Other (4 page)

A bay centaur noses around the produce, his hooves clicking on the floor. Grocery store employees stare, slack-jacked, and moms tug their kids away. I can't help staring, too. He's not wearing anything and has killer abs. I've never seen a real centaur before. I had no idea any of them lived outside rural Greece nowadays.

“Do you see that?” Dad whispers.

That
. As if the centaur isn't a person.

“Of course I see
him
,” I whisper back. “He must be foreign.” Definitely Greek, judging by his dark curly hair.

The centaur sniffs an apple, then drops it into the basket hooked over his arm. Everyone watches as he ambles to the cabbages, his black tail swishing.

“Damn,” Dad mutters. “I wish I brought my camera.”

My face burns. “Dad.” I tug on his arm. “We'd better not stare.”

“I do not mind,” says the centaur, without glancing at his audience. “I am sure you Americans do not see a centaur every day.”

My face burns even hotter. I steer my dad from the produce section. Dad rubbernecks on the way out.

I sigh. “Come on. Cashews.”

At the checkout, we see the centaur again. He sets his basket on the conveyer belt as a line of gawking shoppers forms behind him. I politely avert my eyes, and my gaze falls upon three strangers at the next checkout.

Two stubble-jawed guys, maybe brothers, with tousled brown hair. A Native American woman with obsidian hair that falls to her waist. She rubs the inside of her elbow and I glimpse red scratches. They all look scroungy, with moss in their hair, like they've been camping. Even from here I can smell woodsmoke.

The woman wheels their cart through the checkout, and all of them work together to pile food on the conveyer belt. Ground beef, hot dogs, canned stew, and a huge bag of dog kibble. One of the guys hefts the kibble so the checkout lady can scan the bar code. Muscles bulge in his arms and shoulders.

“What's its name?” asks the checkout lady.

“Huh?” says the guy.

“Your dog. It must be a big breed.”

“Something like that,” he mumbles, his voice husky.

The checkout lady's gaze drifts to the centaur. I keep staring at the three strangers.

They wheel their cart toward the doors. The Native American woman squints at a paper tacked on the bulletin board. Her eyes—her amber eyes—narrow to hateful slits. She rips the paper down, crumples it into a tight ball, and chucks it into a trash can. The automatic doors swish open. They all stalk out.

My palms start sweating. As Dad rummages in his wallet, I jog ahead to the doors.

The three strangers are loading their groceries into the back of a rusty baby-blue pickup. I see a tarp, a cooler, and a tattered tent. They have a Canadian license plate. I turn to the trash can and pluck out the crumpled paper.

It has a crude clip-art drawing of a wolf.
WANTED: WOLF PELTS
, it proclaims in bold red letters.
$300 reward for an adult. $150 reward for a juvenile. All pelts must meet special paranormal requirements.

Special paranormal requirements. Werewolf pelts. Remind me not to shapeshift into a wolf anytime soon.

The baby-blue truck drives away. The sheriff passes them and drives cluelessly on.

“Ready, Gwen?” Dad stands behind me in the doorway, grocery bags in hand.

I nod and try to look just as clueless, then follow him to our car. As I pull out of the parking lot, Dad pries open his bulk tin of cashews and starts crunching. He doesn't say anything, so I don't either. I drive west, away from the mountains, away from the road the werewolves took. Rain drums on the windshield like the impatient tapping of fingernails. I shiver, but tell myself it's from the clouds curdling above.

four

T
he next day, we have abnormally sunny weather. Abnormal for Washington, anyway. Cobalt blue skies, sunshine so thick it's like syrup pouring down, lawns exhaling old rain in clouds of mist. Outside Bramble Cottage, Chloe waters the roses. Randall pushes a lawn mower across the backyard, sweat glistening on his bare chest. Chloe seems blasé, but my gaze lingers on his muscles before I look away.

I walk up to her. “Hey, Chloe.”

“Gwen.” She smiles. “What brings you over here?”

I smooth my hair—or try to, anyway—and sigh. “I was hoping we could talk. Maybe over lunch, if you're not too busy.”

“Certainly.” She turns off the water and coils up the hose. “Let's go to the Olivescent.”

“Great. I'm starving.”

She sighs. “You're always starving.”

“I can no longer suffer in silence.”

Chloe laughs. “Randall!” she calls.

He kills the lawn mower and strides over. “What?”

“We're going out for lunch. Can you watch the B&B for us?”

“Sure.” Randall gives me a polite smile. It deepens into something genuine when he looks at Chloe. “See you later.”

As soon as we walk out of his earshot, I whistle low under my breath.

Chloe arches her eyebrows. “What?”

“He likes you,” I singsong.

“Poor guy. He's always giving me lovesick glances. If only he knew I'm old enough to be his great-great-great-grandmother.”

I smirk. “What, not into cradle robbing?”

Chloe shakes her head, her bigleaf-maple-blossom earrings tinkling. “The thought of a boy toy does have some appeal.”

I roll my eyes, then notice that her hair looks greenish at the roots. “Uh, Chloe?”

“What?”

“When's the last time you dyed your hair?”

She frowns and digs a compact mirror from her little crocheted purse. “Oh.”

I bite back a smile. Chloe actually has startlingly verdant hair, the same color as her eyes, but she bleaches it.

“It's not too bad, is it?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Makes you look sort of punk.”

Chloe wrinkles her nose.

I laugh. “Pretend you've been swimming. Chlorine makes hair green.”

She sighs. “I suppose.”

We stroll down the sidewalk to the Olivescent, the best pizzeria in Klikamuks. Tantalizing aromas waft from its steamy windows. Locals and tourists alike cluster around the Olivescent, their noses tilted skyward. We order the usual: a slice of vegan pizza topped with sun-dried tomatoes, roasted garlic, and veggie pepperoni for Chloe, and two slices oozing cheese and mushrooms for me. And some cinnamon breadsticks. And some calzones. All for me. Hey, I'm hungry. I seem to have a really fast metabolism.

We carry our plates outside to the patio. A froth of baby's breath and petunias overflows from hanging planters. Bumblebees buzz through the perfumed air. A guy in a Safeway uniform drags a hose through flowers for sale outside the store. Water spatters on the hot pavement and steam curlicues toward the wispy clouds.

Chloe sits and daintily crosses her legs. “Nice day, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” I drag my chair closer, wincing as it grates on the concrete. “I think I saw some werewolves the other day.”

“Oh?”

“At the Safeway. Two guys and a woman. They looked all rugged and outdoorsy, and bought a ton of kibble and meat.”

“Kibble?” Chloe smiles. “They could just be camping with dogs.”

“But the woman had amber eyes. And I saw her rip down a werewolf bounty poster.”

Chloe's smile fades. “Bounty poster?”

“Yeah. It sucks. The werewolves give the people of Klikamuks a reason to hate Others.”

“Do they?”

I shrug, my face hot. “You know what I mean.”

Chloe frowns into her glass of lemonade. She swirls it so the ice clinks together, then gazes across the street, her face clouded.

“Hey, look,” I say. “There's a sale at Slightly Foxed Books.”

“Oh?” Chloe's face clears. “Let's check it out.”

We finish our pizza and head over to the quaint used bookstore wedged between a coffee shop and an antiques mall. Gilt calligraphy flakes above the windows:
Slightly Foxed Books: Rare and Gently Used Literature
. Weird name, but apparently it has something to do with the reddish-brown spots on pages.

A bell jingles when I push open the door. I inhale the familiar musty scent—which I always think smells like secrets, if secrets have a smell. Rainbow ranks of books crowd the shelves. A ginger cat lounges in a square of sunlight.

“Hello, kitty,” I say in a high voice.

The cat flicks its ear, cracks open its yellow eyes, then goes back to sleep.

“Don't you look like that as a cat?” Chloe asks.

I nod.

“Just as lazy, too,” she says.

I poke her in the ribs. She smirks.

The labyrinthine shelves beckon. You never know what you're going to find. I like reading old books of fairy tales and folklore. They often say wildly inaccurate things about Others, but that's part of the fun. I spot a reprint of
Faerie Folk of Britain
by Alastair Finch, first published in 1841. Prime snarking material. In the nineteenth century, humans were starting to look rationally at Others, rather than always considering them monsters and running screaming in the opposite direction. Ahem. I may be exaggerating a bit.

“Pooka, pooka,” I mutter. The word sounds silly—couldn't we have a cooler name?

Aha, here's the entry. I spread the dog-eared pages flat.

Pooka: A shapeshifting spirit of the faerie family; a malevolent trickster. Indigenous to Ireland and Wales. Most commonly appears in the form of a black horse with nary a white hair upon its body. Can also assume the shape of a goat, a dog, an eagle, or presumably any animal. Whatever form the pooka chooses, it can always be detected by its sulfurous yellow eyes. In the form of a horse, a pooka uses persuasive magic to entice travelers on a wild nighttime ride. This ride invariably ends when the pooka throws the rider into brambles or bog, usually not fatally, though some pookas favor precipices. The Celts once revered pookas. On the night of Samhain, the first of November, they would consult a pooka for prophetic answers. This heathen practice must be discouraged, as pookas are dangerous beasts with little affinity for humans.

Yeah, sure. Pookas are the bad guys in all the bedtime stories, but I've never noticed any persuasive magic at my disposal. If I had it, you'd think I'd know. And where are those Celts who want to revere me? Ridiculous. I'm tempted to chuck
Faerie Folk,
but I slide it back onto the shelf in case any employees are watching.

Chloe is drifting toward some folios of botanical prints. I peek around a corner.

A short Asian guy, maybe about my age, stands on his toes and tries to slide a thick book onto a shelf that's too high for him. With a growling sigh, he wheels a ladder over and climbs up. I stifle a laugh.

He glances down at me. “Can I help you?”

Something about his face, his almond eyes, looks familiar. I size up his clothes—vintage-looking jeans, a black-and-white polo, a silvery aviator watch. Probably has well-off parents who want him to work anyway.

“Oh,” I say, “I'm just browsing.” I hesitate, my heart doing a little loopty-loop inside my ribs. “Do I know you?”

He tilts his head. “I don't think so.”

Aha! At that angle, I recognize him. “Do you blog?”

“Yeah,” he says, his gaze on the books again. “Why?”

My heart's really doing acrobatics now. “Are you Takehiko?”

His gaze snaps to me. “How did you know?”

“You posted a photo of yourself.”

He blushes. “Ah, yes. Then deleted it in a fit of sanity.”

Now I blush. “I saved it.” Why did I say that? Crap, I sound like an Internet pervert.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh … Takehiko's just my username. I'm actually Tavian.”

“This is so weird,” I say. “It's like we've already met, online.”

Tavian shrugs with a half-hearted smile. “Do you blog?”

“Yeah.” Wait. I can't compromise my blog's anonymity. “I mean, I read blogs. But I haven't started one yet.”

“You should. It's fun.” Tavian hops off the stepladder.

I smile. I'm five foot seven. He looks maybe five four. “You're shorter than I expected.”

Tavian snorts. “Can I help it if you're a giantess?” He turns his back on me. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Okay,” I say.

Arrrgh. I want to beat myself over the head with a dictionary. I settle for knocking my forehead against a bookshelf. Why did I say such dumb things? I probably offended him. I'm so tactless.

I watch Tavian walk deeper into the bookstore. He passes a window, and the sunlight throws his shadow on the wall. I blink. For a second, I think his shadow has a
tail
. Then it's gone. Okay, maybe I shouldn't have beat myself over the head.

“Did you see that?” I ask Chloe.

“Hmmm?” Totally engrossed, she doesn't look up from her book of botanical prints.

“That cute Asian guy,” I whisper.

She sighs, still not looking up from the page. “One word: boyfriend.”

“I'm not letting good eye-candy go to waste. And do you who know he is?”

“No,” she says. “But I believe you're going to enlighten me.”

“He's Takehiko, that blogging anime artist I told you about. His real name is Tavian.”

“Interesting.” Chloe closes the book with a thump. “I'm going to buy this.”

She lugs the heavy folio to the front of the bookstore. Behind the counter stands Tavian. I bury my nose in an old romance novel and pretend to read.
He unlaced her bodice, his hands calloused yet gentle. Her bosom heaved, two creamy mounds tipped with carmine, and she quivered with anticipation.

Urk. Hideously flowery, yet strangely intriguing.

“Excuse me?” Tavian says. “Are you going to buy that?” It sounds like he already asked me at least once.

I slam the book shut. “Uh, no.” I stare at the brawny kilted man and half-naked woman locked in a kiss on the cover. “Definitely not.”

“Sure?” Tavian says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “The cover's nice eye-candy.”

My face goes so hot I think I'll burn to a cinder of embarrassment. I glance sideways at him. He looks innocent enough for a halo.

“Definitely not.” I sniff and chuck the romance novel back into a bin.

Tavian raises his eyebrows. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“Nope.” I head for the door. “Bye.”

“Bye—what was your name again?”

I don't even look back. “Gwen.”

I stride outside, Chloe at my heels.

“Gwen!” she whispers, smiling slyly. “What went on between the two of you?”

I roll my eyes. “Nothing.”

I glance over my shoulder, through the windows of the bookstore. Tavian smiles to himself as he polishes the counter with a rag. He looks even cuter smiling, but I'm not going to admit that out loud.

“Hey,” I say, “did you notice anything unusual about his shadow?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought it had a tail.”

Chloe's eyes round. “You think he's Other?”

“Maybe.” My heart thumps faster. Could a closet Other be living in my town? A cute closet Other? Wait. Mustn't think that. I have a boyfriend.

I glance at Chloe. “How come I never met Tavian before?”

“He must have just started working there.”

“Yeah.” I sigh blissfully. “What's with the sudden influx of good-looking guys?”

“An influx? Who else?”

“Oh, come on.” I smirk. “You think Randall's hot.”

Chloe puts on an aloof expression, but then she bites her lower lip.

“Come on,” I say. “I know you're not telling me something.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not even sure myself.”

“How can you be unsure of Randall's hotness?”

“Gwen. I'm not referring to that. Doesn't he strike you as a little … extraordinary?”

“In what way?”

Chloe absently strokes a tree growing by the sidewalk. “It's not often that I feel this … familiarity with someone.”

“Ooo,” I tease. “Is it looove?”

“Gwen,” she sighs, sounding very I'm-more-mature-than-thou. “Use your head. I'm sure you can draw your own conclusions.”

I smirk, though in my head I'm quite conclusion-less.

Chloe glances at the height of the sun. “I should head back. I enjoyed lunch.”

“Yeah. We should do it again sometime. And I'll try to talk less about doom and gloom.”

A corner of her mouth curves upward. “Goodbye, Gwen.”

I head for the nearest bus stop. Outside a white clapboard church, people cluster around tables laden with stuff. It looks like a rummage sale, until I see what they're buying: crucifixes, candles, salt, iron jewelry, and bottles of what looks suspiciously like holy water. Nearly all of it useless. I spot Zack standing half-hidden behind a tree. His loose hair, pale gold in the sun, swings in front of his face as he bends over the crosses.

“Hey, Zack!” I call.

He breaks into a smile. “Hey, Gwen.”

Zack bends to kiss me, but I peck him on the cheek first. This seems to satisfy him. I notice he hid the bite with a turtleneck.

“I really am sorry about … that,” I say.

“What? Oh. Don't worry about it, it's nothing.”

“You again,” a familiar voice sneers behind me.

I turn, and spy a gangly guy with floppy brown hair. “Ben! You're back?”

He narrows his eyes at me, then slowly sticks out his tongue. I roll my eyes, and he cracks into a smile. “Yeah, I'm back.”