The voice came from a patch of grass to my left, where a man on an upturned crate held a small group in thrall.
“God has sent the werewolves as divine punishment! America has backslid into sin. He strikes the wicked—the sinners and the morally decayed—and unleashes them among us!” The man’s wide eyes and his tangled black hair made him look like someone who spent his time wrestling imaginary demons. He was young—maybe only a few years older than I was—but his ragged voice and disheveled appearance made him seem ancient. His baggy trench coat flapped around him like wings, and when he swept his arms back, his collar gaped wide, revealing a pale expanse of unmarked skin.
He wasn’t a Tracker, just crazy.
I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to tune out his words as I passed.
Kyle wasn’t a punishment.
He wasn’t a sinner or morally decayed.
He was the strongest person I knew. The best person I knew.
Besides, God wasn’t singling out America. Other countries had lupine syndrome. Maybe they didn’t have as many cases, but the virus wasn’t an exclusively American problem.
“And God gave the demons human faces so that they might pass among you, but at night the beasts crawl on all fours! That is how you shall know them! Know them and root them out!”
Hello, Salem 1692.
I should have walked around the square. It would have taken longer, but it would have been better than listening to this. I glanced back and tripped to a stop as I spotted a familiar face in the preacher’s audience: Amy’s father.
Ryan Walsh stood a little apart from the crowd, a faraway gaze in his eyes. He was dressed casually—jeans and a wool coat instead of the suits he so often wore—but there was a briefcase in his right hand. There were more lines on his face than I remembered. He was still handsome for someone his age, but it was a worn kind of handsome. Though Amy had inherited his pale skin, she had missed out on his blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Those had gone to Stephen. Nordic: That was how Amy’s mother had always described them. Her Nordic boys. They were so alike that looking at Mr. Walsh was like getting a glimpse of what Stephen would look like in a few decades.
Mr. Walsh’s brows pulled together in a frown as he listened to the manic preacher. For a second, something dark crossed his face, but the look was there and gone so fast that I wondered if I had imagined it.
It was odd to see him so soon after Stephen’s voice mail, but I guess it was kind of inevitable that he’d be drawn to the square with the rally just around the corner. I debated going back and speaking to him, but what could I say?
When Amy had died, she had taken my tie to her family with her. Anything I said now would come off as awkward and empty.
I turned and headed for the arch at the western edge of the park and the line of waiting buses.
3
THE MEADOWS WAS A FOUR-BLOCK BY TWO-BLOCK stretch on the southernmost edge of town. The area had gotten its nickname from the fact that it had almost as many vacant lots as ramshackle buildings. It was the kind of neighborhood people found themselves in after the last of their luck had run out, where crack dens sprouted like weeds and herds of abandoned shopping carts dotted the landscape.
Serena’s family had been driven here after a handful of Trackers burned them out of their home.
As I stepped off the bus, I tried not to think of the part Jason had played in that event. So much had changed since then—he had changed. Though nothing would ever make up for what had happened that night, Jason had risked his life to get Serena out of Thornhill. Hundreds of werewolves had been saved from Sinclair because of a breakout Jason had helped plan and execute.
A dark car with tinted windows turned onto the street as I made my way along the cracked sidewalk. It slowed and I felt my heart skip a beat. Probably just a drug deal, I told myself, staring straight ahead and trying not to look nervous or suspicious. Nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with Thornhill.
I reached the Carsons’ rental house—a gray two-story building that seemed to lean precariously to one side—and glanced back. The car had stopped two doors down. It idled at the curb as a man in a bathrobe crossed an overgrown lawn and approached the passenger-side window.
A knot in my stomach unclenched as money changed hands.
You knew you were getting paranoid when you were relieved to see the local crackheads conducting business.
Ever since the escape, I had been jumping at shadows. None of us were from Colorado, and we had all used fake names when we entered the camp, but I still kept expecting the LSRB to somehow find us, to swoop in and grab us the second we let down our guard.
With a small sigh, I headed up the walkway to Serena’s house. The blinds on the first floor were all drawn, giving the place a deserted air, but her car was parked in the weed-choked driveway. Even without the car, I knew she would be home. Serena had always been outgoing—a people person—but now crowds and strangers made her flinch. When we’d first gotten back, she had barricaded herself in the house, pacing the rooms and hallways, too afraid to set foot outside or even look out the windows.
She had started going to school again last week—at least some days—but she wouldn’t go anywhere else.
Kyle said to give her time, that she was doing remarkably well given everything she had been through, but there were days when I wondered if she would ever fully recover from Thornhill. There were days when I wondered if recovery was even possible.
Behind Serena’s car sat a motorcycle that looked fresh from the assembly line. One of Tess’s old boyfriends had been a biker. He had tried teaching me how to ride—until Tess found out and freaked. She thought I would end up being one of those cautionary tales told by driver’s ed instructors.
I wondered where Trey had gotten the money for a new bike. Serena’s older brother had a reputation as a badass—a reputation that wasn’t entirely undeserved—but I didn’t think he’d steal a ride. For one thing, we were all trying to keep a low profile. For another, his father would kill him.
I climbed the steps to the sagging front porch and pressed my thumb to the doorbell.
After a small eternity, Trey opened the door.
His mouth twisted down at the corners as his gaze raked over me; I tried to ignore the answering pang in my chest. Trey and I hadn’t exactly been friends, but I had always liked him. As far as I knew, that feeling had been mutual—until Colorado.
Trey crossed his arms, showing off a set of well-defined muscles under a slightly too-small T-shirt as he leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want, Dobs?”