Nine Lives of Chloe King

  “What else do you bring?” she asked them aloud. Still no tail, thank God. That would have been harder to hide, and she couldn’t imagine it suddenly disappearing somewhere up inside her body. She looked at her feet—her mom had removed her socks sometime during the night. Chloe hadn’t even felt it—was that because she’d been dead asleep or because her mother’s scent and touch and little sounds were familiar, nondangerous? Had she somehow known instinctually, even in her sleep, that she was safe? Amy’s cat would often spend the entire day sprawled at the bottom of the bed. You could pet him as hard as you wanted and he would stretch, never quite open his eye, and continue sleeping.

  Or did I just completely pass out? A much scarier thought.

  She spread her toes pinkly in the sunlight. Then she flexed them. No claws emerged. Was this it, then? No more physical changes?

  She got up and stretched, enjoying the feeling of morning warmth.

  Then she went upstairs to brush her teeth and stuff. But before she did, she remembered one task she had to take care of: Mus-mus.

  She went into her room and opened the drawer. Mus-mus came running forward, eager for a treat. Chloe dropped in a Cheerio. It bounced. The delivery and noise startled Mus-mus for a second, who was used to much gentler treatment. Chloe put her hand out slowly, extending a finger toward the little mouth. He leaned forward, sniffing. Then he squeaked, dropping the Cheerio, and ran away.

  “You don’t like cats, even nice ones …,” Chloe whispered. Just one more thing that came with her changes, along with the violence. She bit her lip, feeling a tear well up in the corner of each eye.

  “Okay, Mus-mus.” She reached forward to pick him up; he was so desperate to escape her grasp that she had to extend her claws and very delicately close them around him like a cage. She held the mouse up to eye level, regarding the terrified little thing that had been her closest confidant as of just a few days ago. “Goodbye,” she whispered. “And good luck.”

  Then she leaned down and opened her hand near the base of the bed. Mus-mus didn’t hesitate at all, shooting forward and under the bed as soon as he could. Chloe sighed again, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. She carefully placed a little pyramid of Cheerios on the floor in case he needed a good start.

  I’m gonna miss you.

  She took a shower, trying to wash away everything she felt and start the day again. She put on her tank top and a pair of jeans, not bothering with undies. Cats don’t wear underwear, she told herself but didn’t even manage a smile. She adjusted her bra. This cat has to wear something supportive on top, however. She couldn’t imagine having six or eight teats the size of her own.

  Chloe wandered around, straightening some things, cleaning out the fridge for her mom, channel surfing. Overwhelmed by depression, she lay down on the couch.

  Would I give up the claws if it meant no more crazy attacks on me, and life would return to normal, and Mus-mus would come back? Even if she had the choice, she wasn’t sure what the answer would be.

  • • •

  A hesitant knock at the door jolted Chloe out of a long, dreamless sleep. She looked out the window, fingering the chain mail necklace at her neck.

  It was Amy and Paul.

  Chloe frowned, not sure she was ready for this. But she went downstairs anyway and opened the door.

  “Chloe,” Amy said. Her and Paul’s eyes immediately took in the sexy tank she was wearing—and then focused on something particular near her left shoulder, causing them to gasp.

  “Uh, your mom called us. Amy, I mean,” Paul explained as Amy stared, still fixated on the wound from the other night. Chloe had cleaned it out in the shower and put antibiotic on it, but it was still huge, deep, and red. Healing fine, just ugly. “She said you were sick.”

  “Yeah, uh, come on in.” Chloe opened the door all the way, turning to go into the room first. Her two friends followed meekly. “Want anything? Coke? Diet Coke?”

  “Coke,” Paul said absently.

  The stillness in the room was museumlike; it was twilight and everything was dusky, dusty, dim. Like a grandmother’s house. Noises dropped and disappeared into the room like drops into a flat black lake, absorbed instantly.

  “What happened to your arm?” Amy finally asked.

  Chloe turned from the fridge and tossed Paul his Coke.

  “I was attacked on the sidewalk the other night,” she answered flatly.

  “By the bum,” Amy supplied hopefully.

  “No, someone else. Someone with a knife. Someone who seems to be stalking me.”

  All three were silent for a moment. Amy seemed to disappear into the gigantic puffy silver coat she wore—somewhere between pimp and London DJ chic. Her hair was up in knots and she had a thin lime green scarf thrown about her neck. Paul looked far more casual—though just as ill at ease—in jeans and a leather jacket, surprisingly normal for him.

  “Is it someone you know?” Amy finally asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  Amy must have sensed something in Chloe’s tone; she didn’t follow up with the obvious, “Why not?”

  “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do,” Amy said slowly.

  “Yeah?” Chloe asked, sounding like she didn’t care.

  “I didn’t realize—you didn’t tell me. .. .” There was a long pause. “I really haven’t been there for you, have I?” Amy said softly.

  “Not really,” Chloe agreed, but there wasn’t any malice in the way she said it.

  “Paul told me how you felt.” Amy suddenly laughed, forced. Paul looked down, embarrassed. “Paul told me. How you felt That’s a first.” She was right usually one of the two girls was demanding that the other talk to the impenetrable Paul. “I flaked, I know—and then I got pissed because you were dating Alyec. And this other guy. It was like you suddenly had this whole life apart from me.”

  “Hello?” Chloe indicated Paul.

  “I know, I know.” Amy sighed.

  “I can leave … if you guys want,” the boyfriend in question suggested, a little annoyed that he was being referred to as a distraction.

  “I thought you would be overjoyed we were together, like celebrate it or something,” Amy continued. “It’s like—you know, perfect. Your two best friends, dating.”

  “I’m going to … uh … go to the bathroom,” Paul said, getting up and leaving.

  “That’s pretty egomaniacal of you,” Chloe said, sort of regretting that she hadn’t minced words, sort of glad she’d said it the way she had. “I’ve never really dated anyone and you’ve had a string of boyfriends—and now you and my only other close friend have decided to see each other exclusively? How do you think I felt?”

  “Is that why you suddenly started dating all these guys?” Amy said, heat rising in her voice.

  “There aren’t ’all these guys.’ There’s Alyec, who’s fun and a great kisser, and Brian, who I met at the shop. Oh, and Xavier, this guy I met at the club the night after I fell when I was totally alone and felt weird and I tried calling you everywhere and you were busy with Paul.”

  Amy’s mouth opened as if to say something, but nothing came out.

  “I don’t really count him,” Chloe admitted. “I’ve only seen him once since that night.” And he was at death’s door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me at dinner when—“Amy suddenly broke off, remembering the birthday pizza and how eager she’d been to talk about her experience with Paul the night before.

  “You looked like you needed someone to listen to you,” Chloe said quietly. “I didn’t think what I did with Xavier was as important as what was going on with you two.”

  Amy’s eyes grew wet and glassy.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said, trying not to cry. “I know I haven’t been there for you at all, and I felt guilty about it, but I was angry and busy with Paul, and the longer we went, the guiltier and angrier I got. …”

  “It’s o
kay,” Chloe said, trying not to smile. Typical Amy. Overemotional but genuine to a fault—if you pressed her long enough. Amy grabbed her in a big bear hug that made Chloe grunt in surprise, the breath knocked out of her.

  “Wait, isn’t two attacks on you in one month kind of weird?” Amy suddenly asked, wiping her tears off.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Chloe said with a wry smile.

  “Hey.” Paul appeared in the doorway. “Why don’t we walk across the bridge, like we used to?”

  Amy and Chloe looked at each other. Why not? Chloe thought, trying not to focus on how “used to” was less than a month ago.

  • • •

  On the bus ride to Golden Gate, Chloe filled them in on the details of Alyec—minus the car theft—and Brian, focusing more on the latter and how she was really disappointed he’d turned out to be such a loser. Both her friends were disturbed when she told them about how he knew Alyec’s name and told her to stay away from him.

  “Isn’t that a little weird, two stalkers so close together?” Paul asked, unknowingly echoing Amy’s previous question. “You don’t suppose …”

  “That Brian hired a knife-wielding maniac to frighten me?”

  “Or Alyec,” added Amy quickly. She had granted that the popular boy might not be the root of all evil in the universe, but she hadn’t given up hoping that he might be.

  Chloe and Paul ignored her.

  “Maybe you should call the police,” Paul suggested in his “serious” tone.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” Chloe sighed. She wasn’t sure how much she was going to tell them, but she wasn’t ready to say anything quite yet. Maybe on the bridge. That would be the right place.

  When they got off, they slipped past the crowds of large, slow-moving people who were taking pictures and standing around in aimless groups like the Golden Gate buffalo. Paul stopped at a machine to get a bottle of Coke. Once upon a time he would have finished it when they made it to the middle, and the three friends would have written a note and sealed it inside, tossing it into the water below. When they were even younger, they’d pretended that they were on an isolated little island and the bridge led to another world and it was the beginning of a long journey and quest for the three of them, together.

  But now they tried to look as normal and unthreatening as possible to the action-figure National Guard. The days of throwing harmless things off the bridge were long, long over.

  “It’s like we live under martial law,” Amy muttered.

  “Uh, I think they’re here to protect us,” Paul protested.

  “I like your skirt,” Chloe said, noticing the segmented and flaring jean mini Amy sported, almost like a loose tutu.

  “Thanks,” Amy said shyly. “I made it last week. I’m thinking about doing a whole matching set, like ’Jeans Princess.’” She pointed her foot and revealed, under the silver puffy coat, matching jean leg warmers, kind of like bell-bottoms without the rest of the pants attached. Chloe wasn’t sure she would wear them, but it was definitely a cool idea.

  “Your mom should totally let you work at Pateena’s.”

  “Tell me about it,” Amy said, kicking a rock. She kicked it again with her other foot and then really got into it, kicking it back and forth like a soccer ball before accidentally shooting it twenty feet or so ahead. She ran after it, puffy coat flying. Chloe laughed.

  “Tuesday was our anniversary,” Paul said.

  “Yeah?”

  “She made me a card. And wrote me a poem,” he added cryptically, no expression on his face. Chloe studied him for a moment before smiling.

  “At least she didn’t perform it in front of a crowd,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah,” was all he said, with a heavily relieved sigh.

  They caught up to Amy at the midpoint. She was already leaning over, spitting.

  “I’ve told you that’s a myth,” Paul said, putting his hands on his hips in exasperation.

  “No, it’s not,” Chloe argued, leaning over and spitting herself. “If you get it just right with the wind—it really does fly back up.”

  “You two are disgusting,” he said, turning around with his back to the rail. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and cupped his hand against the wind to light it. Red sunlight lit his face from below as if he was in front of a fire.

  Unfortunately, when the wind blew the other way, the smoke completely overpowered her newly heightened sense of smell. She turned her head into the wind, trying not to gag.

  “You gonna jump off this rail?” Amy asked, jerking her thumb at it.

  Chloe smiled. “No, I don’t think so. The boys in green over there wouldn’t like it too much.”

  “Hey, I got it!” Paul suddenly said, holding his arms out like he was literally hit by an idea. “You’re supposed to be dead! From the fall. And now, like in those Final Destination movies, death is doing everything it can to reclaim you! That totally explains the homeless guy and that guy who tried to kill you.”

  “Um, thanks for that heartening interpretation,” Chloe said, “but if that were true, it wouldn’t just be people after me—random things, like cars and—well, this bridge would collapse and try to do me in.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Paul took a step or two backward, looking at the ground.

  “Anyway, like I said, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “What were you doing walking by yourself at night, anyway? Twice?” Amy demanded, kicking the little rock between her feet and moving on across to the other side.

  The three continued moseying along the bridge, long black shadows behind them. There were a few other people enjoying the sunset, and occasionally a cyclist would go whizzing by. Ahead of them the bridge was empty; they had it all to themselves, like the end of a movie. This was it. This was the moment. Here was where she decided how much to tell them.

  Chloe took a deep breath.

  A figure stepped out in front of them from the car side, blocking their path.

  “Um, guys, you the know the weirdo with the blades—not the bum?”

  “Yeah?” Paul and Amy asked; they were holding hands.

  “That’s him.” She pointed.

  The Rogue stood his ground and smiled.

  Twenty

  “Chloe King”

  He held a dagger in each hand and wore no jacket tonight, just a black turtleneck that looked it was made of neoprene—or was hiding armor underneath. Just the sort of thing Brian would wear, Chloe noted distractedly. The pants and boots were the same as the other night; she could see his thick blond hair held back in a ponytail that just ended at the bottom of his neck.

  “Hey,” Paul yelled, thinking fast. “HEY!” he yelled, cupping his hands in the direction of the National Guard. But his words died in the wind.

  “You think your human friends are going to help save you?” the man asked with feigned surprise. “Just because you keep company with them doesn’t mean you’re one of them.”

  “Ho-ly shit,” Amy said, openmouthed.

  “Um, yeah…” Chloe estimated the distance between them—about twenty-five feet. Good enough for a head start? What about Paul and Amy?

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chloe shouted back.

  “They don’t know your true nature?” the man asked, eyes widening.

  “Do we all run in different directions?” Amy whispered, beginning to get really scared. “Or what?”

  “They should.” He walked forward slowly, looking Amy and Paul each in the eye, back and forth, like a cobra deciding where to strike first. “She’s not really your friend. She isn’t even your kind. Our kind,” the man said, desperate to make them understand. “Her people want nothing less than the complete destruction of humanity. To rule the world. To defy God Himself.”

  “Chloe … ?” Paul asked. He wasn’t referring to the killer’s speech; like Amy, he was wondering what they should do. Without thinking or talking about it, the three of them began t
o back away slowly, at the same pace at which the man advanced.

  “Run,” Chloe hissed. “Run now!”

  Paul and Amy ran.

  The Rogue laughed, turning to watch her friends go. “How sweet—are you protecting them? Or protecting the truth about yourself.”

  Chloe sensed this was it. And she was right: by the time he looked back and threw his daggers, she had already dropped to all fours and leapt at him. She heard the blades whoosh with deadly accuracy over her head; they would have been firmly buried in her stomach had she remained standing.

  Two handsprings later she launched herself with a roar at his chest, not really thinking out her attack, just using momentum, movement, and surprise to gain the upper hand, if only for a second.

  Just before her claws managed to sink into his flesh, he reached below her, grabbing and pushing, using her own weight to throw her over his head past him. She landed on the ground safely, not with a tuck and roll, but on all fours.

  Flying daggers don’t kill people, Chloe thought, leaping sidewise at the last minute to avoid one, grabbing the pedestrian rail. People kill people.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he shouted. “Even if you are the One, I have blades enough for all of you.”

  What the hell does that mean? And more to the point, why doesn’t he carry a gun like a normal psychopath? Chloe swung around so she was standing on the rail and lightly ran along it until she came to a slender blue lamppost. She leapt and clung to the sides, shimmying up it. A loud clank indicated a blade that must have just missed one of her feet, hitting the pole instead.

  Chloe leapt to the next support without thinking, crossing ten feet of air right over his head. Shuriken whistled up into the sky behind her. She turned as if to leap back again, as if she were confused and frightened and not thinking.

  At the last minute she dove right for him.

  Finally her claws made contact with his flesh, skimming over some of the Kevlar or whatever he wore, sinking in where it ended. They struggled closely for a moment, landing together on the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Chloe concentrated on just digging in wherever her claws could reach and keeping her legs moving, hopefully doing some damage near his crotch. He tried to lock his own legs around her; they were very strong, almost stony with muscle. Just before her strength gave out, Chloe leapt away again. As soon as she was up, she turned around to face him, ready for his next attack.