Sisters Red (8 page)

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"It's okay," I say, smiling a little. Our eyes stay locked, and the tiny bathroom seems to close in on us. I bite my lip, feeling something between nervousness and anticipation, and Silas leans toward me, as if he might close the gap between us.

Instead, he clears his throat suddenly, then looks down. "Well, I, um... I guess I'll see you tomorrow morning, then?" he says quickly.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay," I answer, snapping out of my stupor. "Have fun on your non-date," I add.

"Right. Jason... I think I'm late, but he'll live," Silas replies, voice a little edgy. He lingers a moment, then turns and leaves, shutting the door gently on his way out. I hear him sigh before starting down the stairs.

I exhale and lower myself to the edge of the bathtub, dropping my wet head into my hands. The shame floods back in, fills my veins in wordless screams, relieved only by the small fluttering in my heart that Silas left behind.

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CHAPTER FIVE

SCARLETT

I WAKE ROSIE UP AT SIX IN THE MORNING. SHE CRAWLS
from her bed in a bleary-eyed fog, and I hurry around her, anxious to start the hunt as soon as possible and get our wolf before he leaves a trail of dead.

"Eat," I tell Rosie as she collapses into a kitchen chair. Best to use single words with her before eight o'clock. I slide a plate of toast covered with strawberry jam toward her. She reaches out hazily and takes a piece as I prop my foot up on the counter and lean forward.

I stretch, tightening and releasing the muscles in my legs and arms, flipping my hatchet from hand to hand. Despite the fact that I'm still angry, I can't help but be excited. Hunting isn't
fun,
per se, but it's
right
. And I have to admit that there is something undeniably fulfilling about hunting with

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Rosie. Somehow, it makes me feel as if the long list of differences between us doesn't exist. We're dressed the same, we fight the same enemy, we win together... It's as though for that moment I get to be her, the one who isn't covered in thick scars, and she gets to understand what it is to be me. It's different than hunting with Silas--he and I are partners, not part of the same heart.

"Ishapen nines," Rosie finally says. I turn to face her, one eyebrow raised. She clears her throat and leans back in the chair, toast in hand. "I sharpened my knives," she repeats, tugging one of her bone-handled daggers off her belt. The blade gleams as a ray of morning sun darts through our kitchen window.

"When?" I ask.

"Last night. I stayed up," she replies. "Watched the movie again, sharpened my knives, washed both our cloaks."

"They look great," I answer sincerely. I know her actions are a peace offering--it's unlike Rosie to sacrifice sleep for much of anything. Rosie nods through an enormous yawn.

It's seven thirty before she finally shows a few signs of life--spinning the knives between her fingers, throwing a few at a target we painted on the back of the front door. She could never handle the hatchet well, but she's deadly with a dagger, I have to admit. She throws each one several times, her sleepy stupor fading.

My sister sprays a few pumps of a sickening cotton candy- scented perfume over each of us, then helps me pin one side of my hair to cover my missing eye. She puts on heavy

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makeup--dark eye shadow, violently red lipstick, and bright blush--in an attempt to make her unrecognizable to the Fenris. We stand and silently inspect each other: weapons, cloaks, hair, glittery lip gloss, perfume. All part of the lure. Rosie signals for me to spin around. She knows where each and every scar is and tugs at my clothing to hide the largest ones. I motion for her to turn to check that her top is pulled low enough and her hair curls in the right places. We play the same role--we just do so differently.

Silas's car grumbles into our driveway. Rosie beats me to the front door, and when she flings it open, her face lights up. I hurry to see what she's grinning at. I sigh and smile at once.

"Just because we're there to hunt doesn't mean we can't be spirited about the whole thing," Silas calls out mischievously. His car windows are painted with bright red and green pictures of apples and apple trees. On the back windshield are the words "Feelin' fine at Apple Time," which has been the festival's slogan for as long as I can remember.

"How much time did you waste painting apples?" I ask, but I don't try to hide my smile. That's Silas. No wonder I missed him, despite how angry I was that he left.

"About thirty minutes. Which is valuable time I could have spent hunting," he ends in a serious voice.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's leave. Wouldn't want to miss the parade," I tease.

Silas's car is hot and sticky inside, and every now and then it lurches forward like a runner in the last desperate leg

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of a race. We rumble along the country roads in silence, windows down and the blurred sounds of birds chirping filling the car.

Finally, the gravel road stops and we emerge onto the paved drive, leading to where Silas helped me hunt just a few nights before. The seedy, dangerous bits of Ellison seem to vanish during the day--though apparently the wolves we're after aren't as deterred by daylight as the local thugs are, so things aren't as shiny as they might look. Cars are parked along the street, with housewives ushering children into stores, fathers and sons dipping into a coffee shop, young couples walking with their fingers intertwined. Everything is bright and cheery. And if we're successful, by this afternoon there will be one less Fenris in the world to change that.

The Apple Time Festival is held in Ellison's only park, a wide parcel of land that's little more than a forest with nature trails and a giant picnic area. All the surrounding roads are blocked off, and parking is hell; we finally find a spot in a row of cars just as heavily decorated as Silas's. Rosie and I put our cloaks on, though I'm not sure how well we'll stand out in the sea of red and green. Silas swings a tattered black backpack onto his shoulders. The ax head is hidden inside so that only the handle sticks out a hole in the zipper.

"Any thoughts on where to start?" I ask Silas as we join a pack of people being led across the street by a cop. A little girl with apples painted on her cheeks nearly runs over my feet with her tricycle. I turn my face away when she looks

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back at me, all innocent blue eyes and red cheeks. No sense in scaring the poor thing.

Silas scans the thick crowd several times before answering. "Go around the back, cut through the trees, maybe?"

I peer in the direction he's pointing. "No good. They built a new road out that way. I think the wolves avoid it."

Silas gives me a pointed look. "Why do you ask me if you don't want my opinion anyway?" he questions, smiling despite himself.

I snicker and shake my head in response.

Silas rolls his eyes. "How about we go through the festival once before picking a spot?"

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I enjoy apples," he replies. Rosie giggles. "Because then we can know if there's a spot that would be particularly easy to grab a girl from," he answers again, voice serious this time.

The picnic area is full of booths of people selling wooden apples, apple jelly, apple butter. A few grungy-looking carnival types dole out candy apples or invite people to knock down a pyramid of green apples with a wooden ball for the low, low price of five dollars a throw. I study them carefully... no, they're harmless.

A crowd of laughing women wearing glittery apple-themed T-shirts brushes past me, glancing away when they see my scars. I think a few recognize me--they don't remember my name, maybe, but they remember "that incident with

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the March girl." The news they got was that a wild dog attacked us. Which still makes me laugh.

Silas buys caramel-and-peanut-covered apples for all three of us just as the parade begins. It mostly consists of local dance studios tap-dancing through the grass and debutantes waving from convertibles, but people cheer wildly. Silas takes Rosie's hand to lead her to the front and she blushes. I linger in the back, where I can go unnoticed a little easier--though I'm not sure if I'm avoiding the wolves or sideways glances. Most of the debutantes are girls I went to school with. Would I be up there with them, had things turned out differently? I look at my feet and try to imagine them in high heels, try to imagine myself in a ball gown on a float with friends who know nothing of wolves and have gorgeous, unmarred faces. Things can change so swiftly, so easily.

It's impossible--no matter what, the Fenris lurk on the edge of my thoughts. Besides, I don't
need
an entourage of friends when I have Rosie and Silas. They'd just get in the way of the hunt. I sigh and scan the area around me and finally see it--the perfect spot for a Fenris to prowl. A row of picnic tables back behind the booths, far enough into the woods that they're darkened by the canopy of leaves above them and isolated enough that it would be easy to snatch a girl or lead her farther into the forest. When Silas and Rosie return, their hands full of candy that the high school cheerleaders were tossing out, I nod toward the tables.

"What do you think?" I ask Silas. He nods and drops his candy into Rosie's bag.

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"That looks perfect, actually. I'll circle around on the trail?" he says. Silas has this amazing ability to go from a guy catching candy to a serious hunter in a matter of heartbeats. I have to admit I'm a little jealous sometimes. My mind seems locked on hunting.

"Yep," I answer. Rosie and I push through the crowd to the side of one of the apple-jam booths.

We walk slowly toward the picnic tables. I sit down on a bench and pull my shoulders back, pushing my breasts out, and Rosie sits on the mossy table, leaning back on her hands.

"Keep your head down," I remind her.

"I know," Rosie mutters, swinging her legs back and forth. She sighs after a long pause. "We came here with Mom once."

"How do you remember that?" Mom hung around--without the drugs--only really for the first five years of Rosie's life. She could never be chained down for much longer than that; Oma March used to call her a
Ruhelose
. Of course, Oma March also called her a whore when she was particularly angry. Both are pretty accurate.

Rosie shrugs and leans forward. I scan the crowd and give her a meaningful look--
come on, we're supposed to be hunting
--and she tosses her hair enticingly before answering me.
Come on, wolves. Don't we look delightful?

"I remember that the car we rode in was painted like Silas's," my sister says. "And I remember that Mom stapled paper apples all over my shirt."

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"Wow," I answer. She's dead-on. I wouldn't let Mom staple apples to me but regretted it once I was at the festival and saw all the other kids were dressed just as ridiculously.

A branch pops in the forest behind us. Rosie and I make brief eye contact.

And then we laugh. Loudly. Bright, bubbly, ignorant-girl laughter. Rosie's wolf-lure laugh isn't all that different from her normal one, but I raise my voice, drop my usual snickering, and giggle.
Yes, wolf, we are stupid, giggly little girls. Devour us.
Another branch pops. I lower my head so my hair spills forward, then peer through the strands to catch a glimpse of Silas milling around in the parking lot. Casual, all casual.

Rosie leans back on her hands again and swishes her legs through the air like some sort of pinup model. Steady footsteps begin to tromp through the woods, crushing leaves and twigs as they grow closer. We pretend not to hear it, pretend not to see the movement of the person approaching. I rise, head low, and let the wind pick up the edges of my cloak, casting my perfumed scent into the forest.

"Finally, civilization!" a male voice cries out triumphantly. Rosie and I give each other a secretive smile.

The man coming out of the forest looks like a college frat boy. His hair is sandy blond, his eyes deep and wide-set, and his frame thick, broad-shouldered. He springs toward us, a grin on his face. I try to sneak looks through my hair without revealing my eye patch or scars. Something is odd about this one--he smells like a Fenris, and I can somehow feel the wolves' presence nearby, yet this man's eyes are reddened, the