Unhooked (3 page)

“You don't have to,” I say, because I'm not sure I want this. It feels too much like a bribe.
Here, have this bit of glass and forget all the things I'm pulling you away from. All the things you're leaving behind.

“Take it,” she insists. “Your father gave it to me, and now I'm giving it to you.”

“My father?” I glance up at her, surprised. She's never told me that about the bracelet.

“He wanted me to keep you safe, Gwen,” she says, which is the only explanation she has ever given me for anything when it comes to my father. As far as explanations go, it stopped being enough a long time ago.

“If he wanted me safe, he shouldn't have left,” I toss back.

My mom's face pinches into a scowl, and her whole body goes rigid. “He didn't want to leave,” she says. “He did it to protect us. To protect
you
.”

Of course.
Because it's always been my fault that the love of her life left.

I start to pull off the bracelet, but she stops me by putting her hand over mine. “No, it's yours now. Don't ever take it off. Promise me.”

Not a gift, then—a shackle. Another burden I'm supposed to carry for her. I frown but don't argue. There's no point in it.

Olivia finds us locked in uneasy silence when she returns with one of her carry-ons and my duffel. “Everything okay?” She glances at me for the answer.

“Fine,” my mom replies. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“I brought up your bag,” Liv tells me.

“Thanks,” I tell her, glad for the excuse to turn away from my mom. The bracelet feels so much heavier on my wrist than the small stones should feel.

“I suppose I should help with the rest,” my mom says to no one in particular.

When my mom's finally gone, Olivia glances at me. In her expression I can see the questions she wants to ask, but she hands me the bag instead. “Rain stopped,” she tells me. “Want to go for a run?”

When the others had gone home from the pub and it was just the two brothers, the boy leaned forward eager to know more. “Do you kill many?” he asked. His brother smiled, his crooked tooth winking in the dim light. “Tons,” the soldier said. Perhaps, if the boy had been paying attention, he would have noticed his brother's eyes weren't laughing. Perhaps he might have realized it was like they no longer knew how. . . .

B
Y THE TIME WE CHANGE and make our way down the front steps, the evening air is still damp, and a light mist has settled over the streets. Neither of us says much as we work through a few stretches on the sidewalk in front of the house.

When she feels like she's ready, Olivia glances over to me. “The map I looked at said there's a park not far from here,” she says. “Want to check it out?”

“Lead the way,” I say, glad she hasn't brought up anything about my mom's behavior.

She gives me a sure nod and takes off.

I follow without a word, and with the first few steps, I start to feel the tension draining out of my muscles. For the past week, ever since my mom announced we were moving, I've felt like I was holding my breath and waiting for something even worse to happen. But as my shoes connect with the uneven sidewalk in a steady tempo and my arms swing at my side, I feel like I can breathe again.

Running is how Olivia and I met. When I first moved to Westport, we'd see each other on our separate routes, and then somehow we started leaving together and following the same route. Eventually we started talking and discovered we had more in common than the running. Her parents might be rich, but they aren't there for her any more than my mom is for me.

We never really talk while we run, though. She runs with a focus I don't have—a better mile time or more calories burned—I'm not exactly sure what drives her. But I run because when I'm pushing myself, when I'm only worried about the next mile or if I can make it back without stopping, I don't have to think about anything else.

At one point I glance over at her, and she gives me an almost smug smile. She'd known I needed this, and she'd been right.

By the time we're both breathless and exhausted, the sky has gone darker, and a wet fog has settled over the park. “Which way do you think the house is?” I ask when we come to a place where a couple of paths intersect.

Olivia considers the options. “I don't know. I'm all turned around,” she says, just as we hear the soft rumble of thunder off in the distance. “But if we don't hurry, we're going to get caught in that. Come on.” She loops her arm through mine, and we pick a direction.

Her steps are brisk, and my tired legs struggle to keep up with her long strides. We haven't gone very far when she stops. “I think I see someone,” she says. “I'll go ask.”

“Olivia, wait—” I start to call, but she's already off, jogging toward the person she thinks she's seen.

There's not much else I can do but follow her. But when I see who she's found, I slow my steps.

With her long tangle of white-blond hair and the jewelry cluttering her wrists and fingers, the girl Olivia's found reminds me of a very pale gypsy. She's wearing a long skirt and a purple velvet turtleneck that seems strange for June, even on such a cool day. And I can't shake the feeling that there's something off about her. Maybe it's her eyes—it looks like she's wearing deep, glossy black contacts that give her an almost alien appearance. Or maybe it's that the way she's looking at Olivia seems too intense—it reminds me of the way a hungry animal would watch its dinner.

I barely catch myself as I stumble at the abruptness of that thought. That's
exactly
the crazy sort of thing my mom would think. The girl's kind of odd-looking, sure. But she doesn't
really
look dangerous.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to catch up with Olivia, but when I'm only a couple of feet away, I stop short again. It's such a small thing—the flick of dark eyes as the girl glances at me, and then the flash of teeth as she smiles knowingly. Certain.

It's not the obvious fakeness of her brittle excuse for a smile that stops me from taking another step. No, that would be understandable. Explainable. What stops me cold and makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle in warning is that the gleaming white teeth peeking from behind the girl's lips look like they've been filed down to jagged points.

I force myself to blink the image away. I
have
to be seeing things. It must be a trick of the light or the fog, because it's not possible for a beautiful girl to have a grin as sharp and wicked as a shark's. But if I'm starting to see things . . .

I open my eyes, and the girl's teeth are once again hidden behind her plump lips. She looks normal . . . mostly. Strangely dressed, but normal. I must have imagined it.

Just like your mom,
a small voice deep inside me whispers.

No,
I think, silencing that voice. I am
not
like my mom. I wouldn't
be
like my mom. I would get help. I would get better. And, besides, this is all perfectly explainable. What I saw is just the effects of too little sleep. Or maybe I'm just keyed up from a good run.

But I can't shake the feeling that the air suddenly feels more dangerous than it did a few minutes ago. Real or imagined, I feel so uneasy that I don't want to stay anywhere near the girl. Even though my legs feel like jelly, I want to turn around and run, and I want to keep on running until I've put days between us. The feeling is so strong, so sure, it takes everything I have to force myself to walk the final few steps to where Olivia is standing, still talking to the blonde.

But Olivia's not acting like there's anything at all strange about the girl. She's not staring at the girl's teeth or backing away from those predatory eyes. And she doesn't seem to notice that the air around us feels suddenly alive with dangerous electricity.

You are overreacting,
I tell myself. Not that it helps.

I can't make myself pretend that everything is fine. I want to get away from the girl. I
need
to get away from her. Now.

“Come on, Liv,” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “We need to go.”

Even as I speak, I can feel the eyes of the blonde on me, sharp as needles digging into my skin.

Olivia pulls away. “But she was just telling me—”

“We'll figure it out on our own,” I say, tugging at Liv again. The prickling across my skin is suddenly sharper, more painful, and when I look up, the blond girl is staring at me openly now. Her eyes are such an unnatural black that panic spikes in me, and my heart feels like a winged thing trapped in my chest. It's enough to spur me on, and with another sure tug, I finally get Olivia to follow me toward the main path.

“What's gotten into you?” Olivia asks, pulling her arm away.

Now that I'm away from the blonde, the panic I'd felt in the girl's presence has eased some. “I don't know,” I say honestly, glancing back to make sure we haven't been followed. “I just had a feeling about her.” I know it's weak as explanations go.

“A feeling?” she says doubtfully.

“I can't explain it. I just—” I falter, unsure of how to explain what I felt without sounding like I've lost it completely. I'm still not sure whether what I saw or felt was even real. I settle on an apology instead of an explanation, but before I can even get the words out, the pricking sense of danger I felt near the blonde returns.

All at once, the air smells of ozone, that almost electric scent that signals a storm is near. But it isn't rain I'm sensing. There's something more dangerous sifting through the air around me, brushing its cool fingers against my skin and ruffling the hair at the nape of my neck.

Then I hear something.

If I wasn't already on edge, I might have missed it completely. The sound is faint at first, like the rustling of dry leaves kicked up by the wind. But there is no wind. The fog hangs undisturbed in the air around us, even as the sound grows.

“Do you hear that?” I ask instead of giving Olivia the explanation she was expecting.

Though she looks confused at the abrupt change in subject, she doesn't question me. She listens for a moment before shaking her head. “I don't hear anything. What does it sound like?”

I stare at her, willing her to hear it too. Because the sound is so loud now, I can practically
feel
it vibrating against my skin.

But it's clear Olivia doesn't hear anything. Just like she didn't see the girl's teeth.

“Are you okay?” She steps closer, examining me with a concerned expression. “You look even more pale than usual.”

I swallow hard. All around me, the sound has taken on a metallic edge and grown louder, like whatever is making it has surrounded us. “It was probably just the wind,” I force myself to say, but the words come out stiff and an octave higher than I intend. “Can we just get back to the house?”

She cocks her head and narrows her eyes at me. “What's going on, Gwen?”

“Nothing,” I say, trying to pull myself together. “It's been a long day, and I just got a little spooked or something.” I try to laugh it off, but I can't force out anything but a dry cough. Not with the danger I still feel filling the air around us, not with the steady thrum of the metallic buzz surrounding me. I take a deep breath and make myself meet her eyes. “It's probably just jet lag. Can we go?”

She studies me for a minute longer, but she doesn't push. “Sure,” she says, giving me space. Because she knows I'll tell her when I'm ready, like I always do.

Except this time I know I won't.

What could I possibly say? That I think I might be starting to see things and hear things, just like my mom?
No way.
I'll get some sleep and enjoy the two weeks we have before Olivia goes back to her life in Westport. If I'm starting to lose my mind, Olivia never has to know.

I force myself to follow Olivia down another block and then over one, the sound buzzing in my ears as I walk. It's all I can do to keep moving. When we get to the house, she takes the stairs two at a time, but when I go to follow her, the sound goes completely silent, and my steps falter.

Olivia turns back in time to see me catch myself. Her brows draw together. “Are you sure you're okay?”

No.
“I'm just tired,” I say, but I can tell Olivia's not buying it. My whole life, I've seen people look at my mom the way Olivia is looking at me right now—like she doesn't quite know what to do with me. “I'm fine,” I lie, glancing away.

Olivia's not stupid, though. She gives me a pointed look before she opens the door.

As I follow her up the crooked steps to the porch, I look once more at the darkening streets for some sign of movement, for some indication of the danger that felt so real. Nothing is there, but that doesn't make me feel any better somehow.

Stepping into the heavy warmth of the old house, I try to leave the cold panic and all my stupid worry outside, but it doesn't work. Unease still clings to me like a cobweb, sticky and thick. It follows me inside and trails behind me as I take the flight of steps up to our flat. As I climb, the memory of that sound scratches in a dark corner of my mind, like it's trying to unearth something.

I lock the door of the flat behind me, a second barrier against the night, but that isn't enough to help me relax, either. There was something about that sound—something that scraped at my nerves, leaving them feeling raw and exposed.

I'm almost all the way to our attic room when it hits me. It wasn't just that the sound felt unnatural or imaginary. It was that it felt
familiar
.

Dawn broke a familiar gray when his brother, the soldier, put the boy back on a train pointed toward home. With deep regret, the boy thought that his small adventure had come to an end. But as he waited for the train to depart, a soft voice startled him. He turned to find an old woman in a dark cloak looming over him, like a crone from the fairy stories of old. Her eyes were sharp, her expression damning. “A gift for a brave soldier,” she said, her scorn twisting her voice as she held out the challenge of a single white plume. . . .