Shiver Trilogy (Shiver, Linger, Forever) by Maggie Stiefvater Page A
Authors: Maggie Stiefvater
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and he carefully laid a gun on the counter as though it was made of glass. Then he noticed me, standing in the living room, arms across my chest, my fingers clutching my biceps.
I still remembered the way his voice sounded when he said, “Don’t touch that, Sam.” Hollow. Ragged. He’d gone into his office and laid his head down on his arms for the rest of the day. At dusk, he and Ulrik had gone outside, voices low and hushed; through the window, I’d seen Ulrik get a shovel from the garage.
And now, here I was, lying in Grace’s bed, and somewhere out there was Jack. Angry people didn’t make good werewolves.
While Grace was in school, I had driven by Beck’s house. The driveway was empty and the windows were dark; I hadn’t the heart to go inside and see how long it had been unoccupied. Without Beck to enforce the pack’s safety, who was supposed to keep Jack in line?
An unwelcome sense of responsibility was starting to pinch at the back of my throat. Beck had a cell phone, but I couldn’tremember the number, no matter how long I riffled through my memories. I pressed my face against the pillow and prayed that Jack wouldn’t bite anyone, because if he became a problem, I didn’t think I was strong enough to do what would have to be done.
When Grace’s alarm went off the next morning at 6:45 for school, screaming electronic obscenities into my ear, I instantly shot straight up into the air, heart pounding, just as I had the day before. My head was stuffed full of dreams: wolves and humans and blood smeared on lips.
“Ummmm,” Grace mumbled, unconcerned, and pulled up the sheets around her neck. “Turn that off, would you? I’m getting up. I’ll … be up in a second.” She rolled over, her blonde head barely visible above the edge of the blanket, and sank into the bed as if she had grown into the mattress.
And that was it. She was asleep and I was not.
I leaned back against her headboard and let her lie by my side, warm and dreaming, for a few minutes more. I stroked her hair with careful fingers, tracing a line from her forehead around her ear and down to just the top of her long neck, where her hair stopped being hair proper and was instead little baby fluffs that went every which way. They were fascinating, these soft feathers that would grow up to be her hair. I was incredibly tempted to bend down and bite them, ever so softly, to wake her up and kissher and make her late for school, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack and Christa and people who made bad werewolves. If I went to the school, would I still be able to follow Jack’s trail with my weaker sense of smell?
“Grace,” I whispered. “Wake up.”
She made a soft noise that, roughly translated, meant piss off in sleep language.
“Time to wake up,” I said, and stuck my finger in her ear.
Grace squealed and smacked at me. She was up.
Our mornings together were beginning to have the comfort of routine. While Grace, still dogged by sleep, stumbled toward the shower, I put a bagel in the toaster for each of us and convinced the coffeemaker to do something that sounded like making coffee. Back in her bedroom, I listened to Grace sing tunelessly in the shower while I pulled on my jeans and checked her drawers for socks that didn’t look too girly for me to borrow.
I heard my breathing stop without feeling it. Photographs, nestled amongst her neatly folded socks. Pictures of the wolves. Of us. Carefully, I lifted the stack out of the drawer and retreated to the bed. Turning my back to the door as if I were doing something illicit, I paged through the pictures with slow fingers. There was something fascinating about seeing these images with my human eyes. Some of the wolves I could attach human names to; the older ones who had always changed before me. Beck, big, bulky, blue-gray. Paul, black and clean-looking. Ulrik, brownish-gray. Salem, with his notched ear and running eye. I sighed, though I didn’t know why.
The door
I still remembered the way his voice sounded when he said, “Don’t touch that, Sam.” Hollow. Ragged. He’d gone into his office and laid his head down on his arms for the rest of the day. At dusk, he and Ulrik had gone outside, voices low and hushed; through the window, I’d seen Ulrik get a shovel from the garage.
And now, here I was, lying in Grace’s bed, and somewhere out there was Jack. Angry people didn’t make good werewolves.
While Grace was in school, I had driven by Beck’s house. The driveway was empty and the windows were dark; I hadn’t the heart to go inside and see how long it had been unoccupied. Without Beck to enforce the pack’s safety, who was supposed to keep Jack in line?
An unwelcome sense of responsibility was starting to pinch at the back of my throat. Beck had a cell phone, but I couldn’tremember the number, no matter how long I riffled through my memories. I pressed my face against the pillow and prayed that Jack wouldn’t bite anyone, because if he became a problem, I didn’t think I was strong enough to do what would have to be done.
When Grace’s alarm went off the next morning at 6:45 for school, screaming electronic obscenities into my ear, I instantly shot straight up into the air, heart pounding, just as I had the day before. My head was stuffed full of dreams: wolves and humans and blood smeared on lips.
“Ummmm,” Grace mumbled, unconcerned, and pulled up the sheets around her neck. “Turn that off, would you? I’m getting up. I’ll … be up in a second.” She rolled over, her blonde head barely visible above the edge of the blanket, and sank into the bed as if she had grown into the mattress.
And that was it. She was asleep and I was not.
I leaned back against her headboard and let her lie by my side, warm and dreaming, for a few minutes more. I stroked her hair with careful fingers, tracing a line from her forehead around her ear and down to just the top of her long neck, where her hair stopped being hair proper and was instead little baby fluffs that went every which way. They were fascinating, these soft feathers that would grow up to be her hair. I was incredibly tempted to bend down and bite them, ever so softly, to wake her up and kissher and make her late for school, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack and Christa and people who made bad werewolves. If I went to the school, would I still be able to follow Jack’s trail with my weaker sense of smell?
“Grace,” I whispered. “Wake up.”
She made a soft noise that, roughly translated, meant piss off in sleep language.
“Time to wake up,” I said, and stuck my finger in her ear.
Grace squealed and smacked at me. She was up.
Our mornings together were beginning to have the comfort of routine. While Grace, still dogged by sleep, stumbled toward the shower, I put a bagel in the toaster for each of us and convinced the coffeemaker to do something that sounded like making coffee. Back in her bedroom, I listened to Grace sing tunelessly in the shower while I pulled on my jeans and checked her drawers for socks that didn’t look too girly for me to borrow.
I heard my breathing stop without feeling it. Photographs, nestled amongst her neatly folded socks. Pictures of the wolves. Of us. Carefully, I lifted the stack out of the drawer and retreated to the bed. Turning my back to the door as if I were doing something illicit, I paged through the pictures with slow fingers. There was something fascinating about seeing these images with my human eyes. Some of the wolves I could attach human names to; the older ones who had always changed before me. Beck, big, bulky, blue-gray. Paul, black and clean-looking. Ulrik, brownish-gray. Salem, with his notched ear and running eye. I sighed, though I didn’t know why.
The door
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