Night Tide Page 5

  “You can come to our house,” Lillian said, tugging the blanket tighter around her. Then turning her face up to Una she said, “We’ll be with them.”

  “Thank you.” Una helped Abby to her feet. “I’ll come get you as soon as I leave here. If it’s too late, I’ll wait until the morning. I’m sure you’re all exhausted. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “Text me either way,” his mother told Officer O’Reilly. “I’ll be awake.”

  In silence the four of them climbed the steep ledge to the parking lot above. Grayson and Abby followed his parents, shoulder to shoulder, to the parking lot beside the castle ruins. No one spoke as his father unlocked the car and they climbed in. In the dark back seat, Abigail snuggled close to Grayson’s side, crying quietly.

  “Are you hungry?” his father asked.

  Grayson met his eyes in the rearview. “I don’t know if I can eat now.”

  “We will pick up something anyway,” his mother said, regarding him with one of her stern faces. “You don’t have to eat it. But it will be there if you want it.”

  “Not pizza,” Abby said softly from her corner of the car. Her voice was thick with tears. “Anything but pizza.”

  They picked up Chinese from the Moodle Noodle shop on the west side of campus. His father went in and paid while his mother stayed in the car.

  No one spoke. The radio remained off. But distant music from a closing bar reached them.

  It was Abigail who broke the silence first. “When I get to your house, can I please take a shower?”

  “Of course,” his mother said, turning in her seat to gaze at her. “Of course you can.”

  “Where’s Tanner?” Grayson asked. His parents wouldn’t have brought him to a murder scene, but it couldn’t have been easy finding a sitter at two in the morning.

  “He had a sleepover with Will.” It was like her face was drinking him in. “We will tell him what happened later.”

  Don’t say it, he thought. He could practically see the I’m just so glad you’re okay written on her face. But if she said it, Abby would begin to cry again and she’d finally started to quiet down.

  “All right,” his father said, climbing into the car and handing a brown sack to his mother. “We have enough chicken and lo mien to feed an army. Anything else?”

  “A shower,” Abby begged.

  His father favored her with a weak smile. “Coming right up.”

  His father waited for a trio of drunk coeds to cross the street before he pulled away from the curb into the post-bar traffic.

  Grayson’s parents had bought a house in historic Midtown. This was a vintage neighborhood with beautiful restored Victorian homes and small shops. There was a coffeeshop and bookstore and it had the feel of a small antiquated town, complete with a local grocer and old-fashioned video store, where people could still rent DVDs and video games.

  This neighborhood’s insular seclusion was one of the reasons Grayson had been allowed to roam so freely as a child. Everything he could have wanted—candy or ice cream, a park or playground, his friends—were within a few blocks of his house.

  The porchlight was on when they pulled into the drive, illuminating freshly stained steps and the railing. The house itself was a deep cherry red. He and his father had just repainted it the previous summer. It had taken them all three months, and it wasn’t like his family didn’t have the money to hire a team to do it faster. It was simply one of his father’s “bonding” projects—of which there had been many over the years.

  But seeing the house had the effect Grayson suspected his father wanted.

  Every time Grayson saw it, he felt proud. Proud of what a good job the four of them had done together, and proud of his family.

  This was home. He was safe here.

  When he threw open the car door, he had tears in his eyes. His father saw them as he was closing his own door.

  “I know,” his father murmured quietly. “I know.”

  He squeezed Grayson’s shoulder hard, and pulled him toward the house.

  His mother got the door open, ushering Abigail over the threshold.

  “Honey, get some towels,” she said, tossing her keys and purse on the bench beside the stairs. “When you get out of the shower, Abigail, I’ll have something clean for you to wear. It’ll be a little big on you.”

  The shirt would be fine, but Abigail wasn’t as tall as his mother. The pants would have to be rolled up and perhaps belted at the waist.

  “It’s fine,” Abigail managed, looking small and worn under the gray wool blanket. “Thank you.”

  His mother carried the food into the kitchen and disappeared through the swinging door.

  “Grayson, show her how the taps work,” his father instructed, putting two fresh towels in his hand. He took the blanket off Grayson’s shoulder. “And make sure there’s enough soap and all that.”

  “Come on.” Grayson took the lead on the stairs even though Abby had been visiting his house since the fourth grade. Of course, she’d never stayed the night before.

  The wooden staircase creaked under their weight. When they reached the top of the stairs, he turned left and then left again to his own bathroom at the end of the hall.

  He placed the towels on the sink, aware of Abigail standing beside him.

  “It’s backwards. You turn the handle this way for hot, and this way for cold. If it sputters, it’s just air in the pipes. It’ll kick back up in a second. Don’t let the rattle scare you.”

  He left the tap on hot and pulled up the stop. The water was diverted from the spout to the showerhead, spraying the basin in a gentle rain.

  Abigail handed him the blanket and began to undress.

  He shouldn’t care. He’d seen her naked about half a dozen times in their life. But he still backed toward the door.

  “I’ll put the clothes outside the door,” he said.

  He thought it best to look her in the eyes, rather than chance staring at anything else.

  But when he looked into her eyes, she was crying.

  “It was you,” she said, standing there naked in his bathroom, with the hot water running into a cream-colored tub.

  His heart hammered in his chest.

  “When the siren—I wanted it because—” She bit her quivering lip. Her hand fisted on the burgundy shower curtain. “When he was—he looked like you.”

  Then Grayson understood what she was trying to say. The male siren had caught up to her and she hadn’t resisted him.

  It was Grayson she’d been making love to as her boyfriend was killed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Probably all of it. The whole shitty situation. But she’d already climbed inside the shower and had pulled the curtain closed between them.

  Grayson showered in his parents’ bathroom.

  Then after he put the fresh clothes on the sink for Abigail—she hadn’t finished yet—he went downstairs to find his parents sitting around the dining room table.

  Grayson had always loved this table. It was strange and ornate and looked more like a table built for 1920s seances than for family dinners. But it was one of the many charming features of their restored home.

  “Come sit with us,” his mother said. She was trying not to sound desperate, which Grayson appreciated. A swell of affection filled his chest.

  After his shower, he found he could eat after all. The headache building behind his eyes and the shaking in his exhausted limbs begged him to eat something. “Let me grab some food first.”

  He went into the kitchen and pulled a white ceramic plate from the shelf. He loaded it with pineapple fried rice, lo mien, General Tso’s chicken, and three pieces of crab rangoon.

  He grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge and carried it into the dining room.

  He sat down between his parents, knowing that was where they wanted him.

  “Your father and I talked and we decided to waive the no-girls-sleeping-in-your-room policy,” his m
other said.

  “Good call. I don’t think she’ll sleep alone.”

  “But we want you to leave the door open,” his father added.

  Grayson didn’t even fight them. He didn’t care.

  His mind kept replaying the image of Landon tossing in the surf, his pale body thrashing in the waves.

  “We don’t have to talk about what happened,” his mother began. Her words had the practiced air about them. She was a professor, but Grayson was certain that it was also because she liked to rehearse what she would say in her mind long before saying it. He was like his mother in this way.

  And when had she composed this speech? In the car on the way home? When he was in the shower? Or maybe even in the car on their way to retrieve their almost dead son.

  “Especially if you’re tired,” his father added. “The swim alone must’ve been exhausting, not to mention—” There was a jerk under the table and Grayson was fairly sure his mother had just kicked him. His father grimaced. “We just want you to know we’re proud of you.”

  “Landon is dead.” Grayson pushed the rice around on his plate with the back of his fork.

  His father reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You couldn’t do anything about that.”

  “I should’ve done more. I should’ve—”

  “If anyone is to blame for Landon’s death, it’s the authorities,” his mother interjected. “They should have told the town about the siren attack. There should’ve been a notice to stay out of the water. This town—”

  “Lill,” his father said and her mouth snapped shut.

  “I’m just saying. How are people supposed to stay safe if they aren’t properly informed?”

  His father fixed him with his gaze again. “You’re not to blame for what happened and we’re proud of you for handling the situation the best you could.”

  “Please stop saying that,” Grayson said. He couldn’t sit at this table with his Chinese food and be congratulated by his parents as if he’d won some prize. Landon was dead.

  Landon was dead and—

  “Keeping your cool in a dangerous situation is everything.” It was his mother speaking. “It’s going to take a long time to get over this. Maybe you’ll never completely get over this loss. But we wanted you to know that we are here and we’ll do anything we can to help you. If you need something, tell us.”

  This loss.

  They weren’t even saying his name.

  He understood all of the words coming out of their mouths. He even understood that the reason he was here at the table while his best friend was dead on a beach was because he’d been blessed with smart, patient parents who’d prepared him to survive.

  And it was more than that. He’d gotten lucky. He’d been damn lucky.

  Then why was he so angry? Why did he feel like he shouldn’t be the one in the chair? Why did it feel like it was unfair that Landon should be dead and that he should be alive? Why did he want to trade places with him?

  I wanted it to be you, Abby had said.

  “If you need anything—” his mother was saying again.

  He exhaled and pushed away from the table. “I need some air.”

  “We’d rather you stay in the house,” his father said.

  His mother shot him another look and his father grimaced as if expecting another kick.

  “But we won’t tell you what to do,” his mother said. “But why don’t you go to bed? You’ve had one hell of a night.”

  “A hell of a birthday,” he murmured. “I think I’ll...”

  Grayson Choice 3

  Go for a walk

  Go to bed

  Reese: Go to pack meeting

  “I’ll come to the meeting,” Reese said. She dragged a hand down her face. “When does it start?”

  A short rustle of fabric made Reese suspect that Kristine was moving the phone to her other ear. “In an hour. We’ll be at the amphitheater in Sunset Park.”

  Reese glanced at the clock. It was shaped like a great white shark, the white belly shining in the afternoon sun. She’d slept most of the day away. “See you there.”

  Kristine murmured her goodbyes. Reese considered her needs in order of importance.

  Food and a shower were at the top of the list. She decided on the shower first.

  She dressed in freshly laundered clothes that reeked of fabric softener.

  Brunch, she decided, was a can of tuna on dry toast. After finishing her toast and throwing the rinsed can in the recycle bin, she brushed her teeth for a second time. She unwrapped two sticks of mint gum and washed her hands just to be sure.

  The drive to Sunset Park was quiet. It was that calm hour between afternoon and evening. Most of the daytimers hadn’t left work yet, and the evening crowd hadn’t yet woken. The streets were nearly empty. In Cliffside, a few people were walking their dogs, their headphones on as they strolled down the white-washed sidewalk.

  When Cliffside gave way to downtown, she saw more students. Kids that were enjoying their summer breaks hung out in clusters in front of their favorite haunts. The Magic Bean coffeeshop seemed particularly busy, but there was also a cluster outside the burrito shop on the corner. When she turned left just before Red Light, a burst of nature sprung into view.

  North of campus and Red Light, the town was completely undeveloped.

  Sunset Park was the most manicured part of it. Beyond that, the Wayward Woods sat wild and welcoming. It had its trails and many of the park rangers had even laid wood chips down to manicure the paths.

  But no shifter or werefolk worth their salt would be fooled by something as simple as a clean cut path. The nature magic rolling through the Wayward Woods was palpable. But it was a friendly magic, unlike the magic one could feel if they got too close to the West Territory line, or Goddess forbid, the Western Woods themselves. That magic was hungry and wanting.

  Reese parked her rattling red pickup in the parking lot at the edge of Sunset Park beneath a large maple tree. She fished the shimmering visor out from behind her seat and unfolded it across the dash, blocking the windshield completely and filling the car with shadows. She hoped it would control much of the heat from building in the truck. She wasn’t sure how long this meeting would last, but they had hours left in the day before sunset fell. And the old leather seats in Reese’s truck seemed to hold onto heat the way a dying man holds onto his last breath.

  She counted the cars in the lot. Thirty at least. A few more and all the spaces would be gone. Were they all werewolves and shifters? Or were other park visitors milling about?

  Reese followed the path from the parking lot. She could have gone left, heading toward the trails and woods beyond. Instead, she took the right fork, watching the path snake around a bend before opening up on a large stone amphitheater. More than a hundred people filled the amphitheater. Most of the people were sitting on the stone seats, talking to one another. A ripple of power erupted on the right, drawing some attention.

  Ninety percent of the people here were werewolves, unified under Kristine’s leadership as their alpha. Once upon a time, there had been multiple packs in town, but once Kristine became alpha, the packs consolidated. Reese suspected that was due to Kristine more than anything. The alpha had worked hard to create a more integrated community.

  Not only had she folded all the werewolves into a single pack, but she also worked to bring in other shifters, whom Reese spotted in the crowd. There was an emphasis on sitting not with your own kind, but with those least like you. For this reason, Reese took a seat between a werewolf and a bird shifter in the middle of the amphitheater, off to Kristine’s left side.

  The alpha had also worked to dispel the separation between bitten and born shifters, which Reese was glad to see was working. The mix was well done, with bitten and born, pack and non-pack spread evenly through the amphitheater. Reese suspected that there were some traditionalists among them who preferred the old ways, but they kept their dissent to themselves. If they were giving Kristine gri
ef, they were doing so behind the scenes.

  In the past, the bitten were frowned upon as lesser. Werewolves who had been born of other werewolves were considered stronger and purer. The same was true of shifters like Reese, who had been born with their animal dispositions.

  Ironically, those who could change their form at will—to any animal or human they desired—were ostracized. Chimeras like Nick—Alpha’s bouncer—were criticized for their lack of connection to a particular animal spirit.

  Right on the hour, Kristine raised her hand. The crowd quieted immediately, turning toward the alpha with deference and expectation.

  “I want to link up, before we begin.” Her dark hair shone in the light. Her golden eyes were wolf eyes. To the other shifters she added, “Please join us if you like.”

  Reese felt the alpha’s magic ripple over her skin. She let it pass over her without connecting to it. While some reef sharks did group up, generally they were not pack animals.

  The magic was simply too different. Reese’s magic felt like a formidable ocean wave. There was a rhythm and deep, cool current. Kristine’s magic—pack magic—smelled like the earth, not the sea. It flowed like a breeze, not waves. It was sunlight on the skin, not water. The smell of fresh air, falling leaves and warmth intensified. It invoked images of deep, unknowable woods. A forest, a packed-earth floor, and a running river.

  Kristine regarded her pack with golden eyes. Those eyes were always wolf eyes now, as they held that space between human and animal, filled with the magical fire of transformation. It was a show of power and a reminder to all who the alpha was.

  Seems exhausting, Reese thought and was glad again that her mind and spirit were not linked completely to the creatures around her. She didn’t want to have to guard her thoughts all the time, especially since they seemed to move on their own ocean currents.

  The moment their alpha’s eyes opened and the magic settled, the pack opened their eyes. They gazed lovingly at their leader, their bodies rapt with attention.

  Reese shifted against the stone seat beneath her, trying to alleviate the pressure against her tailbone.