The Summoning

Forty

RAE'S WATCH ALARM WAS set to go off at three. According to Derek, that was the quietest time of night, when we'd be least likely to be spotted. At 2:45 we shut the alarm off, and by 2:50 we were out of our room, backpacks in hand.

When I eased our door shut, the hall fell to pitch-black. The ticking of the grandfather clock guided us to the stairs.

I swore this time every step creaked, but as hard as I strained for sounds of Tori or Mrs. Talbot stirring, I heard only the clock.

At the bottom of the stairs, the moon peeked in around the drawn curtains, lifting the darkness just enough so I could make out chairs and tables before I crashed into them. I was turning into the hall when a dark shape stepped from the shadows. I bit back a yelp and scowled, ready to blast Derek. But it was Simon, and one look at his ashen face killed the words in my throat.

"What's —?" I began.

"Is Derek with you?"

"No, wh —"

"He's gone." He lifted something that glinted and it took a moment for me to recognize it as Derek's watch. "He had the alarm set for 2:45. When it went off, I woke up and found it on my pillow. His bed was empty."

Rae's fingers closed on my arm. "But Derek's not coming, right? Let's just go."

"Did he say anything to you last night?" I whispered.

Simon shook his head. "He was asleep. I didn't wake him."

"Maybe he's in the bathroom," Rae whispered. "Come on, guys, we have to —"

"I checked the bathrooms. And the spare room. And the kitchen. Something's wrong. Something happened to him."

"If it did, would he have left you the watch? Maybe . . ." I struggled for a reasonable explanation, fighting the rising panic that said there wasn't one. "Maybe he's afraid we'll try to drag him along at the last minute and we'll wake someone up."

"Speaking of which . . ." Rae said with a pointed look at the ceiling.

Simon and I looked at each other and I knew, as logical as my explanation was, Derek would know Simon couldn't leave without making sure he was okay.

"Guys . . ." Rae said.

"You two go," said Simon. "I'll find —"

"No," I said. "I will."

"But —"

I lifted my hand to cut him short. "What good will it do if I get away and you don't? It's your dad. You know how to find him."

Simon's gaze slid to the side.

"What?" Rae turned to me. "Forget Derek, Chloe. He's not coming, remember? He'll be fine. We have to go."

"I'll find him and come after you," I said. "We'll meet behind the factory, okay?"

Simon shook his head. "He's my responsibility —"

"Right now, your dad is your responsibility. You can't help Derek —or me—if you can't find him."

Silence.

"Okay?"

His brows knitted, and I could tell that it wasn't okay, that he hated to run.

"You have to go," I said.

He took my hand, wrapped his fingers around it, and squeezed. I'm sure I turned as red as if he'd scooped me up in a kiss.

"Be careful?" he said.

"I will. I'll find him, then I'll find you."

"I'll be waiting."

Simon took my backpack. It'd be a dead giveaway if I was caught carrying it. If I stashed it someplace, I might not get a chance to retrieve it.

We had the security code —Derek had written it out for us, together with instructions and hand-drawn maps. I could take that as proof that he hadn't planned to be here when we left, but I knew it was just Derek being Derek, leaving nothing to chance.

So why take off and risk Simon not going? My last memory of Derek flashed past —standing in his bedroom doorway, bathed in sweat, barely able to focus—and I knew what had happened.

If Simon saw him like that, he'd know how sick Derek was. If Simon knew, Simon would stay. No question. So Derek had done the only thing he could —holed up someplace, left the alarm on, and prayed Simon would go. A slim chance versus no chance.

So where was he? I headed to the basement first. The door was closed, light off, but he wouldn't leave any sign if he was hiding. The laundry room was empty. The door to the closet was locked.

Last night, when we'd gone on our walk, he'd gulped down the cold air. When we'd returned, his fever seemed gone and I'd chalked it up to the Tylenol kicking in, but maybe the cold air had been enough. If he was desperate for a quick fix, he'd go outside, in hopes of cooling down enough to see Simon off.

I stepped onto the back porch. The quarter moon had slid behind clouds and it was as dark as the upstairs hall. I could make out the glimmer of lights at a neighbor's, but the towering trees blocked all but that faint glow.

My gaze swept the black yard, seeing only the pale box that I knew was the shed. It was colder than the night before, and my breath hung in the air. The only sound was the creak of branches, as steady and monotonous as the ticking of the grandfather clock.

I took three tentative strides across the deck. By the time I climbed down the steps to the concrete pad, I could make out more pale shapes in the yard —the bench, a lawn chair, the garden angel, and a soccer-ball-sized blob near the shed.

An engine revved and I froze, but it was only a car passing. Another two slow steps. I glanced over my shoulder and considered dashing back in for a flashlight, but Simon had taken the only one I knew about.

I peered around. My lips parted to whisper Derek's name, then closed. Would he answer? Or hide?

When I drew closer to the presumed ball, I saw it was a big white sneaker. Derek's. I scooped it up, looking about wildly now.

A blast of wind struck me, so cold it made my eyes water. I rubbed the icy tip of my nose as the wind moaned through the trees. Then the wind died down . . . and the moaning continued, a long, low sound that made the back of my neck prickle.

I turned slowly. The sound stopped. Then came a stifled cough, and as I wheeled toward it, I saw a white sock peeking from behind the shed.

I dashed over. Derek was there, deep in the shadows, on all fours, his head and upper body barely visible. The stink of sweat rolled off him, and the breeze brought a sharp, bitter smell that made the back of my throat constrict, reflexively gagging.

His body tensed as he retched, a dry, ragged heave.

"Derek?" I whispered. "It's Chloe."

He went rigid. "Go away." The words were a guttural growl, barely intelligible.

I stepped closer, dropping my voice another notch. "Simon's gone. I convinced him to go on ahead while I found you."

His back arched, arms stretched out, pale fingers digging into the soil. A low moan, cut short by a grunt.

"You found me. Now go."

"Do you really think I'd leave you like this?" I took another step forward. The stink of vomit made me clap my hand to my nose. I switched to breathing through my mouth. "If you're throwing up, that's more than a fever. You need —"

"Go!" The word was a snarl and I staggered back.

His head dropped. Another moan, this one ending in a high-pitched sound, almost like a whimper. He wore a T-shirt, bare muscles bunching as he gripped the ground again. His arms darkened, as if a shadow passed over them, then reappeared, pale against the surrounding shadow.

"Derek, I —"

His back arched, stretching so high I could see the rigid line of his spine, T-shirt pulled tight, muscles writhing and rippling. Then he sagged, his panting breaths as ragged as the rustling leaves.

"Please. Go." The words were a deep mumble, like he wasn't opening his mouth.

"You need help —"

"No!"

"Simon, then. I'm getting Simon. I'll be right —"

"No!"

He twisted and I caught a glimpse of his face, contorted, misshapen . . . wrong. He whipped his head down before I could process what I'd seen.

He gagged, the sound horrible and raw, like he was coughing up his insides. His back shot up again, limbs stretching to the very limits, bones crackling. His arms went dark, then lightened, the muscles and tendons rippling. The moon chose that moment to peek from the cloud and when his arms darkened, I could see it was hair sprouting, just enough to break the surface, then sliding back under his skin. And his hands . . . His fingers were long and twisted like talons, digging into the earth as his back arched.

In my mind, I heard Simon again. "Guys like Derek have . . . physical enhancements, you might say. Extra strong, as you saw. Better senses, too. That kind of thing."

That kind of thing.

Then my own voice asking lightly, "I'm not going to run into any werewolves or vampires, am I?"

And Simon's answer, coupled with a laugh. "That'd be cool."

Not an answer at all. Avoiding a reply he couldn't give.

Derek convulsed, his head flying back, jaw clenched, an awful moaning howl hissing through his teeth. Then his head whipped down and he gagged, strings of saliva dripping.

"Derek?"

He retched, his whole body racked with heaves. When they subsided, I inched forward. He tilted his head away.

"Is there anything I can do?"

A voice inside my head said, "Sure. Run for your life!" But it was a small warning, not even serious, really, because there was no question of running. This wasn't a matinee monster. Even now, with hair sprouting on his arms, fingers twisted into claws, when he looked away and growled at me to leave, I knew that whatever was happening, he was still Derek.

"Is there anything I can do?"

A ridiculous question. I could imagine the response he'd make any other time —the curl of his lip, the roll of his eyes.

But after one halfhearted "go away," he crouched there, head turned, body trembling, each breath a rasp ending in a quaver.

"Don't." His fingers dug into the ground, arms stiffening, then relaxing. "Go."

"I can't leave you here. If there's anything I can do . . ."

"Don't." A sharp intake of breath, then he expelled the words. "Don't go."

His head lifted my way, just enough for me to see one green eye, wide with terror.

His arms and legs went rigid, back shooting up as he heaved. Vomit sprayed the grass, a fresh wave with every spasm. The sickly smell filled the air.

And I sat there, doing nothing, because there was nothing I could do. My brain raced through ideas, discarding each as fast as it came. I inched over and put my hand on his arm, feeling the coarse hair push through red-hot skin that writhed and pulsed. That was all I could do —stay and tell him I was there.

Finally, with one last heave, one last spray of vomit dappling the fence three feet away, it stopped. Just stopped.

The muscles under my hand went still, the coarse hair receded. Slowly, he relaxed, his back dropping, hands releasing their grip on the earth. He crouched there, panting, hair hanging around his face.

Then he slumped onto his side, hands going over his face, fingers still long, misshapen, the nails thick, like claws. He curled up on his side, knees drawn in, and moaned.

"Should I —? Simon. Should I get Simon? Will he know what to—?"

"No." The word was hoarse, guttural, as if his vocal cords weren't quite human.

"It's over," he said after a minute. "I think. Pretty sure." He rubbed his face, still shielded behind his hands. "Shouldn't have happened. Not yet. Not for years."

In other words, he knew perfectly well what he was, he just hadn't expected the . . . transformation until he was older. I felt a spark of anger that he'd misled me, made Simon lie to me, but I couldn't sustain it, not after what I'd seen, not sitting there, watching him, shirt soaked with sweat as he struggled to breathe, his body shaking with exhaustion and pain.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll be fine now."

"I'm not —"

"Chloe" he snapped, the old Derek back in his voice. "Go. Help Simon. Tell him I'm fine."

"No."

"Chloe . . ." He drew my name out in a low growl.

"Five minutes. I want to make sure you're okay."

He grunted, but settled into silence, relaxing onto the grass.

"See you did rip out of your clothes," I said, trying to

keep my tone light. "Hope you didn't like that shirt, 'cause it's toast."

It was a weak joke, but he said, "Least I didn't turn green."

"No, just. . ." I was going to say "hairy," but I couldn't get the word out, couldn't wrap my head around what I'd seen.

The back door banged. Derek shot up, his hands falling from his face. His nose looked crushed, wide and flat, cheekbones jutting as if rising to meet it, his brows thick and heavy. Not monstrous, more like an artist's reconstruction of Neanderthal man.

I tore my gaze away and crawled toward the corner of the shed. He caught my leg.

"I'll be careful," I whispered. "I'm just getting a look."

I slid on my belly, creeping to the corner and peeking around it. A flashlight beam swept the yard.

"A woman," I whispered, as low as I could. "I think it's Rae —no, too skinny. Ms. Abdo, maybe?"

He tugged my ankle. My jeans had hiked up, and his hand was wrapped around bare skin above my sock. I could feel his palm, rough, like the pads on a dog's feet.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll boost you over the fence. Climb the next one and —"

The flashlight beam cut a swath across the back of the yard.

"Who's out there?" The voice was high, sharp, with a faint accent.

"Dr. Gill," I whispered to Derek. "What's she —?"

"Never mind. Go!"

"I know someone's out here," she said. "I heard you."

I glanced at Derek, his face still deformed. Dr. Gill couldn't find him like this.

I grabbed the shoe of his that I'd dropped, and kicked off one of my own, and that confused him enough for me to wrench from his grasp and dart to the side fence, squeezing between it and the shed. At the last second, he scrambled up and lunged at me, but I was wedged in too far to reach, and he couldn't follow.

"Chloe! Get back here! Don't you dare —"

I kept going.