I shake my frustration away and continue. "All these packs are going to Atlanta, I bet--they're having a string of murders, remember? And these are huge, old packs. Bell, Arrow, Coin... and that's assuming that the smaller packs aren't hunting as well. Sparrow is getting bigger, so it would make sense for them to hunt out here--they'll have wolves all over the region. And that's if the packs don't combine forces to try to get the Potential--I think at the end of the day, the Fenris care even more about creating a new wolf than they do about getting him into their own pack. There's no way we can kill them all."
"We can hunt every day. And Silas is back--he can help," Rosie says encouragingly, though I can hear the disappointment in her voice at the prospect of endless hunting. Silas nods halfheartedly as we reach his car.
"The moon phase begins next Saturday," Silas says, screwing up his face as he counts off days on his fingers. "That's when the full moon hits. So for twenty-nine days after Saturday, till the next full moon, the packs will be out in droves looking for the Potential. God, I wish Pa had known more about them..." He trails off. I wish that too, more than anything. What turns a man into a Potential seems to be some crazy code that only the wolves can decipher. Sure, we know it's a certain man in a certain moon phase, but without the
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specifics we can't predict a Potential's emerging, figure out where he'll be, or find him before the monsters do. We might as well know nothing at all.
The sounds of the festival are loud now, invasive and far too cheery for the dark cloud hanging over my thoughts. A group of children stare at my scars. One is so entranced, she accidentally lets go of her bright green balloon, which rises and disappears into the annoyingly blue sky.
We climb into the car and sit in the stuffy air for a few moments of silence. Silas backs out of the parking lot and we weave through the crowds of people in red and green, people with no idea that a monster was in their midst. And that more are coming. Silas flicks on the turn signal and we finally escape the festival herd. We can't kill the wolves fast enough. I can't do enough. Girls will die, and a new Fenris will be changed. New Fenris hunt daily and are stronger, faster, hungrier, than any other wolf. Frustration pours over me as we turn onto our road. "So we just lose. Until they find the Potential, we just let girls die while the packs send out even more wolves every day."
"What if... what if we went there?" Silas says, swerving to avoid an armadillo.
"Went where?"
"To the city. Hunted them where their numbers are greater. Where they're congregating."
Yes, it makes so much sense. The perfect hunt, from their origin.
The perfect hunt. Too perfect.
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"It'll never work. We can't just move to Atlanta, Silas. We can't even get an apartment. We're dead broke," I say as I run numbers together in my mind. We trudge inside; I fall onto the couch almost immediately, fingers on my temples.
"I can pay for part of an apartment," Silas says slowly, sliding into a wooden chair in our kitchen. I raise my eyebrows and Rosie makes a surprised sound in her throat.
"You want to move to the city?" I ask sharply.
"Not for good, but for a month or two, sure. I know this will kill you, Lett, if you don't go, and you're... well, you're like my family," he says quickly, glancing between Rosie and me. "I mean, I can't pay for it alone, but Pa Reynolds gave me a pretty decent inheritance. And besides, he's at Vincent's Elderly Care just inside the city. It'll give me a chance to visit with him for a while."
I rise from the couch, mind racing. It could work. It's so simple, really. But I can't believe that Silas, the one who abandoned the hunt and me for San Francisco, would be so eager to leave Ellison for the wolves. Yet he is. I am. And Rosie will go where I go.
"We still need money." But we could sell... my gaze moves to Oma March's bedroom, then to Rosie's eyes. My sister sighs and looks away, then nods at me. Do what you need to do. As I look at that bedroom door, a thought swims around the back of my mind: how it would feel to destroy the leader of the pack that destroyed me.
"Okay," I say breathlessly. I look at Silas. "Okay, then. Let's do it."
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Silas nods. "I have a friend who I think can sublet his apartment to us. It won't be pretty, but it'll be cheap."
"Cheap is good," I reply. "When can we go?" I need to go fast, now that the decision has been made. I try to suppress the desire to get back into Silas's car and drive to the city immediately. Rosie runs her fingers through my hair in an attempt to calm me.
"I don't know--a week or so? Is that too soon? We should try to get out there before the phase starts, before the Fenris get really anxious," Silas says.
"No. No, a week sounds okay. A week." I sigh and turn to face Rosie, pulling my hair away from her fingertips. An unspoken message flashes between us.
"A week," Rosie answers softly, nodding.
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CHAPTER SIX
Rosie
Scarlett does things now, never later. As soon as Silas leaves, she starts packing for what we begin to call simply "the move" in an ominous tone. We talk about it with the same casualness as one talks about "the table" or "the cat" because we have a silent, mutual understanding that leaving the cottage will be easier if we do it like ripping off a Band-Aid. Just go, quickly, and don't think about it too hard.
It's difficult, but possible, to back-burner the idea of leaving our home, the place where we grew up, the rooms full of memories both good and bad; it's painful, so I think my brain naturally wants to shove the idea away instead of letting me dwell on it. But there's another part of moving that I can't ignore, a part that my mind keeps coming back to because it's exciting and nerve-racking at once.
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I'll be living with Silas Reynolds.
The same apartment, same rooms, same shower and kitchen and floor. Where will he sleep, in relation to me? What will he think about the fact that my hair looks like Screwtape's fur in the mornings? And most important, why do I care about all this so much? They're questions that I can't ask anyone--not Scarlett, certainly not Silas--and so they and a million others rotate around my head, taunting me all week while I pack my bags.
It doesn't take much packing for me to realize that my bedroom is full of things. Pictures and old paintings and little wooden figurines that Silas and his brothers used to carve for Scarlett and me. Old things, ancient things that I can't throw away because Oma March gave them to me or because they help me cling to my few pre-attack memories. Do those things come with me? No. Of course not. Just the essentials.
But two days before we leave, I carefully wrap Oma March's green glass mixing bowls in two of my old T-shirts as my sister mutters about maps and plots prime hunting locations.
The morning of the move, Silas pokes his head through the door. "Ready?" he asks.
"Yes," we reply, so simultaneously that even I can't tell whose voice was whose.
Silas refuses to help us cage Screwtape, who hisses loudly, having long suspected something is up. I go to pick him up, trying to act like everything is normal, but Screwtape darts away. It'd probably be easier to crate a Fenris than it is to
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crate Screwtape. The dance repeats until Scarlett and I are red in the face and Silas is laughing at us. We finally run the cat down, and Scarlett manages to toss the laundry basket over him when he's too busy anticipating his next dash.
"We could still leave him," Silas jokes--I think he's joking, anyway--as we load the howling basket of fury into the backseat of his car. Scarlett looks as though she might feel the same way as she nurses a batch of claw marks on top of the thicker Fenris scars. She climbs into the backseat of the car as Silas and I slide into the front. Silas hot-wires the ignition of the hatchback and pounds on the radio for a few minutes before it buzzes to life.
"We can't change the station, by the way," he says.
"Because you really like pop music?" I ask, wrinkling my nose as a bubbly song blares at us.
r /> "Not hardly," Silas says. "I hate it. But last time I changed it, the car stopped. Oh, and lean away from your door--sometimes it opens randomly."
"Um... great," I say, leaning as far away from the door as possible. But this feels even more dangerous, because I'm leaning incredibly close to Silas, so close that I'm hyperaware of the fact that my sister is right behind me. My stomach twists as it fights my body's urge to fall against him. I shudder and try to shake the desire off.
"Well then," Silas says, and the car falls silent other than a pop singer's sexual grunting and Screwtape's low, deep growls. The three of us look up at the cottage as the car rumbles beneath us, and suddenly something tightens in my
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chest. I've got the sudden urge to run back and tell the cottage not to worry, we'll be back, to stay locked up and keep the garden watered.
It's just a house. But I catch Scarlett's eye in the side mirror, and she gives me a knowing sort of look.
"Go ahead, Silas," she says in a voice that's uncharacteristically gentle. I'm relieved she said it, because I don't think I could have. Silas nods and turns to back the car up, accidentally brushing a hand against my shoulders as he does so.
"Sorry," he says under his breath, like he's whispering in church. I shake my head as Scarlett settles her long arms and legs in the backseat and uses her cloak as a blanket.
Still trying to lean somewhere between the door of death and Silas's shoulder, I stare out the window as we lumber out of town. The road is smooth, hypnotic, with the dotted lines vanishing rhythmically before us. I glance back at my sister. She's fallen asleep, and Screwtape is casting her dark looks, as if she's to blame for his predicament.
I look toward Silas, trying to appear as if I'm just glancing out his window. Really, I want to study him intensely. He's wearing one of his many nearly threadbare T-shirts, jeans that are soft from washing, wavy hair... Everything about him begs to be touched...
"You're nervous," Silas says suddenly.
"What? No!" I answer sharply. Am I that obvious?
Silas raises an eyebrow and laughs.
"It makes sense. I mean, you and Lett have lived in Ellison forever." Right... right. He's talking about the trip, not
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my resisting the temptation to fall on him. We're silent for a moment, nearly tangible awkwardness floating around the front seats. Silas drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
"Well, it's not Ellison, but I think you'll like the place we're renting," he continues. "It's in a cool area, lots of artsy sorts of things to do. There's this community center that has dance classes and pottery classes and painting and all that stuff. It's kind of seedy but... artistic."
"Oh," I say, doing a pretty terrible job of masking some of the disappointment in my voice. I'm normally okay with not having a life outside of hunting, until I have to look at shining examples of the non-hunting world, like Sarah Worrell and company at the drugstore a week ago. And now I'll see it every day, people who don't hunt, people who don't even know the Fenris exist... and then me.
"Do you..." I begin, then turn around to make sure Scarlett is really asleep, not just faking it--her chest rises and falls a different way when it's genuine. Satisfied, I look back to Silas and choose my words carefully. "Do you think I'm a good hunter?"
Silas looks confused. "Of course. You and Lett are the best hunters I--"
"No, not me and Scarlett. Just me," I say.
Silas slows the car a tad to look over at me. "Yes. Yes, of course. You're--pardon my language--you're fucking deadly with a knife, Rosie."
I smile and shake my head, remembering all the times Silas scolded his older brothers for throwing language around
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in front of my "virgin ears." It's sort of satisfying to know that his perspective has changed. "Right," I say. "I mean, we hunt together. But Scarlett... it's like a part of her soul."
"Dramatic much?" Silas teases, but he frowns when I don't laugh.
"You know what I mean. It drives her."
"But not you?"
"I don't know. I mean, maybe. It doesn't matter. I owe Scarlett my life, you know?"
"Yeah, but... like I told your sister, that doesn't mean she's got you locked in a cage forever. Unless you want to be locked in a cage, I mean. Wait, that sounds weird." Silas shakes his head and sighs. "I'm forever tripping on words with you, Rosie."
"I have that effect on people," I joke, but Silas's face stays serious as he nods slightly. I grin nervously.
"I'm just trying to say," Silas starts again, voice low, "that your sister didn't save your life only for you to sign it away to hunting if you want something more."
I don't answer, because therein lies the problem. Hunters don't want more--at least, not hunters who are related to Scarlett March. It's sort of hard to justify taking dance classes when your older sister is trying to save the world.
We ride along mostly in silence as the sun rises above us--Scarlett wakes when it's almost directly overhead. It isn't until afternoon that the city begins to hint at itself; we pass through towns not terribly unlike Ellison, then bigger towns, then rows of gas stations and car dealerships, until
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the tallest buildings appear on the horizon. They grow closer as though they're moving toward us as quickly as we're moving toward them, swallowing us into their steel mouths as we loop under a bridge and finally enter the city streets.
I glance back at Scarlett. She looks nervous, steely eye darting across the cityscape. She never looks nervous. Her mood makes my own nerves spike, a feeling that isn't helped by the sheer busyness of the city. People are everywhere, more people than I've seen in my entire life, more cars, more buildings as far as the eye can see, a maze of silver and gray concrete illuminated by vivid signs, flashing lights, bright yellow taxis. Scarlett sinks down in her seat slightly, lets her hair fall in front of her scarred eye, and tugs her sleeves down to cover her arms.
"Wait--there it is, Andern Street," Silas mutters, wheeling the car to the right. The street he turns down is dark, as if a thunderhead is hovering over us despite the sunny day. There's a church on the corner that's in bad need of new paint and covered in barred windows. The other buildings on Andern Street are old and crumbling, and a crowd of shady-looking men hang out on the street corner.
Silas begins mouthing the building numbers and slows the car.
"This is it," he says with an air of finality. "Three three three Andern." He looks over at Scarlett and me as we duck in our seats to look up at the building.
Nestled between two old office buildings and across from a vacant lot, it has the look of something that was once
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elegant, beautiful, even: white paint peels off the boards, rusted sconces swirl by the door with a sort of Victorian air, and an octagonal cupola on the roof reaches to the sky. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn, all mismatched so that the building is a bit like a patchwork quilt. It looks soft somehow, as if the entire place were constructed from the same material as a beehive and could be crushed and scattered with one heavy gust of wind or a well-aimed rock. A group of homeless men leer at us, weathered faces scrutinizing me and then moving to Scarlett, whom they stare at with looks of amazement. She adjusts her eye patch.
"We're on the eighth floor. Just stairs, no elevator," Silas says as if he's afraid we might change our minds.
"Do we have a view of anything?" Scarlett asks, ignoring the hoboes.
"Yep. The street, and we have access to the roof."
"Good," Scarlett says sincerely. "Good for a lookout-type thing, I mean."
"Right," I add, only because I feel as if I have to say something. I turn to look across the street. The vacant lot is surrounded by a dilapidated chain-link fence, tall grass, and two buildings that look like they're abandoned. In the lot I can see the frames of old cars, skeletons of a time when this street was a little more... alive. Silas does a three-point turn in the middle of the road under the hard s
tares of the homeless men--who I now think might actually be residents of our building--and parks in front of the vacant lot in what's barely enough space to be considered a viable parking spot.
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Screwtape begins to howl again. I can't say I really blame him, if he can see his new home. I flash back for a moment to the sunny cottage, the bright flowers, the breeze that smelled like sweet hay, and the low rumble of cattle.
Silas opens the driver's door and the wail of a police siren screams nearby. He glances up at the building, then back into the car. Scarlett is hurriedly gathering her things, so Silas's eyes linger on mine, some sort of concern flickering there.
"I'm fine," I say softly. I realize only after the words have passed my lips that he didn't even need to ask the question. I pivot into the backseat and take Screwtape's basket cage from Scarlett. Silas pops the trunk, swings my duffel bag over his shoulder, and grabs a beaten red toolbox. One of the men catcalls at me, and Scarlett snickers.
"Go on, Rosie, kick his ass," she says under her breath. She's overprotective when it comes to wolves but thinks it's especially hilarious how human men assume that girls can't defend themselves.
The building is unlocked, the front door swinging open so quickly that it almost hits Scarlett in the face. The inside has the same sense of beauty gone to seed: cracked tile floors, heavily worn banisters, and a chandelier that's missing so many beads that it's practically just a ball of lights tied to the ceiling. The staircase spirals upward, each apartment jutting off a landing. Halfway up, a heavily muscled man flings his door open and scowls at us as we pass, a sickly sweet scent pouring from his apartment.