“That she adores snow?” Devyn asks. “And is no longer a victim of cheimaphobia?”
Issie licks some honey that’s run off her sandwich and onto her fingers.
“No.”
“That she has called her mother and no longer resents her for sending her to Maine, thus ending future decades of therapy and massive loss of revenue for my revenue-hungry parents?”
“No.”
I stick out my tongue at him.
“That she has indeed freed all the political prisoners throughout the globe?”
“Devyn!”
He laughs. “Okay. Okay. I’ll play nice.”
He turns to Issie and says all sweetly, “What did Zara say?”
“She said that she’d rather be my friend than Megan’s, any day.”
“Zara’s no idiot,” he says. He raises his eyebrows at me. “I knew you had it in you.”
I’m totally confused. I take a sip of my soda. “What do you mean?”
“To make good choices,” he says. “You’d choose Issie even if Megan didn’t hate you, right?”
I glance at Megan and her frosty eye shadow, her perfect hair, her happy laugh, and her group of admirers. “Megan is cold.”
Devyn nods. “Exactly.”
We google like crazy. Most of the pixie hits are crap about role-playing games. Then we hit paydirt.
People believe pixies are tiny, happy fey with just a streak of mischief. They are not. Closer to the vampire’s callous disdain for the sanctity of human life, pixies should be avoided at all costs. The only protection against their wrath is their mortal enemy, the were.
“The were?” I say.
Devyn and Issie exchange a look and then Devyn turns to me. “Not were as in the verb ‘we were’ but where as in ‘where the heck have my sunglasses gone.’ It’s werewolves, werebears, that sort of thing.”
He smiles like it’s no big deal.
“You are kidding me.” I rock back in my chair, shaking my head.
“Weres are protectors of humans and each other,” Issie explains. “It’s like their sacred duty or something.”
“And we know this how?”
“Eighth-grade cryptozoology project.” She turns back to the screen. “Does it say anything else, Devyn?”
We all read the page silently. Devyn must read faster than we do, because he points at a far-ahead paragraph.
Pixies tend to congregate in wooded places. Some pass as humans and interact with humans under the bene t of a spell often known as a glamour. They should still be avoided. When not mated with a queen for an unspeci ed amount of time, the pixie king will demand tributes given to him in the form of young human men.
Devyn reads the next part. “ ‘Whom they kill after using them for their blood-hungry pleasures.’ ”
“Not cool,” Issie says.
“Not cool at all,” I agree.
I read a tiny bit more, “ ‘The tortured boys gradually fall prey to hysteria’—Duh? Wouldn’t you?—‘and then they lose pieces of their souls, gradually becoming an inhuman husk prior to death.’ ”
“That’s so freaky awful,” Issie whispers, grabbing onto Devyn’s arm.
His eyes get sad and scared but his voice is brave. “It’ll be okay, Is.”
“What if that actually happens?” I whisper. “What if it’s already happening?”
I look into their pale, motionless faces. I try to brave myself up. “But it’s just a Web site, right? Anyone can write something on the Web.”
The bell rings.
“Right.” Devyn erases the history on the Web browser.
Everyone looks so disturbed I decide to make a joke. “I guess the weres around here aren’t doing a good job.”
They don’t even crack a smile.
“Come on,” I say. “You don’t actually believe this, do you?”
Issie rubs at the bridge of her nose with the side of her hand. “Kind of.”
I stare down Devyn. “You believe in werewolves and pixies? Like there’s not enough real-life badness to be freaked about, you what? You want more?”
“Zara. Can you explain the dust?”
I pull in a breath, remember it by my car, near the woods, on Nick’s back. “No.”
“Do you think people are so brilliant we understand everything?”
“No,” I say, and I stare at him. “What does Nick think about this? Does he believe that guy was a pixie?”
His voice comes from behind me. “Oh, I’d say I believe it.”
Devyn clicks off the screen while I stare at him.
“Your mouth’s wide open, Zara,” Issie whispers.
Nick reaches down and hauls me up. “Have you guys eaten yet?”
I nod.
“You want to come with me anyway?” he asks.
I nod again, staring at my hand touching his hand. Issie starts giggling and Nick lets go.
The snow has mostly melted, so the cross-country practice is held outside. The trail is what you’d expect in Maine. You run across a big field and then on a narrow winding path that loops through the woods, where the pine trees seem to hover over you, ready to grab at you. It would be a perfect place for some kind of freak guy to jump out and grab you.
But that is not going to happen. Still, I kind of wish I had some pepper spray or something. We all huddle around the coach, who puffs up his body like he’s terribly important, like some sort of dictator making laws, which I guess he is. It all smells like Christmas and deodorant and baby powder. I think Megan’s the baby powder.
“We’re going to buddy up,” he says. “Megan, you go with the new girl.”
She looks horrified. “No way.”
“I’ll go with her,” Ian and Nick both say at the same time.
“Oh, so popular,” Megan snarks while the coach shakes his head.
“Fine,” he says. “Colt, you go with her.”
Nick nods. I bite my lip. Coach says, “What? That not okay with you?”
“No,” I mutter. “It’s good.”
Everyone else partners up and Coach Walsh sets us out two-by-two. “Easy runs today. No PRs.”
“That means personal record,” Megan says.
I touch my toes. “I know what it means.”