by Kay Camden
I finish up and go outside in the sun because I’m not sweating nearly enough inside. A somber drone of a single cricket rises from the brush by the mutant rose garden. The scent of roses thickens the air, turning it sickly sweet and nauseating, and I wonder if my mother planted them. No, of course not. With what time? She was too busy making babies with her husband’s cousin. Good ol’ mom. So glad to know she hasn’t changed.
I’m the one who’s changed. Even though my sweat goes cold for a heartbeat, I have no regret. For once I’ve made my own decision. I make the calls now. I design the strategy, I carry it all out my way. The bottle of Bevan-killing black magic sits in my pocket at the ready.
A gust of wind hits me in the back, flapping my clothes like this sticky heat is about to implode into something wet and loud. So much for the sun—it’s about to tap out. Storm clouds bulge down from above, a rolling mixture of grays hanging so low they’re almost touching the treetops. The storm isn’t just building around me. It’s reached inside, the elements alive inside me, no longer a distant call.
My phone rings. I take it out and check it—Aaron. I pretty much have to answer it, right? Yes, Rex, you do. I clear my throat to make sure my voice sounds normal. “Bro. Aon scéal?”
“I talked to my dad,” he says. “He’s going to help you out of this mess.”
“Your dad’s a Bevan sympathizer.” My accent is so glaring whenever I talk to him, mostly because his has never been as strong. Not that I’ve spent more time with our mother than him—she ignored us both equally. The difference is his father actually had conversations with him, so he’s picked up more speech from him. My father has only ever given commands.
He sighs because he knew I’d say that. “He’s your dad’s cousin. Your cousin. He can help.”
“At this point, anyone related to my dad is more of a prob for me than a help.”
“Why’s that?”
I walk to the edge of the old stone patio to watch the grasshoppers going ape in the tall grass. One lands on my shoulder, and I flick it off. I wonder if they’re here to hang with Sloane. God, she’s so weird. And so fucking off limits.
“Rex?”
“My dad pretty much wants to kick my ass right now.”
“Doesn’t your dad always want to kick your ass?”
I let that question sit. Aaron knows what jacked-up punishments my father and crew come up with. A kick in the ass is not accurate. At all.
“Point is, they’re going to send a shitload of guys after you and you won’t walk away from it. My dad’s willing to help you, but only if you’ll meet in person. He wants to see Sloane, make sure she’s okay. How fast can you get to Roanoke?”
“Couple hours, I guess.” Who says I need help? Or that I want out of this? I know exactly what I’m doing. But I don’t dare tell him that. He’d send a helicopter for my retrieval.
“I’ll text you an address and meet time as soon as he calls back to confirm. He and I will be waiting for you. You and Sloane. Got it?”
Thunder grumbles far away. A few random raindrops splatter the patio around me. Big brothers are supposed to be overbearing and stupid helpful so there’s no reason for me to yell at him. “Got it. I’ll be there.”
“And she better not have a scratch on her.”
“Can’t promise that.”
His voice gets low and slow. “Why not?”
“We had a few scuffles. She’s all grins though. I think she likes it.”
“Don’t be a creep.”
I hope he doesn’t go to too much trouble getting himself to Roanoke because I’m so not going to be there. “Born and bred by the best,” I say and hang up. I’m not sure I can pull off any more lies with all the other crap on my mind.
Crap like Sloane Bevan crushed against me.
And how I want her to do it again.
Chapter 13
Sloane
Light drains from the kitchen as the clouds sweep in. Rex’s phone call ended long ago, but he’s still out there watching lightning zigzag across the sky. His hand goes to his head, pausing abruptly like he expected something else to be there. A nervous tic, now broken for some reason.
Because he’s the creepy stalker, not me, I stop watching and go out the front door to the porch. The scent of rain rides the breeze, damp and cool, charged by the combative masses of air. I hope the cold front wins. My Montana blood is begging for relief from this heat.
Thunder vibrates the porch below my feet and the sky unloads. It’s more a dump of water than a rain shower, hitting the ground so hard it’s kicking up mist on the paved driveway and bouncing off the porch so I have to step back to avoid being sprayed. Rex’s car is instantly clean, the thoroughly mudded wheels and fenders now glistening green and white like a piece of candy. We should probably cloak that car. If the Moores come looking, he and I can easily hide in the woods, but not if that car is here.
I go back inside expecting Rex to have come in, but he’s still out back in the same spot, standing in the pouring rain. Either he’s more desperate for a cool-down than I am, or he’s having a psychotic break. My fault, probably. The bear-hug, the whole let’s-be-a-team thing—that was all crazy enough. But casting away that watch? I can’t decide whose fault that was. He was tied to that thing, affected somehow. Ripping it off was probably like tearing off a limb. His face showed nothing, but retreating back to the house and refusing to talk to me about it gave away more than he knows.
Boys acting tough to cover how sensitive and confused they are. They’re the only ones who don’t see through it, and they’re the ones doing it.
The house has gotten yet even hotter inside with the contrast of cool rain outside. I let myself onto the screened porch. A few steps off the ground, it’s out of the path of the splashing rain so it’s nicely dry with just a bit of mist sneaking through the open three sides. Rex should notice me, but he doesn’t. His back is unguarded, not because he trusts me—even if that’s true now. It’s more like he’s chosen to be oblivious. When I pound on the porch framing and he doesn’t turn around, I know I went too far. I broke his brain. Why did I hug him like that? And why didn’t he shove me away?
I leave the porch and stand beside him, instantly soaked. The rain is so thick it’s hard to keep my eyes open; I turn to him and find his closed. I elbow him. He elbows me back, unstartled, almost as if he expected it.
You’re getting wet, I sign, barely getting it out before he’s taken hold of my hands, silencing me. I’d be very annoyed if not for the gentle way he did it, for how he held them a little longer than necessary. But gosh, he’s going to ruin his phone, and we kind of need it. So I poke him in the pocket where I know he keeps it and that sparks some reality back into his eyes.
I follow him onto the screened porch. He drops his phone where it’s dry and grabs my hand, hauling me back into the same spot in the rain. And we stand there until we’re cooled to the bones, massaged and sleepy and much too companionable for two people raised to hate each other.
*
We’ve made beds on the screened porch as far away from each other as the encroaching wetness from the storm will allow. The blankets and pillows we found in the house were full of dust and spiders, but we shook them out and now they’ve soaked up the humidity and smell like rain. The storm has calmed, falling now like a fine mist.
Rex lent me a T-shirt to sleep in, which was weird, but nice, and fits me better than my dad’s. We found an old paraffin lamp and raised the wick high so it lights the whole porch. We just finished off the muffins and bananas and now we’re working on the salsa. He’s double-dipping even after I complained. On paper. He’s such a selfish jerk.
I scratch out my complaint and write below it: We need to cloak the car in case they come.
He takes the pencil. They won’t. Aaron doesn’t think they know this place exists.
How not? Your m
om used to live here.
He shrugs, yawning. It is hard to care, surrounded by this curtain of rain that’s stirred up the scent of the roses and untouched land. He leans back on his elbows to watch me, partially in shadow. I watch him right back. Wimp can’t take what he dishes out though, so he gets up and goes into the house. I spot his phone on his bed, the screen still lit and active. So I snatch it and search for the speaking app I use to talk to hearing people with my phone at home. By the time he returns it’s installed and ready to go.
There’s a heavy pause when he sees me holding his phone, but he’s chosen to play it cool. What’s more interesting is what he’s brought back: a stack of books, and a curve of the lips that could be an actual human smile if he’d let it loose.
I type into the phone. Moores read?
He stiffens at the point the voice must be reading it back. I chose the same voice Marcas set as default in my phone, the one he said sounds the most like me, without my Deaf accent.
Rex reaches for his phone, but I hold it away, pointing to his mouth then the screen in the hope he knows how these apps work.
He speaks, and I check the screen. Your dad’s actually literate? Who’d have thought. Because these sure aren’t my mom’s.
I type: Because your mom’s not literate?
Probably not. She has servants for that. His smile rises to a full-on grin. Spontaneous and real and friendly, peaked higher on one side.
With a dimple.
For once, it’s not a weapon or a power play. A wild quiver in my belly interrupts current to my brain, stealing my last rational thought. I hand his phone back because I don’t want it anymore. I drop to sit on my bed. Disturbing. That’s what that smile is. A little bit delicious and a whole lot disturbing.
A book goes in front of my face. Then another. He’s showing me his finds only I can’t see anything but that last unleashed smile. Because let’s be real. It’s not a little bit delicious, it’s a whole heck of a lot. It’s a calamity, really, how cute an evil person can be when he puts his mind to it.
Now he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, bent over a book open in his lap, pensively running a knuckle over his lips, and I don’t know how he thinks it’s okay to rifle my dad’s stuff and then insult his intelligence. I don’t care if Rex’s mom lived here. My dad owns this property and always has. So hey, maybe ask if he can go through my dad’s books. Act a little respectful in another person’s house. Be humble, not so grabby, not so entitled. But that’s the Moores. Taking what they want. Screw everyone else.
We’re both standing then, because I’ve snatched the book away from him and he got up, affronted, as anyone would be when blindsided like that. I’m hot and prickly all over; my heart beats in my throat like it so wishes I could yell at him. There’s a much more rational organ wondering what I’m so upset about, telling me this is stupid, calm down, stop being a child. My heart slows as my brain wrangles it in, and I start to grasp the situation. Rex is a Moore and it doesn’t matter how attractive he is. He’s both evil and an enemy. Let him smile nonstop until he dies. It doesn’t change a thing.
But there is a changed thing. It shouldn’t be changed, but it is. Not our new allegiance. That’s business—mostly. It’s survival and common sense. But there’s this other thing—
He jerks the book out of my hand. I gasp I’m so startled—the rapid intake of breath gets my heart pounding again. No one makes me gasp, and the fact that he did strikes a match in me. I shouldn’t be mad at him for doing the same thing I did to him. I couldn’t help it though; my action may have been childish but it was in no way premeditated. But him—he’s done it on purpose, vindictively.
You’re an entitled, spoiled jerk, I sign.
He shoves his phone at me but I ignore it.
Evil. Unlikeable, unlovable, so don’t try to change my mind with a cute smile. I remember those measly five contacts in his phone and flush cold. I’m terrible, so terrible. Stay away from me, I finish. Without looking at him, I snatch up my bedding and drag it into the house, kicking the door closed behind me. I’m aware of my overreaction but unable to stop it.
The darkness inside is complete. I feel around for the table where I left those votive candles, lighting one with a pinch when I find it. Because I don’t want anything to do with the room where Dad and Rex’s mom slept, I clear the cobwebs from the doorway of the tiny second bedroom still decorated for a baby. The last person to have slept in this room was probably Aaron, and I’m cool with that. His percentage of evil is trivial and much diluted. He grew up rich and spoiled, but he doesn’t hold it over people. He doesn’t take and expect and use.
One problem though: There’s a separate layer of darkness my candle isn’t breaking away. It’s hanging above, murky and looming, more desperate than when I first entered this cottage. Either due to my recognition of it or my mood, I’m more connected now, and it’s reaching, touching upon that same nerve that possessed me to inscribe Rex’s forehead with that symbol in his blood. It’s appealing to that other magic in me, the one that knows how to take power from this residue formed by sadness and anger.
This room is a bad idea, but I’m stubborn and not leaving. I roll out my bed and lie down, drawing the sheet over me. I should apologize to him. I would, if he hadn’t reacted the way he did. That tucked chin and leveled, enraged gaze—forget him. If he can so easily step back into that role, then so can I. We can be allies and still hate each other.
Blowing out the candle covers me in such darkness I command it to relight. A whole team could ambush me in dark like that and I’d never know until it was too late. I don’t like the idea of sleeping in such a void either, my body lying alone in this tank of nothingness. It’s been too rainy to befriend any animals. With Rex on my side, I didn’t need to. Clearly that’s the stupidest mistake I’ve made yet. All my trust in Rex Moore? No backup plan? My dad would kill me.
My throat constricts. I take a shuddering breath in, but the awareness of the shudder hollows out the strength I’ve piled inside. The quake in my chest overcomes me so completely I don’t even have time to turn my face against the pillow. I’m crying so hard my effort to subdue it cramps my stomach. I bend, getting no relief. I’ve gone instantly snotty and congested and it’s even harder to catch my breath.
I called him sensitive and confused, but I’m the one falling apart over a smile.
I have no idea what sounds I’m making, and I don’t want Rex to hear any of it. I turn to my stomach and smother myself against the pillow. Can’t think about my dad. Not my mom or Marcas, my dogs or my house. The glitter of sunlight in the river when it’s rushing hard in the springtime. Coyotes smiling at me from the opposite bank. The smell of the pines, of lavender and rosemary drying under the eaves in the summer sun.
Can’t think about all the things that my dad has taught me, all the things that have gone to waste. Instead, I think about my plan I’ll need to break to Rex tomorrow, the words I’ll use. The tears roll but let them. They’re silent, and I’m cool with silent.
*
Winnie stands in my dream in her ironic WITCH sleeping tee and a severe case of bedhead. The room is full of flickering light from four votive candles at her feet—north, south, east, west. Behind her, a rumpled bed and some guy raising up on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes at her. Whatcha doin’, babe?
She turns around. Sleep, she commands, and he drops back onto the pillow.
Her image fades so I reach, latching onto the edge of her mindspace and dragging myself in. Winnie, how are you with me while awake?
Her image doubles for a second before straightening back out, and I see she’s facing a mirror. I’m in her mind but don’t have access to her thoughts, which is why she’s using the mirror. She signs, I can’t sleep so I had to try something different. We’re worried about you.
Guilt sweeps in. I should be checking in with her every night. I have to sleep to
do it though, and it doesn’t seem like I’ve gotten much of that. Exhaustion plagues the little sleep I’ve found lately. Now that she’s with me, the comfort of her presence is something I can’t let go of, not when I’m so lonely, so confused, so desperate for help. Winnie, I’m doing everything wrong. We’re going to lose.
She signs into the mirror. Follow your heart. Your way is the only way to win this, even if it seems so wrong.
You’re just saying that to make me feel better.
She turns around to check the sleeping guy. Something about how he’s rolled makes her go to her knees in front of the mirror, probably to save him from catching a glimpse of his girlfriend signing to herself in the mirror in the middle of the night like a weirdo. And that sleeping tee isn’t helping her keep any secrets. No. I’m saying it because I’ve seen it.
My dad’s going to hate me.
Without pause, she signs, Yes, but my mom and Grandma and I will make him understand. She’s probably already accounted for this.
Our connection falters and I grasp at the remaining strings, trying to tie it back together. I’m reconnected with her, but she’s gone into a withdrawn stare. She abruptly puts a hand on the mirror and yells, Sloane! Wake up!
I sit up fast, my eyes adjusting to my own votive candle and a cluster of moths dive-bombing me. They must’ve snuck into the house while I was asleep. Now they’re here to warn me of a sound they don’t recognize but insist must be danger. And they’re right because my amulet has gone hot against me, its magic bright in my head.
Getting up. Touching nothing. Only my bare feet against wood floor like it’s made of air. I’m an osprey gliding on the wind. A fish in a stream. As I open the door I blow out a slow breath, scattering any sound of a moving hinge so no human mind can reassemble it. A burst of light explodes beyond the hall, a simultaneous jolt in the floor. That can be one of two things: firecrackers or gunshots, and I’m pretty sure I know which it is.
Crouching down, I scurry forward because there’s no way I want to be trapped in a bedroom for a gunfight. The forest is my safety and that’s where I need to go. Another flash lights the room ahead, giving me a split-second view: Rex ducked behind the toppled couch, firing at the closed front door. The paraffin lamp sits beside him, the wick turned as low as it will go. He had time to get the lamp, the gun, and turn the couch, yet didn’t wake me?