Dried blood mingles with the smears of dirt that clings to my skin. I lick my thumb and rub, bracing myself for a sharp pain. It never comes. When I wipe away one particularly heavy streak of caked-on mud, I reveal a jagged white line surrounded by the rough red of scraped skin. It looks like a fresh scar for a pretty nasty cut. Other than that, my skin is smooth and unblemished.
Okay. That’s… weird.
While I marvel over my foot, he ducks under the flap of his tent, returning a moment later with a canteen in his right hand. I don’t know what I’m expecting. The round, dented metal canteen seems about right. It reminds of the prop in every survivalist movie I’ve ever seen.
That’s not all he has.
I perk up, foot forgotten.
In his left hand, he’s holding onto the grip of a longbow. A quiver of arrows hangs off his shoulder. If the canteen’s borrowed from an action film, this is straight out of Lord of the Rings territory.
“Here ya go,” he says.
My reaction’s off. As he draws closer, my fingers itch to grab—but it’s not the canteen I want. I eye the bow in his hand and the quiver of arrows and I have to have them. It’s like the thrill I get when I find a treasure at the semi-annual flea markets. Something tells me that they’re meant to be mine. Which is really weird because my aim is friggin’ terrible. Last time I played darts at the bar, I missed the board entirely and my dart ended up in some guy’s beard.
I tell myself no. It isn’t mine. I can’t have it. Besides, the bow’s got to be close to three feet across. That’s more than half of one of me. There’s no way I can shoot that thing.
The stranger holds out his canteen. The bow tempts me from a few inches away.
I give my head a quick shake and take the canteen without a word.
“Water,” he says. “Drink up if you’re thirsty.”
While I debate whether or not it’s the absolute height of stupidity to drink something a stranger has given me, he reaches inside his cloak and pulls something from his pants pocket. Moonlight strikes it, glinting and shining. The sparkle captivates me. Oh, boy. I can’t have the bow. I want the shiny.
As if he’s reading my mind, he tells me, “This is silver mesh. It’s important to always clean your blade. Take care of it. A good weapon, it’s like another hand, but if you treat it like it ain’t worth nothing, it’ll be no damn good when you really need it. There was no time during the hunt. Around the fire, there’s time. I’ll set the blaze, you take this.” And he tosses it at me.
I catch it one-handed and bring it close to my face, amazed by how each individual teeny-tiny metal link is twisted and the intricate way they interconnect. The metal is smooth against my fingers. I bet the shine is reflected in my greedy gaze. I grab the edge and tug, nodding in approval. It’s stronger than I would’ve thought.
“This is nice.” Mine, mine, mine. “Thank you.”
He nods back. I kind of think it’s weird how he keeps his hood up—okay, maybe not so much weird as suspicious, though I guess I don't blame him if he caught on to how he made me drool before—and I don’t say anything about it as he turns his back on me and bends down low to the ground. His cloak’s tail pools beneath him like a puddle of oil. He throws something on the dying embers of his fire, coaxing it back to life like he promised.
The liquid in the canteen sloshes as I side-eye it. I want to believe him, that it’s water and nothing else. While he’s busy with the fire, I twist off the cap and sniff. It doesn’t smell like anything at all. If it’s poisoned or drugged, I have no clue.
Oh, well. Bottom’s up.
Once I’d taken a couple of sips, I put the cap back on and pick up my sparkly, metal rag thing. What did he call it? Mesh. I twist it around two of my fingers, wondering exactly how I’m supposed to clean my blade with it. Considering this guy is basically a walking Tin Man with all his weaponry, I figure he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to taking care of my new knife. A little more instruction would’ve been nice, though.
My knife is resting on my knee. I look at the mesh, then the scorpion goo dried on the steel blade, and shrug. Using it as a rag, I try rubbing the goo off. The metals clash and screech, making me wince. Okay. I’m doing something wrong.
“Hey, um…” I pause. That’s right. I still don’t know his name. “You. You got a name? What should I call you?”
The fire comes alive at that moment. The stranger is still blocking my view so I don’t know what he did or how he did it. The rush of warmth hits me and it’s all I can do not to groan. It feels so good, like sinking into a hot bath.
The roaring flames reach up over his head. He coughs, probably on a mouthful of ash, and mumbles out a name.
“Ryan?” I ask. That’s what I heard. “Is that what you said?”
Straightening up, he turns around. Every time he moves, I brace myself, expecting the hem of his cloak to catch fire. The nimble way he navigates his camp is amazing. I bet he could do it with his eyes closed and never even disturb his fire pit.
“Ryan,” he repeats, “yeah. Sure. That’s right. Ryan. Hunter.” His big shoulders move up and down. “Sorry, darlin’. That was rude of me, not tellin’ you before. Guess you can say I’m not used to company much.”
I eye his cloak, then the bow slung over his shoulder. The memory of all those weapons on his belt is still super fresh in my mind. I swallow my snort. Ryan Hunter. Hunter. Because that doesn’t sound made up at all.
I hold out my mesh. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“It’s simple.” He makes a fist and mimes moving it in a small circle. “Just buff it against the stains until the shine of the metal comes through.”
I mimic his motion. “Like this?”
“You’re bein’ too rough with it. The silver’s got some give, but it can scratch the hell outta the steel if you rub it too hard.”
I try again.
“Nah, see, now you’re givin’ it too soft ‘a touch. You’ll never get the blood off that way if you hardly brush it.”
Frustration wells up in me. I hate being told I’m doing something wrong. So, thrusting my knife and the rag thing out at Hunter, I snap, “Here. You show me then.”
He doesn’t take it. Instead, he moves behind me and crouches down. Guy’s fast. I barely see him go and I don’t realize where he went until I feel the heat of him at my back.
Hunter leans into me, his chin hovering a couple of inches over my shoulder. He loops his arms easily around me. He is big enough to engulf my entire body, his grip surprisingly gentle as he lays his hands over mine.
“Like this, darlin’.” His voice is soft and husky. “Slow strokes, right? Like this.”
He guides my hand, using enough pressure to drag the silver mesh against my knife. Flecks of dried blood flutter to the dirt, leaving raw metal stripes behind. Hot breath tickles the tip of my ear. My whole body warms up with a heat that has nothing to do with his fire.
Too close. Much, much too close.
I freeze in place. He immediately stops moving. I’m pretty sure he stops breathing, too. There’s a good chance I did. Hunter pulls his hands back. The mesh drops from my fingers, landing outside the reach of the fire. I leap forward to pick it up out of the dirt while he scurries backward before standing up, towering over me again.
“You hungry?” he blurts out. He rearranges his hood so that I can't see past the tip of his nose. Swooping down, he grabs the bow he dropped when he grabbed my hands. “Dinner. I should go hunt us up some dinner. You must be hungry. I know I’m starved. I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back.”
He’s gone before I can tell him that I’m always down to eat.
8
I don’t know what I expected. Hunter says dinner and twenty-six years of habit makes me think of hitting a drive-thru or nuking up some leftovers. I should’ve known better. I’m sitting on a stump outside of a lean-to with no sign of a toilet in sight. And definitely no fridge.
Still, when he comes back wit
h a deer slung over his shoulders a short while later, I admit I stare. One of his arrows sticks out of the animal’s neck. Another is lodged near its underbelly. I nod in approval. Good hunting. He aimed for its vital organs and severed its spine—
I stop nodding.
How the hell did I know that?
Weird. With a shake, I pull myself up off of the stump, edging closer as Hunter places the deer down on the ground a good ten feet away from his campsite. I don’t know why I approach him. It seems like the right thing to do.
The deer is already dead. There’s no life in its glassy eyes when he puts one of his knives to its throat and slices. His motions are quick and precise. It’s obvious he’s had a lot of practice when it comes to skinning and dressing his kill. Intrigued and a little bit curious, I watch what he's doing without saying a word.
He glances up at me as he works. The hood does a good job hiding his expression so I have no clue why he keeps looking at me. The fire pit is behind us, throwing shadows our way. I try to ignore those fleeting looks. I really do. It’s impossible. After the third time he lifts his head, I have to ask:
“What?”
His head drops. His knife scrapes against bone as he redoubles his effort. “This doesn’t bother you?”
Should it? I don’t think so. Maybe if some guy was doing this in my nice, clean kitchen, I’d have a different opinion. I start to shrug and then stop.
This is a deer. A dead deer. I know that. And, back home, that would've freaked me out. Disney’s Bambi is one of my favorite movies. That scene when Bambi’s mom gets shot by the hunter tears me up every time.
The thing about good hunters, though, is that they kill because they have to—for food, or for safety—not because they like to kill. So long as I don't worry about any abandoned princes this beauty might have left behind, it honestly doesn't bother me as much as it would have earlier today when I still had pre-made protein bars shoved in the pocket of my hoodie.
“I’ve had venison before,” I tell him. “This is just really, really fresh venison.”
Hunter stops working with his knife. He hunches his shoulders, momentarily stunned. Then he throws his head back and laughs. The hood falls with the force of his motion before fluttering backward to rest down his back.
Moonlight plays across his face. I take a deep breath. Holy shit. He’s even more gorgeous than I first thought. I peer intently at him. His eyes are a light green that seem to shine.
His laugh is almost as addicting.
I don’t know what I said that’s so funny. I don’t care. There’s pure joy in that sound, a burst of happiness that puts me at ease for the first time since I fell through the mirror. No one who laughs like that can be bad.
My lips quirk of their own accord. “Wow. I love your laugh.”
I don’t mean to say it. It just pops out. But I don’t take it back because it’s true.
Hunter ducks his head. Though it’s dark and the fire is far from us, I swear his rich bronze complexion reddens a bit. He reaches behind him.
“Don’t.”
His hands freeze on the hem of his hood.
“Don’t put the hood back on,” I say. “I feel better when I can look you in the eye.”
I feel better that he isn’t hiding since every part of me is on display.
He nods. “That’s fair.” And he leaves the hood down.
Despite my interest, Hunter first suggests and then insists that I return to my stump while he does the rest of the butchering out of my sight. Before I can argue, he explains that he wants to keep his campsite as blood-free as possible so that he doesn’t attract… things.
I suspect he thinks me more squeamish than I am. To be honest, I’m way more worried about the things. He doesn’t say scorpions. He calls them things. Like there are different ones out there. Worse ones.
And staying close to the fire is safer than lurking on the edge of the camp. So I sit and I wait and I try not to flinch when I hear something unfamiliar.
God, I hope there’s a portal nearby.
Hunter comes back to find that I’ve abandoned my stump in favor of moving closer to the fire. After tucking my ruined nightgown out of the reach of spitting embers, I knelt down at the edge of the ring of stones containing the flames.
I’m so chilly, I thought about grabbing the cloak from his shoulders. While I waited for him to finish, my body finally caught on to the fact that I’m wearing a flimsy nightdress and it’s the dead of night.
As if I need another clue that I’m not in New Jersey, I notice that it’s nowhere near as cold as winter back home. Still, it’s a friggin' nightgown and I was supposed to be wrapped up in my fluffy, new blanket. Not shivering outdoors, my hands stretched out in front of me, basking in the warmth of a campfire.
“Still feelin’ the cold?”
I rub my hands together. “The fire helps, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t chilly out.”
Hunter makes a strange sound, kind of like a hum in the back of his throat. Without a word, he disappears into his tent. He returns with something he must have cobbled together from some kind of animal hide. It has a weird smell, nothing like the leather my good boots at home are made of. Who cares? It’s warm. I breathe shallowly until the stench doesn’t bother me as much while I watch him take care of dinner.
Before he dragged the deer carcass off to be butchered, Hunter set up a spit over the fire. He throws several hunks of meat onto the blackened metal. The meat sizzles. My stomach rumbles.
Once the meat is cooking, he starts to pace around the camp, always in constant motion. I perch myself in front of the fire, willing the meat to roast faster. I guess I worked up an appetite during the long hike through the trees. I’m starving. My spaghetti dinner seems like a lifetime ago. I want some meat.
I keep my knife resting on my lap as Hunter anxiously walks circles around me. He disappears again for a few minutes and, when he comes back, his cloak is gone. So are all but two of his blades. After turning the meat over with the tip of one of them, he glances down at me. There’s a gleam in his light-colored eyes that makes my fingers inch closer to my knife’s handle.
He rolls up his sleeves, then starts to jog in place. “I can’t keep waitin’ here,” he announces suddenly. “I got too much energy tonight.”
Clenching my jaw, I keep my eyes on the meat as I tighten my grip on the handle. He’s got too much energy? I hope he doesn’t expect me to help him with that.
And not just because of my three-day rule.
If he notices how I react, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he claps his hands together. “Dinner’s roastin’ on the spit and we got a little time. I know a foolproof way to burn off the rest of the adrenaline.”
My shoulders tense as I shift to lean forward. If he comes any closer, I’m ready to shake my covering off and go.
“Come on, darlin’. Let’s race.”
Wait—what?
“Race?”
“Yeah. Runnin’. The exercise will do you good, warm you up proper.”
Running a race? He can’t be serious.
I glance up at him. Yup. He’s serious.
I shake my head. “Um, yeah. That’s gonna be a no.”
“No?” He sounds surprised, like that’s not a word he’s heard before. “Why not?”
“First off, I don’t have any shoes—”
“Is that all?”
“No. There’s trees everywhere around here and no clear path. If I try to run, I’m gonna end up cracking my skull or something, and that’s if I don’t roll an ankle first.”
“You must ‘a outrun the scorpions. You did fine.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I was running for my life.” I shiver, remembering the claws and pincers on those things. If one of them shows up, I’ll take off again. Until then, my ass is staying put. “Besides, your legs are twice as long as mine. That’s not a race. That’s a joke.”
“It’ll be fun,” Hunter insists.
“There’s no such
thing as running for fun,” I retort. “You can take a jog around the woods if it makes you feel better. I’ll wait right here.”
“Where I come from, it’s considered yella to turn down a challenge.”
“Yella?” What the hell does that mean?
“That’s right.” He pauses. “Coward.”
Oh. He means ‘yellow’. Wait. I blink. Did he—he called me a coward, didn’t he?
I raise my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if you were a coward. What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll lose?”
Scoffing, I say, “I know I’ll lose.”
“How about if I give you a head start?”
Hunter’s crazy. As if the cloak and his one-man arsenal isn’t a big enough clue, now he’s insisting I not only go for a run, he wants to friggin’ race. Really?
Poor guy must be lonely, too. Still, if he’s been out in these woods by himself for a while, he might not remember other ways to burn off energy.
That thought in mind, I shake my head. “Sorry. It doesn’t even matter that I’d lose. I’m still not running around again without any shoes on. Running from the scorpions don’t count. I honestly thought I was gonna die. I had no choice.”
His eyes seem to sparkle. “If that’s all that’s stoppin’ you, darlin’.” His lips quirk into a dazzling grin. “Wait here.”
Before I can remind him of my name, he’s gone. Back into his tent. After all I’ve seen, part of me wonders if he has his own portal tucked in there, some way for him to pop back into civilization before returning to these quiet woods. Or maybe his tent is like Mary Poppins’ bag. It doesn’t look big enough for everything he keeps pulling out of there.
When he returns, Hunter is grinning, his hands folded behind his back.
“Here you go,” he says, bringing them in front of him.
Dangling from each of his massive hands is a thin silver ribbon attached to a dark brown blob. He drops them lightly into my lap.
Stalk the Moon Page 6