ARC: Cracked (6 page)

Jo pulls off her helmet, her curly hair sticking up wildly now that it’s been set free. “We need to get our stories straight,” she says. It appears I wasn’t the only one thinking during the drive.

Chi dismounts and holds the motorcycle steady so I can climb off. “I figured we could pass her off as my cousin, Cassia,” he says. “Say she came to visit. She goes to the school in California and hasn’t visited in years. No one would recognize her.”

“And then do what with her?”

Chi shrugs. Apparently that’s as far as his plan goes.

Jo doesn’t appreciate his nonchalance. “You can’t just keep her.”

“Why not?” Chi asks too innocently.

Jo doesn’t fall for his needling, and says, her voice sweet, “Well, for one, the school has a policy about pets.”

I stick out my tongue and Chi laughs.

“They’ll figure out she doesn’t belong eventually and then we’ll be busted.” Jo winces.

Chi thinks for a minute, then his face lights up. “Asa’s due back in a week or so. He’s unassigned; he’ll take care of her for us.” Chi turns to me. “He’s my older brother and he doesn’t have a Beacon yet. He’s also the wild one in the family, so he won’t rat.”

Asa
’s
the wild one? God help the good guys.

Jo lets out a gust and her shoulders relax. Apparently she really was worried about getting caught. “That’ll work.”

Hmmm. That only gives me a week. I was hoping for more. With Samson’s soul bubbling fresh in my blood, I won’t need to feed for four, possibly six weeks if I push it. But a week’s better than nothing. And really, pretending to be some kind of saint is going to stretch even my truth-warping abilities. Everyone has limits – saintliness is definitely one of mine.

Jo cocks her head and examines me. “But she can’t be Cassia. Cassia’s a total goody-goody.”

“So?” Chi asks.

I know the problem and pull off my helmet. Fashion guru he may not be, but Chi recognizes my hairstyle as not exactly de rigueur for goody-goodies these days.

“She can be my cousin Emma,” Jo suggests.

“Emma? But Emma refused the Inheritance, why would she come visit here…” Realization dawns. “…which is why she
can
be here even though she’s not a Crusader.” Chi smiles and Jo smiles back, almost involuntarily. Chi’s smile stretches wider and Jo must have realized what she did because she pulls back with a cough and looks away.

Interesting.

“Right, well.” She turns to me. “Think you could pretend to be a bad girl? She’s kind of a bitch.”

The laughter almost chokes me in its attempt to burst free. Through sheer force of will I manage to answer solemnly. “I can try.” I even manage to keep a straight face as I add, “Maybe you could give me some pointers?”

Chi and Uri are less talented than I am and do choke on their laughter. To my surprise Jo isn’t angry. She won’t give me the satisfaction of acknowledging a point well-earned but she can’t stop her eyes from laughing.

“We’ll have to get you something else to wear.”

“You don’t like it?” I hold out the grey and gory mess.

“The bloody nightgown is so last year.”

“Where are we going to get clothes?” Chi asks.

“My parents’ place. I have some old stuff still there.”

Something about that answer must have come as a surprise because Chi starts. There’s a pause, but all he says is, “We gotta get the bikes back in the garage before someone sees they’re gone first.”

“We’d better push them from here. I bet Professor Palmer is already up,” Jo says.

Chi makes the mistake of asking her, “Can you push?” and receives the Return of the Death Stare.

And we’d all been playing so nicely.

Jo shoves off with a huff. The others push their bikes along and I trail, weak human that I am. It’s not far before we turn off the main paved road on to a gravel one cut into the woods. The road is more of a path really, two deep ruts where wheels have cut into the dirt, half-assedly scattered with gravel. The road arches up, making the bikes harder to push, and the boys and I pass Jo in the left rut. None of us are stupid enough to ask if she needs help. Well, they aren’t stupid enough. I just don’t want to.

I’m a little excited now that we’re getting close. A secret society of demon-killing superhumans hidden in the North Carolina Mountains? Wild. What will their hideout look like? Will they have a castle, being Knights Templar? Or maybe a state-of-the-art underground complex like in spy movies? We come around a bend and I can see it. Spread out before us is…

A trailer park.

No, I am not kidding. Total letdown.

A small valley spreads out before us, overflowing with trailers, as if they had been poured in and splattered on the nearby hills. A smattering of bigger, metal-sided buildings, carports and aluminum sheds dot the property and one enormous building squats on the far side, but I can’t make out any details. The sun is just rising and no sunlight reaches down into the valley yet, giving it the appearance of a dusky bowl of trailer soup.

“You live in a trailer park?” I ask Uri, who happens to be closest. The road slopes downward now, meandering back and forth down into the valley.

“I don’t,” Uri answers. “I still board at the school. But my parents do, when they’re here, and all my brothers and sisters. They’re older.” He gives a funny little skip, skids on the gravel and almost loses control of his bike. He catches it with a grunt, before adding, “A lot older.”

“Uri here was an ‘uh-oh baby’,” Chi inserts. “Don’t worry.” He tosses a look over his shoulder, sending his blond hair swinging. “The best of us are.”

“‘Uh-oh baby’?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, when the parents find out they’re pregnant and they say, ‘Uh-oh.’ Uri’s parents were like forty when he was born.”

“I’ll have you know, I am not an ‘uh-oh baby’,” Uri says loftily, but ruins it with a grin. “I asked my dad and he said I was more like an ‘oh shit’.”

Chi laughs and I can’t help it, I do too.

“Anyway, about the trailer park,” Chi explains, “Crusaders take oaths of poverty and our chapter, at least, takes that seriously.”

“Chapter?” There’re multiple demon-killing training facilities?

“Yeah, this is the Mountain Park base, but there’re other branches spread out across the country – and the world.”

I see the sign now. “Mountain Park” painted on a wooden sign. Some enterprising character has inserted a spray-painted “Trailer” between the two words.

“And they aren’t all trailer-park biker gangs?”

Chi smiles. “No. The Crusader who founded Mountain Park was a bit of a nonconformist. He and his buddies were into bikes, and it made a convenient cover when they started their own chapter. Not too many people poke around a biker-run trailer park.”

“Hey, guys,” this from Jo, bringing up the rear, “we’re trying
not
to get caught.” We all get quiet as we enter trailer-town; the only sound is the gravel road crunching under our feet and tires. Light shines from a few trailers, but, for the most part, it’s dark.

Eventually we come to three large metal-sided buildings in a row. A large porcelain sign with evident age proclaims: “Dinkin’s Motorcycle Repair”. Chi rolls up the garage door. Jo opens her mouth like she wants to shush him but then shuts it. She must realize there’s no quiet way to reel up a garage door.

Inside are motorcycles. Lots and lots of motorcycles. An enthusiast’s wet-dream number of motorcycles, and all the equipment necessary to fix them. Most of them have some version of the same motif – a cross, usually red on a white background. Chi, Jo and Uri quickly wheel their bikes into position, casting furtive looks around them. Chi rolls the door down and we move on to task number two: my makeover. What does a bad girl wear when pretending to be a good girl pretending to be bad?

Jo leads the way, sticking to the outskirts now that we don’t have the bikes to push. Her limp is more pronounced – pushing that bike must have been harder for her than she let on. The sky gets brighter, highlighting the unkempt look of the trailer park. The closer I look the more I realize the trailers are more than just neglected, they’re abandoned. Weeds sprout in front of doors, too many windows stay dark. You’d expect more cars, maybe some scattered toys. Something. Whoever lives in most of these trailers has been gone for a while.

We eventually cut back towards the main road and come to a stop in front of a beige-and-red trailer that was probably new in the 1970s. Weeds cluster at its base and the wooden porch looks rotten.

Home Sweet Home.

Chi, brave lad, hops on to the frail porch in two bounds. He holds up his hand and a tense Jo flips him a card from her pocket. He snatches it from the air and sets to jimmying the lock with an ease that speaks of long practice.

And these are supposed to be the good guys? The human race is doomed.

“Just like old times, eh, Jo?” That earns him a tense smile, but Jo is obviously not happy to be home.

“Hey, Chi, will you teach me how to do that?” Uri asks, gingerly climbing up the broken stairs to peer over Chi’s shoulder.

“Of course, buddy.”

“Why are you picking the lock? I thought you said this was your house?” I ask.

“It was my parents’, and I guess it’s mine now.” She shrugs like she doesn’t care, but the movement is too tight. “But I don’t live here. I can’t until I graduate.”

“You don’t even have a key?” I ask her.

“Most of the parents are off guarding Beacons. That’s why all the kids live up at the school. They don’t want us having a bunch of unsupervised hang-outs, so we don’t get keys till we graduate.” That seems to be working well – instead the kids have unsupervised hang-outs
and
know how to pick locks. The door opens with a soft click and Chi slips inside. Uri and I follow.

Stale, musty air smacks me in the face. This place obviously hasn’t been used in a while.
It
was
my parents’
, she said. I look back at Jo and she stands at the door unmoving. Chi is watching her too.

“Jo? You OK?” Chi asks, softer than I would have thought him capable of.

Jo looks up. “Yeah, of course I am,” she snaps, but still hesitates before stepping in.

The trailer is like most homes, just smaller and crappier. It has a couch and a TV – no flat screen here. A tiny kitchen. The usual shrine to family life hangs on the wall leading down the hallway. A smiling man and woman dominate most of the pictures. Judging by her wild curls and his hazel eyes, I assume they must be responsible for spawning Jo. A younger Jo grins from school photos or plays softball. A happier Jo, complete with two happy, healthy little legs.

Chi disappears into a side door and I follow. Jo’s childhood bedroom. Well, bed-
closet
. Real bedrooms are bigger. I inspect the place – I wouldn’t have pictured her as the lilac type.

A bed takes up almost the entire space, neatly made with a faded purple comforter. A boom box (and here I’d thought dinosaurs were extinct) sits on a low table along with a collection of tatty paperbacks, hairbands, CDs and other evidence of childhood. On one wall is a cork board covered in posters, dated birthday cards and photographs. Some are again of family or school shots, but most are dominated by two people through the years. One is Jo and the other…

Chi.

Hmmm. From what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t have pegged them for BFFs.

The boy in question is digging in the closet. “Jo! Are you coming? I don’t know what to give her!” Jo limps in. The tiny room can’t fit us all. I sit on the bed.

“Go get the scissors from the kitchen, and my…” Jo swallows. “…my dad’s clippers out from under the bathroom sink. We’re gonna have to do something about her hair.” She eyes me. “No girl’s
that
rebellious.” Nice to see her sunny personality is back. “What happened to your hair anyway?” Then the more obvious question occurs to her. “Why were you in the asylum, for that matter?”

I’m tempted to say, “Because I’m crazy,” just to see her reaction, but manage to bite it back. Instead I borrow a story I’d heard from a girl I met on the streets. “I didn’t have anywhere to go.” I shrug. “I thought the shelter would be… safer… than my last foster home, so I…” I finger my jagged locks and trail off, letting her fill in the blanks.

Her face says, “Bullshit,” but her mouth stays closed.

Chi squeezes by her into the hallway and Jo takes his place digging in the closet. She comes up with jeans, which she lobs blindly in my direction, followed by a black T-shirt dominated by a neon-green high-top sneaker radiating more neon-green lightning bolts. Random. She digs deeper and produces a ratty military-style jacket. Army green with grommets and a belted waist. It’s frayed around the edges but is actually pretty cool. Mom liked to keep me in pastels, as if their sweetness would eventually soak in.

“Change,” Jo orders and gimps out, closing the door behind her. I do. Jo’s taller than me and bustier, so I have to roll the jeans up and the shirt’s a little loose, but it all fits well enough.

Chi and Jo are waiting for me in the bathroom. Well, Jo’s in the bathroom but it’s so tiny, Chi only has a foot in. To be fair, it’s a big foot.

Jo’s holding the scissors she sent Chi for. As a general policy I don’t let girls who don’t like me near my head with blades and I especially don’t let them cut my hair. I squeeze into the bathroom and take the scissors from her. She shrugs, sets some clippers on the avocado sink and leaves me to it.

I’d really done a number on my lovely black locks. Jagged and short to a couple of inches on one side and long on the other. Fortunately, I’m an artist. I set to work.

My new haircut is still long on one side and short on the other, but it looks like it was done on purpose. There is always a fine line between fashionable and crazy. I think I am on the right side, if barely. The long side ends in a blunt edge at my jaw. The short side is feathered and layered. Very bad-girl chic.

I take advantage of the toiletries, lining my eyes heavily with eyeliner, above and below, and ink my lashes with mascara. Unfortunately there’s no black nail polish, so I slap on a quick coat of dark purple.