Sisters Red

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  way someone's look after weeping. Wolves don't cry--the soulless have nothing to mourn.

  "Where did you come from?" I ask, laughing. At times like these, I often pretend to be Rosie, though I've never told her. I may be the better hunter, but there's no question that she's the better bait. I look at the man's nails--not claws, but then, bits of greasy Fenris fur cling to the leg of his pants.

  "I somehow lost the trail I was on," the man says, all grins and boyish charm. "Thought I'd be stuck out in the middle of the woods for the rest of my life."

  "You'd have missed all the apple festivities," I answer brightly. He nods hungrily, crescent-shaped blue eyes sparkling. He must be a Fenris--I'm clearly just misreading the evidence of tears in his eyes.

  "I know, which would have been a bummer. I got turned around because I was actually following this fawn in the woods that I think might be lost," he says, nodding back toward the forest.

  You've got to be kidding me. The baby-animal route? Wow. It's hard not to sigh.

  "A fawn?" Rosie squeals, though I detect a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She glances up at him, letting him see her face for a split second so he doesn't get too suspicious about me hiding my own. I hold my breath, waiting for him to recognize her despite the layers of makeup. Rosie meets my eye briefly and shakes her head--a tiny movement, so slight that I don't think anyone but me would have caught it. This is not the Fenris she let get away yesterday. This is a new one.

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  He'll need to die just the same. I turn back to the man, his sandy blond hair straying in the slight breeze. I wonder how old he was when he turned. He doesn't look much older than Silas. I imagine he rarely goes hungry, with that age and that voice full of charm. He's just as good at baiting his prey as Rosie is.

  "Do you want to see it? I was going to go call animal control, but I'll show him to you girls first if you want," he says, motioning in the direction he came from.

  "I want to see it! Let's go." Rosie nods to me emphatically. The man licks his lips as we rise, and then turns and retreats back into the woods. We follow several yards behind him.

  "How far in is the deer?" I ask cheerily.

  "Oh, not far," he answers, flashing us a bright grin. How has he not started to transform yet? Usually they can't keep up the charade this long. I move to try to see the pack sign on his wrist but somehow can't find it amid his movement. The man swallows hard--nervously? No. Wolves are never nervous. Something isn't right.

  The sounds of the Apple Time Festival fade into the sounds of the forest. Only the occasional honk of a parade car's horn reaches our ears. I listen to the forest sounds to focus: twigs breaking, birds calling, the slight trickle of the creek that runs through the park's center. I have to look to the right constantly, whenever the Fenris looks back, so he sees only my still-present eye.

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  We trudge farther into the woods before the man finally stops.

  "So... here it is!" he calls out, oddly loud. He whirls around and points to a spot on the forest floor.

  Rosie lets out a horrified gasp. I force the same sound, though I think it sounds rather overacted.

  Is it wrong that part of me is used to seeing the things a Fenris will do to make a girl squirm, make her tremble or cry, before he plans to devour her? The Fenris is pointing to what seems to be a deer, but only barely. It's a carcass, bloodied and eviscerated. Tubes of purple intestines splay about the forest floor like worms, and its tongue lolls out of its mouth near dead gray eyes. It's nearly torn in half, and the marks are all wolf: shredded skin and broken legs that lie like a pile of twisted sticks underneath the doe's body. Rosie throws her hand to her mouth, but I don't think it's part of the act--she genuinely looks as if she might get sick.

  "I said, 'Here it is!' " the man repeats. His voice quavers.

  I've killed dozens upon dozens of wolves in my life and never, ever has one's voice quavered. I look up at him, ignoring the fact that I've given away my cover and he can now see my scars. And I suddenly begin to understand why there were tears in his eyes. He's not a wolf. He's a human. A stupid, foolish human, staring longingly at something just over my shoulder.

  "Two?" a low, growl-like voice says behind me. "I said five."

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  Rosie and I whirl around. The Fenris is younger, with disheveled hair and ripped-up jeans. Rosie ducks her head down, which tells me all I need to know: this is the Fenris she faced yesterday, and she can't let him recognize her. I step in front of my sister, trying to take the focus off her--I want to fight him on our terms, when we say it's time, not when the wolf says it is.

  "And this one's damaged," the Fenris hisses, staring at my face with disdain. His head is partially transformed, giving him the look of a human whose facial bones have been cracked apart and hastily glued back together.

  "Please," the man behind us begs, voice choppy and broken. "I tried, but I got lost in the woods. Two is all I could get in thirty minutes."

  "So you don't care about her, then?" the Fenris mocks. It takes me a moment to understand whom the wolf is talking about, but then I see her--a young woman with corn silk hair, quivering near a tree trunk. She has her knees tucked into her Apple Time T-shirt, like the jersey fabric will provide some sort of shield against the monster.

  "I do!"

  "Not enough to win her freedom," the Fenris says with a shrug. His nails start to lengthen into claws, his eyes darken. The man behind us begins to weep again.

  Pa Reynolds said wolves do this occasionally--blackmail humans when they're too weak to hunt for all the prey they need. After all, who wouldn't be willing to sacrifice others for the one he loves? Clearly, Rosie gave this one a run for

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  his money yesterday if he wants five girls. It's the first time I've fought a Fenris with a hostage, though, so I scan the wolf carefully, trying to plan my attack.

  And then I see it. My eye, my mind, my throat--everything feels dark and dry. On his right wrist, the clean, crisp mark. A pack sign I recognize, a pack sign I've seen only once before. I saw it for a brief moment on the wrist of the man who came to my grandmother's cottage selling oranges. My skin leaps up in chill bumps and something powerful races through me. I don't know if Rosie sees the sign or not, but she takes my hand as soon as my nerves peak as if doing so is instinctual. I exhale.

  An Arrow, back in Ellison. Hunting is mechanical for me--my body and mind just do it as if it's what they were created for. But the Arrow makes me rage with emotion, my heart pounding in fury and frustration and memory. I want to kill him--not just him, the entire pack. I want them to pay more than I want any other Fenris to pay, and the drive to act now, before he's transformed, clouds my better judgment. Focus, Scarlett. Stop this pack from doing to others what it's done to you. The crying man behind us takes a step toward the terrified girl, but the wolf inhales sharply enough to stop him in his tracks.

  "You still owe me three," the Fenris says, slinking across the ground with a gait more lupine than human. "But we can start with these," he finishes with a dark grin. He gives me another disgusted look, then turns to Rosie, who keeps her head down.

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  "You don't like the deer, darling?" the Fenris asks her, his voice both sweet and horrifying. "That's not very kind of you. Perhaps if you pet it."

  He moves, far too fast for a human. His right hand, the one bearing the pack sign, darts out. It grabs Rosie's wrist so tightly that I know she'll bruise later. She squeals uncomfortably and looks away.

  "Give it a pat," he says in a dark singsong voice, leaning so close to my sister that his breath blows her hair back. He tightens his grip on her wrist and draws her hand downward toward the deer's grotesquely twisted neck. Rosie winces in pain, which makes the Fenris grin and makes my rage intensify a thousand times over. No one hurts my sister. Her fingers tremble as he presses them forward and her nails finally glance across the animal's carcass. Only then does she finally raise her face and boldly make eye co
ntact with him.

  "You," the wolf hisses accusingly.

  "Hey!" I snap. The Fenris's eyes turn to me, and his lips curl in an angry snarl.

  "Don't touch my sister," I sneer.

  "Oh, I will," he growls. "And then you--" He doesn't finish the thought as Rosie suddenly sinks her foot into his crotch, then delivers a left hook to his ear. He howls in surprise, his breathing heavy, labored, like an animal's. I reach under my cloak to draw my hatchet, but before I can swing at him, he leaps out of my reach. Rosie grabs for her knives, and the Fenris's eyes dart between us.

  Then he turns and bolts.

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  Rosie and I race after him, ducking under branches and briars. I signal to my sister: Go right! I cut to the left. The Fenris's footsteps still sound like two feet instead of four. I slide down a ravine of wet leaves as if it's a wave, never stopping. My heart thuds loudly in my chest, pushing me onward, faster, faster. He's got nowhere to go; Silas is in one direction, Rosie in the other, and then me. He's mine--I don't care how strong Arrows are, he's mine. I run faster, leaping over a rock formation and scanning the forest. They're good at camouflaging themselves, but years of hunting have taught me to look for their shape among the dead leaves. There he is. Half monster now. I can see scraggly fur begin to creep down his back, burst through his shirt. He looks up and sees me just as I jump down from some boulders, and his teeth lengthen to yellowed fangs.

  His fast and heavy footsteps pound toward me, all anger now. I flip the hatchet in my right hand and look behind the Fenris to see Silas darting toward me, quick like a fox around trees and over plants. Rosie won't be far behind.

  I roll to the side just as the Fenris lunges at me with a bloodcurdling growl. As he turns around, I send my hatchet through the air toward him. It sinks into his side, and I catch a glimpse of white rib bones. He howls in anger and pain, eyes flashing in fury. He darts at me again, but I'm faster, and I take a swipe, knocking his front feet out from under him. His long snout crashes into the ground as I jump away, yanking my hatchet up from the dirt as I do so.

  A sharp whistling cuts through the air. As if it merely

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  materialized in the Fenris's haunches, Rosie's knife appears, sunk in all the way to the hilt. I look right and see her breaking through the underbrush. I swing out with my hatchet, catching the wolf's shoulder. He leaps up and tries to flee, wounded body crumpling beneath him every few steps, but still faster than any man or animal. He makes it through only a few patches of trees before Silas jumps out from behind a thick oak and delivers a swift kick to the jaw. The wolf launches himself forward and manages to sink his front teeth into Silas's arm, but by now I've reached them. Just as Silas cringes and knocks the wolf away, I swing the hatchet down, ramming it firmly into the wolf's back. The pack mark still lingers under sparse fur near the monster's ankles, a black arrow.

  Things flash--Oma March's wide eyes, the shadow on the door, the clicking of nails on hardwood, the feeling of Rosie clinging to me. I withdraw my hatchet and plunge it deep into the Fenris's back again, just like I did with a shard of mirror years ago. The wolf reacts swiftly, pushing me away, trying to regain its strength.

  I won't let it.

  I dive back toward it, the forest a blur around me. I want it to suffer, I want it to feel ripped apart, I want to take its eye like one of its pack took mine. I slice forward at its face, but it rears back and strikes me with a heavy claw. My mouth fills with blood, and Rosie or Silas--I'm not sure who--grabs at my cloak and tries to pull me away.

  No, no--I shake the person off and dart toward the 85wolf. It's breathing heavily, trying to survive, but the dark hatred and hunger still lurks in its eyes. It dashes forward, long jaws outstretched to take a bite of my waist. I spin and thrust the top of my hatchet upward, into its chest. It roars in anger, but no, I'm not done. Arrows don't just let people die--they fight every inch of life from their victims. And I'll do the same. I take a step forward, rousing up what's left of my energy for another blow--

  "Scarlett, stop! " a voice shouts, and Silas steps in front of me. He pushes me gently, but I'm so exhausted that it's enough--I collapse against a tree, panting. "It's dying. Don't risk getting hurt to fight a dying Fenris."

  I gasp for air, scanning the forest for my sister. She steps up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her touch soothes the rage still swirling around my heart like a storm. I killed the wolf already, killed another Arrow. That's enough.

  "Right," I finally answer Silas, nodding. "Sorry, I just..." I don't even know what to say. I shake my head and look over Silas's shoulder, where the beast uselessly struggles to get back to its feet. He catches my eye and snarls, then gives Rosie a long, hungry look.

  Silas storms over to it and yanks Rosie's knife from the creature's haunches. The wolf shudders, and the fur on his back begins to creep back into his skin. Transforming? Now, when he's moments from death? Why waste what little energy he has left? I trudge forward as Rosie links her arm with mine. He snaps at us with a horrible human mouth

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  lined with wolf teeth. Silas kneels and holds the edge of the knife to the beast's throat.

  "Why is the Arrow pack hunting in Ellison?" Silas asks in a low voice.

  The Fenris grins, lips spreading too wide for a human, blood flowing through the sparse fur on its face. Silas pushes the blade closer.

  "The phase is about to begin," the Fenris responds hoarsely without dropping the evil smile.

  And then it dies. The Fenris explodes into shadow that scatters across the forest floor, skittering under leaves and fallen branches as if it's terrified of exposure.

  The sound of a parade car horn echoes in the distance.

  "Where did that guy and his girlfriend go?" Rosie breaks the silence, peering back through the forest carefully. She has a kind look on her face, as though she's hoping they'll come out of hiding and she'll be able to comfort them.

  "The one we fought the night you got back was Coin," I remind Silas quickly, ignoring my sister.

  He answers Rosie first. "They ran back together right after the wolf took off--I think they'll be fine, once they convince themselves it was a nightmare. And Scarlett, that means there's been one Arrow, one Coin--Rosie, did you get a chance to see the other one you killed yesterday?"

  "I think it was a Bell. I'm not sure--I guess it could have been another Coin?"

  "You didn't make it your business to find out?" I snap harshly.

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  "Sorry, I was a little busy fighting two Fenris. Maybe if I'd had a chance to solo before then, I'd have been able to relax long enough to pick up on pack signs," Rosie whips back.

  "It's the pack mark, Rosie! How could you not know for certain--"

  "Both of you calm down!" Silas interrupts. He wipes Rosie's knife on his jeans and hands it to her, then stoops to toss my still-bloody hatchet to me. I give him a dark look as I clean my own blade on my cloak.

  "Arrow, Bell, Coin. A representative of each pack. Phase--he means the moon phases, doesn't he?" I mutter, dozens of Pa Reynolds's Fenris stories rushing back to me.

  "Yes. And he's right--there's a full moon in about a week, which means..." Silas drifts off.

  "They're after another Potential Fenris. There must be one out there now. Here, right under our noses," I finish his sentence for him. Potentials are rare, but not unheard of. A single bite, just enough to break the skin--that's all it takes to transform a Potential into a full-fledged Fenris, according to Pa Reynolds. I shudder. I've wondered far too often what it feels like to have your soul ripped away. It's not something I want to reflect on again.

  We've never been able to pinpoint exactly what makes a man--or boy--able to lose his soul and become a monster. Just that it is very specific, occurs only during certain moon phases, and is important enough to make the wolves leave their territories to find him. They're drawn to him by some unrecognizable force, like a scent that humans can't pick up

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&nbs
p; on. They don't know exactly where and who the Potential is, but they know when he exists, and they'll scour the entire country for him.

  "A Potential..." Silas frowns, nodding. "That makes sense. There's no other reason for so many packs to send members this far out."

  "How many wolves will they send out to look for him?" Rosie asks. Silas and I shrug simultaneously.

  "As many as it takes. They all want to add to their own packs, to be the pack to get a new member. And since Potentials are so rare, I bet every pack has members swarming every city in the state, or will soon. Once one of them picks up the trail of the Potential, the numbers will triple," Silas answers as we approach the picnic tables again.

  "Great," Rosie says weakly.

  In a big city, the pack keeps each Fenris in check to avoid drawing too much attention to itself. But when a wolf is sent out on its own, when hundreds of wolves are sent out... what's to stop them from feasting on every small-town girl they find?

  "So we just hunt more often?" Rosie says, noting my expression. "We're already hunting all the time. We must've killed hundreds..."

  "Ninety-three," I mutter, running my hand along a picnic table's mossy top. I shake my head. "We've killed ninety-three." Nearly a hundred wolves, yet with centuries of immortal wolves hunting, finding Potentials, and creating

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  new monsters out of them, having killed only ninety-three makes my stomach writhe. The remaining Fenris probably don't even know the difference.