LANA
—No way, no way, no way!—Morgan exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth with overflowing excitement—. I knew it! I knew you liked him!
The next day, Morgan decided to stop by her house and burst in with a backpack, hair dye, and a bag of chips. She got that urge every once in a while. And after everything that had happened, Lana was grateful for it; she needed to vent to someone once and for all. So she worked up the courage and told her every single detail.
—I didn't say I like him— Lana responded, grabbing a chip—I said he's interesting.
—Same thing—her friend dismissed while sitting down next to her on the bed.
—Of course not. There's a huge difference between liking someone and acknowledging they're attractive—she corrected.
Morgan rolled her eyes.
—Just admit you like him already. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?
Lana made a face.
—I'm not making a big deal. I just don't understand what's happening to me with him lately... I'm confused, okay?
—Alright, let's analyze this—Morgan got comfortable on the bed, crossing her legs—. He gave you his number, but you don't text him. He's helped you countless times, and despite you never thanking him, he keeps running after you. Lana, please open your eyes. That guy is totally into you!
Lana jumped up, feeling a mixture of irritation and something else she didn't want to recognize.
—Don't even say it! I don't even want to think about it.
—Why are you acting like it's such a terrible thing? You said it yourself: he's a good guy.
"But I'm not," she thought. She shook her head to clear the thought and said:
—Because I'm not interested in having that kind of relationship with him. Now, are you going to let me dye your hair or are we gonna keep talking about Black until dawn?
Morgan sighed. She knew she was only giving up because she wanted to apply the dye.
—It looks... exactly the same. —Lana commented, watching her friend examine herself in the mirror.
—Could be worse. Remember when we dyed Quinn's hair fuchsia?
—It wasn't fuchsia—she corrected—. It was a completely different, brand-new color.
Morgan shrugged, touching her hair.
—It washed out two weeks later. If she didn't want to suffer, she wouldn't hang out with us.
She had to give her that. Quinn had many friends and almost never had time for all of them. Lana stayed thoughtful, her gaze lost in the mirror.
—What are you thinking so hard about?
Before she could answer, Morgan went back on the attack:
—Is it because of that jerk Raymond?
Of course, she'd told her about that too. Lately, Lana trusted Morgan more than she ever had in her whole life; she didn't even share this much with Quinn. Though both were important to her.
—I swear to God I'd take my dad's defibrillator and use it on him.
Lana let out a laugh.
—You know? Sometimes you scare me.
—Thanks.
—That wasn't a compliment.
—I know. But I meant it seriously.
—Figured as much—Lana nodded, smiling—. But I'll keep it in mind.
Morgan pulled her hair back into a ponytail.
—I can't believe what he did!—she exclaimed, indignant.
With a sigh, Lana leaned back on the comforter.
—I can. I always knew there was something off about him. But...—she made a face of disgust—he caught me off guard. And now I have another sister ignoring me.
—Hey— her friend called out—I know it's hard, but you'll see, Kate'll realize everything herself. Like my dad always says: 'A lie has short legs.'
Lana stayed thoughtful.
—Well, maybe you're right. But until that happens, who knows how many things could happen in between. Besides, I'm not giving up. I'll think of something.
Morgan smiled.
—That's my girl! Now...—she rummaged through her bag and pulled out a large, ancient-looking book with a worn cover—How about we forget about everything for a while with these scary stories?
When Lana turned and read the book's title, she furrowed her brow.
—Quileute Legends? Seriously?—Her tone was one of distaste—The last time I read this, I was a kid and it traumatized me.
Morgan ignored her and started flipping through the pages excitedly.
—You said it yourself: you were a kid. Now you're a full-grown woman. Plus, these are awesome stories that belong to our tribe. And from what I know, they're real myths.
Lana laughed, skeptical.
—Really? Dask'iya, the child-eating monster, is real to you?
—Not that one—she shook her head—. I'm talking about the Quileute and the Cold Ones.
Lana straightened up, feeling a sudden curiosity that surprised her. She'd never heard that story before.
—'In ancient times, the Quileute tribe lived on the La Push reservation, feeding off their prosperous agriculture, livestock, and hunting,'—Morgan began narrating, her voice taking on a mystical tone —'On one of the many expeditions of the warriors tasked with checking the safety of the pastures near the village, they encountered a creature with the appearance of a man. When they approached, they discovered that its skin was incredibly pale and its eyes an improper scarlet red for humans.'
—'Just as another ancient legend indicated, the native warriors possessed the ability to transform into an animal of nature, a wolf. They fought against that being, discovering thus its skin cold as ice, its enormous abilities to move, and its inhuman strength and speed. Some died in the battle, but finally they managed to destroy it. The remains of that thing's corpse were taken to the village to consult with the oldest and wisest member of the population. He, knowing of the existence of such a creature, called it: The Cold One.'
—'After some time, the tribe was attacked by more beings identical to that monster, unleashing thus a war between the Cold Ones and the wolf warriors. Finally they ended the attackers, but also lost many lives. Therefore, they reached the conclusion that all those who possessed the wolf gene should protect their people. With the need for protection in the village, the gene passed from generation to generation and is believed to continue to the present day.'
Morgan must have thought the expression on Lana's face was caused by panic from her story. She smiled, pleased, and said:
—Looks like the story had an effect on you. You got goosebumps.
—Well, you're a great storyteller—sighed, rubbing her arms—Do you seriously believe in those tales?
—They're not tales, they're myths. And you know what they say about myths: many of them are usually real.
Lana shuddered.
—Yeah, but... the Cold Ones?
Her friend shrugged, closing the book with a dry thud.
—My mom told me once they were also called 'blood drinkers.' Vampires, speaking in our modern times.—Lana raised an eyebrow, and Morgan defended herself by raising her hands, knowing what she was thinking—Don't look at me like that! I didn't invent those terms. My mom is the superstitious native. Though I must say, if they were true, they would definitely be scary.
Lana stayed thinking about that. About the time she dreamed of Quinn. She thought about the sudden wind. The red hair disappearing into the woods. Something sinking its teeth into the smooth, soft throat. Blood flowing down the sides.
She didn't understand why she'd dreamed something like that, but after hearing that story, she only managed to worry even more.
—The topic is a little far-fetched, isn't it?—her friend continued, snapping her out of her trance—I wonder why she doesn't want us to talk to anyone about this.
—What?—Lana asked, puzzled.
—Yeah, something like 'What happens in the reservation, stays in the reservation.'— she made a mocking gesture as if throwing something away with her hand—So if you could keep this story secret, you'd save my ass.
—I will, but... why did you share it with me if you knew you'd get in trouble?
—You're my friend. Besides, if no one finds out, nothing happens. It's just a story.
"Stories that weave scary tales," Lana thought.
She felt her skin prickle; she'd heard stories of that style before, but never had she felt so uneasy about one of them. She settled better on the mattress, swallowing hard, and tried to divert her attention to something else.
—Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to end the horror session here. I don't want to go to sleep thinking about dark things. I've got enough in my head already.
—You're right—she said, putting the book away—But I'm serious when I said you can't tell anyone about it. My mom went ballistic when I tried to tell Quinn once at the house. She almost disinherited me.
—Don't worry. I'm a vault—she promised, shuddering.
Though Lana couldn't stop wondering: What was behind that story that made them not want to share it with anyone? The legend of the Cold Ones had lodged itself in her mind like a splinter, planting a seed of doubt and fear that she didn't know how to remove.