Anne Brown: Lies Beneath

When I knew I had a few minutes of privacy, I pulled myself completely out of the turquoise water and onto the black rock. The transformation began before I could catch my breath. First the tightening—and then the ripping as my body strained and pulled against itself. Bones split and stretched, popping into joints that seconds ago hadn’t existed. I thrashed silently on the dead coral, cutting my shoulder and gritting my teeth against the pain, until I eventually flopped onto my back, gasping and bleeding on the rock.

I staggered to my feet and dressed quickly. God, I hoped Maris wasn’t pulling me back early for nothing. If this Jason Hancock was the Jason Hancock, it wouldn’t be our typical kill. I wouldn’t want to absorb anything his body had to offer. He wouldn’t even count against my experiment in self-control. No. This time it would be nothing more than revenge.

With that word heavy on my tongue, I lowered my Ray-Bans over my eyes and turned away from the ocean. I was trapped by the inevitable: it was time to head back north.

Minneapolis sprawled below me as I circled the airport in a DC-9. My quads cramped with dehydration, and I groaned involuntarily. It was a good thing I wasn’t looking for sympathy. It wasn’t like anyone could have heard me over the roar of the engines.

A businessman shimmied down the narrow aisle, bumping his beer belly on people’s shoulders as he passed. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he said. A little boy dropped his Mad Libs into the aisle, and his pencil rolled toward me. I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned over the armrest to scoop it up for him.

“Mad Libs. Cool.” I reached across the aisle to set the pencil on his tray.

The boy nodded. “I need an adjective.”

Miserable. Anxious. Freakin’ pissed . “Try ‘reluctant,’ ” I said with a wry smile. I straightened my legs and brushed the pretzel salt off my pants.

“How do you spell that?”

I wrote it out for him, then dragged a deep breath in through my nose. Dry, stale air laced with people’s breath and body odor filtered through my lungs. The insides of my cheeks constricted against my tongue. I dug a plastic bottle out of my backpack and shook the last drops of water into my wasted mouth. According to my watch, I’d been dry nineteen hours. Twenty-four was as far as I’d pushed it before. Maris always warned us that that was the limit. I’d never felt the need to challenge her. On that point, at least.

The flight attendant stood a few rows ahead of me, checking to see if everyone was prepared for landing. I raised my empty bottle and shook it to flag her down. When she glanced at me, I raised my eyebrows sarcastically. Hello, sweetheart. Yeah, you. A little quicker, please .

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Bottle of water.”

“I’m sorry, but our beverage service is over. We’re starting our descent.” She pointed toward the window to convince me.

Outside, traces of dirty, late-season snow lay crusted and clinging to the Minnesota cornfields and roadside ditches. I clenched my teeth. Maris better be right about this or so help me.… There had been false alarms before.

I combed my fingers through my dark hair—jerking them through the snarled ends—then quickly gripped the armrests as the plane touched down and took on that out-of-control feel before finally slowing to a stop. Everyone jumped up from their seats before the seat belt sign was turned off.

I retrieved my tattered baseball cap from the seat back. It bore the logo of the resort where I’d stayed all winter. I ran my thumb along the frayed brim, then pulled the cap down low over my eyes. Powering up my cell phone, I hit Send. Maris picked up on the first ring.

“We’ve landed,” I said. “Come get me. And damn it, Maris, there’s still snow on the ground.”

“No, there isn’t. Now relax, little brother. We didn’t pull you out of bikini wonderland for nothing. It will be worth your trouble.”

“You’re sure you’re not wrong about this one?”

“Absolutely sure. And we wouldn’t have called you if we thought we could do it alone. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re superior to us in many ways.”

I grimaced. It wasn’t true. And it wasn’t even false flattery. Maris chose her words like a surgeon chose a scalpel; despite the time we spent apart, she always knew how to cut me. At her mere mention of Superior , the urge to migrate tugged more desperately at my heart, like a hook caught in my flesh.

Yeah, yeah. I’m coming , I thought, answering the urge as much as my sister.

I shoved my cell in my pocket and stood up, ducking under the overhead compartment. I gestured for the little boy to go ahead. He dragged and bumped his backpack behind him as he made his way up the aisle. The flight attendants flashed bleached smiles at me as I passed. I would have looked away to avoid the attraction they might pose, but there were no colors radiating off them; there was no true emotion behind their smiles.

I stepped onto the Jetway and felt a sharp wind cutting through the thin, collapsible walls. It might as well have been January. I cursed Maris as I made my way through the airport and went to wait on the sidewalk outside the Lindbergh terminal. There was no reason to stop at baggage claim. Everything I owned was either on my body or in my backpack: pants, shorts, ratty sandals, sweatshirt, two worn-out T-shirts, a scuba watch, cell phone, and baseball cap. My sisters had a bit more, but not much. We all traveled light.

I stiffened my arms at my sides and bounced from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. Every thirty seconds I checked my watch. I didn’t know what they’d be driving, but I knew it was them when I saw an old Chevy Impala fishtailing through the barely rolling traffic. I wondered, ruefully, where they’d snagged this one. It looked to be in pretty good shape—far better than the Dodge Omni from last summer. The owner was probably somewhere scratching his head, the victim of my sisters’ hypnotic gifts. He’d know he lost something. But what was it again?

Tallulah and Pavati had their windows down, and they hung their heads out, beaming at me. Pavati’s long dark hair blew around her face in loose waves; Tallulah’s shorter hair hung straight like a thick golden curtain. I shook my head in mock disgust at their taste in stolen property and got in the backseat with Tallulah. She kissed me hard on the cheek.

“I couldn’t wait another minute,” she said. “I’ve really, really missed you.”

“Me too, Lulah,” I said. It was almost the truth.

Maris flipped her white-blond hair over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Kiss, kiss. Now get your head on straight. We’ve got business to discuss, and I need coffee.”

Tallulah turned away from the barista at the Daily Grind and glided toward our table, balancing four paper coffee cups between her long fingers. She set the cups down, and we all reached for one. Maris leaned toward me, her smooth forearms resting on the table, her hands clasped, the knuckles white. She scrutinized my face. My jaw muscles flexed in response.

“You need to eat something, Calder. You look skinny.”

“I’m good.”

“Did you work much this winter?”

“Some. Plane ticket tapped me out.”

“We’ve got you covered,” said Tallulah. “Pav waitressed in New Orleans this winter. She saved all her tips.”

I nodded. It wasn’t that we needed much, but now and then money was handy. Pavati probably had a small treasure trove amassed in the trunk of the stolen Impala. Humans tipped her as if she were serving the secrets of the universe on a blue plate special. She winked at me, popped the plastic cover off her latte, and dipped her finger to scoop out the foam.