Sweetly (29 page)
I wait in the doorway for the answer, but the old man just makes a few defeated sounds, starts a few sentences, and then falls silent. I turn around to see the boy shaking his head and jamming his headphones back into his ears. The family files past me, gets into a minivan full of laundry baskets and suitcases parked behind Ansel’s Jeep, and wheels away toward the interstate.
I look back inside the museum to see the old man hauling out the cleaner again, polishing away the prints the boy left on the glass. He shakes his head at me and puts the cleaner down, then proceeds to begin setting out a pencil holder full of tiny Confederate flags and a few T-shirts on the counter.
“You can’t trust outsiders, you know,” he says, and my stomach twists at the thought that the old man thinks I’m like that boy. “They’re always looking to turn you about. Mess with your head. Make you stop believing the things you know to be true.” The old man looks lovingly up at the massive painting of Lee, then back to me, tipping his head in my direction. “Us Live Oakers gotta stick together. Gotta stand up for one another. People are the only thing holding this place together, so every person is precious.”
“Us Live Oakers.” I am not like that boy.
And he’s right. People are the only thing holding this place—holding any place—together. It doesn’t matter if those are really Lee’s riding boots or if Sophia is the first sign of Live Oak’s end days. They’re both a part of me now, a part of the place where I became a new version of myself, where I faced the witch, where I wasn’t afraid. Live Oak’s broken and troubled but still holding on, still fighting. I can’t abandon it—or anyone in it—no matter what kind of promises I’ve made, no matter what kind of risks I’ll have to take. I’m not a scared little girl anymore—and I haven’t been for a while.
I smile at the old man and wave good-bye; he responds by starting up an old tape player that fills the room with a quiet narrative about Lee’s life.
By the time I make it to Judy’s and back to the house, it’s been at least an hour. Samuel must have been reaching for the front door right when I open it—I nearly run into him.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, glancing at the bag in my hand.
“I’m fine,” I answer, pulling him back into the house and tapping the door shut with my foot. “I was getting us breakfast.” I set the bag of food down on the floor and turn to him.
“Oh. Right,” Samuel says, shaking his head as if he’s trying to toss darker thoughts away. “I thought maybe… maybe you left.”
“No,” I say, and put my arms around the back of his neck. “But I went and saw Robert E. Lee’s riding boots.”
“Impressive?”
I pause, then nod.
“Learn anything about him?”
I smile a little. “I learned that I have to break a promise to my brother, which I feel bad about.” Poor Ansel. He’s only trying to keep me safe. He’s always tried to keep me safe. But it’s time I repay him.
“What promise?” Samuel asks.
“I told him I’d stay inside tonight. But I have to go to the festival.”
Samuel steps back and meets my eyes. “Why? You don’t have to go to save the eleven. We can set up on the roads going out of Live Oak, pick off the wolves there.”
“That’ll save the eleven, maybe,” I admit. “But it won’t save Sophia. And it won’t get me any answers. I still won’t know why some of them are special. You won’t know why Layla and Naida are gone but other girls are still here. We have to help them, and I have to know the truth.”
Samuel and I look at each other a long time. I want to say so much, but I’m not sure any of it would make sense. Naida, Sophia, me—there’s an answer I still don’t have, and while I don’t entirely know what the question is, I know it has nothing to do with the roads out of Live Oak. I might be able to break free of the wolves, of my destiny, of Naida’s destiny, but I won’t do it if it means abandoning someone else to the monsters. Abigail and Sophia both deserve better from me.
“I know,” Samuel says in a low voice, answering my unspoken words. “Okay, we’ll go. Just tell me what you need me to do, Gretchen. You lead, I’ll follow.”
A
t sunset, I put on Naida’s dress, wrinkled from being shoved into the bottom of my suitcase. It seems as if I should wear it, though—and besides, the red flowery fabric will probably help me blend in at the festival. I rip the sleeves so I can hold a gun easier, practice aiming, skip matching sandals in favor of tennis shoes I can run in.
I am still nervous. Still scared. I just don’t care anymore—I can’t allow myself to care anymore.
We are mirror images, but we are not the same. A reflection is you but reversed, after all. We are not the same.
I chant this to myself over and over, trying to build up my courage. It works—it becomes something of a battle cry as I check my rifle, load my pockets with spare rounds, affix Naida’s face in my mind.
We are not the same.
The festival starts at seven, but Samuel and I don’t leave till later—after eight o’clock. There’s no way we’d be able to slip in unnoticed if we arrived on time. I wrap my arms around Samuel’s chest and bury my face against his neck as we zip through town. Most of the remaining stores are long closed, though we get a few strange looks from old people sitting on their porches, gabbing away as they sip sweet tea or beer.
Samuel stops his bike just a hundred or so yards from Sophia’s house. He climbs off, then helps me. We both have rifles on us, and we pause to pack our pockets with extra handfuls of shells.
“Where to, fearless leader?” Samuel says, squeezing my shoulder gently as I slide the rifle strap over my chest.
I inhale. No turning back now. I have to warn them. I can’t let them vanish like Abigail. “This way,” I say, and take the first step toward the chocolatier.
The noise grows as we close in on Sophia’s place. A dull hum of conversation quickly morphs into a roar. There’s music, acoustic guitar of some sort, and laughter that’s bright and cheery, along with a few lower, male voices. When the house finally comes into view, it appears to glow from the strings of paper lanterns that illuminate the backyard. Every downstairs light is on, and cars are parked throughout the front yard and even down the street.
Strangely, though, no one is in sight—everyone is in the field out back, leaving the front deserted. We slink through the yard, using trees and cars for cover. The front door and storefront are darkened, but the kitchen is brightly lit.
Together we tiptoe up the porch steps, ducked down low. I crack open the front door to the chocolatier and peer around it. No one, of course. We cut across the storefront, toward the display cases. I pause, leaning against them. It doesn’t sound as though anyone is in the kitchen. Samuel hunches down beside me, looking uncertain.
The kitchen’s screen door opens, then slams shut. Footsteps—Sophia’s, I presume—pad across the kitchen hurriedly. I try to analyze where she is—the refrigerator, I think, now over by the oven. I rise, ready to confront her, to beg her, to plead with her again. To call her my sister and hope it reaches past her fear to her heart.
The screen door opens again, slams again.
Ansel,
I think as I hear heavy booted footsteps on the hardwood. I’m about to signal Samuel to move, to step in and surprise them, when the second person speaks.
“I’m disappointed, Miss Kelly,” a sly, low voice says, barely a hiss over the sound of the party outside.
That isn’t Ansel.
My eyes widen in confusion, and I dare to look up and through the glass. The saloon doors keep me from seeing faces, but I can see torsos and legs through the rows of candies in the case. The man is close to Sophia, very close, and she wrings her hands behind her back and steps away from him. She’s trembling.
Who is it?
Samuel mouths at me. I shake my head—I’ve never heard this voice before in my life.
“I’m sorry. I know… I…” Sophia begins. Her voice sounds as though she’s on the verge of tears.
“You don’t have eleven,” the man says, taking an intrusive step toward Sophia. She backs up into the counter and grasps the skirt of the pink party dress she’s wearing.
“I know,” Sophia pleads. “But there just
aren’t
eleven this year—one of the girls didn’t show up. Look out there—there are plenty of seventeen-year-olds! I can make up for it next year!”
“Be quiet,” the man says. I can see his hand—his fingers ripple and transform to claws, then turn back.
“He’s a Fenris,” Samuel whispers almost silently. I meet his eyes—they’re livid, burning.
“B-but… S-Sophia…” I stammer, trying to make sense of whatever it is that’s going on. Nothing is adding up.
Or worse yet, everything is adding up, however slowly. Sophia doesn’t only know about the wolves, know about the shells, know about what’s happening to the Live Oak girls. Sophia knows the wolves. She’s talking to them. She’s… My mind fumbles, trying to find a word, trying to work out what she could be to the monsters. Worse—what they could be to her.
Not Sophia,
I think Not the girl who is like a sister, the girl my brother loves, the girl whom I wanted to be just like.
No
. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding, fists clenched as my mind swirls, watching her talk to a killer.
“Please,” Sophia says, voice cracking. “Please—”
“You’d better work this out,” the man—no, not a man, a wolf—says, and then storms out the screen door. It slams shut, and Sophia crumples to the floor. I see her face for only a moment, but it’s racked with grief, guilt, sorrow. Her mouth is twisted in a silent wail, and her eyes are squeezed shut. I hear her choke down a few sobs, and then she rises. She breathes deeply, brushes down her skirt, and clears her throat.
“Sophia?” Ansel’s voice sounds through the other side of the screen door.
“Yeah?” Sophia answers, voice brighter than I know she feels. She sniffs away the last of her tears, an old pro at some deception I still don’t understand.
“There aren’t any more hazelnut truffles. Did you have any extras? People are asking for them.”
Sophia laughs cheerily, and I’m amazed that she’s able to do so given the emotions I just saw her go through. “I’ve got some more in the storefront. Not a lot, though! Tell them to slow down!” she teases. Ansel laughs, the sound fading away as he rejoins the party.
The saloon doors swing open.
There’s no point in hiding. No point in pretending she won’t see us. No point in pretending I didn’t just overhear a strange conversation. As the saloon doors swing shut, I stand and face Sophia.
She jumps, clasping her hand to her chest to suppress a scream. Her eyes flicker: first anger; then fury; then, more powerful than either of those, sorrow. Sophia shakes her head, and her eyes fill with tears.
“Gretchen, I… you’re here,” she whispers hoarsely as tears slip down her cheeks. Tears of… relief? I’m not sure. The gun feels dead in my hand; I can’t lift it toward Sophia, no matter whom she was talking to.
“That was a werewolf. Sophia, you know that was a werewolf,” I whisper. Sophia jumps as Samuel stands up beside me, eyes dark. He isn’t afraid to raise his own gun and aims it squarely at her chest. I continue. “You know they’re real. You know…”
“It was… it isn’t what you think,” Sophia stammers, shaking her head. She breathes hard and begins yanking hazelnut truffles from the display case, as if the act of doing so will keep her sane.
“You’re with
them,
” Samuel says, his voice low and threatening. His hands are tight on the rifle, knuckles white.
“Sophia, tell me what’s going on,” I demand in a low voice. “Just tell me the truth.”
“I can’t,” she says, words barely audible. “Gretchen, I’m so sorry. Never forget—never forget that I’m sorry.” Sophia kneels to the floor, a silent cry escaping her lips.
“Samuel, get my brother,” I say quickly. He nods and takes a step but Sophia cries out, half scream, half words.
She shakes her head pleadingly. “Please don’t tell him. Please, Gretchen.”
“Then start talking,” I whisper.
She nods meekly, swallows, begins to speak. “They wanted eleven girls. You had that part right. But the shells weren’t just them trying to scare me. It was… they were…”
“Instructions,” Samuel says in disbelief.
“Yes.” Sophia nods pitifully.
“It isn’t the wolves cutting girls off as they leave town,” he says, voice filled with fury. “It’s you. You’re marking them, sending them out after your party to die.”
“I don’t want to!” Sophia cries, her voice suddenly loud, pleading, begging for mercy, though I don’t think she seeks it from us. “I don’t want to, Gretchen. I just have to!”
The back screen door slams. I don’t think twice; Samuel and I immediately take aim together, guns pointed and ready.
But it’s just Ansel. He sweeps through the saloon doors, confusion on his face—especially when he sees his sister holding a gun. Ansel and Samuel stare at each other for a moment before my brother speaks.
“Gretchen, what’s going on? What are you doing?” Ansel says, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t sound as though he thinks I’m crazy—he sounds as if he’s worried. As though he wants me to fill him in so we can be allies again, the two of us running side by side.