Hemlock (6 page)

Our street in Detroit.

Leah had lived down the hal from Hank and me. She was a photographer who had come to the city to work on a yearlong photo series about urban landscapes. She slipped me food when my father forgot to buy groceries—which was often—and she let me hide out in her apartment and flip through her art books when his friends were over. She was pale and smal and her Norwegian accent had made her seem exotic and magical. I used to pretend that she was the princess of a frozen kingdom, stripped of her possessions by an evil witch and exiled to America.

When the Trackers found out she was infected, she’d been dragged, kicking and screaming, out of our apartment building. . . .

I jumped as Kyle’s fingers skimmed my hand.

“Detroit?” he asked, his brown eyes dark with concern. Kyle was the only person I’d ever told what had happened.

“Yeah.” I let out a deep breath and forced the memories out of my head.

my head.

The Trackers were in Hemlock, and I couldn’t afford to freak out every time I saw one. If I did, I’d probably find myself on a list of suspected werewolves and—infected or not—that wasn’t a safe place to be.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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SERENA CARSON WAS WAITING FOR ME BY MY LOCKER. We had started hanging out after her best friend moved away last year. It was right around the time Kyle and Heather had gotten serious and I’d begun feeling like a fifth wheel in my usual group.

Serena firmly believed that a lack of height could be compensated for by a larger-than-life wardrobe. Today it was a pink leather trench coat that looked ultrabright against her dark skin and knee-high boots over jeans so tight they probably came with a warning label. Her shoulder-length curls were held back by a turquoise scarf. She was the only person I knew who could a turquoise scarf. She was the only person I knew who could compete with Tess in terms of brightly colored clothing.

“Did you see the goons outside?”

I nodded and spun my combination. “I guess it was inevitable that they’d turn up.”

Serena hated the Trackers as much as I did. Before someone had stepped in and whipped them into shape, they’d been a motley offshoot of a couple of white supremacy groups—a fact most people conveniently forgot.

She bit her lip. “It’s a little late, though. I mean, where were they five months ago?”

It
was
kind of strange timing—the attacks in the spring were the type of opportunity they should have been al over—but maybe the Trackers had been waiting for an opening in their busy schedule.

Political lobbying, mob violence, and bake sales didn’t just plan themselves.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Jason said there was an attack a couple of nights ago that the police are keeping quiet. Maybe that brought them.” I swalowed. “I’m worried Jason is thinking about joining.”

Serena snorted. “What a surprise. That boy doesn’t have the sense God gave a cactus.”

I grabbed my books and shut my locker.

“Werewolves did kil his girlfriend,” I reminded her as we started toward chem. I cringed as soon as the words were out of my mouth. It shouldn’t have been an easy thing to say and yet it had slid from my throat with almost no thought or effort.

“I know.” Serena’s expression softened. “And I did actualy

“I know.” Serena’s expression softened. “And I did actualy hear the rumor about an attack. One of my brother’s friends knows someone’s sister or something.” She absently puled one of the gold bangles she was wearing off of her right arm and slipped it onto her left. “So what did the Trackers promise him? Wait—let me guess: retribution for Amy?”

Jason hadn’t actualy told me, but what else could you offer the guy who could buy practicaly anything he wanted? “Probably.”

Even to my own ears, the one word sounded miserable.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t understand the temptation. Not knowing what had happened that night, never learning who had kiled her . . . it was like being stuck in limbo.

“You’re worried about him.” It wasn’t a question. Serena had watched me worry about Jason al summer.

“Yeah,” I said. “Speaking of which . . .” I took a deep breath and hitched my backpack a little higher on my shoulder. “Trey and a couple of his friends beat up Jason last night.”

Serena glanced over, her gaze darkening. “And . . . ?”

If I wasn’t so determined to save Jason from an early grave, I’d kil him for putting me in this position. Her brother’s extracurricular activities weren’t Serena’s favorite subject. The words came out in a rush. “IwassortawonderingifyoucouldaskTreytobackoff.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Was that supposed to be English?” But the edge of her mouth quirked up in a slight smile.

“Could you ask Trey to stay away from him for a bit?”

We turned into chem class, and the faint smel of old science experiments made my nose itch. Serena tossed her bag onto the black lab table we shared and gracefuly flopped into her seat. “I black lab table we shared and gracefuly flopped into her seat. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but if Trey is hassling Jason . . .”

“It’s because Jason deserves it. I know.” I sat down and took out my books.

Serena frowned and dug through her bag. “I’l mention it to Trey, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up; it’s not like my brother ever listens to me.”

The bel rang and the surrounding lab tables quickly filed up.

Mr. Harris—who’d probably been teaching chemistry when my father went to Kennedy—asked us to take out our books and turn to chapter three.

I flipped through the pages, barely registering a knock on the classroom door.

“Mac . . .”

Serena tugged on my sleeve and I looked up as the three men who’d been hanging around outside the school strode into the room.

“Excuse me,” objected Mr. Harris, looking like a disgruntled owl as he was pushed aside, “you can’t just barge in here.”

The oldest of the three men handed Mr. Harris a piece of paper.

He looked more like a lawyer than some sort of thug. There was a hint of silver in his dark hair and he was actualy wearing a suit.

“We’re here with the ful support of the Hemlock police department,” he said, voice loud enough to carry across the room as his two companions began walking down the middle aisle.

They definitely didn’t look like lawyers. In fact, they looked like They definitely didn’t look like lawyers. In fact, they looked like the kind of guys lawyers sprung on technicalities.

I held my breath as they passed our table. There were holsters on their belts, and one of them smeled as though he had bathed in a vat of AXE body spray.

Serena made a slight gagging sound and clamped a hand over her mouth and nose.

Mr. Harris argued with the man at the front of the room as the rest of us stared, mesmerized, at the other two Trackers, waiting to see where they would stop and what they would do.

They stepped up to a table at the back. A scrawny freshman who was taking the class because he was some sort of science genius glanced up. He looked like he was on the verge of puking.

“Riley Parker?” asked one of the Trackers in a deep rumble.

The kid nodded.

Without warning, they hauled him to his feet, sending his chair and books scattering to the floor.

Mr. Harris shouted for them to stop and rushed to the back of the room.

He reached for one of the Trackers only to be shoved roughly away. Off balance, he stumbled and colided with a lab table, his arms sweeping a tray of beakers and test tubes to the ground with a crash that elicited shrieks from the two girls who were sitting there.

The rest of us sat frozen—too stunned to do or say anything.

The Trackers dragged Riley Parker toward the front of the room. When they were halfway to the door, Riley began struggling.

One of them reached for the holster at his hip, and my heart One of them reached for the holster at his hip, and my heart stopped, certain he was going for a gun. He puled out a thick, boxy instrument and thumbed a button on the top. Twin darts shot out, piercing Riley Parker’s back.

Riley’s entire body convulsed as he was tased. After thirty seconds that seemed to last an eternity, he went limp.

Without a word, the three Trackers carried him out of the classroom.

After Riley Parker had been dragged away, Mr. Harris asked us to stay in our seats and limped out of the room. Ten minutes later, face pale, he came back and informed us that Riley was being detained on suspicion of having LS. He spent the rest of the period just sitting at his desk, not saying anything, while the rest of us exchanged worried whispers.

I couldn’t find Kyle during break, and English seemed to stretch on forever while speculations about Riley passed from desk to desk. I heard at least a dozen different stories ranging from genuine infection to a publicity stunt. People even added Amy to the mix—

saying the freshman had confessed to murdering her.

As soon as the bel rang, I bolted to the second floor, where Kyle had poli-sci.

“Are you al right?” he asked, scanning my face as I tried to catch my breath. “I heard what happened in chem.”

“I’m kind of freaked,” I admitted, wiping a bit of perspiration from my forehead and trying to ignore the way my hand shook. “It was pretty horrible. They actualy tased the guy and dragged him out of the room. How is that even legal?”

out of the room. How is that even legal?”

Kyle shrugged. “Werewolves don’t have rights to violate, remember?”

I shivered. Somehow, that thought made it worse. “I looked for you on break.”

A faint blush swept across Kyle’s cheeks. “I had to talk to someone.”

I knew “someone” was code for Heather and I felt a brief surge of irritation that he had been talking to her instead of checking to see if I was okay. Not to be a drama queen, but I had seen a boy get jolted with fifty thousand volts. Surely that outranked a manic ex-girlfriend.

I started walking toward the cafeteria, and Kyle fel into step beside me, adjusting his pace to compensate for my shorter legs.

“Did you at least talk to Jason?” I asked as we took the stairs down to the first floor and folowed the smel of cardboard pizza and mystery meat loaf.

Kyle shot me a wary, sidelong glance at the tone in my voice.

“Yeah. He invited me to a Tracker youth meeting tomorrow night.”

“Seriously?” My heart sank.

“You thought he was going to join,” Kyle reminded me. “You can’t be surprised.”

“I was just hoping there was stil time to talk him out of it.”

“Wel, now’s your chance.”

I glanced up. Jason was leaning against the wide archway that led into the cafeteria, arms crossed, one knee slightly bent, looking as cool and composed as a
GQ
model—until you got to the eyes.

They glinted like bits of broken glass, like he was looking for a They glinted like bits of broken glass, like he was looking for a fight. The bruise on his cheek added to the effect. He didn’t look hungover, but then, Jason rarely did.

“Hey.” He uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the wal.

“Hey,” said Kyle.

Even though I had food in my backpack, I folowed Jason and Kyle to the lunch line and stood between them.

“You know,” said Jason, after a few moments of increasingly awkward silence, “if you were worried about me, you could have talked to me yourself.” He watched me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a response as the line inched forward.

“I thought . . .” I glanced at Kyle, but he just shrugged: it had been my idea to stage an intervention, and now I was on my own.

“I didn’t think you’d listen to me.”

Jason added a bottle of water to his tray. “Look, Mac, I know you’ve got some sort of issue with the Trackers, but they’re the good guys. I heard about what happened this morning. It’s al over school. If they hadn’t identified that Parker kid, he could have bitten or scratched anyone in that room.”

I wasn’t stupid: I knew not al werewolves were good. Some of them did attack and kil people. And one of them had kiled Amy.

But Charles Manson, the kids from Columbine, that guy with the Kool-Aid—regs did horrible things to each other, too.

And plenty of werewolves, like Leah, never hurt anyone. “Even if Riley Parker is infected, there’s no proof that he was a threat.

You didn’t see the way they hauled him out of class. It was like he was—”

was—”

“An animal? That’s what they are, Mac.” Something cold slid behind Jason’s eyes, and he leaned toward me, invading my personal space. “After everything that’s happened, I can’t believe you care about a filthy fleabag.” The last word came out low and harsh, practicaly a curse.

“Lay off, Jason. She’s just worried about you.”

“Then she should have talked to me herself instead of making you do it.”

Kyle snorted. “Right. Because you’re being so calm and rational.”

I shook my head. Kyle didn’t have to defend me—not against Jason of al people. “Hemlock doesn’t need the Trackers. The police—” I stopped, suddenly remembering the remark the Tracker had made to Mr. Harris about having the support of the police department.

“Who do you think asked the Trackers to come?” Jason’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Amy’s grandfather made a cal and the police invited them in the next day. He wants the Trackers to find Amy’s kiler, and after that last attack, the police want some answers.” His green eyes bored into mine. “Why don’t you?”

The words were like a slap. Kyle said something to Jason, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring sound in my ears. I stepped out of the line and tried to keep from shaking as I crossed the cafeteria and dumped my knapsack onto a random table. I sat down and stared out the bank of windows that overlooked the parking lot, waiting for the urge to yel and/or cry to pass.

“Mac?”

“Mac?”

I looked up. Ethan Cole was staring down at me. The bright smile on his face clashed with his spiky, blue hair, Goth clothes, and multitude of piercings. A group of his friends hovered a few feet behind him, like moths around a streetlight.