Markings (15 page)

“So what’s going on lately?” Mom asked, sipping a spoonful of soup.

I forked at my shrimp and spinach fettuccini. She wanted to know why I was avoiding school. I should’ve expected that in return for getting a day off.

“Kat and I got into a fight,” I started.

“You and Kat?
Another
one?”

“No. Same one from over the weekend. Like I told you before.”

Mom’s eyes grew round. “Don’t you two, like, practically share a brain? How are you guys still fighting?”

“We sort of . . . didn’t see eye to eye. It was a bigger argument than we’re used to.” I shrugged. My answer was vague, I knew, but I hoped she’d take it. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mom tore a bread stick apart, shooting poppy seeds across the table. The aroma of garlic cloves and unsalted butter filled the air. “Well, what was the argument about? Homework, family . . . a boy?”

“Aw, Mom.” My heart flinched. I’d succeeded in shutting him out today, but now Aaron slipped to the front of my mind, threatening to steal my appetite. “No, it had nothing to do with boys.”

“Uh-huh,” she drawled, unbelieving.

I bit my lip. “It might be . . . family oriented. In a way.” I paused. “Mom, Dad’s side of the family . . . they didn’t carry any, I don’t know, genetic diseases did they?”
Disease
probably wasn’t the nicest term. I could see Shifters everywhere giving me dirty looks for that one.

She suddenly stopped chewing. Her fingers wrapped around her glass. Calmly, she sipped her water. “You don’t really have a history assignment, do you, Lina?”

“Um.” I sunk in my chair.

Suddenly a loud beeping came out of her purse, making us both jump. She leaned down and pulled up her phone. “Hello?”

I breathed in relief, then dug into my pasta, trying to think what I would say when the call ended. To lie or not to lie? To tell her everything? She needed to know, but did she need to know
now
? She would find out eventually . . . though that was dad’s way of telling her things. Mom hated
eventually
.

When the call ended I was mouth-first into a breadstick, and she said, “David needs some help with a dessert recipe. He’s having some insecurity about his Crème brûlée.” She waved a finger. “Don’t think this conversation is over, young lady. We’ll have plenty of free time on the drive home.”

“Mm.” I forced a smile then resumed chewing with maybe a little too much intensity.

I was up to my armpits in dishes by the time the sun began to sink behind town, and I had to trot to keep up with cleaning tables.

“Honey.” Mom came back from delivering some appetizers that evening. She stood beside me, hand on my shoulder. “Wow, you’re making some good headway. How you doing?”

“Fine.” I motioned for her to step back so I could close up the dishwasher, finishing my fifth cycle, or maybe it was sixth. “How are
you
doing? Fried any fingers off yet?” It amazed me how quickly she moved while cooking, yet she never cut, burnt, sliced, or jabbed herself.

“Nope. I’ve got to fry up a couple salmon fillets, but after that Giselle’s letting me off early.”

“Really?” I glanced at the half-moon clock by the door. Five o’clock. It’d been days since she’d been let off this early. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Mom shrugged. “Just reward for our hard work, I think.”

“Oh. Cool.” I didn’t complain.

David poked his head through the swinging doors. “Hey, Lina? Can you come clean off the bar for me? Somebody spilt a Kahlúa float.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Yanking off my rubber gloves, I grabbed a washcloth and small towel from under the sink.

It sounded silly, but I felt kind of special following David into a no-minors zone. At the bottom of the
L
-shaped room, three steps brought me up off the main floor. The bar was small compared to most, only about five stools fitting at the counter comfortably. A small plasma screen hung in the right corner while rows of fancy glasses and bottles lined the back wall. Whoever spilled the Kahlúa float had already fled the scene. The place was empty.

“Jeez.” I shook my head, admiring the pile of melted ice cream and stream of toffee-colored liquid as if dripped off the counter.

“Don’t worry,” David said, seeing my annoyed expression. “He left a pretty nice tip for our trouble.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Growling, I ran my washcloth along the edge of the counter. The drips had already solidified to it and the floor, leaving sticky spots. I glanced around for a mop.

“Thanks, Lina. I’ve got to go finish a lemon cake for a couple on the main floor, but I’ll be back asap. Okay?”

“Take your time, David. I’ve got this.” I shooed him away. He flashed me a grateful smile before hopping back down the stairs.

The garbage can under the back counter was lined with a plastic bag, so I pulled it out. Carefully, I began pushing the melted ice cream down, then took my time leading the Kahlúa waterfall in after it. Maneuvering the can back into its rightful place, I wondered if Mom planned to pay me for working, or if no school had been payment enough. I was giving my washcloth a final ring-out when a sudden, potent smell filled my nose. Pine woods crossed with fruity perfume.

I snapped my head around and gasped, nearly leaping into the alcohol shelves.

Trinity’s lips turned up at the corners. She crossed her arms on the countertop. “Hey, pretty kitty.” Her greeting was quiet.

“Trinity.” I felt the weight pressing into my chest.
How did she find me?
“What are you doing here?”

Her smile dimmed as she pulled a stool up to the counter. With a tired sigh, she leaned forward and said, “A tall glass of Bailey’s please.”

“Um.” I swallowed. Was I allowed to serve alcohol? Probably not. Peeking down the stairs, I didn’t see David or Mom anywhere in sight. Giselle had said frequently today,
always please the customer.
Oh, what the hay. “Do you have proof of age?”

Trinity giggled before whipping her driver’s license out, twisting it in her elegant fingers. “Always.”

I looked over it, trying to ignore how pretty her picture was—weren’t we all supposed to look funny in our driver’s license pictures? “You’re barely legal.”

“Here, yeah. You go to some places in Europe and they’ll serve you alcohol younger.” Trinity gave me a seductive look, like this was a trade secret just between us, then tucked the license back in her jeans pocket.

I moved to the back counter, spotting a black Bailey’s bottle on a low shelf. A clear, crystal glass hung upside down nearby, a shape like a cat’s eye in the rim design. I pulled it down.

“So,” she said as I put the glass in front of her. “I see you found a new job.”

I focused on pouring the Bailey’s. There was a hint of . . . bitterness in her tone? Or maybe just curiosity. I shrugged. “Maybe. Mom’s boss just lost two of her workers, so I thought I’d come help today.”

“That’s nice.” She picked at her bright purple nails.

We fell silent as I recapped the Bailey’s. I took my time putting it back. The way she watched me, I had a feeling she was waiting for me to address the reason why I left the shelter.

When I didn’t say it, she said, “So . . . Aaron’s not talking to anyone.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.
Damn it
. Just hearing his name shattered the inner peace I’d worked all day to build. “I’m really sorry, Trin.” My stupid eyes watered as I looked at her. “I never meant to say anything. I don’t know what came over me. He just, he made me so mad and—”

“Lina, calm down,” she interrupted, then sipped her drink. “I’m not blaming you. I knew he’d figure it out eventually, whether I cracked or you did. I just feel
bad
. I thought he’d made it through all the anger issues, but we got home last night,” —she shivered, looking away— “Let’s just say I’m going to have to go home-decor shopping now. His whole bedroom is ripped apart.”

I cringed. “When you say ripped apart . . .”

“You’ve heard the phrase ‘who let the dogs out’, right? This was like, ‘who let the cat out’.” She rolled her head towards the ceiling. “He left the house before my aunt or I could confront him. There was a note on the table, saying he’d gone to town. I came to look for him, but I picked up your scent instead.”

My nails dug into the sides of my face.
He hates me, he hates me.
“This is all my fault,” I groaned.

“Don’t say that, Lina. His grief for Halia after all this time is nothing for you to blame yourself over. It’s been years now—”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who pissed him off. I should’ve controlled myself. Kept my trap shut. . . .”

“Trust me: female Shifters are not quiet creatures. We’ve got all the spice and hormones of regular women, plus the dominating, fierce ones of felines . . . In your case, you’re going to be Alpha so I’m sure it’s worse.” Trinity sipped her cat’s eye glass.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” I didn’t want to be Alpha. Slouching over the front counter, I pressed my cheek to the cold marble, which resembled the chilled, dark thoughts in my head.

Trinity straightened up on her stool. “Someone’s coming.”

I jerked off the counter, wiping the smudge mark my face had left.

Footsteps rounded the corner and Mom hopped up the stairs, carrying both our purses on her shoulder. She looked first at Trinity, then me as I pretended to have just finished cleaning.

“Hey, you. Ready to go?” she asked.

“Um, I should probably mop real quick.” I glanced at the sticky floor tiles just inches from my feet. “The Kahlúa float made—”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Carla’s coming in a few minutes to finish off the nightshift with Maria. They’ll take care of it, honey; you’ve done plenty for today.” Mom flicked a careless hand towards the floor. “Come on. Let’s go make some dinner.”

When she turned away, I leaned towards Trinity. “Call me when he comes home,” I whispered.

“Will do.” She winked.

“And if you talk to him, tell him . . . Please tell him I’m sorry.”

“You need to stop being sorry,” she replied. “But since you asked, I will.”

Chapter 17: Run

I
lucked out. Mom forgot about the “ride home talk.” Instead, she went on about the perfect heart-tarts she’d made for a couple celebrating their 40th anniversary, and I kept asking questions to keep her distracted. By the time we pulled into the driveway, she was talking about needing a new pair of shoes that didn’t hurt her feet so much.

I lounged on my back in my bedroom, cell phone in hand. Kat had tucked my cell in the first drawer of my nightstand, on top of my array of Wild Celina jewelry. I turned over the smooth surface below my fingers.
Should I call him? Should I call her?
Which would be more likely to pick up if they saw my number?
Kat. Definitely Kat.
This was ridiculous. We were best friends! We didn’t stay silent like this.

Closing my eyes, I heard the door creak open.

Human?

“Over here, Harry,” I called.

His paws padded lightly across the carpet, and with him came images of his food bowl downstairs, of how he rejected the dry food Mom had set down when he smelled something fresh cooking on the stove. I saw an image of Snow lounging on the couch, looking territorial as Harry passed her to come find me.

I saw an image of his scratching post in Mom’s office then heard the sound that went with it. My eyes opened. I sat up on my elbows. “Ah, Harry, no. Hey, come on now.”

He retracted his claws, which had been digging into the brown package beside the bed. I shooed him away, his guilty aura wafting towards me. Darn cats. I stared at the package, the box from Dad. I hadn’t opened it on my birthday. Funny marks caught my eye that I hadn’t noticed before. Stick figures had been drawn on the side of the box. The taller one had three hairs sticking out of his head, his arm attached to the shorter stick figure that had long lines coming down her sides.

My chest tightened up. “Oh, Dad.” He never had been much of an artist. Carefully, I picked up the box, pulling it into my lap. It seemed to radiate an aura all its own, powerful and eerie. Ghosts of my past. I held back from opening it.

Just get it over with.
If it made me upset, what the hell. Everything else was going wrong lately. Maybe once I hit the bottom of the bottle, things would start floating back up. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad and would cheer me up.

A pocketknife resided in my nightstand. Flipping it open, I sliced the tape off the package. Holding my breath, I peeked inside. Red tissue paper. I exhaled, pulling the whole top open. Red and green tissue paper.
So festive, Dad.
A thin square box sat underneath, covered in glossy, purple paper. Pink ribbon wrapped two of the corners, one attached to a chunky bow that was far too girly for him to have picked out. I nearly dropped it as I realized this had to be the work of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Another box underneath had identical wrapping, then something very strange beneath that.

An orange mailing packet with my name on the front of it.

I bet it’s pictures.
Damn it, did he not hear me when I said I didn’t want any of those? As I picked up the packet, I didn’t feel the flat outlines of photos.
Well, what would he have sent then?
I set it aside.

I destroyed She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s wrapping job. The first present was a Macy’s box, inside an ugly pink sweater with pearls for buttons. I flung it aside. Gag. Underneath the terrible sweater, however, laid a romantic, lacy shirt with a V-neck collar and ribbons wrapping just below the chest. Wild Celina purred inside me.
Darn it,
this one’s really pretty.
I wanted to hate it but couldn’t.

In the last box, a very simple, moss-green dress nestled in red paper. Styled after a tube top, the back was open with a crisscrossed ribbon to tie it shut. My fingers traced the front. I had never felt material so soft before. It smelled like tea leaves, reminding me of lazy summer days outside.
Odd choice for your taste, Dad.
Where could he have gotten this? It smelled more like the earth. Like it was
 
. . .

Organic
. I froze.
“They’ve managed to make a few organic, go-green ones that actually sort of dissolve into your fur when you change.”
I dropped the dress.

I dove for the orange packet. Tearing into it, I ripped out a pile of papers. The first three were white, crisp, newly typed and printed. The ones beneath had crinkles, a few yellowed from age. Placing the crisp ones in my lap, I began to read.

Dearest Lina,

First of all, congratulations on your special day! Turning seventeen is a wonderful and threatening time. You’re on the boundary line between adolescence and adulthood, on doing chores versus getting a job.

It has been three years since you and your mother left Seaside now. We have talked very little since then. You’re like your mother a bit, keeping your secrets and thoughts
to yourself. Even on your trip back here a couple summers ago, our conversations were short.

Since you are now on the brink of adulthood, I think it time we cleared the air a little. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you since you were very young, something that will maybe help you to understand the past few years.

You are going to think me thoroughly insane, which is why I’ve attached photos (do NOT look at them before you read this or I doubt you’ll understand). Do you remember that time when you were little and you asked me why you didn’t know your grandparents? Well, believe it or not, there is a reason why I didn’t tell you: they come from a very unique background and are consistently on the move.

They are called the Miew Demos. They are also known as—be opened-mined, please—feline Shifters, or shape-shifters. And like your grandparents, I unfortunately am one of them.

And I fear that you might be as well.

I stopped reading. My hands shook, squeezing the papers.

I knew it. Well, not completely, but I had suspected.
He waits seventeen years to tell me the truth?
I scoffed.
Classic Dad.

Wild Celina reared up inside me. I could feel her impulsiveness in my veins, her desire to snarl and snap her jaws. Thrusting the letter aside, I obeyed her silent whispers:
tell him what you think for once in your life.

I snatched up my phone, pacing the room as I searched for his seldom dialed number. It was six in the evening, so he’d either be at dinner or at work. Part of me hoped I could leave a message, another part hoped he’d answer. I wanted to sink claws into his skin, drive nails through his heart.

I shivered with fury as the line began to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

I stopped, nearly lost my nerve. His voice was just the same as it always had been, that husky, careful tone that took the fog away from my memory of him. I could imagine him so clearly: auburn hair, green eyes, light skin.

“You’ve reached Alex. I can’t come to the phone right now, so leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you. Peace.”

A light beep echoed through the phone line. Wild Celina broke free.

“I hate you.” The words spewed out of my mouth. “You wait
seventeen years
to tell me about my family, about the grandparents I never knew? I thought they didn’t know me because they didn’t want me! And I can’t believe you think my secrets-keeping thing is from Mom! Last time I checked? That was from
you.
So that means you’ve not only passed on your talent of hiding things, you passed me the gene that’s made me this
monster.
Did you tell Mom about my little birth defect, huh? Did you know this was going to happen to me?”

I paused to take a breath. My lungs hurt from the yelling. My throat tightened, but the words kept coming. “Guess what Dad: it’s too late. I’ve already screwed up my best friend and someone I . . . liked a lot. And it’s too late for you to be a good father. God, you can’t even be a
decent
one because no decent man abandons his family for some slut. Stay out of my life. Stop sending me shit and just delete our house number. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Jabbing the end button hard, I flung the phone at the bed. It dove into the crease between mattress and wall, splitting the protective cover off. My throat tightened more, and I heard myself gasp for breath.

Okay, so I just unleashed four years of agony into a single voicemail. There’d be hell to pay when he got that message. He’d call back, ignore my warnings, but I meant what I said. I felt so much loathing and hurt because of him, and I’d kept all of it tied up inside, like thread around a balloon, slowly tightening with the years.

I sunk down against the bed, hands curled around my pounding head. My stomach twisted and rolled, like how it does before giving a speech. I was so angry over this, I was sweating.
Wait a second.
I gasped, looking at my hands. My palms had red patches on them, hot to the touch. I turned, catching my reflection in the mirror. Red lines carved my forehead, more patches on my cheeks—which were puffy and discolored anyway.

I needed air.

Throwing the windows open, a cool breeze rushed into the bedroom. It lifted the curtains, brushed my hair. I leaned against the side of the sill, inhaling. The madness inside me began to mellow, but the animal remained alert. My nostrils flared at the strong scent of pine and bark, but picked up some unusual sidekicks: the aroma of newborn leaves, the odor of fresh-cut grass. I sniffed harder. A whiff of garlic from the neighbors’ kitchen, and the dusty, damp coat of an animal roaming nearby.

I had the urge to . . .
run.

My heart sped up at the idea, my legs, weak just seconds ago, now jiggling against the wall.
Run, jog, leap
, my mind tempted.
Anything but stand here, trapped in this house.
I glanced up at the sky just as a drop of rain splattered the tip of my nose. Neither the moon nor stars were visible; just endless curls of clouds. The wind had a muggy feel, warning me of a storm fast approaching.

A little rain never killed anybody.

I tore my closet doors open. My gym shoes lay upside down on the floor, yoga pants wadded up in the first drawer. Grabbing a hoodie—just in case it poured—I swiped Dad’s letter and the unread papers off the bed then slid out into the hall.

Mom hummed along with the radio, doing dishes in the kitchen. I dumped Dad’s papers on the couch, knowing she’d find them there. She might not believe him, but maybe that’d convince her to keep him out of my life for good. Gliding out the front door, Harry meowed loudly, the only one to see me leave.

The trees danced with the wind as I entered the night. The air carried electricity, and I debated where to run. Maybe a quick jog up the road?
No, the neighbors might see.
I didn’t feel like being around people.
The shelter.
I turned, looking down the hill. Funny, I’d been persistent about avoiding it, yet now I had a desire to go there. It was late, and the place would be locked up, but maybe . . .

I ducked behind the bushes near the mailbox.

Mom appeared in the living room window, eyebrows puckered. She leaned against the sill, looking this way and that, scanning the yard. A moment later she stepped back and drew the blinds.

I used the mailbox to help myself up. Brushing my pants off, I decided it might be good to avoid the roads, just in case Mom went looking for me. I didn’t want to be found, I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I just wanted to run.

I edged towards the woods. The darkness had hit full tilt now, yet the world seemed brighter for some reason; I could make out the curves of trunks and the jagged lines of bushes in the shadows. Everything had a gray tint, like how cameras record in the dark. What if Keftey lurked in the underbrush?

Ah, hell.
The rain was sprinkling the lawn. I took off at a jog.

The woods surrounded me. Our porch light faded out of view, leaving me in a dim, smoke-colored world. Modern life seemed miles away. My senses heightened, nerves picked up the feel of every passing leaf, every plant that brushed my ankles. I could
see
better and my nose got hammered with scent after scent: dirt, rain, brush, wildflowers, ivy, oak. The earth spun by like a painting of abstract art.

Wait, abstract art?
Whoa, how fast am I running?

I could barely see my shoes. I moved faster than anyone on the track team, anyone on
any
track team. And I wasn’t tired, not even a little. Was this humanly possible?
No.
I scuffed at myself.
It’s Shifter possible.

I had no idea how long I ran for, and I never slowed down. My thighs never burned, my feet never ached. My body ran on pure instinct, no side-effects.
This is so awesome.
I wanted to run like this every time, but how long would this high last? Ten or so hours like the last one?
Hopefully it would never
end.
I felt free, like I was flying. I was one with my surroundings.

A black blur appeared in my peripheral vision. I slowed down, my feet dragging the dirt. My stop wasn’t fast enough. I tripped over a log, down a hill. I tumbled once then kicked my legs into the air. I swung up, landing on my feet. Straightening up, I shot my nose into the air, surveying.

But I couldn’t breathe. No, I
was
breathing, but in short, fast gasps. I clasped a hand to my throat. I tried to slow my lungs down, take a deep breath, but it was impossible. I couldn’t smell anything. The ground, the woods, the animals, everything suddenly lost its scent. My hand moved down to my chest. My heart beat at a rate I’d never felt before, shooting sharp pains down my center and my left arm. Had someone shot me? I didn’t see any blood.

Maybe I was having a heart attack.

Footsteps lingered nearby, a low growl echoing in my ears.
I’ve got to get out of here.
As I stepped forward, the lightheadedness returned. The grey light filtering through the trees dissolved, the ground going black. I thought of the shadows in my dream. Shadows that slowly ate everything. Only this time, this wasn’t a dream.

And no one caught me as I fell.