Silver (5 page)

She nodded. “You got that right.”

It felt good to talk like we used to, even
though we both forced it for the other’s sake. It would be a long
time before anything felt natural again.

I fought back a grin as I pulled off the
silver wristband and dropped it in a cup before I passed through
the metal detectors. Brock filled his own cup most of the way and
followed me through. The students around us didn’t pay any
attention, though I could tell by the feral odor in the air that
several of Chet’s werewolves had chosen to tag along. We walked
down the hall with forced nonchalance, and I refrained from
pointing out our followers to Brock. He already looked pale, but I
had to give him credit for meeting me in front of his house ready
for whatever the day might bring.

My locker, situated down a side hall, would
have been the perfect place for an ambush. I passed the hallway and
continued to my classroom despite the fact that I didn’t have my
books. Brock threw me a sideways glance, but didn’t argue.

We had almost reached Brock’s first class,
Algebra II, which happened to be across from my Science class, when
I heard footsteps. I turned and ducked; our first attacker doubled
over my shoulder and I rose to send him crashing into the lockers
that lined the hall. Then they surrounded us.

My nerves tingled at the scent of silver,
pure silver, not the cheap stuff that plated most of the jewelry
the students wore. Knives flashed in the grip of at least three of
our attackers. Chet was serious about this. I stepped in front of
Brock, who knew better than to protest, and widened my stance.
Feeling foolhardy and in a bad mood, I gestured for them to bring
it on.

Chet’s pack dove at me in a group. I caught
a dozen punches and kicks, and gave only half that, but with my
Alpha strength those I gave left a mark. I felt bone crunch under
my knuckles and a werewolf cried out in pain. A punch caught me on
a cheekbone. I dove out of the fray toward my attacker, and his
triumphant expression turned to fear when he saw me coming. I threw
a two-fisted punch at his chest; he slammed back against the wall
and slid to the floor.

Arms grabbed me from behind before I could
finish him. I tripped over someone’s legs and fell onto my back. An
elbow slammed into my stomach and my breath left in a gasp. I
fought for air, my arms above my face to protect it from the blows.
Fists and shoes battered my unprotected ribs.

Then a knife cut along my side and fire
exploded through my veins. Thunder pounded in my ears and I fought
not to phase. The punches and kicks became nothing more than goads
for my anger. Before the phase could take over, I jumped to my
feet, throwing those who were closest to me into the surrounding
wall of students.

I used the adrenaline that compelled me to
phase and attacked Chet’s pack. The ten or so werewolves must have
felt the change in me. They fell back against the students who
watched the fight with opened mouths, and scrambled to break
through the tightly packed ranks. My vision flared red and I threw
my assailants right and left. I found two silver knives in
unresisting hands and threw them hilt-deep into the nearest
classroom door. I grabbed two werewolves and was about to smash
their heads together when the Principal’s voice rang out.

“
Mr. Carso!”

His tone broke through the red haze. I shook
my head to clear my eyes, and looked up to find him inside the ring
of students, his hands clenched into fists. Even though he had said
my name, he glared at the students around me like it was their
fault I had beaten them. His gaze finally rested on me. “I would
like to see both of you in my office.”

I looked behind me and was glad to see Brock
cowering unharmed by the door. He gave me a weak smile and ran a
hand through his sweaty hair. I helped him to his feet, then
staggered back as the fading adrenaline left my body. Brock caught
my arm, his eyes wide. We shouldered through the watching
students.

“
Thanks, man,” I said low
enough so the other students couldn’t hear.

“
No prob,” Brock replied
with a shrug and a shadow of his easy smile.

Most of the students left to class. The
second bell gave a shrill ring, leaving Chet’s pack members to help
each other to the nurse’s office. I wondered why Principal Stewart
didn’t call them to his office as well, but decided not to press my
luck by asking. I didn’t think I was the only one who noticed Chet
missing from the group.

Principal Stewart led the way into his
office. I took the same seat I had the day before, and fought back
a grimace at the irony. “A second fight in two days, and with Mr.
Clemmons’ group again? I’m a little surprised.” But his expression
was far from surprised. The Principal laced his fingers together
and leaned forward on his desk. He glanced sideways at Brock,
hesitated, then sighed. “Jaze, I’m sorry about your father. Your
old school sent the records over this morning.”

My heart slowed, and I clenched my fists
behind the desk where he couldn’t see them. They ached, but it felt
good, an ache to get lost in. The burning fire from the shallow
wound the silver knife had left along my side flared whenever I
moved. My shirt stuck to my side and I was suddenly grateful I wore
black because the blood wouldn't show through as easily.

Brock nudged me with his elbow and I looked
up to see Principal Stewart watching me with an expectant
expression. “Sorry, sir. Can you repeat the question?”

The Principal gave an understanding smile.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

I was glad he changed the subject from my
father. “I came from a hard town.” I didn’t say that I had just
moved to a harder one.

He nodded. “Well, I’m glad that you can take
care of yourself. I don’t condone fighting in the school, but I
especially hate to see someone outnumbered.” He shook his head.
“Maybe they’ll try to stay on your good side from now on.”

I smiled. “Doubt it.”

Principal Stewart looked down at my arm.
“What happened there.”

“
Dog bit me yesterday,” I
said quickly. I glanced down at the mostly-healed gouges, then
looked up at the Principal again.

“
Yesterday?”

It was too late to change my story, so I
nodded.

His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t press it.
“You two had better get to class if you’re up to it, or I could
have the nurse excuse you for the day.”

The thought of a walk home with werewolves
at our heels was more than I could handle at the moment. “No thank
you, sir,” I said.

“
We’ll be fine at class,”
Brock agreed; his voice squeaked on the word class, but neither of
us laughed.

I could feel the Principal’s eyes on us as
we walked back down the hall. I didn’t want to know what he was
thinking.

Chapter 6

Brock followed me into the restroom. I made
sure it was empty, then propped a garbage can under the door handle
to wedge it shut. I eased off my shirt to assess the damage from
the silver knife.

Brock had gone straight to the sink to
splash water on his face, and when he saw me in the mirror, he
turned, his face dripping. “Dang, man!”

I grabbed some paper towels and ran them
under the water. “Leave it to Chet to bring out the silver
weapons.”

Brock’s eyes widened. “But aren’t werewolves
allergic to silver?”

I nodded and squeezed the excess water out
of the towels before turning to inspect my side. The cut was
shallow but long. It ran down my right side from the middle of my
ribs to just above my hip bone. Blood oozed slowly down and I wiped
it away. I clenched my teeth and held the wound open with my right
hand while attempting to scrub it out with the paper towels in my
left. I hit a particularly sensitive spot where a shard of silver
was embedded and sucked in a quick breath at the stab of pain.

“
Give me that.” Brock took
the towels from me, threw them away, and got a fresh set. He worked
at the spot for a moment, his jaw tight. When he finally worked the
offender free, he held it up for inspection. “More
silver?”

I motioned for him to throw it in the
garbage and set a hand against the wall to steady myself. “Knives
for battle against werewolves are designed to splinter. It leads to
a slow, agonizing death if the wound isn’t cleaned.” He found
another sliver and I clenched my fist against the gray bricks.
“Usually, it’s the Hunters who use them, not werewolves against
each other.”

Brock met my gaze in the mirror. “I guess
you’ve found an especially amiable pack, then.”

I snorted. “Lucky me.”

The bleeding had stopped for the most part
by the time he finished. I pulled my shirt back on and turned to
open the door, but Brock put a hand on the garbage can that blocked
it.

“
What happened to your
dad?”

I shook my head and pushed the garbage can
aside, but he leaned against the door. My first impulse was to
throw him like I had done to several members of Chet’s pack. I
closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to find the calm void
I had created around the pain. “I don’t want to go there.”

Brock crossed his arms and gave me a frank
stare. The fact that he dared to stand up to me made me appreciate
his bravery even more. “Look, Jaze. Something bad obviously
happened, and you can’t carry it all by yourself.” He kicked a heel
against the door. “Mouse’s parents were killed in a car accident a
few years ago, and it was all I could do to keep him from running
away or doing something crazy. We all need a shoulder once in a
while.”

His words clicked, and I felt the tiniest
bit of relief that someone even cared. I couldn’t talk to Mom,
because she already cried in her bed at night when she thought I
was asleep. The helpless emotions welled up inside me like a shaken
bottle of soda. It was a slim thing that I hadn’t phased and torn
into Chet’s pack. I had to talk to someone to relieve some of the
tension I carried.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and leaned
against the cold tile wall. My side stung, but I ignored it. I
studied the dirty floor. “He was killed by Hunters two weeks ago.”
I forced my voice to be calm despite the knot in my throat. “Mom
and I had gone out to eat because Dad had to work late. We went
bowling afterwards, and when we got home, the front door was
open.”

I shut my eyes against the flood of
memories. Blood coated our walls in ragged spurts. I could see my
dad’s arm behind Mom’s rocking chair where she used to hum while
she cross-stitched. His torso had been thrown into the fireplace;
ashes mixed with the dark blood. We never found his head.

Brock set a hand on my arm, jarring me back
to the present. “I’m sorry, man,” he said quietly.

“
You know what the worst
part is?” I looked at him but still saw the violent scene in the
living room. The metallic scent of blood filled my nose along with
another scent, one that haunted me. “I think my uncle was behind
it.”

Brock opened his mouth to speak, then shut
it again.

I ground my teeth in an effort to keep calm.
“My dad was the leader of our pack, and my uncle was his second. He
supported my dad in everything, but Dad told me once that he
thought it was just a show, that his brother wanted power. He told
me later to forget about it, but I never did.” I took a deep
breath. “The night my dad was killed, I smelled him there. A
werewolf would never work with a Hunter, but I know he had
something to do with it.”

Anger filled my chest. I wanted to phase and
rip something apart so bad it hurt. I grabbed the metal paper towel
holder and ripped it off the wall, then threw it against one of the
stalls hard enough to put a rectangular dent in its side. I turned
and did the same with the hand dryer, leaving only stray wires
sticking out where the machine had been. I fought to catch my
breath, and slid down against the wall until I sat on the
floor.

The paper towel holder sprung open with a
click that made both Brock and I jump. Paper towels flew out like
confetti. One landed on my knee. I picked it up and started to
laugh. Brock sat down against the door and started laughing,
too.

“
That’s one paper towel
holder we won’t have to worry about,” he said.

“
Yeah,” I managed to get
out. “And the blow dryer won’t be messing with anyone,
either.”

I held my side, which objected to the
movement of my ribs as I laughed, but I couldn’t stop. It was like
the pent-up anger had to get out somehow and was glad to have found
a non-violent, or less-violent, release. When I finally pushed up
to my feet, my stomach hurt from laughing and the knife wound
burned like fire, but I felt a little better.

Brock grinned at me. “See, it helps to talk
and throw stuff across the room.”

I glanced back at the destroyed appliances
and dented stall. “We’d better get out of here before they come
asking questions.”

“
Good idea.”

We ran down the hall to our separate
classrooms, and I ducked through the door to Science. Two
werewolves glared at me, but I ignored them and took a seat in the
far corner. The werewolves weren’t the only ones who watched me; I
heard whispered descriptions of the fight told to those who had
missed it. Unfortunately, there was no need to embellish on the
details. My own aggression after the knife incident provided plenty
to talk about.

I slumped in my chair and attempted to pay
attention to the teacher’s rehashed description of Photosynthesis,
a topic I swear had been beaten to death by middle school and did
little to keep me from reliving the fight in my own mind. The
details blurred but my knuckles pulsed at each remembered
connection with flesh; my side burned and adrenaline pounded
through my veins as I felt the knife wound again. It didn’t help
that the student in front of me had the fight recorded on his phone
and sent it to his neighbor, who unfortunately was one of the
werewolves I had pummeled. He glared at me, but the first student
gave me a thumbs-up.