Sisters Red (6 page)

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and wave or something. But no--instead she just gives me a polite smile back, like she probably would anyone, and returns to her friends' discussion. I try to busy myself with a shelf of soaps but listen in closely; their voices carry, even at a whisper.

"I think she used to go to school with us," the blonde to Sarah's left says quietly. The others respond in hushed voices, before the blonde continues. "I don't remember. I wish I had hair like that, though. Do you think she uses that volumizing shampoo?"

"I know, right? Though her clothes could use some help--who wears pink like that? Oh yeah, her sister was
that
girl that got all torn up!" Sarah mutters, answering someone else's whispered interjection.

The torn-up girl and her sister. I know I should feel bad for Scarlett--she's been relegated to the worse title--but a wave of self-pity hits me anyhow. I turn and block out their conversation. Why should I care what they think? They're concerned with parties and clothes and a variety of vain, stupid things. I run my hand over the columns of soap before tossing a coral-colored bar that reeks of flowers into my basket, where it clatters against the bottles of peroxide and boxes of gauze. Heavy perfume appeals to the Fenris. It draws them to you, makes them hungry.
Second Honeymoon nail polish wouldn't make a difference to a Fenris,
a Scarlett-like voice in my head reminds me.
It's a waste of effort.

I grab a few more bars of the flowery soap when a clear woodsy scent sweeps over me, overpowering the soaps. I

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know this scent, though it's not the sort that would rein in a Fenris. I hold my breath, afraid to be the first one to speak.

"Those girls have nothing on the March sisters," Silas says, leaning in so close that I can feel his breath on my shoulder. A strange shiny feeling ripples through me and I wheel toward him, accidentally ramming my shopping basket into Silas's side. A few Ace bandages topple to the floor and the girls look up from their polish dilemma to snicker at me.
Nice one, Rosie.
I can feel the blush starting as I duck to grab the bandages, and when my hand brushes against Silas's legs, the heat spreads down my neck.
Calm down. It's just Silas.
I rise and force a smile that I hope doesn't look as goofy as I suspect.

He smiles back, bright-eyed, and reaches forward to take the basket from my hand. "Weekly supplies?"

"We might get a month out of it," I answer. I meander toward the register and he follows, basket in hand. I breathe slowly, willing my heartbeat to return to something of a normal rhythm as the cashier swipes each package of gauze over the bar-code reader.

"So what brought you to town?" I ask.

"Guitar lessons, actually," Silas responds. "I sort of got into experimenting with new things while I was up at Jacob's. I kept meaning to sign up for a guitar class before I left, but I put it off. So I made myself come down here first thing in the morning. Just had my first lesson."

"Wow. That's impressive," I reply as I hand the cashier the two twenties.

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Silas laughs, rich and smoky--Sarah and her friends stare our way, regarding Silas as if he's some sort of dessert tray and me as if they're sizing me up for a fight. He doesn't even glance their way, his eyes firmly on me. "Not hardly. After an hour and a half my fingers are killing me and all I can play is the first part of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' Slowly."

Silas takes my bag from the cashier and we exit the store. The street is even busier now; people with shirts that read "City of Ellison" are hanging red and green streamers from the lampposts in preparation for the Apple Time Festival this weekend.

"Still," I continue, "guitar lessons. I wish I did something like that."

"What do you mean?" he asks as we pause at the crosswalk.

I shrug, turning to face him. "Just that you
do
something. Something other than hunt and the whole woodsman gig, I mean."

Silas laughs again. "Yeah, well... I was never that into the whole woodsman thing. It was just sort of the default for our family. And hunting... I'm happy to hunt, but that doesn't mean I'm chained down to it. I do it because it's the right thing to do. The guitar lessons and all are just for fun."

I frown. "I suppose..." I can't think of an argument that doesn't somehow cast Scarlett in a bad light, so I close my mouth. Silas nods toward the green crosswalk sign and lightly places his hand on the small of my back to urge me forward.

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The touch sends shivers up my spine and the swoozy feeling takes over.
Walk, Rosie, walk. Don't be stupid.

Silas points several blocks away as we arrive on the opposite curb. "I can give you a ride home, if you don't mind waiting for a few hours. I've got to go see the power company about getting my lights turned back on."

"I, um..." Sit with Silas for a few hours in the power company office? And then for another half hour on the ride home? I want to. I really, really want to. But what will we talk about? How long will it take me to start giggling like a moron? I can lure a Fenris--sway my hips, giggle lustily, bat my eyelashes--but I have no idea how not to look like a bumbling idiot in front of Silas Reynolds. Though in all fairness, it isn't often I see guys who aren't Fenris. How am I
supposed
to know what to do?

"No, it's okay. I'll take the bus," I respond.

I think I catch Silas's face fall a little. "Okay, no problem. I'll walk you to the stop, though?" he asks with a hopeful ring to his voice. I nod a tad too emphatically.

We walk to the end of the street and linger beneath the bus stop sign silently for a few moments.
Think of something to say, Rosie. Anything.

"You can come to dinner again tonight," I say. Silas shakes his head.

"I'd love to, really. But I actually have plans. Catching up with an old friend from school for an elegant meal at Burger King," he says sarcastically. "Though any other time--are you okay?"

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"Me? Oh, yeah. So you have a hot date?" I tease him, hoping he can't detect just how far my voice fell. Of course Silas has a date. Silas always had a date. He stuck through high school, unlike his siblings, Scarlett, or me, and was the type never to be short of female company by the time his senior year rolled around. It frustrated Scarlett to no end, hearing that he was out on a date instead of hunting with her.

"No. Not a date at all," he says firmly, as if it's important I believe him. "Just a friend from high school. Named Jason. And come on, Rosie, don't you think that if I were going on a date, I'd go somewhere better than Burger King?"

I laugh in both relief and amusement. "I don't know. You always had a girlfriend before you went to San Francisco."

"Not hardly. I lost touch with most of my high school friends a year before that, right after they all went to college. Couldn't you hear me crying at night from the loneliness?" he teases, shouldering me.

"Oh," I say dumbly. I guess I wasn't paying attention, but then, it had never occurred to me to pay attention to Silas Reynolds before. "Why did you lose touch?"

"Well," Silas says thoughtfully, "when it came down to it, we had nothing in common."

I raise my eyebrows. "I know how you feel."

"Lucky for me, I seem to have enough in common with the March sisters to keep me afloat without... you know, friends or family," he says.

"Hey, we count as your friends," I interject.

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"Also my family, it seems. Er, sort of," he adds quickly. The bus rounds a far corner and rumbles our way.

"Anyhow, I have to admit, Rosie--you're a better cook than the guys at Burger King, so I'm sort of sad that my non-date is tonight. Or rather, that my non-date is with someone else, or... right. Never mind," Silas says.

I smile as the bus's air brake squeals and the door opens, a rush of AC casting my hair back. "You
should
be sad--I'm making cookies. Though it's just ramen for dinner, so you aren't missing out on much there."

"Cookies? Damn--" He's cut off by the bus driver's impatient glare. "I'll see you later, though, right, Rosie?"

"Right," I say softly, trying not to trip as I'm getting on the bus. I slide into a seat by the air conditioner and close my eyes so I don't stare at him as we drive away.

I can make only eight things, if you don't count ramen noodles and sandwiches. One of them is meatloaf. Another is Oma March's chocolate cookies. I smash the chocolate into one of her green glass mixing bowls and beat it carefully. I like using Oma March's kitchen things; it makes me feel closer to her somehow. Scarlett is nowhere to be found, but I suspect she's running again. I think she's trying to become as fast as a Fenris or something. Good luck.

I lean against the oven, waiting for the cookies to bake. I made too many. So many that I could probably take some over to Silas's house.

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Would that be weird? It's just bringing cookies to an old family friend. No big deal.
Yes, do it now, before you change your mind.

The oven buzzer sounds loudly, and I dump the hot tray of cookies into the basket, then fold the corners of the cloth over the edges. They probably won't stay warm, but still, they look prettier this way. I stop in the bathroom to brush my hair behind my ears and adjust my shirt.
It's just Silas,
I remind myself.

I'm secretly both afraid and hopeful that I'll hear his car coming up the street behind me as I walk to his house. He lives in the middle of the forest that seems to start all at once, the road going from sunny and hot to dark and cool in a matter of moments. With the limbs swaying together in the breeze, it's almost like being underwater. Birdcalls seem to echo off the trunks, all of which are wide and impressive.

Silas's house emerges like a castle built by nature itself. The logs surrounding the front door are heavily carved with lifelike images of bears and rabbits and turtles, almost as if they were once real animals that were frozen here. One of Silas's brothers carved them--Lucas, I think, or maybe Samuel--one of them was good with a rifle, the other at carvings, but it's hard to keep the Reynolds boys straight. It's obvious the cabin was originally small, but now rooms stretch high into the trees and off to the sides. That was Pa Reynolds's rule: if you want your own bedroom, build it yourself. The top rooms of the house have broad decks that reach out into the upper tree limbs, a few with sketchy-looking

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tire swings hanging off the railings. Even Silas's sisters, who
weren't
in training to become woodsmen, had to haul timber to have their own space before they went off to boarding school. I barely got the chance to know them, but Pa Reynolds was scared at the prospect of raising three girls alone after Silas's mother died.

His car isn't in the driveway, but I knock on the door anyway. No answer. I run my hand along the back of a carved wooden bear and then place the basket of cookies in front of the door. I linger for a moment longer...

Someone is here.

Behind me, I hear faint breathing. I spin around, hands darting to my waist, and I'm instantly grateful for Scarlett's obsession that I always carry my knives.

"So sorry, miss. Didn't mean to frighten you," a young man says calmly. He looks at me from heavy-lidded eyes and presses his perfectly shaped lips together. He's not alone--another man stands silently behind him, hair hinting at gray, face mature and chiseled, something like an older movie star. The younger man is in an artistically torn T-shirt, his hair tousled like some sort of rock star. I'm suspicious, though--most people don't come out this far, unless they're bill collectors or Fenris.

"You didn't," I lie. I lean against one of the carved rabbits and try to look casual, though I keep my hands near the handles of my knives. If they
are
Fenris, I want to be ready. "Are you guys looking for someone?"

"Sort of," the young one says. "But it doesn't look like

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there's anyone home." He grins at me kindly, moving to brush his shaggy hair from his face.

"I don't think there is," I answer cautiously. "Maybe try back later?"

"Yeah... yeah, we'll do that," the older one answers. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem," I say a little too quickly.

"Hang on," the younger one says. He steps toward me, thrusting his hands into his pockets sheepishly. "Can we walk you home at least? Seems dangerous for a girl to be out here all alone."

"I..." I hesitate. His eyes are beautiful, a golden color that reminds me of autumn leaves. "I'm okay, really."

"Really. We'd love to," the older one interjects. His voice is smooth, granite-like. He moves to slick his hair back.

I clench my teeth. On the wrist of the older man I can see a pack symbol. Something circular--Bell, maybe? The younger man's would be hidden by the star-studded wristbands he wears, but surely he's a wolf too, right? I can never tell immediately the way Scarlett can. I still see the human first and have to find the wolf by way of the pack mark. She sees the wolf, and only the wolf.

"Okay. Sure, walk me home," I reply, a little too boldly. I shrug my shoulders and force myself to flip my hair in what I hope is a carefree way. Alone. It's just me, no Scarlett.
You can do this, Rosie. You've fought dozens of wolves. Lead them in, draw them to you, kill them.