Intercrossed

“This is not Australia.”

“You're a genius, Maryelle—too clever for the world,” my mother deadpans.

“Mom, what the heck! You said we were going on a summer vacation. You were taking me to Australia and Rome. Again, I have to point out that this place looks like neither.” I hadn’t been suspicious when our plane landed in Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. But I grew wary when we exited the plane, and my mother walked me to the car rental kiosk instead of the next gate for our supposed connecting flight. It turns out the trips to Australia and Rome were nonexistent. No wonder the ticketing agent had looked at me crazy when I asked her if there were any dos and don'ts I should follow in the land of down under. It also explains the dirty look she gave me as she pulled on her skirt to cover more of her knees.

We pull into the driveway of an old home. Really, calling it old is a compliment. The house is three trash bags away from being a dump. The building has a broken door, and the yellow paint is flaking as if it's trying to run as far as it can from the walls. The filmy windows look as though they haven't seen a bottle of glass cleaner since being installed—not to mention, one of them is swinging from its hinges and will most likely land on someone's head soon. If being a werecoyote didn't make me immune to illnesses, I'd worry about the harmful effects of asbestos, which I’m certain the home contains. There’s a large group of teenagers scattered around the front yard. Some curiously eye my mother’s car, nonchalantly peeking at the tinted windows of her rented sedan.

“Welcome to Rome, Georgia.” My mother smirks.

I gawk at her in disbelief. “If this dump is Rome, then I'm Julius Caesar reincarnated.”

“Enjoy your stay, Caesar. Watch out for Brutus.” She bites back laughter.

Funny. “I’m positive you meant, I hope we enjoy our stay.”

She pats me on the shoulder and gives me a toothy grin. “You're on your own, kid. Everyone in our home went through the mandated werecreature combat training years ago. You're the one who delayed it by insisting on spending your summers with that strange werepanther boy and that awful siren's daughter.” Mom seems irritated by her own mention of my best friend, Anna's, mom. In my mother's defense, Anna's mom makes the devil seem like a newborn doe. I've never met anyone as spiteful and cruel. “Mar, I like Anna, but you have to be trained to protect yourself in case her mother ever tries to hurt you.”

Instead of telling her how ridiculous the notion sounds, I sigh, hug her, and open the car door to let myself out.

“Eat your veggies, and stay out of trouble,” she tells me.

“Enjoy your flight, and stay out of the slammer.” I may not admit it out loud, but I will miss her. My mother and I don't have the average mother-and-daughter relationship. We have the two-old-ladies-who've-been-friends-for-ages-and-bicker-like-an-old-married-couple relationship. She appreciates my brutal honesty and the no-nonsense, straightforward attitude I've inherited from her. And I appreciate that she treats me like I have good sense—which I do. Several parents I know treat their teenagers like inmates waiting to commit more crimes.

“Stay away from the tattooed boy.” She gives me a stern look.

“Too late, Mommy. I'm already planning our shotgun wedding.” I wink. “Ever heard of the saying ‘when in Rome’? I might just drop out of school, move here, and have eighteen of that tattooed boy's pretty babies,” I say with an exaggerated Southern drawl.

Her smirk vanishes. “Maryelle Arie Cirale, that is not funny!” She hops out of her seat, hands me my purse, and jumps back in the car. “Behave yourself. I'll call you when I get to Australia.” Her tires make a screeching sound that muffles my smart-aleck retort, and she's halfway down the road with my last shred of hope for a decent summer vacation.

A light breeze combs through my hair, and I jump when a loud grunt startles me. I blink once and see them a few yards away from me, wrestling in the front yard. I stare at the spectacle in disbelief. I feel as though I’m watching one of those barbaric gladiator movies. Two boys—two very muscular, angry, and shirtless teenage boys—are trying to kill each other. The one who catches my attention first is about six-foot-two of taut muscle with a handsome face that’s too borderline pretty to be on a body so masculine. He has striking sapphire eyes with flecks of gold that sparkle like the expensive champagne my parents splurge on every New Year’s Eve. His hair is short, tousled, and deep shades of brown. The same gorgeous guy throws another punch at his opponent, a blond boy roughly his size but not as brawny. The blond boy attempts to defend himself but unfortunately swings and misses Sapphire Eyes’s jaw.

What in the world?

I see a small crowd of angry faces egging them on. Why isn’t anyone stopping this?

A girl yells, “Kick the crap out of him, Gaston! Show the royal punk werewolves aren’t to be messed with!” The wind ruffles Sapphire Eyes’s short, glossy brown hair, making it look like he's doing one of those shampoo commercials that make you wish you had better hair. I notice a tattoo on his back: large, black tribal markings that zigzag across his shoulders and go down to the middle of his back in a complicated pattern. When he throws another hard blow, I whistle to get their attention. Andddd it’s ignored. I sigh and make my way toward them.

The boy on the receiving end of Sapphire Eyes’s punches smirks at me. “Looks as if your pretend daddy has sent someone to come get you, Phantom. You’d better run along before I punch your pretty face again.” He snickers.

Sapphire Eyes growls at him, raises his fist, and swings it toward the blond boy's face. I rush toward them with lightning speed and grab his fist before it reaches its target.

“Stop it! Both of you!”

Sapphire Eyes scowls at me, and blond boy looks at me in disbelief. I drop his fist. “What is wrong with the two of you?” I shout. “What are you, competing for the title of America’s Biggest Neanderthal?”

Blond boy bursts into laughter, and Sapphire Eyes crosses his arms as he studies me. His eyes slowly roam, taking me in and stopping when they reach my lips. For unknown reasons, my lips respond with a warm, tingly sensation that quickly spreads to my cheeks.

“I’ve had enough of these idiot werewolves. We should go.” Sapphire Eyes grabs my hand. An unexpected electric current rushes through my blood and elevates my heart rate. Unfortunately for me, I am surrounded by werecreatures who can hear a whisper from a mile away, which means they can hear the ruckus going on behind my chest. Satisfied with my obvious reaction to his hand touching mine, Sapphire Eyes smiles smugly. Irritated both at myself and him, I snatch my hand back.

His smug expression annoys me just as it reminds me to keep my word about swearing off all guys. Thoughts of my ex, Jared, play through my mind. He’s the guy who shattered my heart into tiny worthless pieces when he cheated on me. “I don’t think so.” I wish my voice didn’t sound so high-pitched. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I guess I’ll see you around.” He winks. “And you,” he snarls, glaring at the blond boy. “Come near my sister again, and I will kill you!” He shoves past the group surrounding us and takes off. Holy crap! Who was that?

“Are you finished drooling yet? Or should I give you another moment to explain why you’re still on my property?” Blond Boy asks.

I roll my eyes. Fantastic! Rome, Georgia’s got comedians. “Which one of you guys is Gaston?” I ask, not in the mood to respond to Blond Boy’s silly question.

“That would be me.” Blond Boy raises his hand.

Of all the rotten luck in the world…

“I’m Maryelle.” When my name doesn’t remove the fresh confusion on his features, I explain. “My mother paid you to train me.” Confusion further masks his face. “You’re supposed to train me for the mandated combat exit test.”

“Oh, yeah!” He no longer looks befuddled. “Sorry you had to witness that mess with Phantom. I wasn’t expecting you ’til tomorrow. Let’s head this way.”

I follow him.

“I’m calling dibs on this one. She's hot,” another boy I hadn't even noticed sitting on the porch steps says. He's not bad looking either, but then again, neither is my best friend Israfil, and I have zero attraction to either guy. He gets up from the porch steps, runs a hand through his messy, shoulder-length black hair and grins at me. “Hey cutie, I’m Sebastian. FYI, my room is on the second floor to the right.”

Gaston's intense silver gaze never leaves me, as if he's studying me for a reaction. It’s clear he’s also waiting to hear my response to Sebastian's obvious come-on.

“What time does our training start?” My question makes Sebastian's grin somehow grow wider.

“Why don't you let me take you to dinner so we can discuss it over food?” Sebastian wags his eyebrows suggestively.

Um… no. I open my mouth to tell him to buzz off, but Gaston speaks before I do. “Bash, I don't think the little coyote is interested in wolves—or in you.”

Shock flashes across my face. Are they all wolves? Why am I being trained by werewolves?

Gaston reads my expression of shock. “The werecoyotes who signed on to train you opted for a summer vacation in Australia.” He answers my silent question.

“Figures,” I mutter.

“They didn’t feel one trainee was worth sticking around for. Apparently most werecoyotes have problems with respecting prior engagements. Lucky for you, my pack and I needed the money, so I took the job.” Awesome. I’ll be living in a house full of wolves. I’ll be the odd woman out—the ultimate pariah.

“Training starts at five in the morning, and I expect everyone on the field at four thirty,” Gaston tells me. “You can stay out here and make friends with these riffraffs.” He indicates the now scattered crowd. “Come inside when you’re ready.” He disappears toward what looks like a path to the backyard.

“If you change your mind…” Sebastian smirks, giving me another wink. “Hey, Gaston. Hold up, dude.” He runs after him.

I let out a sigh and decide to go find my room now rather than later. It's roughly four in the afternoon. The sun hangs low, making the damp grass sparkle like a field of precious emeralds. At least the crap house has a nice front yard. Without further delay, I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the front door. My first step into the house makes it creak like it'll cave in if I step on it any harder. The smell of rotting wood further convinces me it will.

“Hey, new girl! Heads up!” I turn around just in time to see a large, saw-toothed copper blade flying toward my head at an unprecedented rate. As amazing as my reflexes are, there's zero time for me to stop the knife from slicing my forehead open. Considering that the board beneath my feet is fairly loose and covering a large hole, ducking to miss the blade will cause me to sink beneath the board and into the hole. Right before the knife slices my head open, something hard hits me on the shoulder, and I’m moved to the side before I can catch my breath. My eyes are squeezed shut, and when I open them, they're looking into Gaston’s intense silver-gray eyes.

“You still with me?” He does a quick glance over, checking my face for injury.

“She looks fine,” the girl who threw the knife says. Pulling away from him, I double back, land on my feet, and catch her off guard by locking her in a firm grip that forces her face down on the loose board covering the hole I was standing on. She wiggles against my grasp, but my hold is tight enough to keep her from being able to fidget, let alone stand.

“You try that again, and I'll break both of your knees and make you eat this board.”

“Go for it. I love the taste of decaying wood,” she hisses.

I let her go because, frankly, beating the crap out of a mentally disadvantaged person is like kicking a kitten. And this girl’s an obvious nutcase.

“For the record, Gaston is off limits to you. He's done dating werecoyotes,” she says as though he's not standing there listening to her.

“There are stalking laws in Georgia, you know? And restraining orders.” I look at Gaston this time. I shake my head in dismay and grab my bag from Gaston’s hands.

“Freya,” Gaston says, motioning toward the crazy girl who just threw the knife at me, “plays a little rough, but she means no harm. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable in a house filled with werewolves. I promise we’re not all crazy. If it’s any consolation, I look forward to teaching you every combat trick I know, and I’m glad you’re training with us.” He smiles apologetically.

“Thank you for having me.” I return his polite smile.

“Could you be any more obvious?” Freya scoffs, glaring at me.

Sebastian sniggers. “Freya, if she were any more obvious, they'd both be naked and making everyone's favorite floorboard jealous.”

“Which one’s my room?” I sigh, ignoring Sebastian.

“Your room's on the far left. It’s upstairs.” Gaston ignores Sebastian’s inappropriate howling sounds.

Unwilling to entertain any more foolishness, I rush past the three of them and head upstairs to find my room.

When I reach my doorway, I hear a voice. “I guess you met Freya. Careful, the little witch-wolf is vindictive toward any girl trying to breathe the same air as Gaston. I'm Al. It’s short for Alice, but I'm not into the wonderland jokes.” She offers me her hand, and I step inside. Al’s three inches shorter than I am. She has olive skin peppered with freckles and short, curly blond hair cut into the shape of a mushroom. She has on an AC/DC shirt, ripped blue jeans, and black combat boots held together by duct tape. Her eyes are bright silver with smudges of neon-blue. Most werewolves have silver eyes—it’s one of their signature werecreature traits.

“I'm Maryelle.” I take her hand and give it a firm shake. “You're a wolf, right?” I'm a little astonished that I have yet to meet another werecoyote. I’d hoped there would be at least another one. So far, it's just been wolves—unless you count the guy Gaston was pummeling earlier.

“I guess they didn't tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I ask.

“This entire training is for werewolves; you're the only werecoyote training with us. Apparently, most of your people have an aversion to missing their vacation time. The majority scattered like roaches when they found out you were the only candidate this year.”

“Gaston mentioned it,” I say with a heavy sigh. “I was just hoping…”

“Do you have a problem with werewolves?”

I take another deep breath and rub my temples. “No, Al, but I haven’t had the best impression of werewolves so far. After ten minutes being here, one wolf has tried to kill me, one engaged himself in brutal violence with a werecoyote, and another acted like a prowler who couldn't keep his eyes off the upper part of my torso.”

“Every group has its crazies and creeps. You were unfortunate to come across one—possibly two.” She shrugs. “Gaston,” she says with a sly smile, “must have checked you out. He has a thing for werecoyotes, you know. Freya may glare at other girls because she’s envious, but she rarely attacks them. She's been in love with him since we were kids.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, and Freya,” I say, emphasizing both syllables in her name, “needs a good dosage of mental meds.” I look around and notice the room has four beds—two sets of bunks. “Which one's mine?” I glance at the top bunk on the far right.

“The one you're looking at,” Al answers with a smile. “And in case you were wondering, I'm the nice wolf.”