Induction, Chapter three

Chapter Three: Stupid Girl

I race inside, yelling for my sisters, hands desperately patting my pockets for my phone, coming back empty. I must have left it on my bed.

 I find Anita in the living room. She’s pulling off her headset, face crunched in concern.

“What is it?” She eyes me warily.

“The mountain lion is out there! You have to come see!” I reach out to grab her arm, intending to drag her outside with me.

Carol appears, stepping between us and glaring hard. “Mika, stop it!” She knocks my hand away.

I stare at her, words stuck in my throat. My attention returns to Anita. She’s shying away, eyes wide, lower lip sucked in. I pull back, flexing and curling my hands in an effort to wrangle my excitement.

“But the mountain lion beast is real!” I cry. “It’s right out—”

“There is no mountain lion.” Carol’s eyes are as hard as her words. “Never was.”

I snap my mouth shut and glare at her. “I’ll prove it to you!”

First things first, I get my phone. It’s sitting on my bed where I left it. I clutch the device tight, like a lifeline. I’ll show them I’m not crazy, I think. I am not crazy. The mantra is a steady beat in my mind, fueling my already racing pulse, making my body start to perspire.

On my way back outside, I glance at them in the living room. Anita gives me a solemn look before putting her headset back on and continuing her game. Carol continues to stand between us, hands on her hips. She shakes her head, opening her mouth to say something, but I turn away.

I can prove it to them now. They won’t be able to stay mad at me.

The screen door slaps shut behind me. Licorice still stands at the open gate. I scold myself for leaving her alone, for not closing the gate to keep her from chasing after the mountain lion. But, like a good dog, she stayed put, protecting her territory. I pat her head, gaze lifting to where I saw the beast. Heart skipping a beat when I don’t see it.

Ah, there it is! Retreating into the forest.

“No.” My hope sinks as it disappears into the shadows of the trees. I can’t let it go. The need to prove myself not-crazy overrides the stupidity of what I’m doing next.

I pull Licorice back, telling her she’s a good girl, to stay put, before I push the gate closed. I give it a yank to ensure the latch is engaged. I don’t try to convince myself that this is a monumentally bad idea as I race across uneven ground, up a slope, and enter the forest. All I know is: the mountain lion is real. I am not crazy. Aaron didn’t die because I suck at driving in the dark.

~

Leaves crunch underfoot, my pace slowing. I lean against a tree, panting for breath. I glance around the forest of ponderosa pine and aspens. The trees are towering and dense, even in the thick of autumn. I rub my arms to ward off a feeling of panic.

I’m lost.

An aspen’s cream-colored bark is smooth against my back. It would be difficult to climb to get a vantage point on my surroundings. To my left, the rough, brown-orange bark of the ponderosa looks promising, but none of the branches are low enough for me to grasp. The orange-yellow leaves of the aspen, and the thick, long needles of the pine sway in the breeze. Their limbs stretch tall and long, disorientating me the longer I stare up at them.

“Good job, Mika,” I mutter to myself. Numbness creeps into my muscles.

Then I realize—something as big as the beast probably left tracks.

My gaze drops to the forest floor, scanning among the brown, fallen leaves and pine needles, pinecones, and brush overgrowth. I forget I’m lost, and I don’t think about heading home.

Tracks! There’s a partial paw print the size of my face in a thin layer of snow that hasn’t melted away yet. And another one! A full-sized print, several feet from the first. The stride length of this beast illustrates its massive build.

I kneel, stretching my shaking fingers over it. The paw print is almost bigger than both my hands together with fingers spread to their full width. My heart thuds, and I swallow hard.

I retrieve my phone and click the camera icon—noting the lack of cell service. I roll my eyes, thinking, Typical, then hold my free hand up next to the paw print for scale and take a picture.

Proof. I have proof. Excitement swells in my chest. I almost want to cry with relief. I survey the tracks, wondering where they lead. A short debate with myself, whether I should follow them to find my way home or continue into the forest, to see where the beast is heading.

Since I’m a one hundred percent rational human being, I follow them deeper in the trees, farther away from safety—with no cell phone service, and no real jacket, just the long-sleeve I pulled on this morning, which I’m starting to regret. The cold I didn’t feel before, because of the adrenaline, is now starting to stiffen my fingers and wrists, numbing my cheeks and the tip of my nose.

I return my phone to my back pocket and rub my hands together as I walk, telling myself over and over to turn around, but I’m on autopilot. I want more proof than a paw print picture.

My heart seems oddly loud, though it’s no longer racing. Maybe the anticipation of—

Snap!

I glance down at my feet, then over my shoulder. I gasp and fall backward to the ground. At the edge of a clearing looms the beast, its head lowered, menacing, hungry eyes locked on me. I scramble backward. My back slams against a tree, my fingers curling into dirt and leaves. Dried needles prick my palms with sharp pain, proving I’m awake, that this isn’t a dream.

This can’t be happening. But, of course, it is. This is what a stupid girl gets for wandering into a forest after a predatory creature.

The beast’s tail flicks from left to right. Its jowls open to reveal its unnatural, sharpened rows of teeth. Too many teeth. Its eyes darken and intensify. Not unfocused like the night of the crash.

If this is the same one. A terrifying thought. There could be more than one.

It lifts one of its giant paws, exposing thick, pointed claws, surely meant for grabbing and pinning down prey. It lowers into a position I know well from watching kittens play. It’s preparing to pounce. Gaze locked, muscles rippling and bunching with strength.

My breath is stuck in my throat, where my heart races with an effort to escape without me. Spittle gleams on the beast’s teeth. My skin tightens and—

I am going to die. 

The beast springs. Letting out a yowl, deep and guttural. I let out a strangled whimper and tumble to the side, scrambling behind the tree. Sharp pain digs in my arm as the knife-like claws graze me. A scream rips from my throat. I clamp my hand around the wound. Warm and wet, blood seeps through my fingers.

Go, go, go!

The forest is a blur. I’m running. In its thudding pursuit, the beast closes in.  I’m not fast enough. A sob constricts my throat, and I plead with the universe, with God, that this isn’t my end.

Something grabs my uninjured arm. I scream, trying to yank it from its grasp. The grip tightens, and a voice next to me yells, “This way!”

I’m pulled to the side, and I’m running with someone in dark clothing, with something like a ski mask over their head. What the heck?  But I don’t stop running until they place a gloved hand on my shoulder and push me to the ground. The masked face appears before me, putting a finger to their mouth—Shhh. They run away, brandishing a long, thin sword from a sheath on their back. The blade a sheen of cobalt in the sunlight.

Mouth agape, huddled low in the brown, dying brush, I stare at my rescuer as they race to join two other figures in black clothing—much like the ninjas in Anita’s video games. Black, loose, pajama-like clothing. Faces covered save for a single eye-slits.

Swords raised, they all rush at the beast.

Ninjas and giant mountain lions. I must be dreaming. But they’re real. The sharp, burning pain in my arm is proof that I’m awake and alive. Even with the odd, terrifying sight in front of me, I glance at my arm. My gorge rises. Blood seeps from the claw marks, the metallic scent heavy in my nose.

Shouldn’t have looked!

A bloodcurdling yowl jerks my attention to the fight. The ninjas slash at the beast’s legs. One of them manages to leap and climb up on its back, raising their cobalt sword for a killing stab. The beast bucks, spinning with a snarl. The ninja is flung across the forest before crashing into a thick aspen tree.

“Hey!” One of the ninjas lets out a war cry, raising a red garnet sword, and runs toward the beast, who spins to face them. The other ninja jumps in the fray. Their emerald sword slicing the back of the beast’s legs.

With the beast distracted by freaking ninjas, I find the sense to push myself up from the ground and run. I don’t look back. I run until I can’t hear the shouts of ninjas and yowls of the beast. I run until I find myself on my knees at the edge of a creek, sucking in air with giant, heaving gasps.

My gaze jumps around the forest, expecting to see the beast leaping out at me, ready to tear me apart. If not for that, it would be beautiful out here, just me with aspen trees, their leaves yellow and orange falling to the ground, the pines with the breeze whispering through their needles, and the trickle of the creek. I reach for my phone, wanting—needing—to call for help. My hand fumbles against an empty pocket.

“No,” I whimper, tears blurring my vision. I grab at all my pants pockets, then at the forest floor. No phone within sight. Gone. “No!” I shake with a sob.

I’m aware of all this: tears streaming down my face, snot draining from my nose, blood getting sticky between my fingers, jeans soaking up the damp, cold earth where my knees connect with the ground, but I can’t manage to get myself under control.

I did almost die, I remind myself.

My sobs quiet to soft whimpers, chin trembling.

I almost died, but I didn’t die. I grab at the water, the icy liquid biting my flesh, making me gasp, but I continue to wash the blood from my hands in relentless, stiff movements. Biting the inside of my cheek, I pull my sleeve up past the wound on my bicep.

The pain deepens.  I wonder if my family would think I just cut myself for attention. I can imagine the bored, annoyed expression on Carol’s face, the sad and helpless expression on Anita’s. No way would they believe me about the monster, even with the gaping wounds.

I mean, I wouldn’t believe me.

I blink hard, fighting back the tears.

“Are you okay?”

I jump to my feet, almost tumbling into the creek. Water seeps into my shoe, but I don’t move, staring at the ninja now standing a couple of yards away from me. Raising their hands in that supposed calming gesture.

“Whoa. Easy now.” The voice is lower pitched, male, the words calm yet quick, as if their coming out faster will settle me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

My brow furrows, and I continue to stare at him.

“Right,” he says. “Hold on. Just promise me you won’t freak out.”

I huff. It’s a little late for that request. I’m already freaked out. I’m bleeding, and cold. I’ve been attacked by something that shouldn’t exist and rescued by something that shouldn’t exist. At least not here.

Ninjas. Nowadays the mere word sounds fake. Silly.

“I want to help you. That looks bad.” He gestures to me. “I like your shirt.”

I glance down at myself.  I’m wearing a shirt that features a band, One Times Three, that I used to be obsessed with when I was twelve, thirteen. I guess that’s his tactic to calm me down, get my mind off the reality of what happened, because I’m a deer in headlights, frozen and staring.

“What—” I look up at him, my words are cut short. He’s removed his mask. My mouth bobs as I realize I recognize him. His typically straightened hair is bunched into natural, tight, dark curls. But it is him. The younger version of his sun-kissed face is on my shirt. One of the brothers/members of One Times Three, Devon Stehn. The oldest brother, he was fifteen at the time of their short-lived fame; now he’s nineteen.

I must be dreaming. Ninjas and monstrous giant cats I can handle. But my childhood band showing up—as ninjas—is a whole other thing.

My gaze sweeps over him, trying to comprehend. Maybe the pain in my arm is just phantom pain from when I broke my arm in the car accident.

Except, it’s the wrong arm. And I smell the blood.

It is most certainly Devon Stehn. Instead of his usual outfit of a striped V-neck shirt and skinny jeans, he’s wearing loose, slightly baggy pants. I imagine it’s for ease of movement while fighting. His top is long-sleeved, sort of wrapping around the torso and held with a thick belt full of pouches and small knife sheaths. A stark contrast to the colorful, studded belts he’d wear in music videos. A strap over his chest holds the sheath to his back for his sword, instead of a bass guitar.

He nods, offering a small smile. “Okay, you’re handling this well, I think.”

He takes a slow step toward me. I take a step back. He steps again, raising his hands in that inane, coaxing gesture, and I step back again.

“You should’ve kept your mask on, Dev,” says a smooth, female voice behind me.

I spin, trying to scramble away, but a hand clamps my shoulder. Gentle and firm at the same time.

“Yeah, I’d run away from a mug like that too.”

I can hear the smile in her voice. Her calm tone somehow keeps me from trying to bolt again, and I glance at her. Another ninja, judging by her black attire. I don’t know this one, even with her mask removed. She appears to be a couple of years older than I am. Eighteen or nineteen. Smooth, golden skin. Dark-chocolate hair pulled back into a braid that reaches past her elbows. She’s about my height, but slighter in stature; less broad in the shoulders and hips.

Her round green eyes are kind as she applies slight pressure to my shoulder, saying, “Sit down. Let’s take a look at your arm.”

When I’m on the ground, she glances over at Devon—bassist, good at piano, decent at hacky sack, loves sorbet—

“Go meet up with Jo,” she says. “He’s about a mile back, east. Our blades didn’t do a thing to that cat, dude.”

He snorts. “Which is ridiculous.”

I stare at him. How did I not recognize his voice right off? I’d been obsessed with their music, listening to only their songs for hours and hours. And I’ve seen all their interviews and behind-the-scenes for the music videos.

“The blades couldn’t be more blessed,” he adds, putting his hands on his hips and pressing his lips together as he watches us. I frown at him.

Blessed blades?  Who are these people?

“It’s not the blades,” she says under her breath. She pulls bandages and wet wipes from one of her pouches. Her eyes meet mine for a second. “This’ll sting.” She wipes the wound, and around it.  I wince and take a sharp breath. More tears prick my eyes that I force away with rapid blinks.

“The cat’s skin is fortified by something. Jo will need help scouring for samples. Our swords had to have done something.” She gives him a stern look. “Go.”

“Okay, okay. Geez.” He casts me an apologetic look before pulling on his mask and running off.

“Sorry about him.” She sighs, shaking her head. “My name is Elizabeth.”

“What’s going on?” I keep my eyes on her, watching to see if she’s going to brush off my question or lie to me. Not that I’m an expert at detecting lies, so I guess that doesn’t matter, does it?

She pauses her work on my wound, pressing her lips together. Her wide-set eyes lock with mine. She may only be a couple years older than I am, but there’s a maturity in her face that surpasses her physical age that I recognize in my own face. She’s lived through tragedy like I have.

“I’m sorry, but your world just got a lot bigger, weirder, and a whole heck of a lot more terrifying.” She takes a breath, eyes searching my face, almost like she’s trying to place me. I shift under her gaze.

Her attention returns to my arm. “I’m not sure how my mentors will want to handle this, but if you are who I think you are—”

A loud screech pierces through the forest. I cringe and clamp my hands over my ears. Elizabeth does the same, head swiveling as she searches the forest. I try to ask her what’s happening, but the sound intensifies. I crumple to a fetal position, gasping, vision going red as the screech stabs into my eardrums, trying to force my eyeballs and brain out of my head.

The sound stops. I wither on the ground. I can taste blood. This must be what hell feels like. Why would I be allowed into heaven after getting my brother killed?

Two boots come into view—black combat boots. One of them nudges me. I don’t have the strength or energy to respond. A mewling whimper is all I can muster.

“Huh. Pitiful,” says a monotone, bored voice.

A sharp, warming prick in my arm. Nausea quickly follows, the forest floor wobbling. My eyelids weigh down to a close, reminding me of the sedatives and medication from my time in the hospital.