by Eliza Nolan
Hunger
Hunter Sisters 2
Eliza Nolan
E. N. Publications
Copyright © 2020 Eliza Nolan
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Lilly Dormishev
Editing by Kate Foster
1
Eva
I dump the last box of books on the attic floor and frantically shove my way through the pile. In the dim light my eyes strain to see what I’m sifting through. A cookbook—I toss it aside. A dinged up saucy romance—I chuck it in the reject pile. An old Bible—I flick my wrist to chuck it, but grip onto it at the last second. Instead, I throw it in the small box of other books I plan on taking with us. I’m not sure I believe in God, but I didn’t believe in demons either.
Until last night.
Grace’s voice carries up from the floor below. She’s singing along with Christina Aguilera’s “The Voice Within”—and nailing it. Singing is one of the ways she calms herself.
“Grace!” I shout toward the opening in the attic floor. She’s probably still in her pajamas. I told her we needed to go; we should have left last night. My phone buzzes in my pocket making me jump.
It’s a message from Fiona: Did your parents come back? You okay?
I text her back: No parents. We’re going to look for them. Packing now.
Fiona: Sorry this is happening. Let me know if I can help. Stay safe. Hugs.
Me: Hugs.
I shove the phone back in my pocket. I can’t be mad at Fiona. This is my family’s issues. My parents are the ones who started this whole thing. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I push through several National Geographic magazines and a few moldy copies of Shakespeare’s plays, and then pause.
“Grace!” I call again. She’s the older one; I shouldn’t have to be playing parent, but she’s been through a lot—having learned she’s a demon and all. Still, how does she not see the urgency of our situation?
“What?” she finally yells back.
I scan the titles of the final two books and cast them aside, and then carefully wade through the piles of upended boxes to the attic exit, clutching my box of semi—maybe, possibly, but probably not—important books. Anything from Mom’s old days of studying religion and the occult. Anything that might have some insight into what it means for Grace to be a demon and where our parents were taken—by the demon Inanna. The box is not as full as I would’ve liked, but what can I do? We have to hurry.
“What?” Grace barks again. The ladder leading up to the attic creaks, and the back of her ponytailed head pops up through the hole. Thankfully her horns—the ones she grew when we summoned her last night—are still nowhere to be seen. Her pink, flannel pajamas hug her long arms. She steadies herself against the dusty wooden floorboards of the attic, holding a half-eaten protein bar in her fist, and faces me.
“Aaaah!” I scamper back from what looks like charred peeling skin covering her face, but relax quickly and chuckle. It’s one of her masks. She does this when she needs a “spa day.” The charcoal facial mask means she’s in mini-spa mode.
“Are you ready?” I ask. “How come you’re still in your pajamas?”
She takes a bite of her bar and mashes it into one cheek, chewing thoughtfully—as if she doesn’t have a worry in the world. She swallows and says, “What’s the rush, Eva? Can’t I have a day to process everything? I mean—” she points at her chest “—I’m the one that just found out I’m a de...different. Don’t I get to have a day of self-care?” Through the black, paper mask Grace’s eyes are glassy, as if she’s half-checked out and absolutely not processing her situation. I doubt I’d do any better if I were in her shoes. It breaks my heart to think of what she’s going through. And it’s partially my fault. My parents might have made the deal with Inanna, but I’m the one who dug around in the attic and found the book that called her demonic side to this world. If a self-care day is all she needs, I would love to give it to her.
But there’s no time.
“When the cops come looking for Mom and Dad, they won’t let us stay here,” I say.
“We can say we’re gonna stay with friends until our parents show up again.”
“That’s not how it works in the movies!” I grunt as I drag the box of books over to the opening.
“This isn’t a movie.” She rolls her eyes as if I’m being ridiculous. Her laissez faire attitude ratchets up my already panicked heart into a frenzy. If she isn’t going to freak out and get ready, then I’ll have to do it for the both of us—all while herding her self-caring butt along with me.
“Grace, you’ve just found out you’re a demon, and our parents have been taken off to Hell…or somewhere worse. Are you sure that now is the time to test whether or not the world works the way it does in the movies? Dad said this all happened back when Mom was doing her Masters in Florida. I found a professor in her contacts that works there in comparative religion, specializing in the occult. We need to go down and see if they can help us. So please, chuck the granola bar and give me a hand with these books.”
“If you’re in such a rush, let’s go now. We can come back for this stuff later if we still need it.”
I shove the box at her. She sighs, cradling it in one arm, but still grips the energy bar.
“Grace! Am I the only one who saw the news this morning?”
Grace stops chewing. “What? About the serial arsonist still at large?” She moves down the ladder, hugging the box of books in one arm.
“No! I’m talking about the story where there was a disturbance at a Christmas concert last night, when one of the young attendees appeared to have some type of serious head injury, and then vanished, leaving behind a large pool of blood. Shortly afterwards her parents were also seen fleeing the scene. Authorities aren’t sure what happened and are searching for the child and parents involved for questioning.”
I follow her down the attic ladder. Music blares from Grace’s room, the female singer whaling about heartbreak. I slip my phone from my pocket and pull up the news story. Relieving Grace of the box of books, I shove my phone at her. Her eyes grow wide as they lock on the screen, and she drops the last of her protein bar.
“That’s Mom and Dad!” she cries over her booming music, turning the phone to face me.
She’s right. The police have combed through the theater’s security footage and there’s a blurry picture of our parents racing through the lobby. Luckily, it doesn’t look like anyone’s figured out their names.
“We may not be able to come back to the house,” I say. “We don’t know what the police know. We don’t know what they even think happened. We need to get our stuff loaded up in the SUV and go!”
Grace’s eyes finally seem to narrow into focus. Her charcoal mask squelches as she peels it off her face. “Mom’s office,” she shouts over her shoulder as she dashes into the bathroom. The faucet squeaks on and she splashes water on her face, then pads across the hallway carpet to her room. I drop the box of books and follow her.
“I’m going to Mom’s office last. I figure we can back the SUV up to the door, open the trunk, and just throw all her books and notes in.” Her office is out back, by the garage. It’s a retro camper trailer that she heavily modified with a heater and an AC unit. She’d said she needed space away from home to do her sabbatical, years ago. And she’s been using the place ever since.
“No!” Grace yells as she wrestles her lugga
ge from the back of her closet and lays the matching pink set on her perfectly made bed, zipping them open. “I mean, hook it up to the car and we can take all her books with us!”
“Does it even hook up to the SUV? Does it have working tires?” It’s been in the same spot for so long, I’m not sure it can still operate as a trailer.
“It should.” She slips back into her small walk-in closet. Hangers click together, and she rustles around, only to come out seconds later dressed in black yoga pants and a yellow hoodie. “We still have the trailer hitch on the SUV, and we used it for camping once upon a time, before it was her office.” She races from dresser to bed and frantically yet meticulously folds her clothing into perfect rectangles, stacking them in her larger suitcase. Only my sister can stay organized during a crisis. “Maybe you’re too young to remember.”
I grumble internally. I’m hardly a year younger than Grace. Of course I remember. Flashes of Mom and Dad tucking us in together in the cozy back bedroom. They’d leave the door open a crack and retire to the front of the trailer where they’d made their own bed from the fold-out couch. I bite my thumbnail as I think of our parents. We need them back. I need them back. I don’t know what we’re doing. Mom said Grace could stay here with me because I’d summoned her. Fine, but what does that even mean? I screwed everything up last night when I summoned her here in the first place. If it wasn’t for me, maybe Grace would still be human and our parents would still be here.
What if I screw up again? I’ve no clue how to do…whatever I need to do to keep her here. I don’t even know what it means that Grace is a demon. I massage my neck. If Mom and Dad were here, they’d know what to do; they could tell us what this all means. I should have gone with Inanna instead of Mom. If Mom were here, she could fix all this.
I am so out of my depth.
Grace’s eyes have gone glossy once more as she packs. She’s barely holding it together. I have to be strong—for her.
Maybe Grace is right about the trailer. It has wheels and shelves full of Mom’s books and notes. And having the old camper wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It’s a long drive to Florida from Boston.
“You finish packing your things,” I say and turn back to the hallway, scooping up the box of books. “I’ll see if I can figure out how to hook up the trailer.”
2
Grace
I fold quickly, but I fold my clothing before placing it in my suitcase. Eva doesn’t think I see the urgency of the situation. She’s always going off the deep end, while I’m forced to be the reasonable one. What’s the point of packing a suitcase if you’re not going to do it right? I put the last of my clothing in the large suitcase and zip it closed. How long will we be gone? What the hell do you pack when you’re “on the run”? I find the list I’ve started and add:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Floss
Shampoo
Shampoo. My stomach twists and my eyes lock on my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I pull out my ponytail and draw my hand through my soft ash-blond hair. Still no horns. I take in a slow, deep breath and let it out. I run my fingers over my scalp in search of bumps, cuts, scars, anything. Last night, at the Christmas concert, those horns didn’t simply grow out of my head, they full on erupted from my freaking skull, slicing through my scalp and sending blood gushing down my entire body. When I close my eyes, and even sometimes when my eyes are open, I see the thick, red blood covering my hands, arms, and my shawl. Everywhere.
I shudder and appraise myself in the mirror. I am the soft, smart, rational one and everything is fine, I tell myself. Just a few more calming breaths and I can push the panic away. Maybe it’s denial, but I’m okay with that for the moment. Because I need to be human. I need to be okay. With our parents gone, I’m the eldest. I have to be strong for my sister. I have to lock it all away. She’s right. We have to get on the road and find our parents. Something tightens in my chest. Images flash in my head. Mom looked so strong and sure last night, even though her eyes pooled with tears as she drew her own summoning circle on the ground. Like she’d done it so many times before. Like she was an expert.
But that’s not what they’d lead us to believe.
“The occult is just ritual wishing,” Mom said when she caught Eva and I trying to do a séance one night back when we were in grade school. “Science can explain everything.” It was the same thing our parents said whenever spells, rituals, or anything like it came up in movies or books. It can all be explained by science.
They lied.
How could Mom know all this? Dad, too? The betrayal stings so much, yet I need them, we need them to help us figure this out. They can help us fix this. I swallow hard against a lump in my throat.
My stomach grumbles. How am I still hungry?
I grab another bar, my list, and the smaller suitcase, and then cross the hall to the bathroom. I pack my makeup bag in with towels for each of us—because I’m sure Eva didn’t pack any. I grab both our toothbrushes and the toothpaste. She forgot her flipping toothbrush? Cliché or no, Eva would forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her body. I tuck in the rest of the important items on my list, and then return to my bedroom, because there’s still enough room for my pillow. And that is a non-negotiable need.
My eyes fall on the large pink suitcase, packed and ready to go. I grip the doorframe, and my stomach churns with nausea. Are we really doing this?
I swallow against the bile rising in my throat. Keep it together. I take a deep, calming breath as I scan my room one last time. Did I forget anything?
Bookshelf—not sure if the latest teen romcom will be helpful right now.
Dresser—I already have pajamas and enough clothes for a week-long trip. I slide open the top drawer, and eye my small, wooden jewelry box. I probably don’t need any more after what Mom gave me. I hook my thumb under the leather cord of the teardrop-shaped copper necklace and finger the matching copper ring that Mom told me to never take off.
I open the box anyways. I’m allergic to most metals, so I only have a few gold pieces. I run a finger through the necklaces and earrings. Something pinches my finger and I jerk my hand away. The tip of my finger reddens as it burns. I cautiously peer into the box for anything sinister, but the only thing I see that shouldn’t be there is one of Mom’s silver earrings. I reach back in to pick it up but cry out and drop it instantly. Pain shoots through my fingers. I grip them with my other hand and try to squeeze away the pain. It burns. What the hell? I’m allergic to silver, yes, but it’s never burned me before. Crap. Is this a demon thing, or is my allergy getting worse?
It’s just allergies, the rational voice in my head says. Of course it is. I’m not sure how much more lying to myself I can take, but I need this lie. Anything that will make me feel more human and less…
“Dammit!” My sister’s cry is so loud that it reaches me from outside.
I peer through the window into our small, fenced-in yard. In the grey light of the cloudy, winter morning, Eva—clad in her puffy winter parka—hovers over the trailer hitch, gripping it with both hands, and pulls back with everything she has. There’s no way she has the patience to do that. I grab both my suitcases and head downstairs. Mom taught me how to hook it up, but it looks like Eva never got that lesson. The first time, I was only seven. I think I’d asked Mom how it was done and she was so excited to show me. Every few years she gave me a refresher course, as if it was like changing a tire—a skill every young person learns from their parents.
But is that why she taught me? Or had she known all along that there might come a day when I would need to do this without her? And what exactly is inside the trailer that Mom had to make sure we would hook up and take along? My cheeks burn and my eyes sting.
Why didn’t she just tell me?
How could I not have seen any of this before? I’d never questioned why she insisted on making sure I knew how to hitch the camper up to the car. Not until now.
3
Eva
Hooking up a trailer is impossible. I yank my gloves off and toss them in a nearby snowbank, pull my phone out of my pocket and watch the YouTube video again. Dude makes it look as simple as flipping on a light switch. He even smiles as he does it, as if he’s laughing at anyone so stupid to have to watch a video on how to do it in the first place. But I can’t get the pieces to fit. The ball thingy is too far away. And our trailer doesn’t have all the same pieces that the one in the video has. I ease the jack down on the ball of the hitch again. But it’s coming down too far on one side. The metal-on-metal screech rips through my ears. I ease off, my arms shaking with exhaustion as I hoist the jack back up for the fiftieth time. I’m too tired for this. I hardly slept last night.
I have to reposition the SUV. Again. Damn!
I step back, and my combat boots catch on something, sending me stumbling into the snowbank behind me. Snow crawls up the waist of my parka, sending a jolt of icy cold up my lower back. The impossibility of the task is overwhelming. Why is this so hard? We don’t have time for this. The cops could get here at any moment.
The snow melts beneath me, soaking through my jeans. My eyes wet and I squeeze them shut, pushing tears down my frozen cheeks. Why had they made a deal with a demon? Why had they left us? I can’t do this alone. I cover my face with my hands and shake with quiet sobs.
“Eva!” Grace shouts.
I raise my head to see her drop her suitcases and charge through the snow towards me in her riding boots and slim-fitting, puffy parka. Her pink beanie hat flops on her head as she runs.
“I’m okay,” I cry, then clamp my lips shut and glance over the privacy fence where the Porter’s house peaks over. It’s mid morning, so they’ll have left for work already, but maybe we should keep it down in case one of our neighbors is home for some reason and hears.