chapter twenty-nine.

Simon

It's late and I don't exactly want to be here. The only reason I am here, even, is because my brother insisted.

Though I've made an amateur hobby out of trying out different cocktails at home, I'm actually not much of a drinker myself. I'm a casual, more opportunistic consumer of alcohol, which cannot be said of Noah. He's toned down a bit since undergrad, when he'd get so blackout drunk he wouldn't remember the entire night, but nevertheless he still enjoys a couple sips to take the edge off.

He's going out with a few of his work friends—a guy named Randy that I've met before, and another guy named Quinn that I haven't—one night when he pauses at the door and looks back at me. "Simon?"

I'm on the couch, reading one of my books of poems. German. Rilke. What will you do, God, when I die? "Hm?"

"Come with me."

The next fifteen minutes I spend trying to weasel my way out of accompanying him, which is unsuccessful. That's how I ended up here—in a loud, crowded bar, sandwiched between Noah and Randy as they shout office gossip over my head. I should be happy. I told Val I loved her yesterday, and I think she believed me. Also, I kissed her.

So I've done that before. A few times. But somehow, last night felt like the first.

She's been on my mind all night and all day. I dreamt of her last night, and I'm pretty sure I'll dream of her again when my head hits the pillow tonight, too. In a way it's no different than it has been ever since I met her that first day of sixth grade—I loved her then, and I love her now. Perhaps the only difference is that, now, I'm allowed to.

"Get him a refill!" shouts Noah from my side. He's spastic, constantly moving around even while sitting still, somehow. It's how I know he's already tipsy, if not completely drunk.

The bartender nods and slides my beer away from me, refilling the glass and placing it in front of me. I give him a brief nod of thanks.

Randy gets up to go have a smoke, the bar's door jingling as he exits. I look out over the crowd of people, ranging from slightly buzzed to blackout drunk. I smell savory cologne and sweet perfume, sweat and salt and alcohol. It's too loud. The beat of the overhead music seems to thud somewhere beneath my skin.

"Sure this is your brother, Noah?" says Quinn from the other side of Noah, leaning over to look at me. He lifts a dark eyebrow at me, and I spare a halfhearted wave. "He's awfully quiet."

"I'm just in my head," I say, taking a sip from my glass.

"He's always in his goddamn head," Noah comments. "Thinking about—" He pauses, blinking slowly for a moment. "Shit. What do you even think about all the time? Words?"

So he's more than a little tipsy. I roll my eyes. "I'd imagine we all think about words. That's how we talk, isn't it?"

Quinn laughs. In truth, it's more of an ugly guffaw. "I take it back. He's obviously your brother. You're both smart-asses."

I smirk. "Noah's always been a bad influence on me."

Noah combs a hand back through his hair, which, as it commonly is, is annoyingly perfect. No wonder all the girls in here keep stealing glances. "And yet," he says, pointing a trembling finger at me, "I'm the one person who's put up with all this crazy shapeshifting shit—"

I clamp a hand down over his mouth in horror. There's too many people in here. One person's bad enough, but over a hundred? "Jesus, Noah! I don't care how drunk you are, you can't just say that out loud!"

Noah smiles giddily. "I'm not drunk, man."

Quinn's just watching us, perplexed. I take this moment of stunned silence as an opportunity to make a getaway, which I've been trying to do practically since I got here. I grab Noah's arm, dragging him from the bar and out the door.

Cold night air envelops us, the sudden drop in temperature shocking me nearly to my core. I shudder, dragging Noah down the street, until the music and voices from the bar are faint, faint undertones in the back of my head.

We're a block from the bar when Noah finally digs his heels in. "Ginger Snap, slow your roll, dude. Where are we going?"

I stop, turning to look back at him. His eyelids are low over his eyes, his movements beginning to slow, as if he's moving through water. "Home," I say. "You're right. You're not drunk, Noah, you're hammered. And you nearly told the whole world I can shapeshift, so thanks."

"Val knows," Noah begins, as if this is a logical connection. "What difference would it make if the whole world knew?"

"A big one, Noah. A pretty big one. I mean—God, why do you think I've been hiding my whole life?"

Noah chuckles, leaning back against the brick exterior of the nearest building—a townhouse, it looks like. In the moonlight, his eyes are pools of honey, glinting at me from underneath golden eyelashes. That's Noah. My family's golden boy. "I think," Noah says, "that's not my question to answer."

I stare at him.

He stares back.

I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. "We're going home, Noah."

He laughs again, reaching to ruffle my hair, like he used to do all the time when we were kids. "Aw. You're adorable when you're mad, Simon. Like a little kitten."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"Only because I have to," I say, grabbing his arm again. He drags his feet, but allows me to pull him. "We're going now."

"Going where, now?" says an unfamiliar voice.

Two men step out from the alley in front of us, both clad in dark pants and hoodies, and both with scowls on their faces. A jolt, like electricity, goes down my spine, and I back up, dragging Noah with me. "I'm sorry?" I say. "Look, if it's money, or something, that you want—"

The man flips his hood back.

Noah lets out a cackle. "Shit, man. You got fucked up."

"Noah!" I yelp, but nevertheless I understand where the sentiment comes from. There's a scar running down the man's face from his eyebrow to his lip, puffy and pinkish, as if someone dragged the blade of a knife down his cheek. "I'm sorry; he's a little—"

"You're friends of Larry's, aren't you?" asks the other man, the one with his hood still on.

I hesitate. "Well, I wouldn't call us...friends; it's more like—"

"We're his cousins," says Noah.

The two men exchange a devious look. I fight the urge to smack my brother upside the head. One of these days, he's going to get us both killed. If not this day. Right now.

"Larry St. John did this to my face," says the scarred man. "And he ruined my life. Cost me my job, my home, my family. I thought at first it would be fitting to kill him and be done with it."

"But it would hurt more if he had to lose his loved ones, wouldn't it?" The other man adds. "Just like we did."

They take a step forward, but I hold out my hands in surrender, stepping back. "Nonono, wait wait! We're not that important to Larry, honestly! We're distant, truly—"

I'm silenced by a fist to my face. My vision explodes in stars, pain reverberating from my nose outwards. Did he just break my nose? My thoughts turn to mush, the world beginning to spin. I hit the ground.

Oh my God. I'm gonna die here. I'm gonna die here, bloody and beaten. I'm going to break Val's heart.

Noah yells something extremely offensive, throwing a kick at one of the guys. From what I can tell, it doesn't land, because a moment later he joins me on the ground, groaning. I have to get up. I need to get up.

Someone's on top of Noah, pummeling him. I have to get up.

The pain's astounding; my head feels like it's splitting. But I get up, however slowly. The scarred man chuckles and comes at me, fists raised. "Just like your son of a bitch cousin! You don't know when to stay down."

His foot connects with my ribs, knocking the breath from my chest. It takes all my strength to stay standing.

"We're St. Johns," I wheeze. "We're not quitters."

And I change.

I don't like to do it in front of people. It's uncomfortable. It's awkward. And it's another thing: frightening.

I could use a little fear at a time like this.

I broaden my shoulders, flex the muscles in my arms, my back, my chest. Reform my nose, shifting it around until the bones connect with each other again. I stretch myself taller, inch by inch.

The scarred man's face goes paper white; the other one stops where he is, fist still lifted above my brother's face.

"Monster," says the scarred man. "Monster!"

And when he starts off running, his friend isn't far behind.

Relief flooding through me, I relax back into my original skin, hurrying to Noah's side. He's still on the ground, moaning. One of his eyes is black and blue, nearly swollen shut, and his lip's busted. He certainly took the worst of it.

"Noah?" I say. "Noah, are you with me?"

He turns his head, spitting blood out onto the concrete. "What the hell just happened?"

I exhale, heavily. "I think someone just tried to kill us."

Noah groans. "I'm gonna call Larry," he manages, his voice raspy, bare, "and I'm gonna get him over here, and then I'm gonna slap the hell out of him."

The fact he's talking should put me in good spirits; he's okay, after all. Breathing. Functioning.

But one word keeps echoing over and over again in the back of my head:

Monster. Monster.

And I've found my answer to the question I asked Noah earlier.

That. That's the reason I've been hiding all this time.

Monster.