Feral (34 page)

The image exploded into Claire's face: Serena's palm, that ballpoint word. The cat lowering her face to take a bite of her flesh . . . Chas didn't cheat. Was this a piece of Claire's puzzle? If so, how did it fit in?

“Give him a break, Becca,” Ruthie said, and stomped away.

Becca shook her head, not yet ready to believe Ruthie or to forgive Chas.

She just keeps hanging on to her hatred for Ruthie, like it tastes good to her. Like it's a juicy gutted mouse
, Claire caught herself thinking.

The sides of Claire's neck felt as tight as a coiled rope. Screws were twisting into her temples. Her headache was getting worse. She needed to get away from Becca for a moment.

“Excuse me. I have—to do a story—about the dance,” Claire muttered, and scooted away toward the opposite side of the gym. She leaned against the wall, its coldness almost soothing against the back of her shoulders, through the filmy material of her gossamer cardigan.

Her thoughts were piling one on top of the other. She had answers to find.
If I know what happened to Serena, if I tell everyone, maybe then she can rest; she won't need more time, won't need my body; I'll be safe.

She also needed to figure out a way to get into the basement without anyone seeing her. To find out if the lure of canned food had done the trick.
Where are you, Serena?

Across the room, Rich was watching her. He placed the camera on a chair and hurried across the gym floor, while crepe paper streamers rippled above his head.

“Why don't we take a break?” Rich asked.

A break
, Claire thought with spite.
Five minutes after we get here. He must really think I have problems. He's right—I do. But I'm going to fix them. Tonight.

Claire plastered on her very best
I'm fine
expression. “Let's just dance,” she suggested, making her voice sound light. She thought if she could lean against Rich for a minute, she could catch her breath and prepare herself for whatever was coming.

She smelled it again—that faint metallic scent dancing through the air. Danger.

In spite of the whirling fans, the gym began to heat up.

Rich took her hand, seeming both surprised and flattered by her invitation. Together, they passed the line of chaperones; no one paid attention to the two of them—not even Isles, who stared listlessly across the gym. Isles, in her stunning red dress, looking like a tropical flower in the midst of an otherwise dead bouquet as she stood in a cluster of stodgy, bland old teachers.

Claire straightened her back and slapped another smile across her face, trying desperately to seem solid and steady on her feet. But the moment she and Rich hit the center of the dance floor, the walls of the gym began to close in, shrinking the room to the size of an elevator. The entirety of the Peculiar High student body appeared to crowd on top of her. Girls who had only moments before put their heads on the shoulders of their dates as a slow song began now had black shadows where their eyes had sparkled; their grotesquely smiling mouths cracked and bled; their cheeks turned leathery and blue. Every couple in the gym waltzed together, all of them making identical moves in the same direction. The faces of death opened their mouths and began, collectively, to scream.

Claire pulled away from Rich and stumbled across the dance floor.

Serena's messing with my mind
, Claire thought.
She's got to be close. She's got to be here somewhere. I need to get to the basement.

“Claire?” Rich called out, but the music all but completely swallowed her name.

Claire trembled as she looked about the gym for the old cat—or the fog—or Casey. She took a deep breath, as if preparing to do battle.

They'll never get me
, Claire promised, one hand in her pocket and the other on the St. Jude charm around her neck.
Not this time.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

C
laire stumbled toward the refreshment table near the windows. She reached for the punch bowl ladle.
A drink
, she thought.
I just need a cool drink.
She disturbed a few ice cubes swimming in the red liquid; when they crashed together, they exploded like firecrackers in her ears.

Fighting to gain control over her surroundings, Claire dropped the ladle and turned from the red punch—
like a pool of blood
, she caught herself thinking—to watch the nearby couples dance. But the couples were spinning too fast—more like ice-skaters than dancers—and she grew dizzy. Claire couldn't stare at any one of them and stand up straight at the same time.

She turned her eyes instead toward the fringes of the dance floor, deciding she was better off focusing her attention on someone solid, stationary, unmoving. But at the same time, Rich was trying to scoot around Mavis, who kept raising her arm to point out still more shots she wanted him to take. And even in the line of chaperones, it seemed that Isles was restless, peeling herself away from her spot near the wall and slipping out of the gym. She passed by Becca, pacing alone near the exit.

Everyone, everything was moving—even the floor beneath her felt unsteady.

“What's up?” a man's voice thundered at Claire.

Claire looked up to see Rhine hovering over her, radiating the same kind of heat that Claire had found herself choking on in Owen's car.

“Something's going on with you,” Rhine said, leaning still closer to Claire. “I know it. Somebody messing with you, Claire? Huh? Somebody in here need some straightening out?”

Claire stared into the thin scruff of whiskers trying desperately to grow across his cheek, suppressing a laugh. What good was he, really—little more than a door greeter. He couldn't save so much as a fly.

She attempted to calm him by patting his arm and shaking her head no. “It's just a little warm in here. I think I need something to drink,” she said, reaching for the ladle again as she rocked on her unsteady high heels.

Rhine leaned forward, gazing into Claire's pupils, dilated with utter fear. “You didn't take something before you got here, did you, Cain?” he asked quietly. “I mean, not that I care, but it's my job, you know?”

Claire groaned.
He thinks I'm stoned. How funny—of all people to come to a dance loaded. Why would I? Doesn't he know I squealed on a drug dealer at my old school? Claire Cain, the rat, the whistle-blower.

She shook her head again, the slight movement making her feel as if her brain were a Ping-Pong ball bouncing about inside her skull. “I'm just thirsty,” she finally managed, but her tongue was thick. Rough.

Like a cat's tongue . . .

Claire dropped the plastic ladle back into the punch bowl, unable to stomach the bloody look of the punch, the bang of ice cubes crackling against each other. “Actually, I think I need some water. Just—plain water.”

She excused herself, breaking away from Rhine to weave through the edges of the crowd, out of the gym, staggering down the eerily quiet hallway. The music from the dance trickled behind her, sounding increasingly farther away as Claire made her way toward the closest water fountain.

The water was cold against her fevered lips. The shock of it felt good—a welcome change from the internal heat building within her.

A soft mewing sound filtered up from the floor beside her.

Claire let go of the button on the side of the water fountain, killing the stream of water. She raised her head.

The calico. Her head poked out of the partially open door to the basement.

Claire smiled. “Well, well, well. If it isn't
Sweet Pea.
” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You liked my dinner, did you? The smell get to you?” Claire giggled.

But the cat merely yowled, flicked her inflated tail, and dipped back through the open door, rushing down the stairs.

“Serena,” Claire called. She gathered her skirt into her fists, her shoes clicking softly as she followed, slowly inching her way down the dark staircase. This was going to stop, just like she had stopped that boy in Chicago from ruining Rachelle's reputation. She was going to put an end to the craziness. And this time, she was
not going to get hurt.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Claire croaked, creeping forward. The basement shadows lengthened. Dripping sounds—like drops of water hitting a metal tub—interrupted the silence.

“I've got something for you,” Claire called. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the cameo necklace.

“You want it, don't you? Come get it,” Claire teased. “Come get your necklace, Serena.” She inched along, looking into every crevice for the old cat, detecting the faint smell of coconut.

Claire stopped and listened, hoping to hear old cat sounds in between the drips of water. She waited.

As she listened, she realized she hadn't been hearing water at all, but high-pitched notes of laughter.

Now a voice—lower. Hushed.

More laughter—as musical as a wind chime in a gentle breeze.

Claire crept past the old gym and several classrooms—searching for the source of the laughter. She finally paused outside a classroom, its door left slightly open.

She watched as a blue suit jacket tumbled to the floor. Images flashed: a body in a red dress, back pressed against the top of an old teacher's desk. Arms stretched to wrap around a back. Long blond locks. A boy's mouth smeared with red lipstick. A woman's head tilted back. The boy lowering his mouth into the woman's neck, working his way down her chest. Even though Claire couldn't see the entirety of his face, he seemed familiar, his blond hair combed smoothly over his head.

White legs emerged as a dress was pushed up toward hips. Mouths pressed together. Hands in hair.

Claire jerked backward, her heel striking an old metal bucket. She cringed as the bucket clanked, tumbling against the floor.

Isles and Owen . . . together . . .

“What was that?” Isles asked, pulling her mouth away from Owen's as she tried to rearrange her dress and push herself off the old teacher's desk.

“I don't know,” Owen answered, trying to wipe away Isles's red lipstick, but only smearing it into an odd pink stain. Like the blood Claire had seen on the mouths of the feral cats out in the woods.

Claire's head reeled. She had to process the idea. Owen and Isles, making out. Like a couple.
Owen and Isles?

She turned, desperate to get away from the classroom. She had just seen something she shouldn't have. Knowing secrets was dangerous—far more dangerous, even, than wayward spirits, ghosts. She needed to get out of the labyrinth of the basement. She raced toward the stairs, rounding a corner, another, her feet too heavy, her hard-soled shoes too noisy against the tile. She was too easy to follow.

As soon as she turned the last corner, Claire smiled.
Finally. The stairs. Freedom.

But instead of pumping faster, the click of her heels stopped abruptly, less than three feet from the staircase.

Serena sat on the bottom step, her slender tail swishing happily behind her. This time, though, Claire was not going to stomp her feet and send the cat skittering away—not like she had back at the cemetery. It was time for a confrontation.

“Come out of there, Serena,” Claire shouted. She dangled the necklace. “Come
on.
You want your life back? You come get it.”

But the cat only raised her front paw, as though in greeting. As though inviting Claire to play.

“I'm tired of your games,” Claire shouted. “I'm not going to be your toy!”

She raised her head, glancing about the dim hallway. “Casey!” she shouted. “You come out, too! Come on! Do you hear me?”

Claire's booming voice frightened the old calico; she crouched down closer to the floor, lying flat, elbows hugging her ribs, hissing.

When Casey didn't answer, Claire shook her head angrily.

“Don't tell me you're a coward, Casey,” Claire screamed.
“Come out!”

The intensity of Claire's screech tugged a similar sound from the old calico, who suddenly found it necessary to defend herself. The cat pounced, flying straight for Claire's face.

Claire screamed, lurching out of the way, backing into a nearby room. As her eyes landed on shelves of half-used cleaning supplies, she realized she was in the old janitors' office.

A whole slew of hisses exploded as she moved. Ferals. Clustered on the desk, the floor, their heads dipped into Claire's canned foods. A gray tabby pushed his face through the open ground-level window, dropping to the desktop.

“You brought them all, huh?” Claire shouted at Serena, who had trailed her into the office. “Your gang? You showed them where the food was, didn't you, Sweet Pea? Or should I say
Serena
?”

The calico backed up on her haunches. She moved like a fencer waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Claire screamed, waving her arms and sending the cats skittering. “Out, out, out!” she boomed, stomping and fearlessly reaching forward, pushing the cats out with her hands.

The calico remained.

“You're the one I want, Serena,” Claire told the calico. “Come on. I'm here.”

Suddenly, the door behind her slammed; when Claire turned, she found herself staring straight into Owen's face.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“N
ot again,” Owen said, grabbing Claire by the shoulders roughly. But his touch, his words, weren't angry. He was afraid, pleading.

“Don't do this to me again,” he repeated, his eyes flashing.

“Don't do what?” Claire said. “I've got to—the cat—”