Beware the Wild

by Natalie C. Parker

  I think of Nathan, of his long arms and his sharp shoulders. I think of what his face must have looked like when he smiled, long and round all at once. I think of how graceful his fingers must have been when he vanished a quarter. And I think of his toes pointing up at the sky, his body melting into the swamp. I think of missing him, and for a second I’m Heath, and I’m afraid I’ll suffocate beneath this pressure on my chest.

  Be brave, I think, grinding my teeth against the push of tears. “I’m sorry I can’t remember all of him with you.” The words barely manage to squeeze around the painful lump in my throat.

  His heart breaks across his face like a wave, then recedes. I watch a tear pull pale sunlight down Heath’s cheek as he stares through the window, resisting his sorrow, hands fisted against his thighs.

  “Nathan loved the idea of the swamp. He used to say the South had so much soul even the land commanded respect.” His laugh is a humorless flare, dying as quickly as it came, leaving us in a silence that isn’t only silence. It’s death and the swamp and Fisher.

  I open my mouth, hoping the right words are somehow waiting inside, but there’s only air. Words won’t change that Heath is the only person in this entire world who can truly mourn Nathan.

  Not even his parents will remember that he’s gone.

  Tears make Heath’s face bright with sadness. “His favorite color was green, and I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t chewing on taffy or licorice or gum. He loved that stuff. Said it was his duty as the son of a doctor to eat the hell out of some sugar.”

  Knowing such a small and inconsequential thing about Nathan does it. Tears sneak in beneath my laughter and I’m crying before I have a chance to stop, but I’m laughing, too, and Heath smiles.

  It takes a deep, shuddering breath to get myself sorted again and when I do, I find Heath glowering. “What is it?” I ask, suddenly fearful.

  “What about Phineas?” His voice is low and level and as serious as a hurricane. “Did Fisher hurt him, too?”

  “No.” I brush at my tears, but they don’t want to quit. “But he will. Tonight. He’ll kill Phineas and then Abigail and Sheriff Felder and whoever else he can get his hands on, starting at midnight tonight unless—”

  There’s a soft sound behind us, a cry of alarm or distress and I turn to see Lenora May standing in the doorway with one delicate hand pressed against her throat.

  “Unless I return to him,” she finishes.

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  BY THE TIME CANDY REAPPEARS with a bag of books and a bottle of vodka, we’ve migrated again to the kitchen table and sit studying the wood grain as though it contains powerful secrets. She takes no notice. She breezes in, pausing at one cabinet before retaking her seat at the table, where she plunks the bottle and four shot glasses between us with determination.

  “Now, I need a little stupid in me if I’m gonna do more than pretend. And for your sake, I’m gonna try.” She opens the bottle and pours. “You’re welcome to have a little. Not that any of you need much more stupid. Hi, May. Lucky I grabbed four.”

  Candy takes her shot and makes quick work of it. Nodding, Lenora May pulls one of the overfull glasses toward her as though she’s been handed a fine meal without silverware. I leave mine in the center of the table. I may not know what I’m going to do, but I do know I can’t do it drunk. Heath merely holds the shot between his fingers as if its presence is comfort enough.

  Candy pours another round for herself and pushes a pile of books across the table: her collection of Clary General’s Tales of Sticks Swamp. “Okay. Now that I’m stupid, let’s talk strategy.”

  “Strategy?” Lenora May sips her vodka, doing her best not to wrinkle her nose and failing. I don’t know if she’s aware how not in character this is for Candy, but I know it’s huge. The last time Candy accepted anything without evidence as irrefutable as carbon dating was when Abigail told her she overheard Bennett Hob telling Matt Thurman he thought she was hotter than Miss Bonnie’s jambalaya. And she only accepted that because in her eyes it was “believable enough.”

  “Yes, strategy.” She pushes a book at each of us and pours herself a third smaller shot. I had no idea she could put so much away, but she’s never done this sort of thing in front of me before. “If we’re going to pretend or assume that all or some of these stories are true—and honestly, that’s a bit of a stretch for me—then we might as well see how they all turned out in the end.”

  “I thought everyone ends up lost or stuck or dead? I can’t remember a single exception.”

  Candy’s smile is a little looser. “Those were only in the most popular stories. It’s not as scary when you don’t get stuck, and who tells non-scary stories at sleepovers? Read.”

  I was never as obsessed with these as Candy. She liked them because she knew they couldn’t be true, and I didn’t care for them because I thought maybe they could be.

  The collection is divided by supernatural category with two entire volumes each on ghosts, demons, and witches, and one devoted to strange sights and sounds like the Wasting Shine and the voices of long-lost lovers. Under Candy’s now entirely vodka-fuzzy gaze, we each begin to read.

  I crack Ghosts, volume 2 and skim the table of contents for anything that looks relevant. The book smells a little musty and like the cheap perfume Candy wore through junior high, so sweet it even smells pink.

  Flipping the pages, I find each story begins with its own pen-and-ink drawing. The first is of a Civil War–era soldier looking travel worn and anxious standing at the edge of the swamp. Just inside the shadows, a woman extends her arms, trailing gossamer sleeves behind. It’s surprisingly detailed. The woman even has a fashionable freckle beneath her left eye. The artist has signed their name in the gritty ground and though I can’t decipher all of it, the last name is distinctly Clary.

  I keep paging through my volume, looking for anything that wants to leap up and smack my cheeks, but the illustrations are all for the stories I know: “The Boy Who Cries at Night,” “Mad Mary Sweet,” “The Hollow-Eyed Cur.” Though the beast of one tale looks suspiciously like the pale-faced creature that chased me on my first trip inside, there’s nothing else new in these books. Still, with only eleven hours to midnight, I keep looking.

  Lenora May stands when the clock dings two. “This won’t help us. Half of these were written before Fisher and I went in and changed everything, and the other half won’t tell us anything we don’t already know.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Candy asks, irritated that her books have been rejected.

  “I don’t know.” Lenora May heaves a pretty sigh and pulls her hair away from her neck.

  Candy reaches for the bottle again, not that she needs it. The charm I gave her is there, a testament to how incredibly stubborn she is in all things. Leave it to Candy to be the only person in Sticks immune to Shine.

  Realization floods my mind. She’s not simply immune.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask. At three shots in, she should be.

  “Tipsy,” Candy corrects. “It’s been an hour. I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

  “That should be good enough. C’mon.” I know I’m onto something. I hope I’m onto something. Please, let me be onto something.

  I tug Candy straight through the door. To my eye, the Shine is dim as dusk. I can barely distinguish it from the dark woods.

  “What do you see?” I direct Candy’s gaze to the swamp.

  Lenora May clues into my line of questioning and leans in with interest. According to her, intoxication should allow Candy to see Shine easily.

  “I see a swamp. Mud, trees, and not much else,” she says, confirming my suspicions.

  “Okay,” I say, remembering something else. “Climb the fence.”

  Everyone protests at once, but I hold up my hands and say, “She’ll be fine. Trust me. Candy, ple
ase.”

  “Is the swamp dangerous or isn’t it, Saucier?” Candy grumbles, but she does as I ask and vaults the fence with more ease than I’d have expected in her state. “How’s this? Or should I walk inside and eat a few bugs, too?”

  Though it’s dim, I see Shine bend away from her the same way it did when she and Abigail tried to convince me there was nothing to fear in the swamp. Individual threads weave toward her only to veer away before touching. She swings her arms and spins, sending Shine flying away from her in a frenzy. By stubbornness or something else I can’t begin to fathom, Candy repels all the magic of the swamp so solidly she can’t even see it.

  “How is that even possible?” Heath asks.

  “That’s not even all.”

  Slipping Heath’s grasp, I climb the fence and stand next to Candy. Light glimmers in my peripheral vision. Lenora May shifts as she watches the Shine close in around me.

  “Shine’s on me?” I ask. Their eyes confirm it. “Good. Now, watch.”

  Reaching out, I take Candy’s hand. I don’t need to be drunk or starving to know what happens, Heath and Lenora May drop a curse in unison, which confirms what I suspected: Candy can repel Shine from anything, anyone, she touches.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lenora May says. “What does it mean?”

  “It means we have a weapon,” I say, feeling something like hope start to stir in my chest. “It means I’m going after them. Phin, Abigail, the sheriff. I’m going to bring them all home.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  PART THREE

  Beware of whom you trust, my sweet,

  Beware the things you eat,

  The swamp will tempt and torment you,

  Or swallow you complete.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  “THIS IS VERY SIMPLE.” LENORA May stands with her arms crossed over her chest, trying to look determined. “We have no idea if Candy’s strong enough to withstand Fisher’s magic.”

  For the sake of guaranteed privacy, we’ve moved our discussion to the Lillard House. The dusty floor in front of Lenora May reflects her worry in a path of footprints. She’s always been a pacer.

  “I can’t let you take this risk. Any of you. Too many people have already suffered.” Lenora May tries to keep her voice solid and steady, but it quivers noticeably. “I will return to Fisher and take Phin’s place. I really don’t understand why we’re debating this point.”

  She wants us to take her at her word, but I remember how happy she’s been in the past days. How free and excited she was to be living life like any other girl. And I’ve seen how longingly she gazes at the letter from Tulane announcing her acceptance and scholarship. To keep from confessing any of this, she paces with her eyes trained on the floor.

  “Because,” I say again, “we can’t trust Fisher to do what he says. There’s no telling what he’ll do once he has you, but I’m willing to bet ‘Free Phineas’ isn’t high on his list.”

  “That also seems simple,” Candy states. “Can’t trust a liar, a thief, or a swamp thing who’s killed to make a point. That’s always true in the stories. ‘The Mud-Mouthed Woman’ was a filthy liar. She’d say anything to get you into the swamp. Then she’d eat your feet so you couldn’t ever leave.”

  “Jezuz,” shoots Heath. “That’s sick.”

  Candy shrugs and muses, “Makes sense if you think about it,” winning a sharp look from Heath.

  She may be a little drunk, but having Candy to back me up on this point might be the most miraculous thing that’s happened in this town since Featherhead Fred wrestled the alligator that took up residence in the primary school playground. I didn’t see that with my own eyes, but the story is generally accepted to be fact, if slightly embellished here and there.

  “But there’s no other way!” Lenora May cries. “We don’t know if those peaches will work or not and even if they will, there’s no way to get close to Phin unless I’m in the picture.”

  “If there wasn’t a possibility that the peaches would work, why did they make Fisher so angry? Besides, you will be in the picture.” I’m not willing to give up, not when we have a possible solution and four brains between us. “You just won’t be a sacrifice.”

  “A decoy,” Heath murmurs. His voice is thick with emotion. He hasn’t added much to the discussion, but he hasn’t abandoned us, either. It’s selfish, but I dare to hope he doesn’t hate me completely.

  I say, “Exactly. Lenora May can go to the fence and call Fisher. He’s bound to come. Then all you have to do is keep him distracted long enough for me to get to Phineas, feed him—and whoever else I can find—a peach, and get everyone out.”

  Lenora May frowns, pretty as a posy, and kneels on the ground. She’s tense, unwilling or unable to relax around this topic of conversation—her life, her future, her humanity—they’re all at stake, so I can’t blame her.

  “I don’t mean to be difficult, really I don’t, but I doubt that I’ll be enough of a distraction. Fisher is connected to every single thing in that swamp.” She chews her bottom lip, searching for the best way to say what comes next. I’m afraid she’s about to expose me and tell everyone I’m not seeing Shine the same way I was, but she’s more concerned with Fisher. “He’s not the same person he was when we entered because there is so little of him left that isn’t blended with magic. I think that in some ways he is Shine. I don’t see how I could possibly distract him enough on my own.”

  “Then you won’t be alone,” I say.

  I look at Heath, hoping he’ll catch my meaning. He does. And if it were a baseball, he’d have dropped it.

  “No.” Heath’s voice is suddenly substantial again. With his hands braced on his thighs, his shoulders are boxy and formidable. “You can’t keep doing this, Sterling.”

  “What?” I say, surprised by the anger in his voice. “Trying to save my brother?”

  “Thinking you have to do it alone. Candy can stay with her.” He nearly growls and takes my hand in his. “I’m going with you.”

  The urge to accept this offer and let him take care of me is so strong, but I have to be stronger. If I’d been stronger before, I’d have waited for him. We would have gone into the swamp together and things might be different now. I shake my head, squishing the needy part of myself like a beetle.

  “No, I need Candy with me. She’s the best shot we have at deflecting Fisher’s magic, if it comes to that. And—” I hesitate. No one’s going to like this part of the plan. “There’s a good reason for you to stay with Lenora May.”

  The frown on his face relaxes into curiosity. “What?”

  I squeeze his hand and swallow my sadness. “Nathan.”

  His expression goes slack as an old man’s. But I don’t have to say anything else. He nods, understanding so much when I’ve said so little. I wonder if we’ll understand each other this well when the swamp isn’t what connects us, and for a moment I panic. What happens when all this ends and we go back to a life that doesn’t revolve around the swamp? Because one way or another, this ends at midnight and that means something for me and Heath. I just don’t know what it is.

  He says, “You want me to convince Fisher that I’m a threat. That I’ll do anything to get revenge for killing my friend. That I’ll . . . that I’ll hurt Lenora May.” His eyes are as flat as his voice. “Okay. I can do that.”

  “That could work,” Lenora May murmurs. “But it’ll have to be convincing. He has to believe you really mean me harm.”

  “Fisher killed my best friend,” Heath states, but his shoulders fall a little. “I can be convincing.”

  Lenora May leans in, resting a hand on his arm. Her eyes are focused on his, hard and insistent. “Good. Then hit me.”

 
“What?” Heath jumps to his feet and backpedals.

  I knew it was coming, but I didn’t expect Lenora May would suggest it herself.

  “Hit me,” she repeats, climbing to her feet. She inches forward, careful not to spook Heath. “If he sees blood on my face, he won’t be able to think straight, and Sterling and Candy will have more time to do what they need to.”

  Heath’s fingers curl into a fist and for a moment I’m afraid he’ll actually do it, but he shakes his head. “No, no way. I’m not hitting you. Hell, no. I’m not that sort of guy.”

  My relief is short lived. Lenora May turns to me next. “All right, then. You do it. Surely Phin has taught you to throw a decent punch.”

  It’s true. Phin taught me to throw a punch without breaking my hand or spraining my wrist, but I’ve never done it for real. He looked so much like our dad when he was in the thick of a fight. The sight made my skin crawl.

  She reads the hesitation on my face as clearly as if it were a stop sign. “Come on, Sterling. Hit me as hard as you wanted to a week ago, when all this started.”

  I may have relished the thought of knocking her into next week, but my arms fill with lead and won’t be moved. If I tried to swing a fist right now, I’d probably have a better chance of tickling her than drawing blood.

  “What would y’all do without me?” Candy quips, stepping in with her fists raised. “Ready, May?”

  Before Lenora May can answer, Candy’s fist connects with the side of her face. Lenora May yelps and when she raises her head again, there’s blood falling from the corner of her mouth. She nods and Candy throws another punch, leaving a mottled bruise of red and white on Lenora May’s cheekbone.

  “Jezuz,” Heath heaves.

  Candy runs a thumb across Lenora May’s mouth, pulling a blood smear down her chin. Then she grabs Heath by the wrist and dabs blood on his knuckles. Heath looks faint at the sight or the implication, and Candy smacks the side of his head.