Chapter Five:

This is what I get for saving you. The words scrape down my neck like the lick from a sandpaper tongue.

He's insane, I think. He's utterly insane.

Save me? He didn't save me--hell, he just tried to attack me!

"You about ready to get that gun out of my face?" He says, turning his bare torso towards me.

Another hard look at him and I do lower the weapon—not because of the way his eyes appear so confusingly sincere, but because the wound I had inflicted ten minutes ago, the one that had just been gushing blood and gaping, is completely and solidly sealed. There's no trace of an infliction, save a faint pink line and the blood coagulating on the floor.

"Second goddamn time I've ripped these jeans," he mutters, scrubbing off the rest of the blood off his abs. A little louder, he adds, "You owe me a shirt. Mediums work, but I prefer a large for comfort."

"W-what are you?" The words come out faster than I can comprehend them.

"What I am is annoyed."

I shake my head almost reflexively. He knows what I mean. He has to.

"What I am is also curious," his eyes peel away from the fresh rag he's using to wipe off his hands before taking two strides toward me.

I readjust my grip on the handle of the gun, readying myself to draw it up again.

"You're curious?" I let a snort escape. He just rejuvenated skin like a freaking starfish.

"You don't remember me." He says it like I should, like he's pissed off that I don't.

"Hard to carry a memory when we've only just met," I say and instantly he growls. His eyes are sharp, raking me over with some sort of implacable disgust. The look instantly makes me want to shrink, like I'm the most ridiculous thing he's ever had to look at.

He pushes back his damp hair and closes in the space between us in under one breath. In the next, he takes the gun, and dismantles the chamber before tossing the pieces across the trailer.

I jump when I hear the metal clatter against the tile.

"Now," the guy says, stepping close to me like he did in the yard, "don't budge this time. I need you to be calm."

His hands lift to hold my face again and automatically I tense.

"Stay fucking still," he yips, and for once, I listen.

I barely try to breathe, "You're not going to do anything weird, are you?"

He grunts, craning his neck down to look at me with our noses level, "In my entire life, you have been the single, biggest pain in my ass."

Before I can question this, the tip of his nose brushes down my artery, cutting off my internal dialogue. Just like before, his nose traces along my collarbone and back up my neck, pressing deep into the nook. Only this time I don't try to gut him with my skate.

He lingers in this area for a few seconds, the sound of him sniffing filling my head, before he lets go of my chin and steps back.

His face is shaded darker than it was before he dove in.

"What, do I smell bad?" I mumble, reflexively putting a hand to my neck, and he recoils with a look like I'm the biggest idiot he's ever met.

"Where's your bathroom?" he grunts.

I point to the left and instantly, he barrels down the hallway. I follow behind, but he's already digging through the cabinets and cupboards by the time I reach the open door.

He's pawing at every pill bottle, searching for a name, a type, a something, and discards each bottle when they prove unsatisfactory.

"You could always try telling me what you're looking for before you decide to destroy my bathroom."

"What kind of medications do you take?" he asks while perusing my mom's anti-depressants.

"Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing."

His hands slam down on the sink. The force is hard, precise, and a faint cracking echoes through the white walls.

"I'm not kidding, got it? I need to know."

"Hardly anything," I say dryly. "Vitamins, proteins, an iron supplement—"

"You anemic?"

I nod, "Yes, actually."

"Alright, where's that bottle?"

"In my bag—in the car," I say. I had left my entire luggage in the car, save the skates that I cut him with.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Go get it!"

I recoil when his voice slams into me. "No! You owe me answers and I'm not giving you shit until I get my shit, you got it?"

His eyes tighten around the corners and he brushes past me.

"Hey, wait! No, I'm not freaking done with you! You owe me an explanation!" I start screaming the further we walk. I don't even care that we're outside when I increase my volume, "You followed me! You broke into my house! You sniffed me!"

The kid startles me by swiftly pivoting and stopping two inches from my face. His eyes are thick with disdain and fury, but at this point, I don't care.

He owes me answers. He's not getting his until I get mine.

"First of all," his voice is shockingly calm, quiet, that I almost prefer the yelling, "do not yell at me when we're outside. It draws on way too much attention. Secondly, I did not fucking sniff you. I traced you. Big difference. Thirdly, you need to just do as I say. Asking questions can get you killed."

"So you are going to kill me?!"

"What?" He grunts, "Seriously, fucking listen. I know there's a dusty brain beneath all that red hair, use it."

"You honestly think insulting me is an effective form of persuasion?"

"I was hoping it'd get you to shut up." He turns, and peels open the back door to the car. "Which bag?"

I sigh, so aggravated that I'm tempted to just lock him the trunk, "Small one on the floor, should be atop all the clothes."

In a second he emerges, holding out the bottle with my name in one hand and a sweatshirt that belongs to Pete in the other. "Mind if I borrow this?"

He's pulling it on before I can answer.

Fluidly, this guy pops open my pill bottle and holds the carton up to his nose to trace.

When he pulls away, his eyes light up. "Shit, that's it."

I frown, "What?"

"These—" he holds up the bottle after popping the lid back on, "—don't take these anymore. Hell, don't take any sort of pills that you don't personally buy and manage. Got it?"

"Yeah, but why?"

"These aren't iron supplements. I mean, they might have been in the beginning, but someone has tampered with them. They're laced with Ironide."

"Ironide?"

He groans as if he'd rather be anywhere but explaining this to me, "Ironide is the poison, created when basically iron is crushed into a powder and mixed with whatever ground up plant. It's nearly undetectable."

"How do you know this?"

"Let's just say, I've seen it in action before. You're lucky. I've seen it in lethal doses. I guess witches made a shit ton of money off of it back in the day, too."

"Witches?" This is impossible. He's crazy. He's so crazy.

"The is the first time I've come across it in this region, though. From what I understood, witches in Cascadia haven't had much supplies here, not since the fifties. Everything was pretty much destroyed during the Purge."

"The Purge?"

He perks up, suddenly shifting his eyes around the yard before lowering his voice three decimals, "Why is someone giving you a concentrated dose?"

"Wait, what's it for?"

He takes a deep breath, like he's trying not to snap, "It does a lot of things, but namely it's made to supress things--supernatural things, since most are iron-intolerant. In your case, I'm betting it's the cause of your memory loss."

"So someone is intentionally making me forget things?"

He nods once.

"But, that doesn't make sense. I don't have any random black outs or missing time."

"Hold on," he whispers, taking my arm and dragging me back to the house. He keeps his eyes scanning the neighbors, until we step inside the house.

"This is crazy! You're crazy! Why would anyone want to poison me?"

He lifts up his hand to rub his right temple. "That's what I would like to know. Obviously, you've crossed paths with someone supernatural and they want you to forget about it."

"Supernatural?"

He squints. "Yes."

"Like vampires and zombies and shit? Are you kidding?"

He growls, "Vampires are not friggin real! Besides, that species doesn't even make sense. Their only form of reproduction is the same thing as their food source. I mean, come on!"

"You sound like Pete."

Pete. His name catches in my throat. He'll be here soon. He'll see the gun and the blood in the kitchen.

"Anyway, we need to get this Ironide flushed out of your system. I'm not sure how long it'll take for you to remember, I guess that depends on how much you've taken."

"But, I've had those pills everyday since I was seven?"

He gives me a look lathered in pity, but I can't calculate how bad it must be. He opens his mouth to reply, but then the look disappears as his neck crane toward the door. His eyes are fixed hard at the window, and then he exhales sharply.

"I have to go, someone's coming," he says before taking off through the front door.

"Wait," I call out, following him out to the drive. "Is that why I don't remember you? Because of the I-Ironide?"

He nods, rustling through his pockets before pulling out his keys.

"So then that's why your cut disappeared in a matter a minutes?"

He doesn't answer until his car beeps twice, letting us know it's unlocked.

"Yes, I'm supernatural," he says, leaning his elbows over the black roof of his car. For once, he slightly smiles instead of frowns. "I'm a werewolf."