earrings, I pick up the necklace first, letting it slide cool and heavy over my palm. It's simple and sleek, but substantial enough to withstand getting caught on clothing. Of course, that's not a problem at the moment, since I'm wearing nearly nothing. Reluctantly, I drop the necklace back into the envelope and grab the earrings. It doesn't take long to put them in and return to the mirror.
I stare at the studs longer than necessary. Thinking of my mom once wearing these sends a weird feeling down my spine. Were they everyday jewelry, or did she save them for special occasions? Before she got so bad, Gran talked about Dad whenever I asked, but almost nothing about Mom. I don't know if she was the kind of woman who liked to dress up or not, and I had only a few photos of her before they were lost in the move to Mercywing.
My mind sidesteps to the wolf witch I met today. Desmond Healy. Who's staying with my mom's birth pack. They never tried contacting me. When I was younger and just learning to write well, maybe around seven or eight, I sent letters for a couple of months. No response. I wonder if things would be different if I tried now. They're not that far from here, only a three-hour drive. But like most wolf witches living in rural areas, the Red Devil Mountain pack have their own territory separate from the government. They live on private land, their land, and visitors aren't welcome.
So, I'd have to go through Desmond in some way to meet them, since he's the only living name I know connected to the pack. And he'll probably want something out of it. From the way he grinned at me, I can just guess what that'd be. But it might be worth it, even though I don't like him.
Well, let's be honest, I don't like anyone, not in that way. Except for maybe...
No, I have to stop thinking that. No good moping about Gideon. Or other lost things.
Turning away from the mirror, I shrug out of the underwear and reach for my usual stuff. How I looked probably isn't what Elliot has in mind, but he'll just have to work with it. And if he even asks about my shaving habits down there, I'll kill him.
I'm just pulling on my clothes, thinking over how to soothe him during bio tomorrow, when I hear it. Faint, probably too faint for most people to hear over the sound of their own breathing, but my ears are trained to listen for whispers of sound coming from Gran's room. They pick this up no problem.
Someone's screaming outside.
Heart racing, I throw up the windowshade and fling open the window. The sound stops just as I lean out and listen, trying to find the direction.
The sun burns hot but low in the sky as I eye Valentine's house. I stare at the blacked-out windows, as if looking long enough will make them reveal what happened inside. As I watch for any glimpse of movement, Gideon's words flash through my mind. Don't go inside that house, no matter what.
But he also said no one was home. So who's in there? Not Valentine; his truck is still gone.
Laci?
My fingernails rip into the wood, lengthening into claws. What if it's her? I look at the sun again. From its position, there's probably half an hour of daylight left. It's enough, if I go now. And I have to. I have to know if it's her.
When I slip past Gran's room, my steps falter. I'll be leaving her alone, unguarded. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow, when the INKtech agent is here. Wait and, what, make Laci hold out that long? I can't do that to her. She wouldn't do it to me.
I'm on the porch before any more doubtful thoughts take hold, and then past the hedge and into his yard. The house has that too-quiet, too-still feel to it again, but there's no way to be sneaky; the gravel under my feet crunches with each step. As I go around the back, hoping for an easy way in, my pulse pounds in my ears until it's impossible to hear anything but my own blood.
I'm not sure what Gideon saw that alarmed him. There's nothing ominous about the spider webs on the back wall. Then I glance down. There's a window built halfway into the ground, and it's broken, most of the glass gone except for a few pieces glittering in the red dust by my feet. The house has a basement, and something in it tried to get out, if the glass shards are out here instead of inside. Now I get why Gideon was spooked.
Before leaving, I had grabbed a flashlight small enough to stick into my pocket; I pull it out, now, and crouch down to peer inside. The small beam reveals nothing more than a few pieces of covered furniture.
After another glance at the sinking sun, I wriggle through the window feet first. Then I wait. For an alarm, for another scream, anything. There's a long silence, like the house, or whatever's inside, is deciding what to do. It's so quiet I hear myself breathing, quick gulps of air. When nothing happens, I flash the light around until I find the stairs, and make my way up.
The above ground level resembles the house Gran and I live in. I don't like that. It means he has as good an idea of our layout as I do of his. As I go to check the master bedroom, I glance around, taking in the unlived state of the place. Everything looks like showroom furniture and decorations, like I stepped onto a set where someone only pretends to live.
The bed isn't slept in, but that interests me less than the closet. I poke along the hangers, the flashlight in my hand starting to tremble as I realize what hangs there. Preternatural Investigation Ground Unit, Glimmer Criminal Investigative Division, Trent's Towing Company. Hanger after hanger of uniforms, waiting to be put on like new skins.
When I see the shoebox of badges, the top one containing the Mercywing security insignia, my feet remember how to move again. I back out into the hallway, feeling lightheaded. He can turn into whatever he wants. Mr. Burnett's voice flashes through my mind. The officer that responded to my call took it with him. Her journals and scrapbooks as well.
Motherfucker. No wonder he recognized the pages I had from Melanie's diary. I lean against the wall, trying to slow down my shallow gasps while clutching the flashlight to my chest like it's a talisman. And in a way, it is; there's no other light in here.
No, wait; there is something else, a small glimmer. Maybe a window that isn't painted over all the way? Whatever it is, it's coming from the room that mirrors my own. My breath sticks in my lungs while I approach the doorway as quietly as possible, half-expecting to see Valentine's bulk waiting for me.
A small lamp is the source of light for the room, casting a greenish glow over the bed. And the figure on it, obviously female even in the uneven glare.
He's not here. And she's not Laci. My heart stutters as my feet move forward, bringing me closer. In the dim light, I can only see she's probably older than me, college-age maybe, with her dark hair pulled back into an intricate bun even though the rest of her looks like someone ripped at her clothes in a frenzy. When I make the floor creak, she remains limp on her back, arms over her head and legs sprawled wide. I freeze by the bed, not sure whether I'm staring at a lifeless body or not. Then her head shifts toward me, and I hear her hitch in a breath. "Please."
That single, frail word hits me in the gut like an arrow, shattering my shock. I fumble for my phone. "It's okay; I'm calling for help right now."
"Spelled," she says, faintly, as I realize it's gone dead. "He does something to melt sprites."
Fuck. "You'll be okay," I repeat, shoving the useless phone back into my pocket. "I won't leave you. Just let me..."
I lean forward, trying to take in her state without showing anything on my face. Christ, she's covered in bite marks, raw, ugly wounds above her collar bones and down her arms. The fucker's left them all over her thighs, too, and I fight back something bubbling in my chest, either a snarl or a scream. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Zoe." She's trying to sound calm, but her voice shakes. "Help me. He'll come back soon."
I carefully take her hand into mine. Her skin feels cool; she's lost a lot of blood. "I'll get you out of here, Zoe. Can you walk if I help you?"
She gives me a small nod, and that's when I notice the bites on her throat are fresh enough to still bleed, leaving drops of dark red on the white sheet beneath her.
Instinct created from years of looking after Gran kicks in when I lift Zoe from the bed, making it as easy as possible on her. She tries to stay quiet, but those bites must be agonizing, and her legs wobble when she stands. I end up taking most of her weight, guiding her arm around my shoulders while I wrap my own around her waist. Even then, it's a struggle to move us toward the bedroom window. No way will she make it all the way out to the door.
"Almost there," I mutter, feeling her shudder against me. I don't know if she's crying silently or just shaking.
"I don't want to die," she manages, as my free hand fumbles with the window lock. "My mom. Last time I spoke to her, I called her a bitch. Can't leave her that."
"Don't worry, I'm getting you out." My claws slip out, squealing against the glass as I try to open the window. It resists, stuck from disuse. "Come on, you fuck. Come on!"
The window finally gives under the pressure, sliding back so fast it cracks against the other side of the frame, loud as a gunshot. Blazing sunlight pours over us.
Zoe doesn't even have time to scream before her body ignites. I flinch, feeling her arm tighten around my shoulders even as sparks hit my arms and face. Heat and ash sizzle against me in places where Zoe's weight was only a moment before. While I stumble back into the shadows, eyes and bare skin burning as smoke chokes the room, cinders swirl in the stream of light. A sick feeling fills my gut as I blink a few times, clearing my sight. The only thing left of Zoe is a hand clutching at my shoulder, enough life left to tighten its grip as I shudder.
"Shit," I croak, hardly recognizing my voice. Feeling like I'm about to either puke or pass out, I pry each finger off my skin and let the hand drop. The sunlight obliterates it before it even hits the floor.
I don't know how long I stand there, shaking and panting, before I hear the floor behind me creak. Valentine stands a few feet away, watching. "You're not very good at this."
Stumbling back into the square of light, I turn to fully face him. "Fuck you."
He takes a few measured steps closer, stopping just at the edge. "You're overconfident. So was your friend."
My mouth aches, and when I flash teeth at him, I sense they're bigger than usual. "I'll kill you."
"You'll try."
Something in his voice ties my stomach into knots. He sounds bland, like so many people said those same words and failed that he doesn't think twice about the threat.
He circles around, studying me from every angle. "It can't feel good, knowing you left her alone and vulnerable. Knowing you drove her my way with no chance of escape."
"Shut up," I say, thickly, trying not to listen.
"If you broke in here together, I would have let her go. She was just another frightened girl; I knew that even before she lost her stake. I can already tell you'll be exquisite. She would have been safe. Consequences, Nina."
"Shut up!" I lash out without thinking. My arm overextends, sending me past the light and opening a chance at my shoulder.
Panic bursts through me as I scramble back toward the window, but he's already against me, one arm pinning both of mine in one move. His other hand grabs my throat, crushing me back against him and choking off my voice when I try to yell. His muscles feel hard as steel as I thrash around, somehow turning enough to snap up at his face. Then I freeze, seeing how his skin peels away like an old skin coming off a snake, exposing something entirely inhuman underneath. Oh, Christ. What is he? When he grins, fangs bristling, I go wild, fighting so hard he ends up on his knees, trying to hold onto me. I kick, I bite, I scratch. He laughs and never lets go.
I don't know how long we struggle on the floor; long enough that the light from the window grows cold and faint. He could just choke me unconscious, but he's enjoying this, tongue darting to my neck whenever my fighting slacks off, like he's tasting my terror. If I'm dragged to that bed, I'll never leave it again. But my muscles are shaking so much, and soon I'm gasping for breath hard enough to start blacking out. I hang on long enough for one final snap at his shoulder, and then fall limp, too exhausted to do anything but flinch when he jerks my head back with his free hand, forcing me to look at his face again. It's back to normal. "That wasn't too smart. I was only showing you what to look forward to later."
"Fuck you," I manage.
His teeth scrape against the side of my neck. "Little wolf, you bit off much more than you can chew."
A growl flies out of my mouth that would make any human piss themselves. He just smooths hair away from my face, tongue finding the pulse near the base of my throat and following it up.
My head pounds so hard as he reaches my earlobe that I hardly hear him snarl. I do feel him flinch back, and catch a glimpse of his tongue long enough to see the imprint of my diamond-shaped earring charred into it. His grip on me loosens for a few seconds, and I'm fighting free, scrambling for the window.
The metal frame scrapes against my arms and belly, and then I'm out. Stumbling up, I see the sun sinking behind the horizon, only a sliver visible above the distant peak of Red Devil Mountain. My house never looked so far away as I run, breath choked in my throat and heart slamming against my ribs. I don't look back; looking back takes time and energy. But with each step I expect to feel his teeth sink into my neck.
My hands scrabble against the door handle and then I'm inside, falling to my knees. Past the threshold, I finally look back. The last glimmer from the sun disappears as his dark form approaches unhurriedly. Panting, I slam the door between us and stagger for my room. Silver. My mom's earrings are silver. That means I can use her necklace against him, too.
I rip apart the envelope to get at the necklace. As I try putting it on with fingers clumsy from strain, I realize the rest of the house isn't silent. There are voices, one of them unmistakably Valentine's.
And the other unmistakably Gran's.
My legs don't want to follow orders, but somehow, I make it back to the front door. It's open and Gran is standing there, one hand still on the handle. Valentine waits just outside the doorway, huge and solid. Gran seems as frail as a moth's wing in his presence, faded nightgown rippling from a light breeze, and wisps of hair coming undone from her braid.
"Gran, don't..." Any explanation dies in my throat as I stop a few feet from her, sensing down to my bones that no matter what I do, it won't intervene with whatever's happening between them.
Valentine doesn't even look at me. "Your granddaughter broke into my house. I understand kids in this community are under stress, but this needs to be dealt with; she caused a lot of damage."
Motherfucker. I glare at him, wanting to scream and howl at how he can stand there so calmly, making the lies seem reasonable. "Gran, don't listen to him. Don't trust him."
"Nina," says Gran, giving me a reproachful look that says, You know better than to interrupt a conversation.
Valentine's gaze slides toward me. "No use saying you didn't. I saw you."
He's good. He's damn good. The disgusted look he gives me is exactly the kind you'd expect from a neighbor pissed-off at having his window broken. When he returns his focus to Gran, he adds, "If we settle it right now, there's no reason to get security involved."
I struggle for words, any words, but when my voice finally reappears, all I can say is something I remember in my earliest memories of being small and terrified in a hospital waiting room. "Abuela."
But Gran just looks at Valentine, peering up at his face for a long, silent moment. Finally, she nods and says, "Your eyes are erased."
Then her hand, the same hand that showed me how to weave my hair into a braid, and sharpen a knife, and rested warmly on my forehead when I woke up shivering from nightmares about turning into a wolf and never changing back, shuts the door in his face.
There's a short, piercing snarl on the other side, and then silence. Gran turns away from the door and looks at me. Her hand, gnarled and shaking, pats my own bruised one. "Let's go to bed, Nina."