Forever

I broke off to navigate the aisles of the store, full of nervous energy. This crappy little service station felt like the real world. The real world, months after I’d murdered NARKOTIKA by disappearing with Victor. The real world where I smiled at security cameras and somewhere, they might smile back at me. Country music wailed low through speakers hung next to the sign for the bathrooms (FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY). The plate glass windows were painted with the green-black night that only lived outside of service stations. No one was awake but us, and I’d never been more awake. I browsed candy bars that sounded better than they tasted, checked tabloids for mention of me out of habit, looked at the racks of overpriced cold medications that no longer had the ability to impair either my ability to sleep or drive, and realized there was nothing here in this store that I wanted.

In my pocket, I felt the weight of the little black Mustang Isabel had given me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I slid the car out and drove it over racks to where Sam stood in front of the milk case, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Though he faced the milk, his face wore an undirected frown, his thoughts consumed by a problem somewhere else.

“Two percent is a nice compromise between skim and whole, if you’re having problems deciding,” I said. I kind of wanted Sam to ask me about the Mustang, to ask what the hell I was doing with it. I was thinking about Isabel, about shifting into a wolf for the first time, about the black sky pressing against the windows outside.

Sam said, “We’re running out of time, Cole.”

The electronic bell of the QuikMart door opening kept him from saying more, or me from answering him. I didn’t turn to look, but some sort of instinct made the skin crawl at the back of my neck. Sam had not turned his head, either, but I saw that his expression had changed. Sharpened. That was what I was subconsciously reacting to.

In my head, memories flashed. Wolves in the woods, ears pricked and swiveling, suddenly at attention. Air sharp in our nostrils, scent of deer on the breeze, time to hunt. The wordless agreement that it was time to act.

By the counter, I heard the murmur of voices as the newcomer and the clerk exchanged greetings. Sam put his hand on the handle of the cooler but didn’t open it. He said, “Maybe we don’t actually need milk.”

SAM

It was John Marx, Olivia’s older brother.

Speaking with John had never been easy for me — we barely knew each other, and every encounter we’d ever had had been on tense terms. And now his sister was dead and Grace was missing. I wished we hadn’t come. There was nothing to do but to carry on as usual. John wasn’t quite in line; he was staring at the gum. I slouched up to the counter beside him. I could smell alcohol, which was depressing, because John had seemed so young before.

“Hi,” I said, barely audible, just so I got credit for saying it.

John did the man-nod, a curt jerk of the head. “How are you doing.” It was not a question.

“Three twenty-one,” the clerk told me. He was a slight man with permanently lowered eyes. I counted out bills. I didn’t look at John. I prayed that he didn’t recognize Cole. I eyed the security camera, watching all of us.

“Did you know that this is Sam Roth?” John asked. There was silence until the clerk realized that John was talking to him.

The clerk darted a glance up at my damning yellow eyes and then back down to the bills I’d placed on the counter, before replying politely, “No, I didn’t.”

He knew who I was. Everyone knew. I felt a surge of friendliness toward the clerk.

“Thanks,” I told him as I took my change, grateful for more than the coins. Cole pushed off the counter next to me. Time to go.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” John asked me. I heard misery in his voice.

My heart jerked inside me as I turned toward him. “I’m sorry about Olivia.”

“Tell me why she died,” John said. He took a step toward me, unsteady. A breath laced with some kind of alcohol — hard, neat, and recent, by the odor — gusted toward me. “Tell me why she was there.”

I held a hand out, palm toward the ground. A sort of That close is good. No closer. “John, I don’t kn —”

John swatted my hand away, and at that gesture, I saw Cole move restlessly. “Don’t lie to me. I know it’s you. I know it is.”

This was a little easier. I couldn’t lie, but this didn’t require one. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t have anything to do with her being there.”

The clerk said, “Good conversation to take outside!”

Cole opened the door. Night air rushed in.

John seized a mighty handful of my T-shirt at the shoulder. “Where’s Grace? Why out of everyone in the world, why my sister, why Grace? Why them, you sick —”

And I saw in his face or heard in his voice or felt in that grip on my shirt what he was going to do next, so when he swung at me, I lifted an arm and deflected his blow. I couldn’t do any more than that. I wasn’t going to fight him, not over this. Not when he’d swallowed so much sadness that his words slurred.

“Okay, outside,” the clerk said. “Conversation outside. Bye! Have a nice night!”

“John,” I said, my arm throbbing where his fist had landed. Adrenaline pumped through me: John’s anxiety, Cole’s tension, my own readiness feeding it. “I’m sorry. But this isn’t going to help.”

“Damn straight,” John said, and lunged for me.

Cole was suddenly between us.

“We’re all done here,” he said. He was no taller than either me or John, but he towered. He was looking at my face, judging my reaction. “Let’s not make things ugly in this man’s store.”

John, an arm’s length away, on the other side of Cole, stared at me, eyes hollowed out like a statue’s. “I liked you, when I first met you,” he said. “Can you imagine that?”

I felt sick.

“Let’s go,” I told Cole. I said to the clerk, “Thanks again.”

Cole turned away from John, his movements wound tight.

Just as the door swung shut, John’s voice slid after us. “Everybody knows what you did, Sam Roth.”

The night air smelled like gasoline and wood smoke. Somewhere, there was a fire. I felt like I could feel the wolf inside me burning in my gut.

“People just love to hit you,” Cole said, still all energy. My mood fed off Cole’s and vice versa, and we were wolves, both of us. I was buzzing and weightless. The Volkswagen wasn’t parked far away, just at the end of the parking spaces. There was a long, pale key scratch on the driver’s side. At least I knew running into John was no coincidence. A fluorescent reflection of the convenience store glowed in its paint. Neither of us got in.