Other

I can’t last much longer. It’s been one week, three days, and I forget how many hours.

My belly cramps, and I curl on my bed, staring out at the stars. A delicious breeze glides through my window and cools my sweaty forehead. The air smells of summer—mowed grass, recent rain, lingering barbecue—and tempts me more than I want to admit. Shards of moonlight and shadow shift on the wall. I clench my teeth and toes and try to ride out the pain. My bedroom drifts counterclockwise, and I shut my eyes.

It can’t be good for me, not shapeshifting.

All the don’ts I’ve heard circle through my mind like vultures preying on my doubts. Don’t worry about what people think of Others, Gwen, they don’t understand. Don’t worry, Gwen, we love you just the way you are, but don’t tell anyone outside the family. If they don’t know you’re Other, it won’t hurt anyone. And don’t ever let anyone see you shapeshift, especially not the neighbors. Don’t.

I shouldn’t. It’s stupid, dangerous, unnecessary—no, it’s very necessary. Just taboo.

I kick off my blankets, slide out of bed, and lock my door. My heartbeat quickens. My breathing sounds too loud. I glimpse a pair of golden lights reflected in the mirror above my bookcase: my eyes, betraying their true nature. Most of the time I pass them off as pale hazel. Maybe my body’s telling me I should be human only 50 percent of the time, because that’s what I am. Half-human. The rest: a guilty pleasure, a shameful secret.

Screw it. I’m going to. I have to—it’s as urgent as breathing.

I don’t look at my reflection as I peel off my T-shirt, pants, underwear. Embarrassing sometimes, but I have to be naked. A shudder both painful and pleasurable ripples down my spine. Tingles build in the pit of my stomach. I tighten my abs, trying to hold it back. Can I get outside before it happens? I don’t think so.

My skin prickles as if I ran naked through a field of nettles. It becomes almost unbearable. I hug myself tight, then gasp as magic floods my veins. My mind blanks, and it happens between heartbeats.

When I open my eyes, I’m on all fours, carpet beneath my hooves. The floor groans, and I wince. Hopefully it won’t come crashing down under my half-ton weight. I see myself in the mirror. A pure black horse. I arch my neck and toss my mane, then sidestep from my reflection. My hoof clunks on a bedpost. I didn’t choose this big awkward animal, trust me—it’s what comes most naturally to me. My nostrils flare at the sweet scent of grass, and I stick my head out the window to ogle the lawn.

Whoa there, Gwen, I tell myself.

My legs itch with unspent energy. I want to go outside, even as guilt wriggles in my gut. I hate having to sneak around like a pervert. Well, if the neighbors saw me, what would they do? Probably they’d freak and break out the pitchforks. In a backwoods town like Klikamuks, Washington, laws can be conveniently forgotten, and nice politically correct terms like “person with paranormal identity” disappear.

Whatever. I’ve earned this. I’ll be careful. I’ve been a good little girl for long enough. It’s easy to transform again, I’m so giddy with the lingering magic. Back to girl I go. I climb through the window and onto the roof. Naked, I curl my bare toes around shingles and grin nervously in the moonlight. I hope nobody’s awake.

Wind tosses my curls. I clench my hands and stir the magic inside me. Power boils through my veins, dizzying me. Concentrate. The night snaps into sharper focus. I jump. My arms, my wings, strain upward. Feathers unfurl from my skin. My plummet curves into a swoop, and I tuck my talons beneath my body.

From girl to great horned owl in about a second. Pretty good, huh?

Flapping hard, I climb skyward in a tight spiral, then fan my wings and coast on the wind. My moldy old white farmhouse of a home looks almost quaint so far below. With my fantastic eyesight, I can count the morning glories clambering over the rusty swing set in our yard. Rodents scritch and nibble in the tall grass, and my stomach aches. No. Bad owl. Shapeshifting always makes me hungry.

Unfortunately, I know what mice taste like. To avoid temptation, I gain altitude. A somber amethyst glow colors the clouds to the west—the lights of Klikamuks. To the east, toward the Cascades, lies truly dark sky. I fly into the darkness. A sea of trees sighs beneath me. Nearly 50,000 acres of old-growth forest lies beyond our backyard—the Boulder River Wilderness Area, part of the much larger Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. A perfect hideout for Others like me.

I stretch my wings, a sweet ache in my muscles, and ride a breeze. I always forget how boring my normal life is, until I fly. A weight in my stomach tells me this is wrong, that I shouldn’t be sneaking out and unleashing my Otherness. I focus too hard on enjoying the sensation of soaring, and the pleasure fades.

Howls chorus in the distance. Adrenaline spikes my blood. Please don’t it let it be what I’m thinking. Coyotes sound a lot more yippy, dogs don’t run in packs around here, and there are no real wolves left in Washington.

Werewolves. Great. Just what I need.

The moon glows like a Cheshire cat’s grin. It’s a myth that werewolves can change only on the night of a full moon. They’re forced to, those nights, but if they’re strong enough, they can transform whenever they want. Apparently, I’m not the only Other sneaking out for a midnight shapeshifting snack. Did these werewolves come down from Canada? I heard about a pack up there, the bane of farmers and ranchers.

Hooves drum a panicked beat on the dirt below me. I swivel my head to pinpoint the sound, and dive. A stag bounds over a log and crashes through bushes. I swoop so low I can see the fearful gleaming whites of his eyes. Then the stag disappears in the darkness.

I want to go to bed.

Flying home feels like a chore. I swoop through my open window, banging my wing on the frame, and curse silently. I have to stop doing this. Starving myself, then doing binge transformations. But I can’t keep my Otherness bridled 24/7, even if my parents and the whole wide world think I should. I return to my girl body and exhale.

My stomach grumbles loudly enough to resemble seismic activity. I sigh, tug on my clothes, and sneak downstairs to refuel on food. After eating a bagel sandwich, I climb back into my bed, my cocoon.

My stomach is full, but I still feel hungry. Sleep refuses to come.

Only werewolves would be stupid enough to hunt so close to a town and risk terrifying humans. You know, werewolves, vampires, and the rest of the bloodborn Others really piss me off sometimes. They just can’t resist biting a lot of people and making new Others, like themselves, who don’t play by the rules. There are laws for a reason. People won’t give a damn about the rights of Others if rogue werewolves insist it’s their birthright to hunt without permits and claim territory already owned by the government.

I wasn’t bitten. I was born this way. My dad—my real dad—was a pooka, a shapeshifting spirit from Wales. You probably haven’t heard of them. No, they’re not something cute and cuddly, and please don’t ever call me pookie. A few surviving pookas hide in scraps of British wilderness. I don’t know about any other half-breeds like me. Maybe they’re also under the bed, as they say. Monsters that haven’t come out yet.

Everybody’s read the stories, but nobody should believe them. Not even that stuff in Paranormal Studies textbooks. They say pookas show up as a dark horse with glowing golden eyes, stalking travelers on murky nights, inviting them on wild rides, throwing them into bogs, over cliffs, trampling them …

I’ve never done that. It’s just human propaganda against Others. Pookas are also accused of destroying crops and breaking down fences. Blame the livestock, I say. Okay, so I did try making crop circles with a friend. Once.

But why do I want to shapeshift so often? Is it normal? Ha, as if I can call myself normal. Is something wrong with me? This isn’t the first night I’ve lain awake in bed, the urge to shapeshift boiling over. It seems to be getting worse as I get older. I can’t remember this ever happening when I was a kid.

Maybe it’s natural, nothing to worry about. I wish I could ask my pooka dad, but I’ve never met him. I’d ask my parents if they ever might possibly be able to help me, but the likelihood of that is a big fat no. They’re humans—I’m not.

~

When I wake up, everything’s pleasant—until I move and my muscles ache. Then I remember the new werewolves in town.

“Bollocks,” I mutter, a choice word I picked up from my mother.

Deep breaths. I count the stitches in one of the mushroom yarn paintings I thrifted. Some people use labyrinths or mandalas to calm down. I prefer anything gloriously tacky. When my heart stops pounding in my ears, I get out of bed and inspect my room. Hoof prints emboss my carpet. I rub my foot over them to smooth them out. A tawny owl feather rests on the windowsill. I slide open my window.

“Breakfast!” my dad bellows from the bottom of the stairs. Stepdad, to be exact.

I jump and toss out the feather. It seesaws down and lands on the lawn. Maybe they’ll think it belongs to a normal owl. When I open my bedroom door, the heavenly aroma of pancakes lures me downstairs.

My family’s already there. I glance at their faces, but nobody seems worried.

In the corner of the kitchen, Mum perches on the window seat and cradles a mug of coffee. Her auburn ponytail clings to her staticky sweater. Gazing at the gray blanket of clouds outside, she takes a pensive sip.

She sighs. “Reminds me of Wales.” You would think she’s about to rhapsodize, but she adds, “It was just as bloody rainy there.”

I wonder if Mum misses Wales. She left soon after she had a fling with a pooka and discovered she was pregnant. She was more than a wee bit embarrassed—that stuff doesn’t happen in stories. I have to give her credit, though. Her family wanted her to give me up for adoption, or worse. Said I was faerie spawn. Hey, they were right, but luckily Mum doesn’t believe faerie babies are little bundles of evil. Okay, so I’m not sure my grandparents actually said that when I was born, but let’s just say reunions with the Welsh side of the family have ranged from nonexistent to nightmarish.

Dad pokes at a pancake in a frying pan. “Who wants some flapjacks?” He always calls them that. He sort of looks like a storybook lumberjack, big and shaggy, though he owns a hardware store in Klikamuks.

“Me!” Megan says, scrambling off the couch.

I refrain from saying “Me too!” because I hate echoing her.

Megan drags a textbook to the table. I roll my eyes at my half-sister. She’s all human, unlike me. I’ll spare you the details of her virtuoso cello playing and mathematical prowess, but Megan’s the “gifted” one in the family, while I’m the black sheep. Or should I say, black horse? Okay, not funny.

I decide it’s time to break the news. “There are werewolves in the forest.”

“Oh?” Mum says.

Dad concentrates on scraping a pancake from the pan. “Huh.”

“What, like that guy at the gas station you thought was an imp?” Megan asks.

I blush. “That was, like, four years ago. I was a kid.”

“You were thirteen. And what about the Johanssons last year? The ‘elves’?” Megan waggles her fingers in air quotes.

“This is serious,” I say. “Didn’t you hear the howls?”

“Nope,” Megan says blithely.

I glower at her. “Mum? Dad?”

“Maybe you were dreaming,” Dad says.

“Right,” I mutter.

I shut up and eat my pancakes. No use mentioning why I was up so late, or that I just happened to be flying over the forest.

After breakfast, I head upstairs. Megan’s bedroom door, opposite mine, is closed. I’m sure she’s studying again. Megan and I are homeschooled, so Mom can keep my powers hidden while cultivating Megan’s talents. But even homeschoolers get summer vacation. Try telling that to Megan, though. She’s quite possibly the nerdiest, stodgiest fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met. It annoys me when people think she’s older than me. I hope it’s just her height (she’s three inches taller), but I suspect it’s her behavior.

After I power up my laptop, I check my blog for comments. I stay anonymous with the username “blackmagic” so I can rant about anything that needs ranting.

Yesterday, I reblogged this ridiculous ad for a vampire show on TV and added some pretty scathing comments. People seem to think vampires are either elegantly angsty immortals or vile bloodsucking criminals. Correct answer: depends entirely on the vampire. Granted, I don’t know any personally, but they do have a midnight Vampire Pride Parade every year in Seattle. You see everybody from white-haired old ladies to nerdy teen guys there.

Sometimes I wish we lived in Seattle, not Klikamuks. It’s way more liberal there, and it seems to have a lot more Others. Of course, people always think there are more Others than the reality. We’re definitely a minority. It’s just that the Others who come out are so … visible. How could you not miss a Sasquatch running for mayor of Seattle? Who cares if he didn’t even get close to winning.

I got a few sympathetic comments from my friends—most are people I only know online—and another from an anonymous poster.

Anonymous: i think my ex girlfriend gave me that werewolf disease. i’m starting to feel really screwed up around the full moon. i’m scared. can you help me?

Lycanthropy can be transmitted via bites, and it’s also an STD. Same with vampirism and all the other bloodborn ways of becoming Other. The first transformations can be brutal on the mind and body. Is some poor clueless guy really asking me for help? I type a quick reply.

blackmagic: Are you sure it’s lycanthropy? You should check out WereRecovery.com. They have a lot of info. Hope this helps. I know lycanthropy can be hard to deal with sometimes.

Within a minute, the guy replies.

Anonymous: so your a werewolf? knew your a bitch. you and your fucked up faerie friends disgust me.

My face flames, then goes cold. I see a faint golden glow reflected on my laptop screen—my eyes, burning with anger. My fingers rattle the keys.

blackmagic: If you don’t like my blog, don’t read it. And for your information, I am not a werewolf. Though I’m sure you are a pathetic little parasite infecting the Internet. Crawl back up whatever asshole you came from.

I almost post the comment, then hesitate. Do I really want this marring my blog? With a sigh, I delete all the comments by Anonymous.

A new comment pops up. I hope it isn’t Anonymous, back for a flame war. But it’s Takehiko, one of my online friends. He’s a talented artist who draws manga. Like, cartoons of these Japanese fox spirits.

Takehiko: Allow me to sic many rabid foxes on Mr. Anonymous Moron.

I reply, relieved.

blackmagic: Don’t worry. I’ve banished the comments to oblivion via the delete button.

Takehiko: Good riddance.

Takehiko doesn’t write more. Alas.

He posted a cute photo of himself on his profile awhile ago, then deleted it, probably out of shyness. With his high cheekbones and dark eyes shaded by tousled, spiky hair, he almost looks like a Japanese version of Johnny Depp. Yes, I’ll admit I have a mild and purely fanciful e-crush. Though I already have a boyfriend.

My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil, it’s an email from Zack. My heart does a little skip.

From: Zack Subject: How art thou today, milady?

I’m already smirking. Zack has a wicked sense of humor. He’s also really into medieval history, so we’ve had this fake courtly speech thing going on.

Good morrow, Fair Gwen, I am not skilled at expressing mine feelings well. For I am but a humble knight, and no sweet-tongued troubadour. But for you, I shall try. It hath been far too long since I gazed upon thy scarlet locks and comely face. Mine fellow knights thinketh me moonstruck with love. But you knoweth these art mine heart’s true wishes. ‘Tis a fine day, as both dragons have left the castle unguarded. Wilt thou be at the gates today? Mayhap we shall stroll through the park on this fine day. I shall look for you and hope.

Your faithful knight, Sir Zachary the Smitten

I grin. “Dragons” is code for Zack’s parents, “castle” for his house. His parents forbid him to have girls in his bedroom, so of course he invites me over every chance he gets.

Humming, I trade my pajamas for a strawberry print tank top and black leggings. I try to tame my wild red curls, then grab the Bean—my purse, the exact shape and color of a kidney bean—and head for the door.

“I’m going to Zack’s!” I call, before my parents can detain me.

“Be safe!” Mum calls from her office, clacking away on her keyboard. She works as a programmer for an indie software company. They make video games, mostly science fiction role-playing ones. They used to do fantasy RPGs, where you chop up trolls and werewolves, but that stuff isn’t politically correct anymore. Besides, mainstream America seems wary of anything magical. I ponder public opinion about Others as I ride the bus but come to no great revelations.

Zack’s family lives in a neighborhood of posh house-clones. Manicured shrubbery, three-car garages, a fountain across the street. His house has an imposing arch over the door, as if the building has a huge ego. The designer decorations change like clockwork with the seasons, from artificial evergreens to pastel eggs in sterile nests.

I ring their doorbell and hear a cheery chiming version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I’ll admit I freaked out when I first learned just how religious Zack’s parents are, since Christians and Others have been enemies since biblical times. But they seem like such genuinely nice people.

Of course, they don’t know what I am. Neither does Zack.

The door sweeps open. As usual, I’m dazzled by his smile. “Hey, Zack.”

“Greetings, Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

I blush. I’ve told him not to call me that, multiple times. Leave it to my mother to bestow upon me a ridiculously convoluted Welsh name. I couldn’t even spell it until second grade.

When I start to complain, Zack bends down—he’s quite tall—and silences me with a kiss. His hand curves around my waist as if it’s meant to fit there. His touch kindles a warm glow inside me. I still can’t believe this guy is my boyfriend and has been for over a year. A knot of guilt tightens in my stomach. Why haven’t I told him I’m Other, even after all this time, all these opportunities?

I pull back, face flushed, and attempt not to look giddy. “How’s it going?”

“Great.”

I close the door behind me. The soft click of the lock makes my heart beat a little faster.

Zack pulls a rubber band off his ponytail. He shakes out his long blond hair, smooths it with his hands, then twists the rubber band around it again. I can’t help staring. He’s just so … handsome. Once, when we went to a medieval fair, I rented an ill-fitting wench dress and he got fake chain mail. I looked hilariously sluttish, but he looked like a real knight. A crusader, with the cross necklace he always wears.

“Come on up,” he says, climbing the stairs to his bedroom.

Zack’s room has a faintly dusty, boyish smell to it. Hard to describe. Like a mixture of his sweat, laundry detergent, and an overall lived-in smell. I like it, and always breathe deep when I step inside. He has a tapestry of King Arthur above the headboard of his bed, a replica broadsword mounted on the wall, and shelves burdened with books. Like I said, he’s really into medieval stuff. I spot new knight figurines on his desk.

“Cool,” I say, reaching for one.

He catches my wrist. “Caution: wet paint. I was just working on them.”

I nod and crouch to look closer. The detail’s fantastic: feathers on their helmets, tiny dragons and unicorns—Others—on their shields. That is, Others hunted to extinction back in ye good olde medieval times, when killing dragons filled people with religious zeal, and the healing powers of unicorn horn filled them with greed.

I wonder what Zack’s parents think of Others. What he thinks.

“So, did you want to go out? Maybe to Wilding Park?” I ask.

“Sure.” He smiles. “We can spend a little time here first.”

Zack strokes aside my hair and kisses the four-leaf clover tattoo at the nape of my neck. For luck, he always says. And it always liquefies my knees. I sink onto the chair at his desk, trying to look as if I planned on it. He spins me to face him. I stare into his eyes, blue as the hottest flame. Shivers race down my spine.

I hook my fingers behind his neck and drag him into a kiss. His soft moan urges me on. I tug him to his knees and dig my nails into his shoulders as if marking him as mine. His arms tighten around my waist. I nip his ear and he seems to like it, so I test my teeth on his shoulder. When I bite his neck, he yanks back.

“Ouch!” He touches the teeth marks, and his fingers come away red with blood.

I’m breathing hard, my eyes stinging. Glowing. I turn away and shut them fast. Oh crap. I run my tongue over my teeth and found they’ve sharpened into feline fangs. What happened? I’ve never lost control before.

I keep my eyes shut—I can’t bear to look at Zack. Any second now, he’s going to say something horrible, be horrified of me.

My muscles tighten, but I’m not sure why. An instinct to brace myself, perhaps, or run away.

“Gwen?” he says. “Are you okay?”

When I’m sure my eyes are normal, I open them. Instead of disgust and shock on Zack’s face, he looks surprised, bemused. I look at his neck and wince, though the bite isn’t as nasty as I thought. I grit my teeth until they return to human bluntness.

“Sorry,” I say. “I … I got a little carried away.”

Zack arches an eyebrow. “A little?”

Scalding blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away from him, my hair curtaining my face.

“Hey.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Don’t be embarrassed. I like seeing a little of your wild side.”

I laugh feebly. “Yeah.” If only he knew just how wild.

Zack touches the bite again. “Let me clean it up.”

He heads for the bathroom, and I slump in the chair. Bollocks. Why do I feel so turned on? And why is that waking up my Otherness? I shouldn’t have shapeshifted last night. I must have really riled up my pooka side.

Zack returns, holding a tissue to his neck. He brings it to his face. “I think it’s clotting.”

Clotting. How romantic. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

He stares at me. “You, uh, have some on your mouth.”

I lick my lips and taste blood. My stomach squirms. He hands me another tissue, and I wipe it off.

The corner of Zack’s mouth curves upward. “Bloodsucker.”

I try to laugh, but my face burns. “Ugh. Vampires are disgusting.”

“I don’t know.” His smile widens. “They’re kind of sexy.”

If only he knew what I’d just blogged about. I wish he’d stop joking around and say what he actually thinks of Others, bloodborn or natural born.

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think so.”

He nods. “My parents say they’re soulless. Children of Lilith and all that.”

My heartbeat stumbles, then comes back, pounding harder than ever. Some Christians interpret the Bible to mean that Lilith’s demonspawn offspring are what we now call Others. Does Zack actually believe this?

“Oh?” I try to sound flippant. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “Probably just stories to spice up the Bible.”

“You do know that vampirism is nothing more than a glorified disease. They shouldn’t even be called Others, probably. Not the same at all.”

“Same as what?”

My heart thumps against my ribs. “Others who are natural born. You know. Not bitten.”

“Close enough,” he says.

I really, really wish I could set him straight.

“Anyway …” Zack slides his hand up my back.

I exhale. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue. My fingers brush the bite on his neck. He flinches but lets me touch it.

“That’s one heck of a hickey,” he says.

I groan. “Heck of a hickey? Lame, Zack, lame.” But I’m smiling.

“I tried,” he says, leaning in for a kiss that I dodge.

I glance at the clock. “We should get going if we want to catch the bus to Wilding Park.”

“All right,” Zack says, and I can’t read his voice.

As we sit together on the bus, he puts his arm over my shoulders and stares out the window, his eyes cool. I never thought we would be together so long—or get so intimate. I still haven’t told him I’m a virgin. Or that I’m Other.

I can’t keep lying to him. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t.

~

Zack and I walk through Klikamuks, hand-in-hand. Wilding Park is in the middle of town, on the Stillaguamish River. Dollops of lemon meringue cloud float high in the sky. Balsam poplars rustle by the river and scent the air with their honey-spice resin. Kids scamper around, shrieking, and a guy does tricks with a kite.

We lounge on a lawn spangled with dandelions and I inhale the clover-sweet hay-smell of grass. I want to shapeshift into a cat, curl up, and snooze. Cats can get away with that. I sigh and shut my eyes. Maybe the rest of today will be peaceful.

“Your hair,” Zack says.

“What about it?”

“It looks like a halo.” He fingers one of my curls.

I smile, keep my eyes shut, and let myself relax. Zack’s sweat has a subtle musky aroma, sweet as rain and earthy as truffles—intoxicating. Warm breath fans across my face. My eyelids snap open. Zack is leaning over me, a hairsbreadth away from kissing me. He touches my cheek, strokes my neck, and lets his fingers linger on the pulse leaping there. The cross dangles from his neck, winking in the sun. I can’t look away.

“Where did you get that from, anyway?” I say, to distract both him and myself.

He frowns. “Get what?”

I catch the cross between two fingers. “This.”

“My grandmother gave it to me before she passed away.”

“Oh.”

Zack leans closer to me. The scattering of blond stubble on his jaw glints.

“All these people are watching,” I say.

His mouth twitches. With amusement or annoyance? “You never cared before.”

Before I can speak again, he knots his hands in my hair and kisses me without restraint. I clench fistfuls of grass.

I remember my first kiss with Zack (my first kiss with a guy, if you discount a kindergarten birthday party). We met when we were both volunteering at the Klikamuks Public Library. One evening, the power went out. Pitch black. We blundered into each other, whispering, laughing. Zack found a flashlight and turned it on—but it dropped from his hand and rolled onto the ground when our lips met.

When he withdraws, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, somewhat breathlessly. Though of course it’s a lie.

“You seem tense. You’re not still worried about the bite thing, are you?”

I shrug, awkwardly with him leaning against me like that. I’ve got to tell him. It’s no use trying to keep pretending I’m fine.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He runs his hands through my hair. I wish he wouldn’t—it’s making this harder.

“I want to ask you something,” I say.

“Go ahead.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. He lifts one eyebrow.

“You don’t know everything about me,” I say. The words sound staccato, squeezed by the tightness in my throat.

He nods. “That’s okay. I want to get to know you better.”

“Yeah,” I say lamely.

Zack plucks a dandelion and starts tearing off petals. A brutal version of she loves me, she loves me not.

“Let’s go walk by the river,” I say. “Find someplace more private.”

His eyes brighten, and I regret my choice of words. I want to talk, not make out.

We zigzag down a paved trail to a beach along the Stillaguamish River. Egg-sized pebbles clatter underfoot. The river always smells like green, sun-warmed water. It usually tastes good, too: lukewarm, a little cloudy, and sweet. But when I cup my hands and bring river water to my lips, a sour smell stops me. I hear the faraway drone of an airplane and faint conversation, but no birdsong, no peeping frogs.

“So quiet today,” Zack says.

I nod and twist my toes inside my sneakers. I let him lead me to a bench nestled in salmonberry bushes.

“Zack?” I say.

“What?”

As lame as this sounds, I don’t—can’t—say anything.

“Maybe we’ve both been trying to say the same thing.” He clasps my hand and rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

“Um …” I laugh nervously. “Have we?”

“It’s okay.” Zack circles his arm around me. “I totally understand.”

“You do?”

“It has to be the right time. I believe sex should be special.” He flushes slightly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I blink several times and withdraw. “I’m glad you think so.”

He nuzzles the hollow of my neck, sending a stab of desire through me.

“Let’s walk.” I’m amazed how lighthearted I sound.

Zack tries to hold my hand, but I pretend not to notice. I reach for a pebble glinting with mica. Then I freeze. Right beside my foot, a dead brown bird lies spread-winged, still as a stone, its beak open piteously.

“Oh.” The word escapes me as a puff of air. “Poor thing.”

“Don’t touch it,” Zack says. “It could’ve died of disease.”

I frown at the bird and keep walking. Beneath the fallen leaves of a bush, I find a dead tree frog. Then another, nearby.

My frown deepens. “Maybe some pesticide got into the river.”

“Probably,” Zack says.

We find two more frogs by the riverbank. They lie with their legs splayed and pale bellies bared. They look pitiful.

“It’s got to be poison,” I say. “Maybe we should stay away from the water.”

Zack nods.

I walk away from the Stillaguamish and climb a pebbly slope. On the other side lies a backwater pool. And—

“Holy crap.” I suck in my breath. “Zack!”

He jogs up the slope and stops beside me. “What … ?”

Two bodies float in the pool. A man, facedown, duckweed clinging to his shirt. A woman, staring heavenward. Her long, dark tangle of hair drifts over her marble-pale arms. Waves lap her pregnant belly.

Zack presses his hand to his mouth, even though I don’t smell anything. They must have just died. I slide one foot forward, then the other. I see myself reflected in her unseeing blue eyes. She was—still is—beautiful. A mosquito larva swims between her cupid’s bow lips and rests on her pearly teeth. Her skin looks silvery, though that might be the water. I squint at her hands, at a translucence between her fingers …

“Gwen.” Zack sounds hoarse. “Let’s go. We need to get help.”

“They’re already dead,” I say flatly.

“We need to tell someone.”

I nod, but don’t move when he tugs on my arm. I can’t stop staring.

“It’s okay,” Zack says. “Come on. It’s okay.” He seems to be saying it to himself.

When I at last look away, I realize what I saw. Webbing between her fingers. “Water sprites,” I whisper.

Zack doesn’t say anything. I hope he didn’t hear me. After he calls 911, we clasp hands and walk away from the pair of bodies. I can’t stop shivering, even in the sun. We huddle together on a log until the police come.

The police head for the bodies and check futilely for signs of life. A woman with steel-wool hair introduces herself as Officer Sharpe from the sheriff’s office. She asks for ID. Zack digs out a driver’s license and I show my learner’s permit. Officer Sharpe inspects them. Another officer starts questioning Zack.

Officer Sharpe asks me why we were here and how we found the bodies. I try not to wilt under her stern stare. My voice quavers as I answer, and sweat wets my armpits. Please don’t ask me if I’m Other. Not in front of Zack.

The CSI unit arrives and ropes off the pond with yellow tape. Surely they’ll uncover the truth about the water sprites.

“Gwen?” Officer Sharpe snaps me out of it. “Did you?”

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“Did you know these people?”

I shake my head hard. Too vigorously, maybe, because Officer Sharpe frowns and scribbles something on her notepad.

“Did they drown?” I ask, playing dumb. Water sprites breathe water just as well as air.

“We won’t know until we run some tests.” She scribbles some more. “You’re free to go. We might follow up with a detective.”

“A detective?” My voice sounds squeaky.

“Don’t worry,” Officer Sharpe says briskly. “Standard procedure.”

I exhale and move into Zack’s arms. “I want to go home.”

He hugs me. “Let’s go.”

We’re silent all the way back to the bus stop, until we sit on the bus stop bench.

“Poor people,” Zack says softly. “I wonder how they drowned.”

I say nothing.

That night, I dream of cold white flesh and death-clouded eyes. My toes touch the shore of a black pool. Water sprites reach for me, pondweed clinging to their arms.

“Help us,” they whisper.

“I can’t,” I say, my gut twisting. “You’re dead.”

They stroke my ankles with icy fingers. “You are one of us.”

I run away and let them die.

~

On the morning news, I learn their names: Nadia and Douglas Nix. They lived in a suburban area on the outskirts of Klikamuks. I didn’t even know they existed. How many of us are out there, too scared to even admit our Otherness? And they died before I could ever meet them … all because of pesticide in the river.

Pesticide. Wouldn’t it take a lot to kill two people? And the nearest field is maybe ten miles from Wilding Park. If some farmer really did dump a lot of horrible chemicals into the river, there would be dead fish all over the place, not a few animals by one backwater pool. Unless, of course, somebody poisoned it on purpose.

Were the water sprites murdered?

When I tell my parents my theory, they both sit at the kitchen table and stare at me.

“Gwen,” Mum says, her face tight. “What you saw must have been … shocking. But there’s no proof of poison.”

“It was an accident,” Dad says. “Let the police handle this.”

“It wasn’t,” I say. “Water sprites can’t drown.”

Dad scratches his beard. “How are you sure they’re water sprites?”

“They had webbing between their fingers.”

Mum shakes her head. “That’s a medical condition, you know. In humans.”

“How common is it?” I say.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “But Gwen … I wouldn’t worry.”

“On the Internet,” I say, “it says water sprites have thin skin, like frogs. The poison must have killed them that way.”

“You can’t believe everything on the Internet,” Dad says.

“Whatever!” I throw up my hands. “I know what I saw.”

My parents share a long-suffering look that irritates the crap out of me. I stalk upstairs and shut—okay, slam—my bedroom door. I hate how they think they know everything about every Other on the planet just because I’m half pooka.

I grab my phone and call my number one confidant, but I get voicemail. I’ll leave a message and then go to her place. “Hey, Chloe, it’s Gwen. I’m going to head over to the B&B and see if you’re there. I need somebody to commiserate with. Life sucks, as usual. Not to sound emo or anything. Okay, see you later. Bye.”

I jog to the bus stop, my throat tight. I neglect the bench and kick pinecones into the ditch until the bus comes. I need to talk to somebody. On the ride to Klikamuks, the heat of my anger cools and my skin feels clammy. The bus rumbles over a bridge and crawls along Main Street. Tourists prowl the sidewalks, lured by antique stores with silly things like amethyst cut-glass vases, Victorian ladies’ gloves and boots, and porcelain cat figurines. I get off and walk past cottages with gingerbread trim, then stop outside a sunny yellow B&B called Bramble Cottage.

It looks oh-so-quaint, a perfect tourist trap. Postcard-worthy roses clamber over the walls. Almost all are abloom, and perfume drifts across the street. The owner, Chloe Amabilis, happens to be a garden addict—and a dryad.

I hadn’t even met Chloe until two years ago, when I got lost in the forest and she saw me shapeshifting. I almost panicked, but after a tense standoff, she revealed she was also Other. I was totally flabbergasted to discover a dryad. They’re an endangered species—only a handful remain after centuries of logging. Dryads used to be worshipped in Greece as the guardian spirits of trees, but now a lot of people see them as squatters on valuable land. Chloe emigrated to America in search of friendlier forests.

I hear hammering inside Bramble Cottage. When I open the door, I see a guy on a ladder tacking up wooden trim in the foyer. His paint-flecked jeans droop low, weighted by the tools on his belt. I try not to stare at his butt.

This has to be the new guy Chloe’s been going on and on about. Chiseled, rugged, stubbly. Just her type. When he sees me, he pulls off his headphones. I hear classical music. Huh. For some reason, I expected heavy metal.

“Are you Randall Lowell?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He has a low, husky voice. “How’d you know?”

“Chloe mentioned you.”

“Ah.” Randall brushes his hair—shaggy dark brown, with a streak of silver—from his eyes. “She’s upstairs.”

“Thanks.”

I climb the creaky narrow staircase, gripping the banister. I don’t know why more Victorians didn’t break their necks. Upstairs, sunbeams stripe the faded pink carpet and the botanical prints of magical herbs. On the wallpaper, faeries are darting through vines. Not the fluttery Tinkerbell kind, which is a stereotype started by faeries to befuddle humans, but exquisitely elegant winged people with fire in their eyes.

“Chloe?” I call.

“In here,” she says, behind a half-open bedroom door.

I step inside. A cabbage-rose rug covers most of the floor. Chloe is dusting a collection of rose-shaped chamber pots. A sunbeam slants through the dormer window and glimmers on the corn-silk hair swaying at her slender waist. She wears a dress of unbleached, 100 percent organic cotton, being a true tree-hugger. I clear my throat, and Chloe glances back at me, her eyes the serene green of a woodland glade.

“Gwen.” She touches my arm, and I catch a whiff of her sweet scent. Sometimes it reminds me of an orchard of ripening pears; other times, of hay drying in the sun. “Is everything all right? You look a little pale.”

“Except for discovering two dead bodies, I’m okay.”

“What?” Chloe’s eyes widen. “You aren’t joking, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Let’s go upstairs to my room,” she says. “I don’t want any guests interrupting us.”

“Definitely,” I say, with a crappy attempt at a laugh.

I follow Chloe upstairs to her attic bedroom. There’s a prim little bed in the corner, though she prefers slumbering in trees as often as possible.

She sits at the foot of her bed and pats the quilt beside her. “Now tell me everything.”