'Was this where you came with him?' Sebastian asks.
I look around the forest but don't say a word. Earlier today, when Mason appeared in my school, the two of us had gone further through these woods to have privacy, but then things had gone roughly.
But if I hadn't told Mason to leave when I did, things would have certainly gone even…rougher.
I pat the hem of my dress to my thighs: the slim-wasted silver dress is too flashy for class as it is inappropriate for the frigid weather, though not that I am at risk for hypothermia or anything.
Sebastian huffs angrily; his bruises look appropriately blue under the bandages. He doesn't look so good, and I mention it.
'Shut up, Benning,' Seamus snaps behind me.
I glance slowly back: Seamus has been tailing me since we left school, as if to cut off my escape. But, supposing one of them bothered to ask, I would tell him at no cost that if they decided on any funny business, it wouldn't end well.
'So that was him, right?' Sebastian says, holding up a picture and indicating it for my benefit. It is one of those pictures he is blackmailing me with. Seamus took them when Mason and I were kissing in the town library, and Mason's hands were on my skirt.
I glare acidly, frustrated. 'I'm starting to think I look very good in these pictures, boys. You can't seem to let go of them,' I spit sarcastically.
But they laugh mockingly to my words, and even Seamus glees stiffly.
The air has warmed a bit. Much of the freaky moisture from my battle with Mirabella is nearly evaporated; though every once in a dozen steps is still a wet patch of earth, drier in the morning—when I walked with Mason—than now.
'Why we can't let go of them, Claire? Really? We will let go of these pictures all right; right what you want,' Sebastian says. 'We'll let the whole school have them—heck, the whole town!'
Seamus, with saidistic mirth, cares to elaborate: ' "High School student Claire Benning gets some in Public town Library". That will be the newspaper headlines, don't you think, Claire?'
I look from one bully to the other. 'You are insane,' I tell either. 'And bluffing.'
'Are we really?' Sebastian laughs, enjoying himself.
'Hey!' I retort. 'I'm not the cause of your misfortunes, all right?—' feels so nice to lie about that through my teeth '—So why should I be made to suffer?' I ask.
'Oh heck, Claire!' Sebastian explodes. 'You were there that night—I saw you. Then everything went to damnation.'
A warm feeling of pleasure spreads through my insides. I know how much Seamus actually remembers from the incident: nearly nothing: the roofies scrambled his memory good like a particular way of making eggs, and edited parts out. Only Sebastian remembers the whole night to make wild, wide accusations.
Sebastian continues, 'And Perry says she didn't invite you to the party. Admit it, Claire: you probably drugged us somehow!'
'Yeah,' Seamus agrees to the accusation, so I glance at the self-righteous bastard. No use telling him that I knew he was going to drug and force Joana; and had merely drugged the would-be drugger.
'So let me guess: you guys need a scapegoat to punish for your misfortunes, maybe even someone to take some of the bad publicity off your hides; and you chose me,' I say blandly.
'Actually, we were hoping you would take all of the bad publicity,' Seamus grins openly, embracing the evil in him and casting off the victim act.
I nod, 'Okay, Seamus. I just have this one thing to say: Please, let us all not regret this day.'
I send a quick mental command to everyone in my pack. There is enough urgency in my command to get them moving immediately.
I flash Sebastian and Seamus my most unnerving, freeze-your-blood-and-shit-your-pants grin, then sigh, 'Okay, boys.' Falling into the cornered person act, 'Let's say I do not wish the pictures leaked, what would that cost?'
'It's clear,' Seamus' eyes twinkle. 'It's Claire. The cost is Claire.'
So the Clear Slot! message was probably Seamus' doing. No more can I deny the fact that the guy is a psychopathic, manipulative, genius bastard.
'The three of us continue from where we left off, for one,' Sebastian says in response, 'in front of Seamus' camera.'
I almost tell Sebastian that no chance in forever is that ever happening, except over my dead body. But seeing as managing that for them would be next to impossible, it would be over theirs.
While I stall the two, I can sense the members of my pack already on the move: Alicia just broke into Seamus' house, and Troy is at their hideout beyond the graveyard, on the other side of the woods. Phil is back at school, sniffing out the blown up poster of one of the pictures Sebastian made. Before long, only the picture Sebastian is holding in his hand, blackmailing me with, will be all that's left.
Why didn't I consider this sooner? Probably because my soap opera of a life has barely given me any breathing room.
Alicia and Troy will make certain to destroy every copy of the pictures that exists, and every negative that Seamus posse—
Oops! Alicia just went a little further. She is also destroying Seamus' expensive cameras; that sweet, sweet, heartless girl.
'I-I-I need some time to think,' I cough, pretending to look overwhelmed.
'No time for that,' Seamus says. He advances on me from behind.
Even Sebastian approaches. 'We'll have our clear slot now, if you don't mind,' he leers with a grin, eyes gleaming with unconcealed violence.
I smile sinisterly to give each boy pause, 'Gentlemen, we are all going to regret this. Especially you both.'
Seamus snatches my arm. Because I allow it. The smile quickly bleeds out of my expression.
***
Alicia takes a minute to plan her destruction: Seamus' room looks just perfect for the site of a burglary, what with all the expensive things just lying casually around. So Alicia dorns a pair of gloves—you never can say what kind of private detectives the Owens, Seamus' family, have on speed dial—and begins to randomly stuffs things into a bag. The shinier stuffs are, the better their chances of making the bag.
When she is done, the place having been upturned a good deal, she pulls aside a Picasso original, and stares at the personal safe behind it. The metal safe looks sturdy enough to withstand a bomb. Alicia smiles, extending a silver claw that looks as metallic as the safe itself. Belatedly, she stares at the claw, which has pierced the fingertip of her glove. 'So much for leaving no fingerprint,' she mutters. She peels the safe apart in under a minute, and reaches inside for an envelope of pictures and negatives.
She soaks the pictures in alcohol, exposes the negatives to some good, old, healthy sunlight for a good bleaching, and flings them haphazardly upon Seamus' bed. With a full sack slung on her back, she causes more half-hearted destruction in other rooms, stuffs more things into her sack, or just simply tosses them out of their places.
Finished, she exits the Owens' mansion without tripping its security, to take off in her car parked nowhere near the vicinity. A good fifteen minutes drive away from the Owens' property and beyond the outskirts of town, she casts off the sack into a bush by the roadside. A couple of CCTV cameras, which were ripped from the mansion by Alicia as a barely discernible blur, roll out of the sack.
She is about to start her car when someone reaches in through the side window, and puts their hand on her shoulder.
Startled, 'Who are you? Get your hands off m—' she starts to say.
'Shhh!' Mirabella lures as Alicia goes slack, mouth dropping open like a fish's, fingers dropping to her sides—topped with four inches of mythically sharp razors where she had instinctively sprung out her claws to defend herself.
'That's good—no, better,' Mirabella says, pleased, all the while skipping through Alicia's mind and emotions. 'You really are Claire's sidekick.' She watches Alicia's eyes glaze over. 'So little beta, I have a big job for you. Think you can make a lycan proud?' She strokes Alicia's fluffy, blond curls as she coos. Alicia responds with a rubbery nod, and Mirabella lets her drive off a minute later, the lycan watching her go.
Alicia is under her hypnosis, with instructions from the lycan to ram her vehicle into my mom's while mom returns home with Toby from taking him to the dentist's.
Mirabella vanishes into the wall of trees bordering the road.
The lycan wasn't too greatly surprised that she lost to me; there is in fact a legend among psychic werewolves that a White is primarily a telepathist, then a wolf. If you belonged to the most telepathic family in existence, there was bound to be diverse legends about you.
Mirabella also knew Vanessa in her prime; and she'd figured that she probably couldn't beat the pure breed alpha of the White family.
Being a lycan means that individuals like Mirabella, Rufus and Lauren outshine regular werewolves in a lot of spectra; while some werewolf families exist who outshine the lycans in one or just a couple of lights.
So Mirabella frankly had her misgivings too about beating me. Right, I have diluted White traits compared to Vanessa and other Whites of renown. But my traits are reinforced with an Elderwood bloodline, while all of that is also infused with the unpredictably dynamic Olligrander traits.
So it is that I feel something foul creep down my spine as I twist myself out of Seamus' grip. He launches beyond me as a consequence, catching himself on some decades-old knotted roots, and falls flat on his face.
Sebastian stares at Seamus pitifully coughing out spitfuls of dirt, and comes at me, arms swinging and fists pumping. But I am too distracted. Something is horribly wrong and I can't even discern what.
I sense Mirabella's tweaking in an annexation of my mind, like a malicious malignancy, but she has masked her tampering with enviable skill. Strain as I may, I can't uncover her move. I gulp. Oh, this is bad.
Sebastian's fists connect with my jaw, his metacarpal bones giving way instead with a sickening CRUNCH!
'OW!' He screams, instantly falling to his knees before me, unable to cradle one hand in the other.
'You slut! I'll—' Seamus charges me. Something roars past, faster than I can react, and Seamus cuts off mid-charge.
A different realization hits me like a tsunami breaking on the shores of my mind. Colossal fright forces me back to the present as I watch Seamus' eyes suddenly bulge like nipples.
'Mason, please let him go! ' I call; a scream and a plea all at once.
***
The hair on my neck rises as far as it can go, because Mason is here in flesh and blood, practically flexing his powers unchecked against a human. His eyes are glowing volcanic pits; and the air shimmers around him as if near combustion, as it did around the huntsmen. Under his grip, Seamus' flesh sizzles like bacon on spits. 'WHO. ARE. YOU?' Mason growls murderously, all the time holding Seamus up by the throat, who looks purple and burned, his shoes a clear three feet off the ground.
My sense of urgency heightens: but though I can feel Mirabella is up to something diabolical, the danger doesn't feel exactly as real as Mason does.
One wrong move, one twitch, one flex of a muscle, and Seamus' neck will snap easier than a toothpick.