Monsters: The Ashes Trilogy (68 page)

She hadn’t lied. She really did believe that her monster only worked
one-way: a drop behind the eyes of someone else, and not vice versa.
The odor might have been there for a while, although not too
long. Earlier, she’d been outside with Tom and smelled only the
strong, keen, cold metal of Superior, the fresh resin of woods, the
fire—and Tom, of course. She’d been very focused on him, his taste,
the feel of his mouth and hands, and then the urgency of his body
against hers. His scent saturated her skin and hair and every part of
her. Tom was so strong, a hum in her blood, and what they made
together was so sweet as to eclipse all else.

Now, though, she recalled the dream, brief but vivid, that had
awakened her. The image was more like a crane shot from a faded
video: a swooping pan that showed woods and a blur that might be a
tent and then the lake, not black or sickly green, but steely blue and
sparking with moonlight where small waves curled over rocks.

That was when the monster raised its head and took a whiff, and
she woke.
“It’s all right,” she said to the wolfdog, not knowing if this was
true. Yet she smelled no spike of danger here: only cool shadows and
gray mist, a hint of apple.
And rot. That was there, too. Still.
She mightn’t have spotted him if not for the moon. He was that
far back in the trees. Just a suggestion of a person there, a stick figure
cut out of black construction paper.
At the sight, everything in her that
was
human iced. Not the monster, though, with its scaly arms and needle teeth. Wolf was a buddy,
someone with whom to play. For her, it was as though the monster
decided to take her worst nightmare and make it real.
This would end in only one of two ways: with Wolf dead or—
eeny-meeny-miny-mo—Tom, Chris, Ellie. Take your pick.
“You can’t do this, Wolf,” she said to that dark silhouette in the
trees. “They’ll kill you.”
Or I will, to protect them.
“I want to walk with
Tom. I’m sorry, Wolf. Go back to Penny. She needs you. I wish I could
help you be Simon again, but I don’t know how. I don’t know if you
can.”
Or if I should try.
Yet her right hand just happened to be in her parka pocket, and
she felt two things, both of which crinkled. One she’d put there a
while back. Hadn’t forgotten it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Until this second, she thought she would share it with Tom and
Chris and Ellie. A kind of celebration as they began their long walk,
together, toward something new.
The other was her mother’s letter, the one Ellie stole back from
Harlan. Having read it enough times to memorize it, she didn’t need
the moon’s strong light. The lines that jumped out of the black of her
mind now, though, were ones her dad penned.

A word of advice, sweetheart: when you’re at the brink; when it’s a
choice between what’s safe and what might be better, even if what’s best is
also scary, take a chance, honey. Take a deep breath and—

* * *
She hadn’t lied to Tom. She had . . . omitted? No, that was wrong,
too. She hadn’t quite understood, that was all. In retrospect, assuming the monster might jump behind alien eyes when it hadn’t been
properly introduced went against her experience.

In the last week, her dreams were crowded with images she recognized: the deserted ranger’s station, her smashed Toyota, that sign
pointing the way to Moss Knob and Luna Lake. All familiar places
along this long walk back to her past.

For Wolf, though, they were all new.
So, now . . . Wolf saw what she did? By getting into her dreams?
Or quietly slipping behind her eyes while she was awake yet unaware?
There was no way to be certain which, but either would answer how
he’d managed to track her down. With Buck, Wolf shouldn’t have
been able to smell her at all. Unless that, too, was Changing.
Something else to think about: If Wolf
could
see through her, even
if only when she dreamt, what about . . . emotions? Thoughts? What
if, somehow, she now could do what Finn couldn’t? Not piggyback on
a signal but truly receive one?
Take a chance.
Could she do this? She felt her impatient monster pressing its nose
against the glassy backs of her eyes.
Should
she? This wouldn’t be a
tap-tap
. This would be as it was on the snow while the lake house
burned, but instead of Wolf trying to rediscover who he’d been in her
face, it would be she who reached for
him
, like Meg Murry pushing
past IT to find her brother.
When you’re at the brink; when it’s a choice between what’s safe and
what might be better—

Gathering herself, she closed her eyes and let a tendril, one monstrous and scaly little arm, go. Her mind shimmied with the sensation
of a swoon that was a leap . . . and then she was behind Wolf ’s eyes
and could see herself: hair loose and legs bare, in a silver-blue pearl
of moon.

And then for a moment—and only that—she also let go of
herself
,
trusting in love and her strength, allowing the door to open enough
to brush his mind with tentative, ghostly fingers and truly
feel
for the
boy beneath the monster. She gasped as her chest filled with a deep
and bitter ache that was Wolf ’s grief and loneliness and longing.

She opened her eyes. Her monster wasn’t pleased to come back—
she could tell from that spastic little flutter—but it knew what it could
do to itself. Anyway, she was busy. One more thing she really needed
to try.

“I don’t want you to die, Wolf, if you can be Simon again. If you
think you might be close.” She withdrew the half of that King Size
Almond Joy she’d saved for a treat, a celebration of the possible.
Stooping, eyes still on the boy wreathed in shadows, she prized out
the cardboard insert. The wrapper crinkled in the hush. A perfume of
rich chocolate and sweet coconut and spicy almond swelled. Moving
carefully, she set the candy atop its wrapper on the ground between
them.

Because what the hell: sometimes, you feel like a nut.
Take a chance, honey. Take a deep breath and—
“Jump, Wolf,” she said.
And then Alex took a step back and waited with Buck, in fresh

To say that this trilogy’s been a wild ride is an understatement. I
don’t think I’ve ever gone through so many boxes of Kleenex, and
I suspect I’ll think about these characters and what has become of
them for quite awhile.

Offering my thanks to the many people who’ve made this journey possible seems so little for those who’ve given so much, but my
gratitude for both their belief in me and hard work in helping these
books see the light of day is nearly boundless. First and foremost,
my editor, Greg Ferguson, deserves a medal for the hours he put
into going through these manuscripts with a flea comb. I don’t think
I’ve laughed so hard either; Greg’s a guy who’s not above getting so
wrapped up in the story that his comments practically scream off the
page:
But I want to know what happens next, and I want to know right
NOW!
(Heh-heh: gotcha.)

To my She-To-Whom-No-One-Else-Holds-A-Candle agent,
Jennifer Laughran, a woman who continues to not only watch my
back but has this uncanny knack of making the exactly right call at
exactly the right time . . . you know, when you’re right, you’re right.
And, thanks: I needed that.

To Elizabeth Law, for a quick mind, good humor, and nimble fingers: You. Me. Dinner.
To Ryan Sullivan, crackerjack copy editor and all-around fan:
Great catches, man. Your love for this series really came through.
To Katie Halata, Mary Albi, and Alison Weiss for being everavailable, tweeting your fingers off, answering questions (even on
weekends!), and taking care of business no matter what the hour: I
owe each of you a dry martini, and probably three. (Although, yeah,
I admit that when you volunteered to help during your honeymoon,
Katie . . . well, gosh, I didn’t know whether to be grateful . . . or worried. Priorities, girlfriend.)
To Deb Shapiro: Thank you for organizing my life. It’s a dirty job,
but someone has to do it.
To all the Random House team members of sales and marketing
out there in the trenches: Thank you for getting my work in front of
readers and giving these books their best shot.
My deepest thanks also go to my publishers abroad, who took
a chance on this trilogy and dedicated so much of their time and
energy on its behalf. A very special shout-out to Niamh Mulvey,
Roisin Heycock, Alice Hill, and the rest of the production team at
Quercus UK: Tea was lovely, but those zombie cocktails were brilliant. I do believe I’ve recovered enough for a repeat.
To Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch: You were
right. I was ready.
To my husband, David: Come on, admit it. You’ll miss my shaking you awake at 2 a.m. to discuss a plot point; you know you will. So
. . . okay, then. Must be time for another series.
And, lastly, to all the bloggers, fans, Twitterati, and Facebook
friends from around the world, who shared their love for the series
with me and anyone who would listen: Thank you so much for

having the courage to reach out and let me know how this trilogy has
touched you. I have loved living and making the journey with you.
Here’s my world, and welcome to it.