Havoc (15 page)

“Like … ?” I asked.

He ignored me. “Lately, though, ever since all this started, I can't bench-press it gone. And when that nighttime shift comes, man, Emily, it's amazing. I can let it all out. Let it all go.”

Falling silent, he picked up his backpack from where he'd set it in front of his feet, opened it up, and pulled out an apple. He took a bite and went back to staring out over the baseball field.

“Well,” I said after a moment, “I'm glad it helps you. Our crazy shenanigans and everything.” I swallowed, not sure if I should admit what I was about to say. But if it would help him … “I can't lie, I kind of like it too. How I have no worries when I'm her.”

I grabbed his chin, made him meet my eyes. “But Dalton, you have to start letting your daytime self seep in. You have got to keep yourself in check.” The command was as much for him as it was to remind myself.

Dalton took another bite of apple. “I know,” he said with a full mouth. “I will.”

“Okay,” I said, letting him go. “Good.”

“And there's you too,” he went on. “I don't know what it is, but when I'm around you during the day, I get all calm. Not even being around Nikki is like that. Not anymore.”

“Oh,” I said. “Dalton, I'm pretty sure that's just—”

“Pheromones, I know,” he finished for me. “You told me that already. That's why you're always leaning on Spencer, isn't it? He makes your brain stop running like you do mine?”

I didn't answer right away. I somehow felt
embarrassed
. Because even then I was wishing Spencer was there to transport me away from my incredibly awkward morning.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “I like Spencer. He's a nice guy. He makes me laugh.”

The first bell rang then, echoing over the schoolyard and mercifully cutting short the conversation. Any kids still straggling outside began to head inside. I grabbed my bag and stood up. Dalton did the same.

“Hey! Guys! Wait up!”

Dalton and I both turned to see Spencer racing up the walkway toward us, his hair mussed and a giant grin on his face. He stopped in front of us, panting as though he'd run the whole way here.

“I found her,” he said between gulping breaths. “I know who our mysterious werewolf girl is. You'll never believe it.”

“Who?” I said. He wagged his eyebrows at me, so I grabbed his shoulders and playfully shook him. “No holding out! Who is it? Is it Mai?”

Spencer leaned in and looked between both of us.

“Nope, it's not Mai. It's none other than Carver High's very own super-uptight class president, Miss Tracie Townsend.”

13

JUST LEAVE ME ALONE

Tracie Townsend. Perfect, prim, and perfectly, primly perky Tracie Townsend. She of the honor roll, the top of every class, the head of half the academic after-school clubs, the junior class president. Unfazed by the kids who made fun of her for being so… Tracie. Always hyper focused on being the best she could be.

And I'd seen her, the night before, chained to her own bed, in agony.

The girl had been going through everything I had. Not a crack in her summery armor during the school days. Well, not that I'd seen anyway.

“Whoa,” Dalton said. “I never would have guessed it was her.”

“Do you know for sure?” I asked Spencer. “Before we start calling her a werewolf, are you sure?”

Spencer nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah, I'm sure. Her smell was all over the place. I'm guessing all the perfume she wears at school gets washed down the drain when she showers. I saw her walk out of the exact house you told me.”

“Does she have any sisters it could be?” I asked.

“Nope, only child,” Dalton said. He stood tall, hands on his hips, staring at the front of the school. “Tracie…” A smile appeared on his lips. “Guess she's not so perfect after all, huh?”

Biting my lip, I met his eyes. “Well, we both know that no one here at school really knows the real us. Why wouldn't it be the same for her?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah…”

Spencer, scratching his arm, looked between the two of us. “I think I must have gotten left out of some conversation you guys had.”

“It's nothing, Spencer,” I said. I shifted my backpack on my shoulders, then smiled at him. “Dalton was just asking me some questions about the changes.”

“Oh,” he said. “All righty.”

I locked onto Spencer's face. The shaggy hair spilling over his forehead, his wide smile. I felt myself drawn to him, an insect to an electric lamp. The confrontation with Megan had left me on edge, and I didn't know what to think about Dalton's behavior. And now I kept seeing the wolf-girl in her bed, picturing her as Tracie, perfect Tracie scared and chaining herself up to keep at bay a change she didn't understand.

I could lean in close and let Spencer dull me down. But something inside me felt revolted by the idea.

Don't do it
, Nighttime commanded.
Keep your senses. You don't need to rely on him.

Swallowing, I tilted my head toward the school doors. “Well, the second bell is going to ring any time now. We should get to class.”

The three of us walked together, though I made sure to position Dalton between me and Spencer as subtly as I could. Why would Nighttime be so adamant that I not take my one relief of the day? I mean, I'd been considering the effects of the pheromones for days; of course I knew that this attraction might not have been real at all.

And that was it, then. If it was something hard-coded into me by BioZenith, why trust it? Already the killer had tried to lure me to him using the scent. And if my brain was all mellowed, would I still have the drive to discover all there was to know about why I was made a werewolf? Could this have been their way of placating us into compliance for whatever they wanted to do to us now that we'd changed?

But if it wasn't for these insane wolf smells clinging to our minds, I never would have found Spencer or Dalton, they never would have found Tracie. We'd all still be alone, thinking that our brains had snapped, that we were slowly going insane. Instead, we were slowly forming a pack.

Like everything else about my life, I couldn't figure out the good from the bad anymore.

We entered the mostly empty front hallway, me taking a lot of short, shallow breaths, forcing myself not to get too close to Spencer. I couldn't avoid him forever. I didn't
want
to, I mean, who would? But right then I felt I needed some space to just be
me
and try to figure some things out.

“Erm, Emily, is it?”

I stopped, and Dalton and Spencer did the same. We all turned to see a small, slender man peeking out of the front office. His suit—tweed that day—was at least a size too large for him, and no matter how he combed his hair, nothing could hide the growing bald spot. He peered at me through wire-frame glasses.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “Mr. Savage, right?”

I'd met him on Monday morning, very briefly. I didn't really know who he was except that he knew I'd been one of the people who “found” Dr. Elliot's body in Spencer's backyard. A counselor brought in to talk me through my feelings or whatever.

“That's right,” he said. “You never came to see me after school on Monday. To talk about what you've been through.”

I jacked a thumb over my shoulder. “Well, I have class now, so…”

Mr. Savage waved a hand. “No worries. I can write a note for your teachers. Though your friends should probably get on their way.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said. To me, he whispered, “I had to talk to him too. Don't worry, he's not so bad.” And then he and Dalton walked off down the hall, their sneakers echoing on the linoleum.

“So…” I said, turning back to Mr. Savage. “Do we talk out here or … ?”

His smile was strangely unnerving. “No, come on in. Have a seat.”

I followed him into the front office. We walked past the secretaries at their desks, filing paperwork and tapping at computers. Then I was ushered into a small office with room enough for a desk, one chair on his side, and one on mine. We both took a seat.

“Don't worry, you're not in trouble,” he said, still smiling at me. I realized my face must have looked incredibly guilty. Because I
felt
incredibly guilty. With all that had happened the last few nights, the visions of dead Dr. Elliott when I closed my eyes had been replaced with worries more immediate. But they were still there. I would never forget that night.

Suddenly I wished I hadn't abstained from partaking of Spencer's pheromones.

“Sorry,” I said. “I've never been in the office before. It's where the bad kids are marched off to, so I always imagined, like, torture equipment and jail cells or something.”

Mr. Savage laughed, then took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth from his pocket. I watched and waited as he put the glasses back on.

“First I must ask how you're coping with what you saw Monday morning,” he said. “I can imagine seeing the aftermath of an animal attack wasn't, ah, pleasant.”

A torn-open neck. Too pale skin. A crow, bobbing its head into the wounds. Glassy, unfocused eyes. The stench of too much blood.

I shuddered and closed my eyes. I took in a steeling breath, forcing myself to think of puppies and unicorns frolicking through sugar-cookie flowers and candy grass.

“No,” I said. “Not exactly pleasant.”

“Do you want to talk about how it felt?”

I opened my eyes and saw him leaning forward on the desk, studying me intently. I didn't, in fact, want to tell him anything. I didn't know him. It felt too personal.

“I can't really put it into words,” I said. “But I only saw him, the body I mean, for a few seconds. We went to call the police as soon as we realized what it was.”

“Do you remember hearing anything during the night?” he asked me. “The wounds suggest he was attacked by rather large dogs or wolves. I would imagine that would be a bit noisy, what with all the commotion.”

I shrugged. “I didn't hear anything.”

“Interesting.” He picked up a pen and jotted a few notes down on a piece of paper. I tried to see what he was writing, but the words would have been illegible even if they weren't upside down. Someone didn't ace penmanship.

Without looking up, he continued, “Your new friend out there, the tall one with the red hair. He's Dalton McKinney, yes? The boy who was shot by the man who also killed Emily Cooke?”

“Yes,” I said. “That's him.”

“I was led to believe you were only friends with one other girl here.” He looked up at me. “Have you been friendly with Dalton long?”

Now, I'd never been to a counselor before, but this was definitely starting to feel more like an interrogation than any sort of touchy-feely-cry-about-your-problems session. Either he was really bad at his job, or something was up here. My first thought was,
The police are on to me
, and I could feel the panic rising in my chest. I gripped the armrest of my chair, forcing myself to stay calm.

“Dalton and I just have a class project together,” I lied. “We're not really friends.”

“Ah.” Back to the paper he went, his thin hands dashing out loops and lines that I was almost positive had to be in some made-up alphabet. Seriously, could he even read that?

His notes written down, he smiled back up at me. “I think that's all I need for now, Emily. You can get a pass from one of the secretaries. And remember, if you do decide you want to talk about any of this, I'm here.”

“All right,” I said. “Thanks.”

Flinging my backpack over my shoulder, I fled the small office. The panic I'd managed to keep down started to rise as I went to the nearest secretary, who started to fill out a form for me. My leg shook, my breath began to get ragged. Was this guy not a counselor at all? Was he with the police? Did they now suspect it wasn't dogs at all, but people?

How could they? The attack was clearly animal in origin. Jared, the police deputy I'd called to tell about the dead man in Spencer's backyard, had confirmed that. He'd been there with an officer on Monday afternoon to ask some questions that lasted all of ten minutes. All that horrible business was done with now, except for in my dreams. There was no way anyone suspected me and Spencer were killers. No way. I needed to relax.

Maybe I could find Spencer. Lean into him, let him envelope me, take away this new layer of stress.

No.

I took the pass from the secretary, offering a smile I didn't feel, then headed into the hall.
Deep breaths
, I told myself.
Chill out. This is not an issue. You're the alpha, remember? There are more important things to focus on: Shadowmen. BioZenith. Spencer. Dalton. And—

I rounded the corner of the office and almost collided with someone about to walk in. She took a step back, as startled as I was.

“Whoa, there! Almost had us a fender bender.”

The speaker was Tracie. Dressed in a blue blouse and tan slacks. Yes,
slacks
. As I gawked at her, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

“I don't mean to sound rude, but could you please move out of the doorway?” she asked me. “I have to drop these off.” She held up a stack of papers, sign-up sheets for some club.

I couldn't move. I looked her up and down. There wasn't a wrinkle on her clothes, a crease of worry on her brow. Whatever werewolf musk she had, I couldn't smell it for some reason. I could, however, distinctly smell some sort of flowery perfume.

She blinked at me. “Well?”

I stepped to the side, unable to figure out what to say. She gave me an obligatory smile, then brushed past me.

I spun around. “Tracie, wait.”

With a sigh, she turned back toward me. “Yes?”

I swallowed. I really hoped Tracie was the last werewolf, because this part—the accusation of being a mythical beast—was kind of awkward.