Night Children

09

By the time the clock read four o'clock, I was standing outside the door to Cal's apartment. I'd come straight from school, so my backpack was still slung over my shoulders, and I was falling victim to the infamous afternoon slump. I hoped she had something besides smoothies and sandwiches—preferably something heavily caffeinated. I didn't know how long I was going to spend here, but however long it was, I needed some sort of energy boost or it'd be dreadful.

More dreadful than I was already thinking it was going to be.

I was less prepared than I had thought. I'd agreed to let Cal help me, sure, but what I hadn't been planning for was random calls and last minute set-ups and secret rendezvous. I kept telling myself I wouldn't get in too deep. I wouldn't get too involved.

But that felt like the kind of thing people said but didn't really mean.

I knocked.

Cal opened the door with a theatrical flourish, then glanced down at her watch. Lifting her eyes again, she frowned at me and said, "Well, you're late."

My own watch read 4:01. "By a minute."

"If you're not five minutes early, you're late," announced Cal with a sigh, then just rolled her eyes and stepped aside in the doorframe. Her bountiful curls were in a braid down her shoulder today, her dark eyes rimmed by minimal coal-black eyeliner. Yoga pants that I had to keep tearing my eyes from clung to her every curve. "Werewolves. Never punctual, are they?"

"Don't be racist," I muttered under my breath.

Coming into the kitchen, I was stunned to find that Cal's island looked like a picnic basket had vomited all over it. Sandwiches of all kinds—ham, turkey, roast beef, even cucumber—were set up on neat cupcake displays, and around them were glasses filled with smoothies of every color. Taken aback, I paused in place for a second. "You were...not joking."

"One thing you'll learn about me, Theo," Cal announced, picking up a ham sandwich and taking a confident bite into it, "is that I never joke. Do you want a sandwich or not? You must be hungry."

I shrugged, because I was, and took a sandwich for myself. "So this investigation...where are you expecting to start?"

"Here. Now. You," Cal answered. "Every investigation needs at least one interrogation, right? That's what this is."

"You called me over, made sandwiches and smoothies, just to interrogate me?"

Cal nodded, and at the look on my face, made a perplexed expression. "Why do you look so betrayed? Sit down. Think of it as a quiz, except there's no failing or passing."

"No such quiz exists," I told her, but nevertheless perched myself in a dining chair. She sat across from me, folding her legs in her seat and staring at me. I kid you not, for the first five minutes I sat there, all this woman did was stare. Her candid eyes, gold-rimmed black, trailed my face. They outlined my eyes, skimmed my nose and cheeks, traced my lips, tracked the form of my neck. Like I've mentioned—the center of someone's, anyone's, attention was my least favorite place in the world. That dreaded feeling that had been ambushing me outside returned.

"Dacosta."

"What?"

"Your last name," Cal elaborated, as if we hadn't just sat in silence for several awkward moments. "What is it? Italian?"

"Portuguese," I corrected. "I'm Brazilian."

"Are there a lot of werewolves in Brazil?"

I did not like where this was going. No. Rather I did not like the fact that it was going nowhere at all. "I don't know? There's the same amount as...anywhere, I guess?"