Sweetly (30 page)
“Saving eleven girls,” I answer, lowering the gun. Samuel does the same but takes a step closer to me.
“She was talking to a wolf. She’s with them,” Samuel growls at Ansel.
“What?” Ansel asks, and his eyes narrow. “A wolf?”
“The witch. The werewolf,” I remind Ansel, but he doesn’t seem sure how to react.
“Listen to your sister,” Samuel snaps.
Ansel glares at Samuel, then reaches for Sophia. But she doesn’t fall into him, doesn’t let him hold her—she stares at me, as if she and I are the only people in the room.
“You have to understand, Gretchen. I have to do it. For my sister.”
“They killed Naida,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Why would you work with them—kill other girls—”
“No!” Sophia cuts me off, shaking her head frantically. “They took my sister. But they didn’t kill her. They did something worse.”
“Explain,” Samuel snarls, and I see no compassion for Sophia on his face. I can’t blame him—she marks the Fenris’s victims. Which means Sophia marked Layla.
“They killed my dad,” Sophia says, lips trembling. “And then they came back and took Naida.”
“What do you mean, they ‘took’ her?” Ansel asks, reaching for Sophia’s hand.
“They took her with them. But they didn’t kill her. They promised to give her back one day if I cooperate. They have her somewhere, somewhere by the ocean. My sister loved the ocean,” Sophia says, mournful nostalgia in her voice.
There. My answer, right there. I am not special for surviving. The eight others aren’t special for dying. My sister isn’t special for dying.
Naida is the special one.
For whatever reason, Naida was
taken
. Not killed, not devoured. She’s special to the wolves. All this time, all this wondering, and it turns out Naida really did start it all.
And now I realize: I am not a mirror image of Naida—the wolf didn’t take me. I am a mirror image of Sophia. The surviving sister. The one who knew about the monsters in the forest, the one with the guilty eyes and broken heart. Abigail is dead—the wolves didn’t come to Ansel or me with any deadly bargains—but Sophia and I still play the same role. I once went into the woods to see if the witch wanted me; Sophia is doling out new victims too.
My heart sinks, lungs catch, trying to bear the weight of it all. Trying to balance pity and fury. I understand—what wouldn’t I have done to bring Abigail back?—and yet I don’t want to. I don’t want to understand this kind of darkness.
“What about the shells…” I whisper. Now that I have one answer, I want them all.
“Proof of life,” Sophia chokes. “Every year they bring me new ones from her, new ones that she picks just for me. They bring me one for each girl I need to have at the party for them. This year it was eleven.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Ansel says to me, looking for some sign of agreement in my eyes, as if he wants to prove that Sophia is simply crazy, that I’m simply wrong. “Why would
werewolves
”—he has trouble with the word—“wait around? If that’s what really chased us through the forest, Gretchen, it didn’t wait us out. It just attacked.”
“You’re not from the South,” Samuel says, shaking his head. “Not from farmland. It’s the first key to successful farming.” Sophia looks up at him, and I know that whatever Samuel is about to say is the truth. “Wait until your crop is mature to harvest.”
Sophia nods tearfully. “They want girls at eighteen. The closer they are to eighteen, the better. It’s their favorite age—they say it’s when a girl’s blood is sweetest. They leave the younger ones—wait till the next festival. They take the ones in the red dresses.”
Horror bubbles into my throat. I can’t breathe. I want to speak but the words are… I look to my brother. His eyes are wide. We both look down at the red floral dress I’m wearing. The one Sophia picked out. Ansel looks as though he might be sick.
“I’m eighteen, Sophia,” I finally whisper, groan, almost, because my throat won’t form the words well.
Sophia inhales, trembles, looks as if the words that are about to leave her mouth are knives on her tongue. “You’re number eleven, Gretchen.”
I
cry out; Samuel breathes hard, angrily; but it’s Ansel’s actions that seem to hurt Sophia the most. He steps away from her, horrified, as though he can’t bear to touch her, can’t bear to even look at her. Sophia takes a step toward him, extends a shaky hand.
Ansel slaps it away.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sophia pleads with him. “You have to understand. She’s my sister. She’s my little sister. I have to protect her.”
“Protect her?” I ask, voice becoming shrill. “Sophia, these are monsters. They’re
never
going to give Naida back. They never give anyone back!”
“Don’t say that!” Sophia screams, her face sheet white. “Don’t say that… I…” She rocks back and forth; I think she might faint. “They promised. And if there’s a chance, a tiny chance they’ll let her go… she’s my sister. I love my sister, and she’s all I have left.”
“She’s
my
sister. You… you
are
the witch,” Ansel hisses. There’s so much hatred in his voice, so much rage, that he sounds like a different person.
I shake my head and suddenly understand why Sophia loves the Nietzsche quote over the shop door.
There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
Love this powerful? Powerful enough for her to… I thought she loved me. I thought she was my friend, despite her secrets. No wonder she was so desperate for me to come tonight, so kind to me, so eager for me to stay here at any cost. No wonder she knew Ansel would leave her after tonight.
“I didn’t want to, Gretchen. I’m a good person. I’m a good person,” Sophia repeats, choking on sobs.
“Why was Naida special? Why didn’t they kill her, if they killed everyone else?” I ask.
“They—” But she doesn’t get the opportunity to explain. The screen door in the kitchen slams shut.
Samuel and I lift our guns. Ansel balls his hands into fists and steps up beside us, meeting my eye for a glimmer of a second.
“No, please, no, you can’t shoot him,” Sophia whispers haggardly behind us.
He’s slick, handsome. Wearing a polo shirt and torn jeans. He has bright yellow-brown eyes and high cheekbones, and his hair is a gentle wren color that looks tremendously touchable.
The girls outside don’t have a chance with a monster like him around.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, stepping through the saloon doors. My aim is perfect; I know Samuel’s is as well.
It’s okay, no need to panic. Everything is under control,
I tell myself.
“It’s her,” Sophia chokes, then hides her face. “She’s the last one.”
The werewolf laughs, an emotion that doesn’t make it past his voice. His teeth sharpen, his fingertips quiver, and claws ease their way through his fingertips in tiny bursts of blood and skin. The touchable hair slicks, mats, breaks down into mangy fur.
So Samuel shoots him.
Sophia screams. Blood splatters onto the saloon doors. The party outside silences. But the Fenris doesn’t die; he rears back, charges out the door of the chocolatier, trailing thick blood behind him.
And then it begins.
Outside, the screams of twenty-three teenage girls rush over us like a wave of terror. Samuel and I charge forward, knocking the saloon doors aside. We burst through the screen door into the pink-and-orange-tinted party, a world of tables lined with candles and paper and beautiful, elaborate sweets. Everything is still beautiful, still perfect, except for the handsome guys. They’re transforming, melting from men into monsters. The girls scream in horror, choke on air, try to run but find their feet don’t move.
Samuel tilts his head; he’s going right, I’m going left. Ansel, ever wanting to save people, runs straight ahead.
He doesn’t know what he’s facing, I have to watch out for him
. I aim, fire, miss. God, the girls are so close—what if I shoot one of them? Is it better to be shot than devoured? I aim again, exhaling for balance. Fire. The nearest monster vanishes with a sharp howl, explodes into shadows that make the girl standing closest to him faint. Another monster, an enormous gray one, steps out of the remains of his clothing. He charges at me, zigzagging. I follow him with the gun, hit him with a bullet that doesn’t even slow him down.
Ansel slams into his side, football skills put to use, and sends him flying into the grass. I want to make sure my brother is okay, but there’s no time. A girl runs into me, grabbing my arm. I can’t hear what she’s saying over the sound of gunfire and screaming, but it’s clear from her wide blue eyes.
Save me, please; please save me.
“Gretchen! Watch your left!” Samuel’s voice roars over the fray. I look over, try to aim for the tawny werewolf that’s galloping toward me, mouth open and tongue lolling around bloodstained teeth. The girl by my side is on her knees, gagging on cries, pulling on my arm—I can’t aim with her there. The werewolf dives at me; I duck down and ram the stock of the rifle up as hard as I can. I feel it crack bones and ribs, and the werewolf roars in pain as he rolls away. I kick the pleading girl away, aim, fire as the wolf turns around. Shadows.
I turn back to the festival, gun ready. Someone’s knocked over a table lined with pillar candles; the flames have caught a string of downed paper lanterns, a dozen little bonfires right beside the chocolatier’s kitchen. Ansel is strangling a werewolf, tugging him to the ground, but right beside him is a huge black beast with his head buried in something bloody, something that was once wearing a cherry red party dress. It eats ravenously, hungrily.
When the wolf’s teeth crunch down on the girl’s delicate, perfectly manicured hand, I lose it.
I run at the monster, gun aimed, firing desperately. He rears back as the bullets hit him, strings of blood and tendon swinging out of his mouth. He staggers and growls, snaps at me, then collapses over the body of his victim. He glares at me with one yellowed, furious eye and tries to find his feet again. I place the tip of my gun between his eyes and fire.
When he becomes shadows, I’m left staring at a dead girl’s open body. I gag, almost vomit, and turn away just in time to see Samuel shoot two werewolves, one right after the other. How many are there? The monsters have caught on to the guns—they’re moving, running, darting behind girls who are desperately trying to run for their cars or who are curled up on the ground, screaming. Ansel swings at another monster. There are blood streaks on his back, claw marks that sliced through his shirt and into his skin. Another wolf is coming up behind him—
“Get down!” I scream at my brother. Ansel looks up to see me aiming; he yanks the wolf to the ground. I hit the one coming up behind him. The beast’s body slams into Ansel’s before it becomes shadows.
I hear Sophia’s voice.
I look up to see her walking across the lawn as if there’s nothing going on at all, as if tables aren’t overturning and the lanterns aren’t flickering and dying. As if the wolves aren’t here. The wolves treat her much the same—as though she doesn’t even exist.
Of course they don’t hurt her—she’s their meal ticket,
I think, stomach swirling in disgust. Sophia steps over a body as if it’s nothing, but when she reaches me, I see how hard she’s trembling.
“Gretchen, go,” she says. She looks back at the chocolatier—flames from the lanterns have started licking at the kitchen walls. “Just go. It’s too late for… I can’t…”
I aim over her shoulder at a wolf; he stops, steps back. He explodes to shadow when a bullet that isn’t mine hits him; Samuel nods at me, then continues, taking down wolves so quickly that I can’t understand how there are so many left. I reach into my pocket, fumble for more bullets—I’ve got only one left in the rifle.
“Tell me why Naida is special,” I snap at her as I reload. I didn’t come this far to go away without every single answer.
“They’re using her,” Sophia whispers. “They say she has two souls. One died when they bit her; the other becomes dark, like them.”
“I don’t understand,” I shout, furious, scared, hurt.
“She had a twin sister who died before they were born—when one twin dies like that, the other absorbs her. I guess Lorelei’s body
and
soul went into Naida.” She swallows, as though what she’s saying hurts her throat. “The wolves take one soul by biting into her heart, and then the other will die slowly, in the ocean, until she’s all darkness.” Sophia opens her mouth, but it takes her a long time to say the final phrase. “Until she’s a monster,” she finishes hoarsely.
I remember the ultrasound, Lorelei and Naida tucked against each other. Two little souls, resulting in one little girl—a girl whom the wolves would essentially be able to kill twice.
“Why do they want her dark?” I ask, trying to ignore a raspy growl from the other side of the lawn.
There’s a look of horror in Sophia’s eyes when she answers. “They can’t have mortal lovers; they kill them. But the ocean girls—they’re dark, they’re kindred evils—”