|
|
As Xave and I dismount his bike in front of Howls, my clock reads exactly midnight. Riding side-saddle has made my butt and legs stiff, not to mention the cold February air. I shake my limbs and rub my backside.
Xave snickers. “Very ladylike,” he says.
“Shut up.” I smack his arm. “We had to go and get involved with criminals who ask you to dress up. How very James Bond.”
“Clark swears they’re not bad guys.”
“Yeah, and I was born fully clothed.”
“If you were born wearing anything like that dress, then I have no complaints.” Xave gives me a look similar to the one he gave me when he picked me up. My skin tingles as if his eyes were feathers traveling down the length of my body. I smack him again because I can’t insult him. My mouth has suddenly gone dry.
I hate dresses. With a raving passion. I have no idea where James is taking us, but it has to be somewhere fancy. So much so that he, himself, provided the clothes Xave and I are wearing to make sure we look the part. How he knew my exact size is disconcerting. I have to admit that whoever picked the dress has good taste, even if the plunging V-neck line is cut too low for comfort. I would have never picked white, but it makes my olive skin pop in a really nice way.
Xave looks different in his tuxedo, and if someone were to twist my arm I might even say he looks handsome. But I’m not about to mention that and risk stretching the awkwardness that has plagued our relationship lately. The way he’s been stealing glances my way, making comments about my appearance and, worst of all, acting like a moody toddler at the drop of a hat has been unsettling enough already. I’m afraid I know where this is headed, and the idea just doesn’t compute in my brain. Xave is like a cousin to me, right?
I take a few steps away from him, half-smile at his comment and wiggle my toes. “I really, really hate high heels.” A country song plays inside the bar, its muffled sound drifting outside, loading the air with its sad melody. I clear my throat. “Where are they?”
“Over there.” Xave points to the road ahead. Under the canopy of a large tree, a van sits almost unnoticed in the darkness.
We approach at an unhurried pace. When we reach the van, the side door slides open. Oso waves us in. He wears a long-sleeve black t-shirt, black jeans and black boots. I frown. Is this a joke? Why are we dressed up and he’s not?
He shuts the door behind us. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust.
“Glad you decided to join us,” James says.
I blink and stare into the back of the van. It’s crowded, filled with people and what looks like surveillance equipment. All the blinking lights, knobs and computer monitors mesmerize me.
Aydan sits at the controls, wearing jeans, a turtleneck sweater and a beany—all black. Across from him, Clark looks like his twin.
I’m about to protest when I notice that James is also dressed up, sporting a tux that fits him like a glove and actually makes me think of Bond’s sophistication and good looks. I grin, itching to ask him if, by the way, he’s truly Bond ... James Bond. My grin dies when—for some weird reason—an image of Dad flashes across my eyes, the way he looked in his wedding picture. He would have been about James’s age now, if not for that freak car accident.
I shake myself as Oso squeezes into the driver seat. Blare sits next to him, wearing a blond wig and ignoring us. The seat hides the rest of her body, but if the hair is any indication, she must be dressed up too.
James invites us to sit in the back seat. As we pass, Clark pulls on Xave’s jacket and wolf-whistles.
“Don’t touch me, you perv.” Xave slaps his hand away.
Xave and I stuff ourselves in the narrow seat and end up hip to hip. I squirm.
Oso starts the van. As we drive away from the bar, James explains, “This is a reconnaissance mission. You and Xave have two simple tasks. One, do as you’re told. Two, pay close attention.”
“Above all don’t freak out,” Clark offers with a sarcastic grin.
“What you will learn tonight,” James continues in a serious tone, “is nothing to joke about.” He gives Clark a disapproving glance that sobers him up. “This is serious. A matter of death and survival. If you aren’t prepared to be ... terrified out of your skin, then we can stop. Right here, right now. You don’t have to come. Do you understand?”
Xave and I nod.
“Do you understand?” James asks, louder this time.
“Yes,” we both respond.
James’s eyes burn holes into mine, into Xave’s. He stares us down for what feels like five whole minutes. Then he asks, “If you saw a monster, would you scream?”
The quiet, deep rumble of his voice and the intensity of those gray eyes—which right now look black—put my hackles on end. Xave fidgets, tugs his shirt and smooths nonexistent creases.
“Xave?” James asks pointedly.
Is James really expecting an answer to this ludicrous question? Where is he taking us? Hannibal Lecter’s mansion? Are we invited to be someone’s dinner? What the heck?
“What do you mean ... a monster?” Xave asks.
“Frankenstein, Dracula, Predator,” James whispers.
Xave blows air through his nose, smiles. “Um, I guess if I saw something like that I’d think it was a dude in a costume. So no, I wouldn’t scream. I’d laugh ... or something.” His smile dies, as James’s expression appears anything but amused.
“What about you, Marci?” James’s eyes turn to me.
The humming in the back of my head intensifies. My stomach roils, as if a snake has made its lair in there. I’ve suspected for a long time that there’s more to the shadows than meets the eye. But monsters? Is James joking? Nausea tightens my insides. Fear floods me. Somehow I sense that what James wants to show us is real, and I won’t like it. Silence festers like an incurable disease.
Finally, I say, “I—I wouldn’t scream. I would ... bite my tongue.”
James nods. Clark, Aydan, Oso and even Blare stare at me, tight-lipped.
“You follow her lead, little brother,” Clark tells Xave. “You follow her lead.”