Havoc (5 page)

My dad and stepmom were both out. My stepsister, Dawn, was home, but she had some sort of paper to work on, so she might as well have been in the wilds of the Amazon for how easy it was to get in touch with her.

I was surrounded by all my creature comforts—my personal collections of DVDs and books, all organized in the particular way I like them; the geeky posters on my walls; Ein, the stuffed corgi.

But I was far from feeling comfortable.

All I could think about was the shadowman from the night before. I kept staring at the foot of my bed where I'd seen it. All my lights were on, blazingly bright yellow, but I knew that wouldn't stop it if it felt like materializing to watch me.

And when I wasn't thinking about the shadowman, I was remembering Dr. Gunther Elliott. I remembered the night at the club when he lured me outside, then fired a gun at me. I remembered the night he'd found me outside Patrick's and Spencer's respective houses and tried to kill me.

That was the night Spencer and I became wolves together. Leaped at Dr. Elliott. Tore into his neck and chest with our terrible, monstrous teeth. Hot, oily blood leaked from horrific wounds, filling my mouth, coating my tongue. And the shadowmen were there, watching us do it.

Applauding us.

I was a killer. I was a freak. A…

I gasped a sob on my bed, where I lay thinking these thoughts. I was made this way and I didn't know why, and it seemed like no one else knew, either.

But I was also strong now, right? I could be fearless, if I let myself. I had a connection to others, my pack, that reminded me of being a little kid, when I last felt like I was really close to my family. It was the feeling of Christmases with the grandparents over, everyone in sweaters, a fire in the fireplace, me tossing wrapping paper into the air while they laughed and videotaped the present-opening carnage. It was cuddling next to my dad, an old knitted afghan over us as we watched
Alias
, me wondering aloud why sometimes Sydney Bristow wore only her underwear when doing spy stuff. And it was Megan and me running around with blankets slung over our shoulders as royal robes, screaming at the top of our lungs while we pretended we were being chased by carnivorous unicorns.

I mean, it's not like my family wasn't still close. We were just all … doing our own thing now, I guess. And in the span of a week Megan and I had drifted apart. But when Spencer was there, and now Dalton, those old, fuzzy feelings all came back somehow. That feeling of me needing them, and them needing me, and together we could just be relentlessly
happy
.

Only my pack wasn't there just then. One, Emily Cooke, would never be there. I was alone with all this craziness, and all I wanted was to find Spencer and let our biochemistry mingle and keep me in a dopey, goofy haze.

Sick, right? It was funny, but at first I'd thought I could handle all of this alone. I'd thought I'd sort of reconciled all the sides of myself and I was an independent woman, strutting like Beyoncé and getting all single ladies up in here. Except I was preventing myself from turning into Nighttime and Wolftime, the stronger versions of Emily. And the only time the past few days I'd felt all wanton and worry free was when I was with a boy.

It doesn't have to be that way, girl.
Nighttime.
Stop being so damn afraid. You know you're better than that. You proved it. Believe it, already!

“I know, I know,” I muttered. “You're so awesome, I'm so lame, blah, blah and, oh look over here, in the back of the closet behind an old pair of bright red galoshes: another
blah
.”

I pulled my glasses off my face, squeezed my eyes closed, and massaged the bridge of my nose. Considering all the sleep I was getting, I shouldn't have felt so tired. But being consumed all the time by sci-fi craziness on top of, y'know, school and angry best friends can be a bit of a drain.

Oh. Angry best friend. Maybe of all my problems, that was one I could actually fix without too much hassle.

I glanced at my clock—it was a little after four p.m. I still had some time to kill. I probably should have done homework. But I wasn't really in the mood to parse mathematical equations. Instead, I had an idea about how to bond with Megan.

I grabbed my phone and went downstairs. The house was eerily quiet—when Dawn disappears into her room to study, she
really
disappears. Hugging myself to warm up my bare arms, I walked across the hardwood to the couch, plopped down, and wrapped myself in the afghan draped over the cushions. Snatching up the remote from the coffee table, I flipped on the TV and scrolled to the movie channel listings.

Perfect timing. A bad old horror movie was about to start. I selected the channel and cranked the volume up, letting the surround sound fill the front room and chase away the freaky silence.

I flipped open my phone and dialed reedy. Megan picked up right away.

“Hello?”

“Hi!” I sounded way too chipper. I coughed and attempted to tone it down. “Hey, are you near a TV?”

“Uh, yeah,” Megan replied from the other end. “Why?”

“Well, we haven't watched a movie by phone in forever
,
so I thought, if you're not busy, we could now.”

Silence. I bit my lip, waiting.

“Let's do it,” Megan finally said. “I was just reading the internet anyway.”

I let out a shaky breath and smiled to myself. Okay. So far so good. Megan didn't sound annoyed or anything, at least. In fact, I could almost hear the grin in her voice.

The other end crackled, and I heard shuffling as Megan moved through her house to get to the TV. I switched the phone to my other ear.

“Okay, what are we watching?” Megan asked.

“Look for
Urban Legend
,” I told her. “It's like bad
Scream
fan fic, so prepare to mock mercilessly.”

Megan laughed. “Anyone famous in it, or is this one of those movies where this is the only thing on the actors' IMDb pages?”

“Actually, Joshua Jackson from
Fringe
is in this,” I said. “And the lead singer from Thirty Seconds to Mars. Sometime in the past decade they decided to trade hairstyles, too.”

“So weird.” Megan laughed.

We watched the opening sequence, squealing in glee when we recognized Horror Movie Icon Brad Dourif as a stuttering gas station attendant, and then openly wondering how smart the killer must be to decapitate someone who is currently driving a car that he is also in. Then came much mocking of some truly cracktastic acting.

It really felt, for that half an hour, like we were back to normal. We'd watched movies like this tons of times—not always by phone, sometimes it was by IM, but when we couldn't hang out and watch something together, it was the next best thing. There was nothing I found more fun than finding a movie Megan had never heard of and getting to hear her unbridled first impression. And she was truly on her game that afternoon.

“Wow, this lead girl is a total downer,” she said from the phone. “She's, like, sapping my will to live. I want the guy in the fur coat to come hang me from a tree right now.”

I laughed. “I know, right? I'd much rather her roommate, Sort of Horror Movie Icon Danielle Harris, be the lead. No one expects the angry goth girl to survive.”

“Oh wait, I know this one,” Megan said. “Danielle Harris is … uh…”

I curled my legs up under me and smiled, even though Megan couldn't see it. “You know this, come on.”

“Oh! Was she the little girl in the later Halloween movies?”

I laughed again. “I'm proud. Truly the student is becoming the master.”

Megan giggled—actually giggled!—at my cliché and then, for a few moments, we both went silent. From my TV and through my cell phone I could hear more bad acting, and Megan's soft breathing.

“You know, Em, I missed this,” Megan said quietly after a moment. “I was beginning to think…”

“I know,” I said. “I've missed it too. I've been way too busy lately to just … like, hang out.”

“Well, you know how to reach me when you want to. This is a lot more productive than reading fan-boy rants on message boards all afternoon, at least for me. Maybe that's a good time for you, I don't know.”

Grinning, I pulled the afghan tighter around me. “Yeah, no, I'm good on avoiding rants. Oh, wait, okay, I think someone is about to die.”

We went back to the movie then. Megan was mid-riff on the dubious talent of Tara Reid when my phone buzzed against the side of my face. Startled, I let the phone fall to my lap—where I saw a text on the screen, from Spencer.

4:32 PM PST: yo Em. Dalton is on his way home, u ready

My pulse pumped with excitement—this was it, finally we could talk to Dalton in private—and immediately guilt rushed over me. Megan and I were actually talking normally for the first time in a week. Actually having fun, like we used to. And now I was going to have to ruin it.

I put the phone to my ear. Megan was giggling to herself about whatever joke I'd just missed. I swallowed, opened my mouth to speak, then couldn't say anything. After another moment of quiet, I closed my eyes and decided to just rip off the Band-Aid.

“Hey, Megan? Um, I really hate to do this, but I have to go.”

Again I was met with silence. All I could hear were the echoing dialogue and sound effects from our TVs.

“What's up?” she finally asked.

I swallowed again. “I have an important project that I'm supposed to do. Uh, with Spencer. I thought I'd have time to watch the whole movie. I'm really—”

“Fine.”

“Megan, I'm really, really sorry,” I said. “I wouldn't ditch you if this wasn't important.”

A sigh on the other end. “I said it's fine, Emily. This movie isn't that much fun, anyway.”

“We can find another one,” I said. “Only in person next time, okay?”

“Yeah. But don't let me keep you. Go do your project. I've got plenty of butthurt people on the internet to read about.”

Before I could respond, the phone clicked dead. I stared at it for a moment. I'd screwed up. Again.

Closing my eyes, I shook my head. I couldn't worry about it now. Megan and I would talk tomorrow. I hoped. With her no longer on the phone, the TV just felt like meaningless noise and color. I flicked off the TV, and those same worries that I'd momentarily shoved away started to come back. The house suddenly felt even more cavernous and empty.

My fingers darted over the number keys of my cell as I finally texted Spencer back.

4:37 PM PST: For the love of all things good in the world come save me.

4:37 PM PST: lol? u ok?

I grinned at the phone. Apparently faux histrionics don't translate well via text.

4:39 PM PST: I'm fine, just lonely and getting all hyperbolic. I'll meet you outside.

5

YEAH, HE'S SUPER FRIENDLY

Spencer and I pulled up in front of Dalton's house at five on the dot. Dalton lived on the richer side of town, and predictably his house was of the lavish multistory type that seemed straight out of one of those Real Housewives shows. They had a broad, beautifully tended yard and garden. Even though it was beginning to rain, an older, tanned man who clearly wasn't Dalton's father was mowing the lawn as Spencer pulled the minivan to park behind Dalton's parents' Lexus. Or one of their Lexuses, anyway. Lexii?

“I guess BioZenith pays its employees pretty well,” I said as I climbed out of the car, grabbing my backpack full of shadowmen-related books as I did.

“It probably takes a particular skill set to genetically engineer people,” Spencer shouted over the din of the lawn mower as he rounded the car and came to my side.

“Guess so.”

We nodded politely to the old gardener, then stood on Dalton's porch and rang the doorbell. There was a wicker-and-faux-fall-leaf wreath on the door and stacks of browning gourds at our feet.
Très
Martha Stewart.

A minute later a small woman with short, blond-streaked hair opened the door. She was dressed like Martha too—all
Better Homes & Gardens
in a sensible blouse and slacks, with a pair of handcrafted pumpkin earrings. “Hello?” she asked, offering us a timid smile.

“Hi,” I said. “We—”

Loud, sharp barks burst from the foyer behind the woman, and a large yellow Lab leaped around her, nearly knocking her over. I jumped back, unsure if I was about to meet the family guard dog. But the gold-furred Lab just bounced from foot to foot, looking up at us both, tongue lolling out, its tail an excited blur.

“Bad dog,” the woman said wearily. She grabbed it by its collar and tried to pull the dog back inside. Unable to get the dog to do more than move a tiny bit to the left, she looked back up at us and sighed. “May I help you?”

“We're here to see Dalton?” I said, sounding less confident than I'd intended.

“Oh, I'm not sure he's up for any more visitors after the busy day he's had, dear, he really should be resting and—”

“No, Mom, it's cool, I invited them.”

Dalton appeared behind his mother, dressed down in sweatpants and a muscle shirt. His skin glistened with sweat, and he was breathing heavily. The Lab turned all its attention to Dalton now, leaping up at his midsection. Dalton crouched down, rubbing his dog's fur.

“Good boy, Max,” he said in a goofy voice. “Who's a good boy?” He looked up at Spencer and me, still roughly petting Max. His face broke into a huge smile at the sight of us.

“Are you sure?” Dalton's mother asked, almost stuttering over her words. “The doctors said you're doing far better than they ever could have hoped, but you really shouldn't be straining yourself.”

He stood up and gave her a sweaty half hug around the shoulders. “Don't worry so much, Mom. I'm fine. You heard what they said, I'm a miracle.” He pulled her in tighter and kissed her hair, and a smile appeared on the woman's weary face. She clasped his hand.