Red Moon Rising (3 page)

Oliver laughs. “He didn't see you, either. Give it up, Danny. We are so under his radar, he doesn't even know we're alive.”

He turns and looks at Gunther. “I'd love to get my hair cut like his, though.”

I could argue with them, tell them how Gunther jokes around with me in gym, but they're not going to believe it, so why waste my breath? Then I notice. “Pot roast for lunch.”

“You saw the menu?” Oliver is always interested in what's for lunch.

“No, I smell it.”

Claire laughs at me. “How can you smell it? The caf is on the other end of the building.”

“How can you
not
smell it? The whole school stinks of it.”

She gives me a look, like,
You're a wacko
, but she has to be kidding: the hallway reeks of meat. Now that I think of it, it reeks of a lot of smells. Sweat. Laundry detergent. Someone with totally rank body odor. Paint. Fertilizer someone must have walked through on the way to school. Deodorant. The urinal cakes in the boys' room. Perfume. Cherry lip gloss. And I can pick out at least fifteen different types of shampoo.

I've never had an unusually good sense of smell, so this is a little weird. I don't know what to make of it.

But what do I care? The important thing is that Juliet Walker is going to hang out with me. Or with me and her friends, but whatever. Either way, she said yes. Which makes this a very, very good night.

I
'm walking home with Claire after school when headlights shine past us and a new Porsche rolls up to the curb.

Gunther's car.

His window goes down. “Come here.”

Claire and I glance at each other. She looks confused. “
See
? I told you,” I say. We start toward the car.

Gunther shakes his head. “No, not you. Just him.”

We look at each other again. “Don't worry. If he's giving me a ride home, I'll make sure you can come, too.”

Claire raises her eyebrow at me, but doesn't say anything.

I go over to Gunther's window to see what he wants. He's alone in the car, wearing a black cable-knit cardigan and an ivory fedora with a red band. I wish I had the confidence to dress like that. I'm always in browns and greens.

“Hey. What's up?” I ask.

He looks ahead through the windshield. “That whole thing in Gym. With the rope. How'd you do it so fast?”

“Oh. Well. I don't know. It's no big deal. Really. You were fast, too.”

“I know you're half-vamp, that's obvious. But that only accounts for speed and coordination.” He looks at me. “You didn't even use your legs. And strength like you had this morning? That's not human.” His eyes narrow. “So it makes me wonder about your other half.”

I hate when this comes up. “Well, I'm half-wulf.”

Gunther's lips tighten. “Half-wulf. Funny you never mentioned it.”

“Why would I? I mean, you can see that I'm not totally vamp, so that means either part-human or—”

“But isn't Jessica Gray your sister?”

I put on a face and voice like a guilty man confessing. “Okay, I'll admit it. She is.” I cross my hands at the wrists like they're handcuffed and hold them out to him.

He pulls back in his seat, away from my hands. He's not smiling. “Well, she's all-vamp, right? She looks like she is.”

Okay, if I tell the truth, Jess is going to murder me. Literally. “Um, yeah.” Not a lie, strictly speaking.

“Right. So I had no reason to think you were wulf.”

“I guess not.” This is so disappointing. Well, maybe I can fix this. Make him laugh. “I guess I should probably wear a shirt—or wait, a sandwich sign—with ‘I'm one-half wulf!' on it.”

“Yeah, that's funny.” He didn't smile. “Don't you think you should warn people? You think it's honest to deliberately make people believe you're human?”

“I never said I was human.”

“Yeah, well, you don't seem like one of…them. A wulf.”

“But I'm not. I mean, I had the genetic treatments.” Which is true. I don't have to go into the details about how I had a Recombinant DNA-mRNA Mutation reaction, the anadiploidy shock, or how that meant they couldn't finish the series of treatments. It doesn't matter. “It's not like I'm a
wulf
-wulf. Those genes were deactivated.”

“Yeah, but you were born with wulf genes. So you're part-wulf. Right or wrong?”

“I guess so, if you put it like that. My dad was a wulf.”

“Was?”

“I mean, my dad when I was born. He and my mom split up. I don't see him much anymore.”

“Oh, so it's not that he's dead.”

“What? Oh, no. Not at all. He's totally fine.”

“Huh. Too bad.”

Then Gunther revs the engine, throws the car into gear, and nearly runs over my toes as he roars away.

When we're one block from where Claire goes left and I go right, Claire says, “He's a total specist. I could have told you that.”

“So why didn't you?”

“Because you thought he was the best guy on the planet, and you had this bizarre fantasy that he was your friend. Besides, with your little hero-worship thing going, you wouldn't have believed me anyway.”

I don't know if it's her raised eyebrow or the fact that she's right that makes me want to shake her. “Probably not.

He didn't seem that way.”

Claire shrugs. “They never do. Look at his father.”

“His father? Come on—he's, like, a pillar of the community. I heard he worked as an advisor to the president once.”

“He's also in the Knights of the Brotherhood.”

“So? He
is
a vampyre. What's so bad about a vamp being in a vampyre social club?”

“Oh, nothing, except the Knights of the Brotherhood is one step short of being the KKK. If it were up to them, they'd have every wulf in the country exiled or lynched.”

“I think that's a myth.”

“Look it up. Anyway, the point is, Gunther Hoering and his family hate wulves.”

We get to her house and she checks the mailbox.

This whole thing is really depressing. “I just don't get why Gunther feels like I tricked him. So, what? I'm supposed to say, ‘Hi, I'm Danny Gray and just so you know, I'm halfwulf,' to everyone I meet?”

“Not everyone. But use your judgment, dummy.”

“How was I supposed to know he was a specist?”

“My approach? If in doubt, assume someone is evil.”

“What a refreshing and optimistic view of life.”

“It's a cold, cruel world, baby. Get used to it.” She squeezes my cheek like an obnoxious relative pinching a baby. “I'm going in. You staying or going?”

“I better go home. It's going to be light soon.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

Walking home, I think about how Gunther turned out to be a specist scumbag. How I actually thought we were friends.

As far as I'm concerned, I couldn't care less if I never talk to him again.

“What did you say to Gunther Hoering?” Jessica shouts at me the second I walk in the house.

“Can you speak up? I didn't hear you.” I drop my book bag and shut the door. The Sol-Blok shades on the windows are already down and sealed.

“Did you tell Gunther Hoering that I'm part-wulf?” Maybe not a scream, but a bellow for sure.

“I'm sorry. I seem to have gone deaf because of a piercing shrieking sound. I don't know sign language, so maybe I'll understand you better if you talk softly and slowly.”

Jessica's normally white face is now dark red, moving toward purple. She's breathing loudly through her nose. She knows I'll walk away if she keeps shouting, so she's working hard to control herself. “What. Did. You. Say. About. Me. To. Gunther. Hoering.”

“Oh, that's what you wanted to know? Well, it's like this.” I walk into the kitchen. Partly because I'm hungry, partly because I'm going to make Jess pay for screaming at me. She follows me in.

“Tell me,” she demands.

“Hi, Loretta,” I say. “How's your day been?”

“Not too bad. I got some nice Cornish game hens for your supper tonight, and I made that string-bean dish your mom likes.”

“Sounds good,” I say, picking a pear from the bowl on the granite counter. “Does that take a lot of work, cooking those hens?”

Jessica actually stamps her foot. “Dante! If you don't just…” She stops herself and closes her eyes tightly.

Loretta looks at her. “You be careful before you burst a blood vessel or something.”

“I just want my darling brother to stop…fooling around and to answer my question before I have to open the knife drawer.”

“It's touching when you call me
darling
with so much affection. Really.”

I brush past her as I leave the kitchen and go into the living room. Of course, she follows me.

“Can you
please
just tell me what you said to Gunther?”

I sit on the couch and bite into the pear. “Why, did he say something to you?”

“He asked me if you're my brother. I told him: unfortunately, yes. Then he asked if I dyed my hair or used DermaWhite. When I said no, he said that that's what he thought, and then he asked what your deal was. I asked him what he meant, but he told me to forget it.”

“Then what?”

“Then he left. I want to know why he's asking about me and you in the same conversation.”

“Maybe because we're related and have the same last name.”

Jess adjusts her T-shirt dress so it hangs perfectly over her black-and-gold tights. She checks the clasp on her Tiffany bracelet and rearranges the long necklaces that loop down to her waist. “How does he know you?” she asks.

“We hang out in Gym. Joking and stuff. Or we used to.”

“Right.”

“Seriously.” I put my feet against the edge of the glass table, which Mom would kill me for doing. “Hey, I was surprised, too, believe me. Then today he asked me if I was part-wulf.”

“He what? Why?”

I shrug. “I don't know. I climbed the rope faster than him, and he got all weird.”

“Well, what did you say?” I can see the tension in her jaw. It's kind of funny.

“I said I was.”

“Unbelievable. Thanks a lot!” she says, starting to turn that purple color again.

“Well, sorry, but it's the truth. I can't help it.” I finish my pear and put the core on the table, careful to stand it up so only the dry skin on the bottom touches the glass. Mom doesn't like smudges. I turn back to Jessica: “Why are you all psycho about it, anyway? I mean, yeah, Gunther Hoering is a big shot at school, but did you know he's a complete specist? Like,
viciously
specist?”

“So?” Jessica is pacing back and forth across the living room, holding her head in both hands. She adjusts her tartan headband.

I shake my head. “He's a jerk. What do you care what he thinks about you?”

“See, this is why I don't want you even
talk
ing to my friends when they're here. You're a social moron. You don't get it. Why do I care?
Everyone
cares what Gunther Hoering thinks.”

“No, I do get it. But then when I saw what he's really like—”

Jess looks at the ceiling and actually growls, then grabs her own hair and pulls at it like she might tear it out of her head. “Why am I even talking to you?” She glares at me. “
Don't
talk about me again. Ever. To anyone. We're not related. I have nothing to do with you. Understand me?”

“Yeah. I shouldn't talk about you to anyone. Except seniors. And really popular people. And only to let them know that you're half-wulf. That's what you mean, right?”

She smacks me on the back of my head as she storms off.

For some reason, my ears are ringing, even though she didn't hit me hard. And here comes that headache again.

I reach for the pear core on the table, and…now, this is weird. My right hand won't close. I can only bend my fingers about halfway; then they get tight. I open my hand and flex the fingers straight, but when I try to close them to make a fist I only get about halfway again. Trying to force them with my other hand only makes it hurt more.

The knuckles on the fingers of my right hand are kind of swollen. They look like an old human's arthritic hands. Or like Loretta's hands, though not nearly as bad.

I pick up the pear core with my left hand and go to the kitchen to throw it away. I'm not going to worry about this anymore. It's probably just some kind of flu. No big deal.

Except for one thing.

Vampyres don't get the flu.

They don't get sick.

Ever.

H
ealth class is so stupid. Like we haven't heard this stuff a million times already. But Ms. Vaughn doesn't seem like she's about to stop, so I guess it's going to be a million and one times.

“Okay, trade quizzes with your partner so we can mark them. Let's go. Number one: ISTD stands for? Michael?”

“Um, A: Interspecies Sexually Transmitted Disorder.”

“Close. It's D: Interspecies Sexually Transmitted
Disease
. Put an
X
through the number if it's wrong. Two, true or false: a human can be turned into a vampyre through sexual contact. Elyse?”

“False.”

“Correct. This isn't on the quiz, but can a human be turned into a vampyre from a bite?”

We all say no, in completely bored voices. Like anyone still believes that idiotic myth.

“What are the ways a human can be turned into a vampyre. Danny?”

This is like third grade stuff. What a waste of time. “They can't. The only way to be a vampyre is through genetics. If your parents are vamps.”

“Absolutely correct. Next question, three: a human can sexually transmit HIV to a vampyre, true or false. Sydney?”

“False. Vamps are immune to all human diseases.”

“Correct. Next: if a male vampyre mates with a human female, she can become pregnant, true or false? Tomas?”

“If he's stupid and doesn't use protection, sure. But if he's smart, he'll deny it's his.”

Not so many people laugh. We've heard all his jokes before, and we just want the period to end.

“That's very honorable, Tomas. Now, moving on: if a female vampyre mates with a male wulf—”

“Eww,” Tiffany Welsh says, loudly enough to make sure everyone hears her.

“Tiffany…”

“No, seriously, Ms. Vaughn. Why would a vamp girl do it with a howler?”

“How about, like,
really
low self-esteem?” Elyse says.

A bunch of the girls laugh. The vamp boys look at each other and grin smugly.

Ms. Vaughn folds her arms over her chest, making herself look smaller, which she does whenever she gets uncomfortable. “First of all, let's start with you not using derogatory terms.”

“So we can't say face-case or moondog or crumpskull or lunabitch, either?” Tomas asks.

“It's not like there're any wulves in here anyway. The only one in this class is Craig Lewczyk, and he's still out sick.”

I keep my mouth shut.

“Regardless,” Ms. Vaughn says, “I don't want those kinds of expressions used here.”

“Sor-reee,” Tiffany says. “But seriously, why would any self-respecting vamp girl want to have
sexual relations
with a lycanthrope?”

She is so obnoxious.

Vocabulary quiz from Constance, eighth grade: Natatorium. Nobody knew; she told us it was an indoor swimming pool building.

I hate the smell of chlorine. And I hate this heavy, humid air. Faded Millbrook High School Champion banners hang from the ceiling; we don't have our own team name because we're technically part of Millbrook.

“What's the point of making it mandatory to go to ten school events if we don't want to be here?” I ask Claire.

“To keep attendance up, I guess.”

“Nothing like fake school spirit, huh?”

“Stop your whining. It'll be over soon. At least it's Friday.”

It
is
Friday. Which means tomorrow night is my date—or hangout or whatever it is—with Juliet Walker. Emphasis on
whatever it is
.

“What if I'm reading her wrong?” I ask Claire.

She tilts her head back and turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Please, not again.”

“I trust your opinion.”

She looks at me, a half-smile on her face. “That's the best you can come up with?”

“It's true.” There's the eardrum-piercing shriek of a whistle, followed by a splash as the swimmers hit the water. My ears are ringing from the whistle, which is amplified by the tile and the high ceiling. “Seriously. I need to know if she likes me, and I trust you.”

Claire turns back to the pool. “First, you're making me sick, so don't bother trying to act all sincere with me. You're not good at it. Second, you're asking the wrong girl. I don't have a whole lot of experience with…relationships, or whatever. As you know.”

I look back down the pool, watching the girls slice through the water. Gunther's current girlfriend, Alana Gibson, is swimming in practically every race. Gunther and his crew are a few rows in front of us.

There's a pack of wulf kids sitting at the very end of the bleachers, near the starting blocks. There's at least five yards between them and everyone else. They're obviously here just to get their extracurricular cards stamped.

When Alana wins the 100-meter butterfly by two-and-a-half body lengths, Gunther and his guys go wild.

One of the referees taps the microphone, setting off a squeal that reverberates through the pool house. “Once again, the winner is Carpathia's Alana Gibson.”

Gunther and his buddies whoop and whistle over the referee's announcement of the names of the vamp girl who finished second and the human girl who finished third.

The wulf kids cheer and shout, too, but there's a different tone to it.

“Why don't you mutts shut the hell up?” Gunther shouts at them.

One of them, a kid named Charlie Hogan, grins at Gunther. “Hey, man. We're just cheering for our girl.”

“She's not your girl,” Gunther calls. “Notice that she walks upright.”

Alana Gibson pulls herself up out of the pool. Her slick red bathing suit hugs every curve, and water streams down her long legs.

I turn to Claire, who's staring at her.

“Easy, now,” I say.

“Yeah, same to you.”

Alana has to pass right in front of the wulf kids to get back to the swimmers' bench. They watch her, all of them grinning as she comes close. She slips her thumbs under the straps on her shoulders and pulls the bathing suit up a bit.

The wulf kids yell, “Hey, Alana!” and “Nice strokes!” when she passes by. I'm watching her face as the guys call out to her. She rolls her eyes, but there's definitely a hint of a smile.

“Hey, can't you do something about that smell?” Alex Fourier calls to the wulves. “The whole place stinks like wet dog.”

“Go chase cars or something,” Gunther yells.

The wulf kids shout back at them, mostly curses. Since wulves don't have the same bleeding problems that vamps have, they don't worry much about avoiding fights.

The assistant swim coach, Mr. Wentworth, walks over to the wulf kids. “If you boys can't act civilized—”

“Try housebroken!” Gunther yells.

A bunch of people around us laugh, but I don't. Claire doesn't, either.

“You're going to be removed,” Mr. Wentworth finishes.

“
We're
going to be removed?” Charlie Hogan says, his eyes wide. “What about what
they
said?” He points his thumb over his shoulder at Gunther's crew.

“I didn't hear anything from them.” Wentworth raises his voice, loud enough for a lot of people to hear. “You, boy, on the other hand, were rude, obnoxious, and disgusting. Any more trouble from you, and you're all suspended.”

Gunther claps his hands. “Yeah, suspend him,” he says cheerily. “By his
neck
, from a
lamp
post!”

Hogan gets to his feet, yanks off his varsity wrestling jacket, and glares at Gunther, but John Fusco elbows him and shakes his head. Hogan sits back down.

“We're just showing school spirit,” Fusco says to the assistant coach. “Go, Carpathia. Rah-rah.” His voice is monotone.

Mr. Wentworth walks away. The swimmers for the next race are standing on the starting blocks, watching the show. The starter is also watching, the whistle dead between her lips.

“I'm so glad we didn't get thrown out,” Hogan says loudly. Then, even louder, he shouts, “Because we're really pumped to watch this intense sport.”

“It's
way
cooler than mixed martial arts. Or football,” Fusco says. “All the action of…watching. Grass. Grow.”

“That's because you mongrels can't swim,” Gunther calls back.

“Yeah, they can,” Taylor Lattimore says. “They can doggie-paddle.”

Gunther's boys laugh.

“You roasters aren't athletes,” Hogan shouts. “You can't wrestle or play football, because one little boo-boo and you'll have a blood flood.”

Gunther strides over to where the wulf kids are sitting. His guys follow.

The wulves stand up. Deadlock.

Gunther is a full head taller than Charlie Hogan, but Hogan is built like a fire hydrant.

“We stick to
refined
sports,” Gunther says. “All you moon-dogs know how to do is smash and bash. Limited animal brains, lower form of life.”

Hogan's nostrils flare and he balls his hands into fists.

Mr. Wentworth gets up again and moves toward them.

“Do it, troglodyte,” Gunther says.

But Hogan doesn't hit him. He grabs Gunther by the front of his shirt and shoves him hard. Gunther goes into the pool, hitting the water with a big splash.

The crowd roars.

Gunther heaves himself out of the water. His expensive clothes drip heavily. Two teachers have come to walk Charlie Hogan out. He's laughing.

“This is a Rolex, face-case!” Gunther screams at Hogan. “If it's ruined, you're paying for it.”

“Sue me,” Hogan calls over his shoulder.

“You couldn't afford it. I could buy and sell your whole family.”

Mr. Wentworth and two custodians escort Charlie Hogan to the doors of the pool house. The vamp kids cheer, while Gunther looks up into the bleachers and clasps his hands over his head in a champion gesture. Then he tosses his blond hair, sending a spray of water onto some vamp girls, who squeal with delight.

The rest of the meet can't match the excitement of the floor show. Carpathia wins, mainly due to Alana Gibson.

“Well, that turned out to be a decent meet after all,” Claire says to me as we climb down the bleachers.

“That was an
outstanding
meet,” I say while pulling on my leather jacket. “Did you hear Gunther scream about his stupid watch?”

We shuffle along with the crowd toward the exit. I lean into Claire. “Oh. I came up with a really good solution to our problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“About how to tell if Juliet Walker likes me or not.”

“Right, see, that's not
our
problem, that's
your
problem,” Claire says, staring hard at the back of Tiffany Welsh's head, impatient because Tiffany is yakking instead of trying to move forward.

“Whatever. Anyway, I figure the simplest way to do this is for you to come tomorrow night so you can watch and give me your opinion.”

“Gee, really? I can? What an honor!” She sneers at the back of Tiffany's head and mimes punching it. “Thanks, but I'll pass.”

“I'll be forever in your debt.”

“You're already forever in my debt. And anyway, it's a stupid idea. You're trying to figure out if she likes you so you show up with another girl?”

“You're not another girl.”

She jams the point of her elbow into my solar plexus, half knocking the wind out of me. I should have seen it coming.

“Good luck getting me to help you with
any
thing after that,” she says.

“You know what I meant. I'm saying, you're not a girl
friend
. We couldn't pretend to be together even if we wanted to. Just come. I know you don't have any plans.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it's Saturday night. What plans would you have besides hanging out with me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. It'll be fun watching you try to flirt.” She stands on her toes, trying to see what's holding things up. “Would you guys move?” she shouts.

We finally get outside, and the crowd spreads out. Claire's dad is supposed to pick us up. “He said to wait for him there,” Claire says, pointing to a far corner.

Just as we head in that direction, we hear the voice of our school's golden boy. “Nope, not this weekend,” Gunther says. “I'm going hunting with my father.”

“Yeah? For deer, or elk?” Victor Harmon asks.

“An elk is a type of deer, dumbass,” Gunther says. He's still wet and his shirt is clinging to him. “Anyway, I don't care what I shoot as long as I get a good kill. Maybe I'll accidentally shoot a wulf. Now, that would be a tragedy.” He turns to the side, raises an imaginary rifle to his shoulder, squints into an invisible scope and makes a
ka-pow
sound.

I can't tell if he knows I'm behind him or not.

“And maybe he'll accidentally shoot him
self
,” I say to Claire. “Golden Boy? More like a dirtbag poser.”