The Awakening

Thirty-six

I GAVE DEREK MY jacket and he wore it without argument—it covered the blood spatter on his sweatshirt. As we left the bathroom, the people in the coffee shop finally noticed us, but only to call out that the bathroom was for paying customers only.

The coffee shop had a post-winter clearance on promotional thermoses, emblazoned with their name, so Derek got one filled with hot chocolate, plus two paper cups. Add a half-dozen donuts and we had dinner to go.

We couldn’t just waltz back to the bus station, though. Liam would still be hunting for us, maybe joined by Ramon. If they’d been following us earlier, they might know we’d gone to the bus stop and would wait for us there.

So we stayed downwind or behind buildings, then waited a half block away until we saw the bus coming. There was no sign of the werewolves. I’m sure it helped that it was just a bus stop, not a terminal—if they’d followed our trail to the flower shop, they probably hadn’t figured out that we’d been there to buy bus tickets.

Yet it was only after we were on and the bus pulled away that I finally relaxed. I was on my second cup of chocolate when my eyelids started to droop.

“You should get some sleep,” Derek said.

I stifled a yawn. “It won’t be that long, will it? An hour and a half?”

“Close to double that. We’re on the milk run.”

“What?”

“The route that hits all the little towns,” he said.

He took my empty cup. I shifted, trying to get comfortable. He balled up my discarded sweatshirt and put it against his shoulder.

“Go on,” he said. “I don’t bite.”

“And from what I hear, that’s a good thing.”

He gave a rumbling chuckle. “Yeah, it is.”

I leaned against his shoulder.

“In a few hours, you’ll be in a bed,” he said. “Bet that’s a good thing, huh?”

Had anything so simple ever sounded so amazing? But as I thought of it, my smile faded and I lifted my head.

“What if—?”

“Andrew isn’t there? Or he didn’t take them in? Then we’ll find Simon and we’ll splurge on a cheap motel. We are getting a bed tonight. Guaranteed.”

“And a bathroom.”

He chuckled again. “Yeah, and a bathroom.”

“Thank God.” I laid my head on the sweatshirt pillow again. “What are you looking forward to?”

“Food.”

I laughed. “I bet. Hot food. That’s what I want.”

“And a shower. I really want a shower.”

“Well, you’ll have to fight me for it. If that guy could smell my hair color, I didn’t do a very good job of rinsing it out. Which may explain why it feels so gross.”

“About that. The color. I didn’t mean—”

“I know. You just picked something that would make me look different. And it did.”

“Yeah, but it looks fake. Even those guys could tell. Wash it out, and we’ll get some of that red stuff you like.”

I closed my eyes. As I drifted off, Derek started humming, so softly I could barely hear it. I lifted my head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got this stupid tune stuck in my head. No idea what it is.”

I sang a few bars of “Daydream Believer.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “How’d…?”

“My fault. My mom used to sing it to me when I couldn’t sleep, so I was singing it last night. It’s the Monkees—the world’s first boy band.” I glanced up at him. “And I’ve just lost any scrap of cool I ever possessed, haven’t I?”

“At least you’re not the one still singing it.”

I smiled, rested my head against his shoulder, and fell asleep to his soft off-tune humming.

We got off at one of those small “milk run” stops. When Simon said Andrew lived outside New York City, I figured he meant in the Hudson Valley or Long Island, but the bus dropped us in a town whose name I didn’t recognize. Derek said it was about thirty miles from the city and about a mile from Andrew’s place.

Maybe it was because we knew the house was close, but that mile seemed to pass in minutes. We talked and joked and goofed around. A week ago, if someone had told me Derek could joke or goof around, I wouldn’t have believed it. But he was at ease now, stoked even, with our destination so near.

“It’s just up there,” he said.

We were on a narrow road lined with trees. It wasn’t really farm country. More like a rural community, with houses set way back from the road, hidden behind fences and walls and evergreens. As I squinted, Derek pointed.

“See the old-fashioned gas lamps at the end of that drive? They’re on, too, which is a good sign.”

We turned into the driveway—as winding and treed as the road, and seemingly just as long. Eventually we rounded a corner and the house came into sight. It was a cute little cottage, like something you’d see in an old English town, with stone walls and ivy and gardens that I’m sure would be beautiful in a month or two. Right now the most beautiful part was the light blazing from a front window.

“They’re here,” I said.

“Someone’s here,” Derek corrected.

When I hurried forward, he caught my arm. I looked back to see him scanning the house, his nostrils flaring. He tilted his head and frowned.

“What do you hear?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He turned to survey the dark woods surrounding the house. “It’s too quiet.”

“Simon and Tori are probably asleep,” I said, but I lowered my voice and glanced about, his anxiety contagious.

When we reached the cobblestoned walk, Derek dropped into a crouch. He lowered his head a foot from the ground. I wanted to tell him to come on, just knock on the door and we’d know whether they were here, stop being so paranoid. But I’d learned that what I would have once considered paranoia was, in this new life, sensible caution.

After a moment, he nodded and some of the tension went out of the set of his shoulders as he pushed to his feet.

“Simon’s here?” I asked.

“And Tori.”

He took one last slow look around, almost reluctantly, like he wanted to race to the front door as much as I did. Then we continued along the walk, the stones squeaking beneath our wet sneakers.

Derek was so busy looking out at the forest that I was the one who had to grab his arm this time. I pulled him short and directed his attention to our path.

The front door was ajar.

Derek swore. Then he took a deep breath, as if fighting off the first twitches of panic. He motioned for me to get behind him, then seemed to think better of it and waved for me to stand beside the door, against the wall.

When I was out of the way, he prodded the door open an inch. Then another. A third tap and he caught a smell, nostrils flaring. His eyebrows gathered in confusion.

After a moment, I smelled it, too. A strong bitter smell, familiar…“Coffee.” I mouthed. He nodded. That’s what it was—burned coffee.

He eased the door open wider. I pressed my back against the wall, resisting the urge to sneak a peek. I watched him instead as his gaze scanned the room beyond, his expression telling me nothing immediately caught his attention.

He motioned for me to stay put and stepped inside. Now I really fidgeted, tapping my thighs, scrunching my toes in my shoes, heart tripping. I wished I was the kind of girl who always carried a compact mirror. I could use it like they do in spy movies, to see what was happening around the corner.

When I leaned a little too close to the doorway, my inner voice piped up, telling me not to be stupid. The guy with bionic senses was better equipped for this.

Finally Derek backed out. He started to pantomime that he’d go in and look around while I stayed out here. Then, after a glance at the surrounding darkness, he seemed to think better of his first instinct. He pointed to my pocket and mimicked opening a switchblade. I took it out. He gestured for me to stay behind him, his emphatic jabs and accompanying scowl saying better than any words, I mean it, Chloe. I nodded.

We went inside. The front door led into a small foyer with a closet, then opened into the living room. A few pieces of mail were scattered in front of the closet door. I thought maybe it had been shoved through a mail slot, but there wasn’t one, and I remembered seeing a mailbox at the end of the long drive. A small table leaned precariously against the corner, and a piece of ad mail rested on top of it.

Derek was moving into the living room. I hurried to catch up before I got “the look.”

It was small and cozy, like you’d expect in a country cottage. The chairs and sofa were piled with mismatched pillows. Hand-knitted blankets were neatly folded over each back. The tops of the end tables were clear, but the shelves underneath bulged with magazines, and the two bookshelves were overflowing. One blazing lamp was the only electrical appliance—there was no TV, computer, or other techno gadget to be seen. An old-fashioned sitting room, for lighting the fire and curling up with a book.

Derek headed for the next doorway. When the floorboards creaked, he stopped short and I nearly plowed into him. He cocked his head. The house was silent. Eerily still and silent. Even if everyone had gone to bed, it shouldn’t be so quiet, considering both Simon and Tori snored.

We stepped into the kitchen. The stink of burned coffee was gag-inducing. I could see the coffeemaker on the counter, the red light still on, a half-inch of sludge in the bottom, like a full pot of coffee had been simmering for at least a day. Derek walked over and turned it off.

There was a plate on the counter. On it was a piece of toast with one bite gone. An open jam jar rested beside it, the knife still inside. A coffee mug sat on the table, on top of an opened newspaper. I looked in the cup. It was two-thirds full, the cream congealing in an oily white film.

Derek waved for me to fall behind him again and he headed for the back of the house.