Walk Among Us, page 8
“What does it mean?” Clea asked.
“There have been people coming to town lately that have been threatening everything we’re trying to build here,” Finn said, running a hand through his shoulder-length blond hair, unbound for once. “People who didn’t care about this city before I got here. I’d like to remind them whose domain this is.”
“Domain?” What a strange word, she thought. Like a predator marking out his territory. She looked down at the symbol again. And I guess I’m the marker.
“There’s a caveat,” Finn added. “This must be done during daylight, and for this location, the best time to go unnoticed is dawn. But you must not do it under cover of darkness. That’s what makes this whole operation risky.”
The address was for a location on High Street, but it looked unfamiliar to Clea. She didn’t dare take out her phone and look it up, not in public. Comparing it to the address of the coffee shop, though—which was on the same street—it was farther south, closer to downtown. Was it still in the Short North? Clea was uneasy at the thought of being so far from campus in the wee hours of the morning. Did the buses even run that early?
“At this time of year, dawn is later than you’d think,” said Finn, seemingly reading her mind. “You should be all right. And the location isn’t particularly visible.”
“Then why even do it?”
Finn smiled grimly. “Because the people I want to see it will see it there. Trust me.”
“Trust me . . .”
But why should she?
Because . . . because I was invisible.
And he sees me.
And sees what I can do.
And it matters to him.
And, she realized, because it matters to me.
Clea took a heavy breath. “You can count on me.” She stuffed the paper into her pocket. “I’ll do it tonight.”
Clea took the bus back to campus after their meeting, her backpack heavy with the black spray paint cans. Unable to sleep when she got back to her dorm, she did her nightly wanderings around campus for the first time in about a month, braving the bitter December winds to try to keep herself busy until dawn. Even bundled up in a hat and scarf to cover her face, the chill bit into her like icy fangs all over her body.
It turned out the buses weren’t running anymore—and she didn’t want to take them anyway because it would be too noticeable—so she began her trek south to the Short North again, that long stretch of High Street dotted with art galleries, boutiques, and bars just north of downtown. Eventually she passed the coffee shop, cold and long closed up for the night; she ran into few people and kept her head down from the wind—and eye contact—when she passed them.
At this hour, they were certainly doing the same—everyone is invisible this late . . . until they choose not to be.
Finally, she reached her destination, and she pulled the scarf tighter over her nose and mouth, both to hide her face but also to keep her warm. It was an art gallery, and a high-end one at that, down a side street. Thank God for that, Clea thought. But she was still wary. She checked and double-checked the address, making sure it was the right place. The addresses matched perfectly.
She took out the first can of spray paint with shaking hands. Took off her glove, put her forefinger on the nozzle. Took a deep breath. Drew the symbol. Then drew it again. Over and over until tiny symbols coated the art gallery’s window.
The sky in the east was turning a brilliant orange by the time she was done.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she began the long trek home, the empty cans rattling noisily in her bag, her breath heavy and hitched as she walked faster and faster, not running for fear of slipping on the icy sidewalk.
“Hey, you!”
Clea stumbled at the sound of the voice from behind her—her breath caught in a small gasp as she slipped on an ice patch—and her heart stopped for a moment as she righted herself and began to sprint, not looking back.
She felt more than heard her pursuer gaining on her. Her chest heaved as she willed herself to go, go, go, and the only thing she could think of was to plant her feet on the spots of bare, salted sidewalk and snow to keep herself from slipping on the ice—
“Let her go—it’s almost up!” another voice said, this one different than the first, and Clea suddenly realized she had two pursuers. Oh God, that was it; she was going to jail—
There was a long break between buildings as she crossed a large, empty street that was closed for construction, but barricades enclosed the narrow stretch of sidewalk on both sides to protect Columbus’s heavy pedestrian traffic. On her right, the orange sunlight was so bright now that she had to put a hand up to shield her eyes against it.
When she reached the other side of the street, a horrible screech sounded from behind her and she found herself sliding to a stop. After several heavy breaths, she turned around and saw that her pursuer had stopped halfway across the street and was backing up, hissing and covering the side of his face with one hand—the side facing the sunrise. From where she stood, she could see that the skin of his hand was blistered and burned. And when he lowered his hand and staggered backward to rejoin his friend, who was hiding in the shadow of a building on the other side of the street, she could see that the skin of his face was in equally bad shape.
Confused, Clea’s eyes met her second pursuer’s. It was a kid not older than she was, in an anorak and jeans, and he was giving her a look of utmost loathing.
Then he bared his fangs at Clea—actual honest-to-God fangs. The empty, sunlit sidewalk sprawled like an impassible river between them, and he regarded her with the utmost hatred as he dragged his friend to his feet and they both fled the way they’d come, keeping to the shadows as they ran.
Clea’s mouth was open, but all she could do was take short, ragged gasps, like she was choking on air. Her stomach churned, and she doubled over and dry heaved onto the sidewalk. She wobbled forward and sank onto a bench, willing herself to take deep breaths.
That couldn’t have just happened. I must’ve imagined it.
But I didn’t.
When she managed to get her heart rate down, she hauled herself to her feet and started back down the sidewalk, trembling beneath her parka. The rattle of the cans in her backpack was deafening. A few times she thought she heard sirens behind her, but when she dared to glance over her shoulder, she saw only the lightening sky, no blue-and-red blinking lights.
Jade was right, was all she could think. Not like Clea could tell her friend what just happened. Who’d believe her? And if she were Jade, the next thing she would do would be to stop playing along and just meet with Finn. Demand answers. Be forceful about it.
But Clea was not Jade. And this thing with Finn—whatever it was—was all she had.
When she was about halfway home, her frozen fingers fumbled to get her phone out of her pocket so she could send him a text:
Done. What’s next?
Chapter Seven
And that was how Clea ended up sitting across from Finn in the coffee shop at the end of finals week with another backpack in her lap and a small sheet of paper with a different address in her hand. His whispered details of her next assignment echoed over and over in her brain on an endless loop.
“Clea?” he prompted as she peered into the new backpack. Her heart jumped up into the general vicinity of her throat when she saw that its contents matched what he’d just asked her to do, and she realized he wasn’t kidding.
Finally, she zipped the backpack shut and swallowed down her disbelief.
“Are you—is this—?” The hand that held the address shook so badly that Clea ended up tucking both hands in the pockets of her hoodie. Her iced white chocolate mocha sat untouched on the table in front of her.
“I thought you’d be able to pull this one off while you’re on winter holiday—you’re from Cleveland, right? This is right in your neck of the woods,” Finn said, his eyes searching hers for some mirror of his excitement. When he didn’t see it, his smile drooped.
It’s too much, Clea thought, clenching her fingers around the paper in her pocket. She willed the words to come out of her mouth. It’s too far. This is going too far. Graffiti is one thing, but this . . . This is . . .
“This is arson,” she whispered.
Finn didn’t have anything to say to that, but Clea could see the gears turning in his head. He laced his fingers on the table and opened his mouth to speak.
Clea cut him off before he could.
“I almost got caught the other night,” she said. It seemed like a million years ago she’d vandalized the art gallery. In the five days that had passed since then, she had taken all her finals and packed up her dorm room for her monthlong winter break. Hannah was already gone, but Clea’s mom wasn’t coming to pick her up until tomorrow morning.
“You almost got caught?” Finn looked concerned. “Did you run away?”
Clea shifted in her chair. Thought about her pursuer’s skin burning in the sunlight in the middle of the street, about her other pursuer leering at her from the shadows with his—with his fangs. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
It was a trick of the light. And the sun was coming up, so maybe he—maybe it would’ve been suspicious to be chasing a girl down the street in broad daylight. Yes. That must be it.
Finn was looking at her expectantly. Clea couldn’t bring herself to meet his curious—and increasingly concerned—gaze.
He’d think I’m crazy.
And if I’m crazy, he might not trust me anymore.
And this is all I have.
She took a deep breath. “I did.”
Finn broke into a smile. “Good for you. How did it feel?”
“Good,” Clea said, and she meant it. Finally, she raised her eyes to meet his. “It felt good.”
“I’m sure it did.” Finn leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. “And this will feel good, too. If you have any other questions about it, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m all ears.”
It almost sounded like a dare. Like a test—a test she would fail if she wanted more information or justification for the deeds she was being asked to do for Finn’s cause.
Whatever that was.
Luckily, Clea didn’t particularly care about that. What she did care about was never, ever going back to the way she was before, and Finn’s assignments were the only thing that had ever worked. The only thing that had given her purpose.
“I only have one question,” Clea said before she could stop herself. She took her hands out of the pocket of her hoodie and wrapped them around the new backpack. “It’s just—the people we’re doing this stuff to—are we the good guys?”
Finn paused for just long enough to make Clea think she had royally screwed up—but then he gave her the approving smile that had coerced her into committing fraud and vandalism, and he said, “That is the best question you could’ve asked. You see, everyone thinks they’re the good guys, but we both know life isn’t always that simple. Everyone thinks their way is the true way. Everyone thinks they’re the hero of their own story. But not everyone can be right.”
Clea held the backpack tighter against her chest.
“Let’s just say they’ve done worse to us than arson, Clea,” Finn said darkly. “Far worse.”
“But it’s like the old saying, ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.’” Clea looked down at the backpack. “If you keep fighting violence with violence, when do you win?”
“When we punch up hard enough, I suppose,” Finn said, mimicking an upper cut with his fist. Clea didn’t know what to think of that, except that there were clearly bigger things at stake than her committing arson . . . and she really wished she’d asked Jade to come with her tonight.
But she thought about the way she felt after sending those emails. After making that graffiti. The thrill. The rush.
She knew there was a lot Finn wasn’t telling her. But that was okay.
Whatever this “cause” of his was, it wouldn’t matter, didn’t matter to her. All that mattered was the sense of purpose he gave her and how it made everything else in her life make sense, too.
“All right,” she whispered. “I’m in.”
Later on that night, her mind still buzzing with everything Finn had told her at the coffee shop, Clea sent Jade a text: Hey, sorry I haven’t replied. Finals week sucked. I basically had to do an entire semester’s work in like two weeks because I was so far behind. It wasn’t a total lie.
She followed it up with: My mom is coming to get me tomorrow morning. Do you want to get breakfast or something before that?
Because the fact was that Clea felt like a dam about to burst, and she knew at the first sight of Jade, she’d spill everything. Finn hadn’t told her not to, after all.
Clea had set the new backpack Finn had given her next to Hannah’s bed, and it stared her down from across the room. She swallowed heavily. Deep in her heart, Clea needed validation that she was doing the right thing, and she honestly didn’t know if Jade would give it to her. More likely, she’d say, “I told you so,” and tell Clea she was crazy for listening to Finn.
So Clea sat there on her bed in her mostly packed dorm room, staring at the phone in her hand. Willing it to vibrate. Minutes passed. Should she follow it up, send a third text? Should she add, I really need to talk to you or something? If someone texted Clea those words, she’d want to talk right at that moment, or she’d worry about it. But Jade didn’t have the same anxieties.
Clea frowned. When was the last time she’d seen Jade? It had been a couple of weeks. And the last text Jade had sent her had read: I just tried texting Brendan, and he doesn’t know who I am. Wtf, I thought we were cool. Maybe he changed his number but still, idk. Think he’s just trolling me?
Clea honestly had no idea.
Maybe she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore. The old insecurity gnawed at Clea’s gut. And it’s my own fault. Right when I need her the most . . .
No, she couldn’t despair, couldn’t fall into that hole of paranoia and self-loathing again. She’d come too far for that.
And tomorrow night, Clea would prove how far she’d go.
When Clea’s alarm went off in the morning, Jade still hadn’t responded. Clea got up and dressed, and went to the dining hall before it closed for winter break. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she ate what she could—half a waffle and a small glass of milk—then went back to her dorm and brought her bags down, and stood there, shivering, to wait for her mother by the curb.
They made small talk for the entire two-hour drive back up to their Cleveland suburb. Clea was distracted, and she knew her mom could tell.
She unpacked her bags when they got home—all but the black backpack, which Clea stowed under her bed. She spent the rest of the day trying to distract herself with Netflix, to no avail, until finally her mom called down that dinner was ready.
“Hey, Mom,” Clea said as she picked at her food, “you have cold-weather running gear, right? From when you used to run?”
Clea’s mom’s fork paused just above her tuna casserole, and her eyebrows shot up. Clea’s dad paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth.
“Oh, honey,” her mom said approvingly. In her prime, she’d been a distance runner and had done something like three marathons, or so Clea recalled, even though her mom understandably wasn’t in the best of shape anymore since she’d had some health issues. “Is that how you’ve been losing weight?”
Clea forced a smile and nodded. “I usually just go to the gym at school, but I’d like to keep it up over break.”
“Well, you can use anything you want. I’ll dig them up for you after dinner,” her mom replied, beaming. “And we’ll go shopping this weekend to get you some of your own stuff. Have you been running in those old Vans sneakers? You can always borrow my shoes, too. They’re much better for you. Won’t give you shin splints. I think the rest of what I have might fit you, too. Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you for getting active.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Clea said, with as much feeling as she could muster, although she felt a stab of betrayal in her heart. Her mom was just like Hannah. Not valuable unless I make myself smaller, huh? Would you have ever told me you were proud of me otherwise?
She choked down the rest of her tuna casserole, but it left a bitter taste in her mouth. When she excused herself, she cleaned her plate and went back upstairs to her room, and her mom arrived a short while later—still beaming—with a pile of her old running gear, which Clea accepted with as much enthusiasm as she could.
And that’s how she ended up with a bunch of thermal underwear, a lightweight Nike-brand balaclava, and a solid pair of running shoes for her assignment that night.
After that, she took out her sketchbook and started to draw; it was the only surefire way to clear her mind. She drew Jade as a werewolf and Finn as a zombie.
At around four in the morning, she put her sketchbook aside. She got dressed as silently as she could, put on the black backpack, snatched her mom’s car keys off the kitchen counter, and slipped out of the house.
It was either do the deed now or spend all of winter break thinking about it.
She entered the address Finn had given her into her phone and drove for about an hour, crossing through downtown Cleveland to the suburbs on the other side of the city to an area she recalled was pretty affluent. There were several century homes—mansions, more like—each sprawled on acres of land. When she got to the one marked on the address, she pulled her car into a wooded parking lot a little ways down the road and crept in silence toward her destination.
“There’s a nature preserve on the other side of the property,” Finn had told her, bringing up a map on his phone. “Just there. If you park here and find the path, you’ll have more cover to get back into the woods. If you approach from the front yard, there’s way too much open space.”
