Monsters (Page 84)

From below came the muted thump of a door: Hannah, leaving for the barn. The silence settled. His clock ticked off the seconds.

Why Hannah kept in touch with Simon was a mystery. All she said was, We got close. Even so, Simon’s suicide attempt was a shock. But Chris could see it. He understood the impulse.

Your father kills his girlfriend. Chris hugged the pillow to his eyes. You—the little kid—help him hide the evidence. You lie to the police because your dad says it’s the only way.

He remembered that, too. His father, reeking of booze, the smell of blood wreathing him like a fog: They’ll split us up, boy. Put you in a home where there won’t be no one to give a shit about you. You want to be safe? You don’t want boys and old men doing filthy things to you? You want a roof over your head? Then this is what you’re gonna say. This is what you’re gonna do.

“Shut up, Dad,” Chris muttered. “It was never about me. It was always about protecting you.” And keeping secrets until you wake up one day to find you live with two monsters, the one with your dad’s face and the thing rotting inside—

“Chris.”

The sound of his name felt unreal, like the slash of an exclamation point at the end of a sentence you hadn’t realized you’d written. The sound was short and sharp, like knuckles on a door, and knocked him from his thoughts. Before he could reply, he heard the doorknob rattle.

“Come in,” he said, not moving from the bed. Probably Hannah, back from the barn, wanting his dishes. When he didn’t hear the hinges complain, he waited a moment. “Hannah?”

The knock came again. This time, he tossed the pillow with a groan. “Hang on,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor. That was when he remembered. “I can’t unlock it from my side.”

Hannah said something he didn’t catch. “What?” he called. She said something else, but her voice was muffled. There was another rattle, followed this time by the scrape of the bolt. Without thinking much about it, he turned the knob and pulled open the door. “Sorry, I was—”

Everything in him—his brain, his breath and blood, the thump of his heart—stopped.

There, her lime-green scarf still twined around her neck, was Lena.

65

Alex had been right. It was a wolf—and it wasn’t. Some kind of hybrid. This animal was much larger than even a malamute, but without the curlicue tail. Its fur was virtually white, with only streaks of gray. The shape of the head, snout, and ears reminded her of Jet, Chris’s black German shepherd, but the facial markings and light black mask resembled a husky.

Why show itself now? Was that because of the candy? What it thought was an offer of food? Possibly, but the scent wasn’t right. Like the alpha wolf, this animal’s scent didn’t scream hunger or danger. Over the lingering sweetness of chocolate and coconut, she could taste the emptiness here, all cold dust and gray ash. This wolfdog was both alone and lonely.

But where did you come from? For that matter, why had it risked following her? Maybe it was like the dogs before: how they always clamored to be near and protect her, if need be.

They stared at one another. Unlike Jet, the wolfdog’s eyes were an intense, stunning gold. Only after they’d locked gazes did she remember that it was dangerous to stare down a wild animal. Yet as their eyes held, that lonely taste again washed over her tongue; her chest ached. It had been a long time since she’d seen a dog. Even a wolfdog was somehow more normal. It made her feel . . . human.

Moving slowly, she swiveled her head to the right. Head jutting like a Neanderthal’s, Darth was clomping past the wraparound porch, heading for Bert and Penny, who were just emerging from the woods. From the crinkly nip in the air, she knew they’d hauled back mostly desert-dry pine, which she, oh joy, would then sort through, because these kids just didn’t learn: pine + fire = big trouble. But this meant she had a few more minutes.

She turned back to the animal. “Hey, boy, whatcha doing?” she said, softly, knowing better. This was something poor, cranky, sweet little Ellie would’ve done: Hey, strange animal, come give me rabies. The thought pushed a lump into her throat. If Ellie magically reappeared, she could make nice to every animal in the forest, and Alex wouldn’t bat an eye. She should know better, too. Given Wolf ’s interesting fetish, encouraging this animal to stick around was a death warrant. But she suddenly longed to touch it. Just ruffle her fingers behind its ears. Selfish, she knew, but she really, really needed this.

“Hey, boy, whatcha doing? You stealing my food? Huh? That’s okay,” she soothed, and saw the tip of its tail twitch back and forth. Relax, breathe out; let go, so it can. “But next time, you think you might leave me some—”

There was a sudden urgent push in her head, a kind of mental shove in the center of her brain. A split second later, she felt a heaving sensation that was like the unfolding of arms and legs, the swiveling of a gigantic head, the baring of needle-teeth. The opening of yellow eyes. What the hell? Her mind shimmied as if the ground were shifting under her feet, the snow ready to let go and carom down a rise and sweep her away. Gasping, she flinched away, nearly tumbling down the steps, barely aware of the wolfdog’s small, queer yip of alarm.

The monster? Why was it waking up now? Not because of Wolf. There was no way to get used to a monster, but she was beginning to sense a difference in what the monster did. Never fully asleep now, the monster always poked its nose up for a sniff whenever Wolf was near. That feeling was close to her dream: fire and need. Desire. The monster reaching out in a lover’s embrace because it wanted Wolf.

But this was different. It’s like that night Spider killed Jack, when I got yanked behind her eyes. Like when Leopard wanted me in the mine. And just days ago, when Acne tried to kill her. This was bloodlust, a killing frenzy. There was something—someone—pulling at the monster, reaching in with clawed hands, dragging it along and into . . .

. . . into a mind that isn’t hers, behind alien eyes—push-push, go-go—in a body she doesn’t recognize—push-push-push—and isn’t sure belongs to a girl. Go-go, push-push, she/he/it is moving with four others, just as fast and silent and gogogo: a red storm, pushpush over the snow, through trees, pushpushpush, a swirl she/he/it sees through many eyes. To its left, there are bright flashes of sun dazzle shining through breaks in the forest. That portion of the forest curves, following a broad swath, rimming a bowl of unbroken snow. Behind, not very far, there is the pushpushgogo. And there is another, almost a brother but still an enemy, and that one is screaming: GOGOGO, LET ME—