Shiver Trilogy (Shiver, Linger, Forever) (17 page)

“Which would you choose?” he asked.

In the book, the characters had searched for the others, only to get separated and end up alone. For some reason, Sam’s question made my heart beat a little faster, and I gripped a handful of his T-shirt in my fist.

“Duh,” I said.

Sam’s lips curled up.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that Olivia hadn’t returned my call. When I called her house, her mother told me she was still out.

A little voice inside me said
Out where? Where is there to be
out
in Mercy Falls?

That night when I fell asleep, I dreamed of Shelby’s face in my window and Jack’s eyes in the woods.

That night, for the first time in a long time, I dreamed of Mr. Dario’s dogs.

I woke, sweaty and shuddering, the taste of blood in my mouth. I rolled away from Grace, feeling like my pounding heart would wake her, and licked my bloody lips. I’d bitten my tongue.

It was so easy to forget the primitive violence of my world when I was human, safe in Grace’s bed. It was easy to see us as she must see us: ghosts in the woods, silent, magical. And if we were only wolves, maybe she would be right. Real wolves wouldn’t be a threat. But these weren’t real wolves.

The dream whispered that I was ignoring the signs. The ones that said I was bringing the violence of my world to Grace’s. Wolves at her school, her friend’s house, and now hers. Wolves that hid human hearts within their pelts.

Lying there in Grace’s bed in the dark room, I strained my ears, listening. I thought I could hear toenails on the deck, and imagined I could smell Shelby’s scent even through the window. I knew she wanted me — wanted what I stood for. I was the
favorite of Beck, the human pack leader, and also of Paul, the wolf pack leader, and the logical successor to both. In our little world, I had a lot of power.

And, oh, Shelby wanted power.

Dario’s dogs proved that. When I was thirteen and living in Beck’s house, our nearest neighbor (some seventy-five acres away) moved out and sold his gigantic house to a wealthy eccentric by the name of Mr. Dario. Personally, I didn’t find Mr. Dario himself very impressive. He had a peculiar smell that suggested he’d died and then been preserved. He spent most of the time we were in his house explaining the complicated alarm device he’d installed to protect his antiques business (“He means drugs,” Beck told me later) and waxing poetic about the guard dogs he turned out of his house while he was gone.

Then he showed them to us. They were gargoyles come to life, snarling masks of froth and wrinkled, pale skin. A South American breed meant to guard cattle, Mr. Dario said. He looked pleased when he explained that they would rip a man’s face off and eat it. Beck’s expression was dubious as he said he hoped Mr. Dario didn’t let them off the property. Pointing to collars with metallic prongs on the inside (“Shocks the hell out of the dogs,” Beck said later, and made a jiggling motion to indicate voltage), Mr. Dario assured us that the only people getting their faces ripped off would be the ones sneaking onto the property at night to steal his antiques. He showed us the power box that controlled the dogs’ shock collars and kept them near the house; it was covered with a powdery black paint that left dark smudges on his hands.

Nobody else seemed to think about those dogs, but I was obsessed with them. All I could think about was them getting loose and tearing Beck or Paul to pieces, ripping one of their faces off and eating it. For weeks, I was preoccupied with the idea of the dogs, and in the heat of summer, I found Beck in the kitchen, in shorts and a T-shirt, basting ribs for the barbecue.

“Beck?”

He didn’t look up from his careful painting. “What do you need, Sam?”

“Would you show me how to kill Mr. Dario’s dogs?” Beck spun to face me, and I added, “If I had to?”

“You won’t have to.”

I hated to beg, but I did it, anyway. “Please?”

Beck winced. “You don’t have the stomach for that sort of work.” It was true — as a human, I had an agonizing sensitivity to the sight of blood.

“Please?”

Beck made a face and told me no, but the next day, he brought home half a dozen raw chickens and taught me how to find the weak part of the joints and break them. When I didn’t pass out at the sight of snapping chickens, he brought red meat that oozed blood and made my jaw slack with nausea. The bones were hard, cold, unforgiving under my hands, impossible to break without finding the joint.

“Tired of this yet?” Beck asked after a few days. I shook my head; the dogs haunted my dreams and ran through the songs that I wrote. So we kept on. Beck found home videos of dog-fights; together we watched the dogs tear each other apart. I kept a hand pressed over my mouth, my stomach churning at
the sight of gore, and watched how some dogs went for the jugular and some went for the front legs, snapping them and rendering their opponents powerless. Beck pointed out one particularly unequal fight, a huge pit bull and a little mixed terrier. “Look at the little dog. That would be you. When you’re human, you’re stronger than most people, but you’re still not going to be as strong as one of Dario’s dogs. Look how the little one fights. He weakens the big dog. Then suffocates him.”

I watched the little terrier kill the bigger dog. And then Beck and I went outside and fought — big dog, little dog.

Summer vanished. We began to change, one by one, the oldest and most careless of us first. Soon there was just a handful of humans left: Beck, out of stubbornness, Ulrik, from sheer cunning, Shelby, to be closer to Beck and me. Me, because I was young and not yet fragile.

I will never forget the sounds of a dogfight. Someone who hasn’t heard it can’t imagine the sort of primal savagery of two dogs bent on destroying each other. Even as a wolf, I never came across that sort of struggle — pack members fought for dominance, not to kill.

I was in the woods; Beck had told me not to leave the house, so of course I was out walking in the evening. I had half an idea that I was going to write a song in the exact moment between day and night, and I had just seized a scrap of a lyric when I heard the dogfight. The sound was close, here in the woods, not near Mr. Dario’s, but I knew it couldn’t be wolves. I recognized that rippling snarl immediately.

And then they came into sight. Two giant white ghosts of dogs in the dim evening: Dario’s monsters. With them, a black
wolf, struggling, bleeding, rolling in the underbrush. The wolf, Paul, was doing everything pack behavior dictated — ears back, tail down, half-turned head — everything he did screamed submission. But the dogs knew no pack behavior; all they knew was attack. And so they began to pull Paul to shreds.

“Hey!” I shouted, my voice not as strong as I’d expected. I tried again, and this time it was halfway to a growl,
“Hey!”

One of the dogs broke off and rushed me; I spun and rolled, my eyes on the other white demon, its teeth clasped on the black wolf’s throat. Paul was gasping for breath, and the side of his face was soaked with crimson. I threw myself against the dog that held him, and the three of us crashed to the ground. The monster was heavy, blood-streaked, and all muscle. I grabbed for its throat with a pitifully weak human hand and missed.

Dead weight hit my back and I felt hot drool on my neck. I twisted just in time to avoid a killing bite from one dog and got the other’s teeth in my shoulder instead. I felt bone grate against bone — the sick, fiery sensation of the dog’s tooth sliding up against my collarbone.

“Beck!”
I yelled. It was maddeningly hard to think through the pain and with Paul dying in front of me. Still, I remembered that little terrier — fast, deadly, brutal. I snaked a hand forward to the dog that had the murder grip on Paul’s neck. I grabbed the front leg, found the joint, and I didn’t think about the blood. I didn’t think about the sound it was going to make. I didn’t think about anything but the mechanical action of

snap.

The dog’s eyes rolled. It whistled through its nose but didn’t release its grip.

My survival instinct was screaming at me to get the other animal off me; it was shaking and grinding my shoulder in jaws that felt iron-heavy and fire-hot. I imagined I could feel my bones wrenching free from their proper positions. I imagined my arm was being torn from its socket. But Paul couldn’t wait.

I couldn’t feel my right arm very well, but with my left I grabbed a handful of dog throat in my hand and twisted, tightened, suffocated, until I heard the monster gasping. I was that little terrier. The dog was tireless in its grip on Paul’s neck, but I was equally tireless in mine. Reaching up from under the other dog that was grinding my shoulder down, I flopped my dead right hand over the first dog’s nose and pressed its nostrils closed. I didn’t think of anything — my mind was far away, in the house, someplace warm, listening to music, reading a poem, anywhere but here, killing.

For a terrible minute nothing happened. Sparks flashed before my eyes. Then the dog flopped to the ground, and Paul fell out of its grip. There was blood every where — mine, Paul’s, the dog’s.

“Don’t let go!” It was Beck’s voice, and now I heard the dull crash of footsteps in the woods. “Don’t let go — he’s not dead yet!”

I couldn’t feel my hands anymore — couldn’t feel anything anymore — but I thought I was still clutching the dog’s neck, the one that had been biting Paul. And then I felt the teeth in my shoulder jerk as the dog gripping my neck lurched. A wolf, Ulrik, was snarling, going for its neck, dragging it off me. There was a
pop,
and I realized it was a gun. Another
pop
again, much closer, and a jerk beneath my fingers. Ulrik backed away from
us, breathing hard, and then there was so much silence that my ears rang.

Beck gently peeled my hands off the dead dog’s throat and pressed them against my shoulder instead. The blood flow slowed; immediately I started to feel better as my incredible, messed-up body started to heal itself.

Beck knelt in front of me. He was shaking with the cold, his skin gray, the bend of his shoulders wrong. “You had it right, didn’t you? You saved him. Those poor damn chickens didn’t go to waste.”

Behind him, Shelby stood silently, arms crossed, watching Paul gasping in the dry, dead leaves. Watching me and Beck with our heads together. Her hands were fists, and one of them had a black, powdery smear on it.

Now, in the soft darkness of Grace’s room, I rolled over and pressed my face into her shoulder. Strange that my most violent moments had been as a human, not as a wolf.

Outside, I heard the distinct scratching of toenails on the deck. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the sound of Grace’s beating heart.

The taste of blood in my mouth reminded me of winter.

I knew Shelby had let those dogs out.

She wanted me at the top, with her beside me, and Paul was in my way. And now Grace was in hers.

Days blurred into a collage of common images: cool walks across the school parking lot, Olivia’s empty seat in class, Sam’s breath in my ear, pawprints in our yard’s frosted blades of grass.

By the time the weekend arrived, I felt breathless with waiting, although I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for. Sam had tossed and turned the night before, plagued by a nightmare, and he looked so terrible on Saturday morning that instead of making any plans to go out, I just parked him on the couch after my parents had gone to brunch at a friend’s house.

I lay in the curve of Sam’s arm as he flipped between various bad made-for-TV movies. We settled on a sci-fi thriller that had probably cost less to produce than the Bronco. Rubbery tentacles were
every where
when Sam finally said something.

“Does it bother you? That your parents are the way they are?”

I nuzzled my face into his armpit. It smelled very Sam in there. “Let’s not talk about them.”

“Let’s do talk about them.”

“Oh,
why
? What’s there to tell? It’s fine. They’re fine. They’re the way they are.”

Sam’s fingers gently found my chin and lifted my face up. “Grace, it’s not fine. I’ve been here for — how many weeks now? I don’t even know. But I know how it is, and it’s
not
fine.”

“They are who they are. I never knew anybody’s parents were any different until I started school. Until I started reading. But seriously, Sam, it’s
okay
.”

My skin felt hot. I pulled my chin away from his hand and looked at the screen, where a compact car was drowning in slime.

“Grace,” Sam said softly. He was sitting so still, as if, for once, I was the wild animal that might vanish if he moved a muscle. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

I watched the car crumble into pieces, along with the driver and the passenger. It was hard to tell what was going on with the sound turned down, but it looked like the pieces were reforming into tentacles. There was a guy walking a dog in the background, and he didn’t even seem to notice. How could he not notice?

I didn’t look at Sam, but I knew he was watching me, not the television.

I didn’t know what he thought I was going to say. I had nothing to say. This was not a problem. It was a way of life.

The tentacles on the screen began to drag along the ground, looking for the original tentacled monster so that they could reattach themselves. There was no way they would be able to; the original alien was on fire in Washington, DC, melting around a model of the Washington Monument. The new
tentacles were just going to have to torment the world on their own.

“Why can’t I make them love me any more than they do?”

Did I say that? It didn’t sound like my voice. Sam’s fingers brushed my cheek, but there weren’t any tears. I was nowhere close to tears.

“Grace, they love you. It’s not
about
you. It’s their problem.”

“I’ve tried
so
hard. I never get into trouble. I always do my homework. I cook their damn meals, when they’re home, which is never —” Definitely not my voice. I didn’t swear. “And I nearly got killed, twice, but that didn’t change anything. It’s not like I want them to jump all over me. I just want, one day, just want —” I couldn’t finish the sentence, because I didn’t know how it ended.

Sam dragged me into his arms. “Oh, Grace, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

He wiped my cheeks with his thumb, carefully, and showed me the tear trapped on his fingertip. Feeling foolish, I let him ball me up in his lap and tuck me under his chin. I had my own voice back again, here in the muffled shelter of his arms. “Maybe I’m too good. If I got into trouble at school or burned down people’s garages, they’d have to notice me.”

“You’re not like that. You know you’re not,” he said. “They’re just silly, selfish people, that’s all. I’m sorry I asked, okay? Let’s just watch this dumb movie.”

I laid my cheek against his chest and listened to the
thump-thump
of his heart. It sounded so normal, just a regular human
heart. He’d been human long enough now that I almost couldn’t detect the faint odor of the woods on him or remember what it felt like to bury my fingers in his ruff. Sam turned up the volume on the aliens and we sat like that, one creature in two bodies, for a long time, until I forgot what I’d been upset about and I was myself again.

“I wish I had what you have,” I said.

“What do I have?”

“Your pack. Beck. Ulrik. When you talk about them, I can see how important they are to you,” I said. “They made you this person.” I pushed a finger into his chest. “They’re wonderful, so you’re wonderful.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I don’t know about that.” He opened them again. “Anyway, your parents made you who you are, too. Do you think you’d be so independent if they were around more? At least you’re
someone
when they’re not around. I feel like I’m not who I was before. Because so much of being me is being with Beck and Ulrik and the others.”

I heard a car pull into the driveway and straightened up. I knew Sam had heard it, too. “Time to vanish,” he said.

But I held on to his arm. “I’m tired of sneaking around. I think it’s time for you to meet them.”

He didn’t argue, but he threw a worried glance in the direction of the front door.

“And now we come to the end,” he said.

“Don’t be melodramatic. They won’t kill you.”

He looked at me.

Heat flushed my cheeks. “Sam, I didn’t mean it like — God. I’m sorry.” I wanted to look away from his face, but I couldn’t
seem to, like watching a car crash. I kept waiting for the collision, but his expression never changed. It was as if there was a little disconnect between the memories of Sam’s parents and his emotions, a slight misfire that mercifully kept him whole.

Sam rescued me by changing the subject, which was incredibly generous. “Should I play the friendly boyfriend or are we just friends?”

“Boyfriend. I’m not pretending.”

Sam edged two inches away from me and pulled his arm from behind my head, resting it on the back of the couch behind me instead. To the wall, he said, “Hello, Grace’s parents. I’m Grace’s boyfriend. Please notice the chaste distance between us. I am very responsible and have never had my tongue in your daughter’s mouth.”

The door cracked open and both of us jumped with matching nervous laughs.

“Is that you, Grace?” Mom’s voice called lightly from the hallway. “Or are you a burglar?”

“Burglar,” I called back.

“I’m going to wet myself,” Sam whispered in my ear.

“Are you sure that’s you, Grace?” Mom sounded suspicious; she wasn’t used to me laughing. “Is Rachel here?”

Dad came first into the living room doorway and stopped, immediately spotting Sam.

In a barely perceptible movement, Sam turned his head just enough that the light didn’t catch his yellow eyes, an automatic gesture that made me realize for the first time that Sam had been an oddity even before he’d been a wolf.

Dad’s eyes were on Sam, just looking. Sam was looking back, tense but not terrified. Would he be sitting so calmly if he knew that Dad had been one of the hunting party in the woods? I was suddenly ashamed of my father, just another human that the wolves had to fear; I was glad I hadn’t said anything to Sam.

My voice was tight. “Dad, this is Sam. Sam, this is Dad.”

Dad looked at him for a split second more, and then smiled widely. “Please tell me you’re a boyfriend.”

Sam’s eyes became perfectly round and I let out a big breath.

“Yes, he’s a boyfriend, Dad.”

“Well, that’s nice. I was beginning to think you didn’t do that kind of thing.”

“Dad.”

“What’s going on in there?” Mom’s voice was distant. She was already in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge. The food at the brunch must’ve been bad. “Who’s Sam?”

“My boyfriend.”

With Mom’s presence came an ever-present cloud of turpentine vapors; she had paint smeared on her lower arms. Knowing Mom, I guessed she’d intentionally left herself that way when she went out. She looked from me to Sam and back to me again, her expression quizzical.

“Mom, this is Sam. Sam, Mom.”

I smelled emotions rolling off both of them, though I couldn’t tell which ones, exactly. Mom was staring at Sam’s eyes, just staring and staring, and Sam seemed fixed in place. I punched his arm.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice automatic.

“Mom,” I hissed. “
Mom.
Earth to Mom.”

To her credit, she looked slightly abashed when she snapped out of it. She said to Sam, apologetic, “Your face looks very familiar.” Yeah. Right. As if even an infant couldn’t tell it was a transparent excuse for staring at his eyes.

“I used to work at the bookstore downtown?” Sam’s voice was hopeful.

Mom wagged a finger at him. “I’ll bet that’s it.” She beamed at Sam then, used her hundred-watt smile, erasing any social atrocity she may have just committed. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m going to go upstairs and work for a while.” She displayed her painted arms, indicating what she meant by “work,” and I felt a brief flash of irritation toward her. I knew her serial flirtation was just habitual, a knee-jerk reaction to any unfamiliar guy who had reached puberty, but still. Grow up.

Sam surprised me by saying, “I’d like to see the studio, while I’m here, if you don’t mind. Grace told me a little bit about your art and I’d love to see it.” This was partially true. I’d told him about a particularly nauseating show of hers I’d gone to where all of the paintings were named after types of clouds but were portraits of women in bathing suits. “Meaningful” art sailed over my head. I didn’t get it. I didn’t
want
to get it.

Mom smiled in a plastic sort of way. She probably thought Sam’s understanding of meaningful art was similar to mine.

I looked at Sam dubiously. This sort of sucking up seemed unlike him. After Mom had vanished upstairs and Dad had vanished into his study, I demanded, “Are you a sucker for punishment?”

Sam unmuted the television in time for a woman to be eaten by something with tentacles. All that was left after the attack was a fake-looking severed arm lying on the sidewalk. “I just think I need to make her like me.”

“The only person in this house who has to like you is me. Don’t worry about them.”

Sam picked up a sofa cushion and hugged it to himself, pressing his face into it. His voice was muffled. “She might have to put up with me for a long time, you know?”

“How long?”

His smile was amazingly sweet. “The longest.”

“Forever?”

Sam’s lips smiled, but above his grin, his yellow eyes turned sad, as if he knew it was a lie. “Longer.”

I closed the distance between us and settled into the crook of his arm, and we went back to watching the tentacled alien slowly creep through the sewer system of an unsuspecting town. Sam’s eyes flickered around the screen, as if he was actually watching the futile intergalactic battle, but I sat there and tried to figure out why Sam had to change and I didn’t.