But I do what I can. I carry her away from her dead father, and she clings to my neck like I was not responsible. I keep my mask on but stay longer than I should—long enough to see her tucked into the bed of that small room and to watch her cry herself to sleep. Long enough to lie to her, to tell her he’s in a better place.
I call 911 from a nearby phone booth, keeping my voice a whisper as I relay details to the operator. I tell her I heard screams coming from one of the motel rooms but was too scared to check it out. I never remove my gloves, never put my hoodie down, and wipe the phone clean just to be certain. I make sure to leave no traces of myself behind.
I don’t wait for the police or the ambulance to arrive.
Instead, I drive until I find another parking lot—at a Costco—and stop the car so I can hold my head in my hands, with only the occasional sounds of vehicles passing by to break through the guilt I feel.
Sometimes I forget that assholes have children too.
“Tarquin?” I hear Okiku ask, the worry echoing in her rattling whisper. She understands that this can take a lot out of me, some days worse than others, but it’s not like either of us has any choice in the matter. She says my name again, and her voice changes.
“Tarquin.” I feel her hand on my hair. Then both her hands reach down to gently cup my face, and I look up to find her studying me. She’s adopted human guise again, and while her hands are cold to the touch, her eyes are warm. When she hugs me, it’s awkward because Okiku never really learned how.
It’s not like we both have any other options.
“I’m fine now,” I say after a minute, squeezing her hand. “Let’s get home.”
But she shakes her head. “No.”
“No?”
She turns to me, and I realize with dismay that the
take their eyes their limbs their heads
gouge out the pretties gouge
slither slither tiny festers hate
malice isn’t completely gone from either of us. Ki’s gotten hold of another scent, and the voices aren’t letting go until that’s over and done with too.
I check the time—9:30 p.m. Early enough for one more hunt. I don’t want to spend another night with crazy in my head if I can help it.
“Where to?”
Chapter Four
The Party
“I can’t believe you actually made it!” Trish Seyfried squeals as I walk in.
I can’t believe it either. Pulling up beside the McNeil residence felt even more incredulous than stopping by Five Guys, but Okiku doesn’t waver in that regard.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Ki.”
It’s a rhetorical question, but she shakes her head.
“McNeil’s? There’s a killer at McNeil’s? If you wanted to go to the party, you didn’t need to go through this roundabout way to—”
filthy necks kill strangle him take him
take the eyes
Ah, hell.
“Fine, fine,” I grumble, still half convinced this is all a mistake. If there was a killer studying at Pembrooke High, I know I would have spotted him long before this. “At least let me check it out before we do anything.”
The implication that someone I know from school might be a murderer isn’t lost on me. For once, I’m letting morbid curiosity take the reins. Something tells me I’m not going to like it, but I want to confront whoever it is before I sic Okiku on him.
There’s a reason I don’t go to these parties, and I’m already regretting setting foot in the place. Though the host is one of the few popular kids who’s never gone out of his way to bully me, Keren McNeil’s a wide receiver beloved for his ability to catch sixty-yard passes as if there aren’t a dozen defenders on his tail. He’s nice enough for a jock, except he hangs around with big-headed athletes like Matheson who talk smack about smack and treat the rest of us common mortals like dirty jockstraps. A lot of girls find these guys attractive, which is why I don’t understand a lot of girls.
I flash Trish a weak smile and catch sight of Kendele sitting on a couch with her back toward me, Hank Armstrong’s burly arm around her shoulders. The smile twists into a grimace. “Yeah, well, thanks for inviting me.”
Trish may be the only person pleased to see me. A few of the jocks eye me with derisive smirks. Some cheerleaders do the same, watching me like I’m a frog on its way to a dissection. Trish, as always, is oblivious. She grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen, babbling a mile a minute as she does.
“Come on, let’s get you something cold to drink. I know you’re not used to these kinds of parties, so I thought I’d show you around. You’ve never been to, um, McNeil’s place before, right? His parents are away for weeks at a time, so this is where we usually hang. They’ve got a wide-screen TV and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The only downer here is that the neighbors are sorta dicks. Every time we turn the stereo up, they start complaining. McNeil’s dad knows the police commissioner, so it’s okay if they threaten to call the cops, but the interruption’s kinda annoying, you know?”
I didn’t know, but I don’t care. As Trish talks, my eyes wander over the rest of the crowd. The usual suspects are there, talking and laughing. Maybe it’s the image of the little girl kneeling beside her father’s corpse that’s still swirling in my head, but I just want to lash out at someone.
“Are you good friends with McNeil?” I ask.
Trish pauses, a sudden edge in her voice. “I—no. Not really. It’s not like I know McNeil well or anything. I’m just here ’cause the other cheerleaders are.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Sondheim isn’t happy to see me. He’s scowling because Trish is still clinging to my hand.
“I invited him.” Trish sounds defensive. “He helped us out last night. Don’t you think we owe him?”
Neither of them notices Okiku stepping out from me and heading off to explore the rest of the house. The McNeils are filthy rich, and this looks more like a mansion, with expensive-looking leather sofas and a home entertainment system that puts Dad’s to shame. Not many breakables in the room, I note—guess McNeil knows his friends better than to leave them lying around. The smell of beer is strong, and I can already see a few couples making out.
“Fine, whatever. Look, it’s Keren’s house, and he gets to invite the people he wants to invite—no offense, pal. He won’t like outsiders barging in, and just ’cause you think we owe—”
quiet little lingering sweet blood
drink up drink up drown
find him—
I interrupt Sondheim; it’s getting harder to smile without looking demented. “You don’t mind if I just hang around? I’m sure McNeil won’t mind one more person. Trish is right, you know. It’s an honor to get invited to these things.”
Sondheim hesitates. “Yeah. Um, I guess. Hey, babe, how about grabbing us a couple of beers?”
Trish blows her boyfriend a kiss and saunters off. A few of the jocks and their girlfriends are watching a college basketball game on a forty-inch wide-screen in the next room, hollering insults. The rest are sprawled on chairs and couches, laughing. McNeil looks up and raises an eyebrow when we approach, his tone curious.