Gray stood in the bathroom, his shifter’s shirt in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. A bowl of water sat on the counter, and the bathtub was also filled. He hated doing this to his shirt—it had already had to regrow so many times it might start dying—but all he needed was one cutting. He raised the scissors, caught his reflection in the mirror, and froze.
Two weeks had passed since he and Leslie sent the emails to all the Professors Brown. His wounds had healed and his stitches were removed, but those weren’t the only changes. His hair was a little straighter and a little darker. His skin had a slight sallow tinge to it. But what caught him this time were his eyes. His shirt slipped out of his hand and onto the floor. He grabbed the scissors in both hands.
The flesh around the edges of his eyelids was black as though he had outlined his eyelashes in pencil. And his eyes themselves were yellow—flat yellow, the yellow of a leopard. An animal’s eyes stared back at Gray out of his face, and they terrified him.
Gray clenched the scissors so tight that the dull edges of the closed blades bit into his hands. He breathed in shallow gasps, staring at the monster in the mirror. The eyes….Aren’t the eyes supposed to be the last to go? Gray couldn’t remember. Panic started to build in his chest. This can’t be the end. It’s too fast—too soon.
Gray squeezed his eyes shut and thrust one hand into his pocket. He found his soul binder and clenched his fist around it. He focused on becoming human—on staying human. Then slowly…slowly he opened his eyes. His own gold-flecked brown eyes stared back at him, though they were still rimmed with black. He slid his hand out of his pocket and—still holding onto his soul binder—pulled down the lower lid of his eye. The flesh was completely black. It hadn’t been that way yesterday. Gray gave a disgruntled sigh.
The bathroom door opened. Gray spun around, raising the scissors. Leslie stood in the doorway. She jumped backwards with a little yelp. Then she slouched slightly, looking somewhere at Gray’s chest. She leaned against the doorframe, as if it could protect her. Gray felt a tug of protectiveness come over him. That was good. Leopards were solitary creatures. They hardly ever felt a protective instinct. But Gray did—always had, and hopefully always would.
“Sorry,” Leslie mumbled. What happened in her life to make her so withdrawn? Gray wondered. “The door was unlocked. I didn’t know you were in here.” Leslie absentmindedly rubbed her nose.
Gray looked at the scissors in his hand and then at his shirt, which had fallen on the floor. He bent quickly and scooped it up. “That’s all right.”
Leslie motioned at the shirt with her head. “What are you doing with that?”
“I was going to get a cutting off the shirt so I could grow a necklace for my soul binder,” said Gray.
Leslie stared at him blankly.
“You don’t have any clothes made of plants?” asked Gray.
Leslie shrugged. “Plant fibers, maybe.”
Gray held up his shirt. “This is made of a living plant kind of like moss, but a little like algae in that it doesn’t need roots. The moss grows long vines, and we train the moss to weave and grow into whatever we want. If I get a cutting off the shirt and didn’t give the moss any new directions, it would grow into a second shirt.”
“And how do you give the moss directions?” asked Leslie.
“I tell it. Watch.” Gray shifted the shirt around in one hand until he found the hem. Peering close, he found one loose end of moss. Using the scissors, he traced the end back for the length of his arm. Very carefully, he cut off the single strand of moss. He place the rest of the shirt in the bathtub. Then he threaded his soul binder onto the strand of moss. He brought the strand up to his mouth and whispered, “Braid like twine through this stone. Form a circle, form a necklace. Be strong as iron and supple as silk.” Very gently, Gray placed the strand with his soul binder in the bowl of water.
“That’s it?” asked Leslie.
Gray nodded. “The moss drinks the water and uses sunlight for food, just like other plants. It’ll need both while it’s growing into a necklace.”
“Why do you use plants for clothes?” asked Leslie.
“We don’t wear plants all the time,” said Gray, “but we do if we want to shift or be prepared to shift. Living substances shift with us better than non-living substances—wool works alright, though it gives you a stomachache after. Basically, shifters’ vines keep us from running around naked.”
Leslie nodded, biting her lower lip and staring at the bowl. Gray couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Did she believe him? Was she having a hard time accepting all these new things, or was she absorbing all the information like a sponge? He wished she’d tell him.
Leslie broke her gaze away from the bowl, where the moss had already grown little feelers that would eventually braid together and form a necklace. She turned to Gray. “Do you want to go running?”
Gray looked back at the bowl. “Why not?” he said, shrugging. “The shifter’s vines can take care of itself.”
Gray took one last look in the mirror. He looked like an ordinary teen in a t-shirt and shorts who had suddenly taken a fancy for eye makeup. There was nothing he could do about that. He belted the Scroll to his waist. Savannah had made a container to hold the Scroll and its container out of an old Pringle’s can. It looked odd, but at least it was secure.
As he and Leslie headed down the stairs, Savannah climbed up. She said, “Hey, Leslie. Hey, Guyliner.”
“Huh?” said Gray. He stopped and looked up at Savannah. “What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re wearing guyliner—guy eyeliner. Maybe you should go Emo; it wouldn’t look so weird. Dad would totally freak out.”
Gray cocked his head. “What’s Emo?”
“Ignore her,” said Leslie. She grabbed Gray’s hand and dragged him down the stairs and out of the house.
They’d only been running just over a mile when Gray’s body started to seize up. His legs shook with each stride he took, and his lungs ached. He breathed in wheezing gasps. The sunlight was too bright, and he could feel the earth spinning underneath him. He stopped and placed his hand on his knees, gasping for breath.
Leslie placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Gray nodded, unable to speak.
“Is it, you know…”
Gray nodded again.
Leslie shifted around and crouched in front of Gray. She looked him in the eye. “I think you should take it easy. No more running.”
Shaking his head, Gray forced out, “No. Those who gave up, who sat and did nothing, died that much faster.” Shakily, Gray stood. “Let’s walk to the beach. I want to see the beach.”
They walked down the highway, a sea breeze kicking up sand from the dunes around their feet. They couldn’t see the ocean because of the dunes on the west side of the highway, but Gray could hear it. The rumbling of the sea reminded him of the whispers of hundreds—thousands—of people. He closed his eyes and imagined that the whispers were the voices of his ancestors. A pang of homesickness tugged at his gut, and he opened his eyes. The sun was still too bright.
Leslie led the way up Dunes Beach. They stood at the top of a wildflower-covered sand dune. Gray gazed at the endless ocean, the gray-blue water that stretched off as far as the eye could see. A sailboat glided on its surface away to the right.
“So beautiful,” said Leslie softly. Gray murmured his agreement. “You came across or through it or something, right?”
“Somewhat,” said Gray. He fingered the Pringles container at his hip. “It’s difficult to explain. You stand on the brink of the ocean, with the sea foam washing at your feet, and then suddenly—you’re on the path, but you don’t walk the path. The path takes you.”
“Like one of those flat escalators at the airport,” said Leslie.
“A what?”
Leslie waved her comment away. “Never mind. What do you see?”
Gray placed his hands in his pockets. “Everything. And nothing. And then you’re wrapped in a cocoon of light.”
Movement on the beach caught his eye. An old woman, wearing a tattered dress and a shawl, walked down the beach. She stopped and stood, staring into the waves.
“Who’s that?” asked Gray.
Leslie looked to where Gray was pointing. “Her? That’s Mrs. Winthrope. She comes to the beach every day and just stares at the waves for hours. She doesn’t go home until after the sun is down. It’s sad, really. It makes me think she lost somebody out at sea.”
Gray stared at Mrs. Winthrope. A strange thrumming sensation went through his body. It turned into a tingle. He felt drawn towards the old woman. She’s like me, he thought. She’s from my world. And she’s trapped here. He was so certain of it, he almost started walking down the beach to greet her. He stopped himself. What would I say? Instead, he turned to Leslie. “Let’s go back. I think I can run it.”
When they arrived back at the house, Savannah ran out to greet them. Her face was alit with excitement. “You’ve got an email!” she gasped. “From Professor Brown!”
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