by Mary Dublin
The air flew from his lungs within moments of hitting the ground. Claws were immediately at work, tearing at his shirt and looking to draw blood. Though his face was surely contorted with pain, Spencer appeared to have furthered his transformation. His strength was incredible, and Jon had no doubt he would have ended him then and there, had Cliff not been right behind him.
A new barrage of bullets sent the last the local birds scattering. Jon swore he had never been more grateful to hear Cliff's voice than when he was leaned over, pulling Spencer off him. Flesh smoked where the silver had hit, leaving blackening holes in his bulging arms that had him struggling to stay standing.
Jon tried to move, but found his limbs were leaden. His vision swam—stars and trees and a tiny flash of wings.
Labored, snarling breaths came from Spencer's direction, along with the sizzling hiss of the silver doing its work. And then Sylvia's voice floated in from the other side, accompanied by the sensation of her tiny hands on his jaw and cheek—a feeling he would naturally attempt to brush away if he wasn't aware of what it was.
"Jon?" Her voice was tight, worried, close to tears. Everything it wasn't supposed to be. "Jon, please… get up. Are you okay?"
With a little effort, he turned his head. Time slowed for a few precious seconds as his eyes connected with hers. His heart sank when he immediately spotted blood splattering her delicate clothes. He could only cling to a distant hope that it wasn't her own.
Unable to gather enough air to form words, Jon could only breathe laboriously in her direction. You promised you'd stay away this time.
Her expression tightened with even more worry. She lifted her hands toward his face again, and then yanked them back against herself in the same breath, eyes snapping higher and widening with fear.
On his other side, Spencer hadn't yet faded, stirring from where he'd crumpled after being heaved away from Jon. There was a flit of buzzing wings, and suddenly Sylvia was between them at a hover, her hands misting with frost that crawled to her elbows.
"No…" Jon clenched his teeth and forced himself to sit up, sharp aches charging through his arms and shoulders.
"I can still sense him," Sylvia said, never turning her head from the werewolf. "Cliff, he's… he's weakened, but he's fighting it. He's not gone."
"I knew it was you," Spencer rasped, crawling backward in the grass. His slitted eyes were fixed past Cliff, on Sylvia's hovering form. "You keep coming back… you think you're one of them? A little hunter?"
Cliff stepped in front of her and fired. Spencer dodged, rolling to the side. The momentum of his move put his feet back under him, strength in his legs. He smiled as he regarded the hunters, fangs yellow against bloodied lips.
Breathing shallowly, Jon scrambled to locate his gun. He had three silver bullets left in the magazine. The silver was slowing Spencer down but a strong shot to the core would end him.
"Sylv," Jon grunted, closing his hand tightly around his gun. She was still hovering in front of him. Protecting him. There was no denying it. Not only was she mere feet from a monster, she was hovering directly in Jon's line of fire. For an awful moment, he could only wonder if the bond had resurfaced somehow. That she would blindly die for him without considering that she didn't have the means to take down a werewolf.
A green eye flashed in his direction as she glanced over his shoulder. Her gaze flicked to the gun, then back to his face. In the space of a second, he recognized the look of understanding she gave him, and she darted out of the way to give him room.
By the time Jon took aim, Spencer was on the move, prowling within the loose circle of trees that contained them. His suit was torn in places—not only from the chase and the bullets, but from the transformation ripping at the seams of his jacket. The blood from his blow to the head was dry, and his gait made it clear that he was hiding his pain. His eyes, though rife with fury, darted between the two hunters, aware that taking them both on would be a challenge.
A more sinister smirk curled on Spencer's lips when he glanced in Sylvia's direction. "I didn't see you swooping in to do anything last night. Picky about who you try to save with your little magic tricks? Probably would have been about as useful as they are right now, wouldn't they? Pathetic."
She didn't answer, but her tiny hands clenched at her sides, white mist dancing furiously around her fists.
Though Cliff still had his gun trained on the werewolf, his lack of fire revealed that he was either low on bullets like Jon, or he had already emptied the clip.
Jon gritted his teeth and fired a shot, but Spencer anticipated it. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sylvia clamp her hands over her ears, her face twisting with discomfort. He breathed out sharply. Focus. Whatever veil of calmness Spencer created was shattered by the fresh attack. He tore across the grass, his grotesquely transformed features bearing no further desire to taunt.
The second bullet exploded from Jon's gun. Spencer swerved around, but he loosed a bark of agony when a new wound added to the red stains on his suit. But he was still rapidly closing in from the side, rapt eyes anticipating the next and final bullet.
What Spencer didn't anticipate was a blast of ice shards belting his face. He roared, throwing his hands up to block the onslaught too late. It was only a second of distraction that slowed him down, but it was all Jon had to have a clean shot at the werewolf's heart. He squeezed the trigger, praying his final bullet would hit its mark.
For briefest of seconds, the animalistic fury on Spencer's face morphed into wide-eyed terror. He fell without a noise atop a carpet of pine needles. Though his eyes remained halfway open, he did stir again after hitting the ground. His body remained unnaturally, unsettlingly still upon the ground.
Jon panted, scrambling dizzily to get his feet under him. By the time he was up, Cliff was already standing over the body, every muscle in his body ready to defend himself. He gave the half-formed werewolf a sharp kick in the gut. When nothing happened, Cliff bent down to check his pulse.
Jon's attention was rapt as Cliff let his hand slip down the pale, bloodied skin, and hung his head.
"Finally," Cliff whispered.
Jon felt his knees nearly give out from relief. Gruesome a sight as Spencer made, pooling blood in the grass, it brought him comfort. No one else would get hurt because of him.
There was a slight change in the air, followed soon after by a delicate beating of wings. He whipped his head toward Sylvia urgently. "Are you—"
"I'm okay," she said, looking breathless. She wrung her hands, her little green eyes lingering on a painful mark Jon could feel forming on his forehead.
"I'm fine," Cliff interjected, brushing off his jacket as he stood. "Thanks for asking."
Jon gave him a somewhat exasperated look, tucking his gun away now that the danger had passed. "Well, you seem to be walking around just fine." When his eyes drifted back to Sylvia, he found her staring down at Spencer. He wasn't sure what he expected to see on her face. Relief, satisfaction… but it wasn't there.
"I can't feel him anymore," she said, blank-faced as her gaze trailed Spencer up and down. Something flickered over her expression: her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes widening. Her shoulders heaved as she breathed in sharply through her nose and turned away from the body. Her voice was steady, but Jon had a feeling she was putting in an effort to make it so. "What do you do with it now?"
"We burn the body," he told her. "Removing all trace."
"And then… it's over," she said, a confirming look aimed at him.
Jon nodded, softening his expression. "Yeah. You don't have to worry about him anymore."
He thought she would have looked more relieved by this news, but instead a new shadow fell over her tiny, perfect face.
What followed wasn't anything new for Jon and Cliff. Moving and disposing of bodies came with the job. Finding a secluded spot that wouldn't ignite a forest fire was almost as simple as retrieving what they needed from the car. What felt different, though, was to have Syl
via's eyes following all the while. She stayed within range, yet kept her distance. It was hard to tell what was going through her head as she stared at the wrapped, smoldering body lying in a patch of dirt.
"You have to leave now, right?" she asked suddenly from her perch on a scraggly branch, which hardly seemed to notice her weight. "Because of… all of this," she went on, waving a hand at Spencer's body, "you have to leave?"
Recalling their earlier conversation in the car felt like a punch to the gut. Jon nodded. "It's too risky to stick around."
Sylvia looked away from him, glancing around grimly. "I don't know where this is. And you have wounds to clean. If you're heading back to your apartment… well, it'd be easier for me to find my way from there."
The serious look on her face had Jon sobering up as well. Victory was fleeting when he knew that soon, he'd have to let her go again.
"It's not like you'll slow us down," Jon allowed. He consulted with Cliff, who had been all but unreadable all afternoon.
Sylvia smiled tightly. "I'll be gone before you know it."
Kicking a bit of loose dirt over the brightest of embers, Cliff led the way to the treeline. He favored his left leg, and Jon felt a pang to know there would be hardly be any time to tend to their injuries before escaping the city. His own body was aching, fresh bruises dotting his legs and arms from where Spencer had rammed him to the ground. He didn't have the heart to ask Sylvia for any healing this time. The only thing he wanted to ask her was the last thing she wanted to hear.
But the thought wouldn't leave him as the three of them trekked back to the car. It grew deafening when the apartment building came into view, and Sylvia rose to her feet on the dash.
Stay.
Thirty
Five
It was too bright out for Sylvia to leave immediately. The sun was going down, but she knew well enough that there would still be humans out and about, leaving their jobs and clogging the streets. She had enough on her plate without a surprise fairy-sighting. So she opted to head inside with the boys, firmly staying out of their way as they readied themselves to leave the apartment for good.
She sat on the armrest of the couch in the main living area, giving her wings a much-needed rest. Her legs were curled close, chin resting on her knees. She still felt wisps of exhaustion right to her core from the ice spellwork, but it was nothing compared to the mess that was running through her head.
She should have been happy. Satisfied, at the very least. The werewolf was no longer a threat to her, but all she could see was his motionless body sprawled on the forest floor, and there was nothing satisfying about it.
Relief, certainly. But it was horrifying and gruesome and she couldn't bring herself to celebrate it.
Jon and Cliff would be off to face more of the never-ending battle, and she would be left behind to pick back up on her solitary day-to-day survival. Just the way it was supposed to be. Just the way she promised. She could at least look forward to changing out of her bloodied clothes once she returned to the church.
With a heavy sigh, she lifted her head to peer at the window. Darkness had begun to settle in. She rubbed her eyes, feeling her throat close up. There was no excuse to linger anymore.
Well, the closed window would have been an excuse, but she heard the heavy footsteps of a hunter approaching. A sad smile perked on her lips. Cliff. She could tell before he even came into view. It wasn't until then that she realized she'd learned the distinct rhythm of both hunters' gaits.
"Cliff," she called hoarsely, unfolding from where she sat. Her wings were reluctant to buzz to life. She backed toward the window a little too forcefully, catching her ankle on the edge of the windowsill and nearly falling flat on her back. Blushing, she landed on the sill as if nothing had happened. "It… it's dark enough now. Could you open the window for me?"
He had been the one to suggest that she leave. He'd reasoned through the logic of it, same as her. Yet, as he took a knee before the window, she could see his face was full of unease.
"You know where you're going?" Cliff ventured. He looked her up and down, gaze lingering on a few smears of blood that had yet to be scrubbed out of her clothes.
"I have a place I've been using for a while," she told him. "It'll do for now."
"And then?"
Sylvia gave him a tired shrug, her smile half-hearted. "I'll figure something out."
Cliff opened his mouth, then stopped, glancing back to where Jon could distinctly be heard packing up the bedroom. "You're not gonna say anything to Jon?"
"It's better this way. Please, Cliff."
He nodded, but that look on his face wouldn't leave. After a moment of thought, Cliff raised his hand again, and Sylvia backed away when she saw it was headed for her. Though she squirmed initially, the sudden grab was gentler than usual. The next thing she knew, he had clasped her firmly to his shoulder in what she was stunned to recognize as a hug.
His voice was quiet but firm. "Stay safe out there, you hear me?"
She let out a slow breath, and her shoulders slumped as tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Right then, she could have sworn she was parting with an older brother. Her fingers dug into his shirt, and she relaxed the side of her face against him, letting herself feel safe within his grasp for those blissful few seconds.
"You too," she murmured, unable to make any promises on her end. He couldn't, either.
When the gentle pressure at her back began to ease off, she fought the urge to stubbornly hold on. He released her back into the windowsill and stood to his full height to undo the latch. A soft evening breeze whispered into the room, ruffling the tips of Sylvia's hair. She stared down at the wooden platform beneath her feet and gave a small nod of thanks, unable to trust that her voice wouldn't crack if she spoke again.
Silence passed between her and Cliff, but he was the first one to move when Jon's voice came from down the hall, calling for him. The last time she would hear that voice. Sylvia didn't look up even as Cliff's heavy footsteps trailed away, leaving her alone with the open window.
With that, she finally stepped past the threshold and spread her wings. She didn't dare look back, knowing that if she did, she would feel more lost than ever.
***
The flight to the church was uneventful, though Sylvia had so much trouble focusing that she couldn't make a clear judgement. By the time she dove down to crawl into her entryway—a hole between the roof and ceiling of the ancient structure—the full moon and stars were visible between thick patches of clouds.
There seemed to be less stars hanging over the city than her forest, but on especially clear nights, she could spot some of the brighter patterns she knew. A desperate grasp at familiarity, but she took it nonetheless.
The splinter-infested entryway led her directly into the storage room of the church. It wasn't a very big space to a human, but for her it was plenty. Some of the boxes up front seemed to have been moved recently, but the crates and cabinets stacked by the wall opposite the door were layered in so much dust that she doubted any humans would be bothering her there for a while.
She whispered an incantation as she fluttered down in the darkness, and her skin became awash with cerulean light that glimmered through her clothes and revealed a safe path where she wouldn't collide with any boxes. Her meager belongings were stored behind the dustiest crate she could find, though she had cleaned up her designated sleeping area as best she could.
When she landed, her wings twitched in discomfort. The one with the healed bullet hole flared especially, as if scolding her for being pushed too far the past couple days.
Digging through her satchel for fresh clothes to change into, she set aside the two books Rebecca and Damian had managed to smuggle to her before her departure from the forest. She tried not to think about that, yanking out a few articles of clothing balled up messily at the bottom of the bag. She chose a shirt at random and shook it out of her haphazard folding job.
Something about it caught her
eye, making her pause. It was a generic green shirt, something she'd wear any day. But there was a slice on the sleeve, trimmed with old blood.
She had worn it the day Jon learned about the bond, when guards attacked her outside the village. She should have stuffed it back into the bag, but her fingers tightened on the fabric.
She closed her eyes, and for a few seconds, she was sitting on the coffee table in the apartment. He was tending to her wound with such care that she couldn't possibly have an inkling about the storm of uncertainty brewing in his heart. She couldn't guess that behind those tender brown eyes, he was wondering if she truly felt anything for him.
When she opened her eyes, the tears spilled over. Hugging the shirt to her chest, she made a noise between a sob and chuckle. She had gone looking to change out of her bloody clothes and found even more bloody clothes. With little else to find humorous, she laughed through her tears, unable to stop herself from thinking of all the things she didn't want to think about.
She recalled a time when she believed she would get to fall asleep in Jon's warm embrace every night. Now, she was cold. Isolated in a city not meant for her.
Her family couldn't help her without risking their own lives. Her tearful promise to Hazel that she would find a way to visit was out of the question.
The only people she could turn to for any sort of help were leaving for good, and she had done everything in her power to cut herself away from them.
"Stop it," she hissed bitterly, shaking as she slid down to sit against the crate, clutching her old shirt as if her life depended on it. She'd made the right choice. She had to.
It's better this way.
Thirty
Six
When they left the apartment, the only trace of them that remained was a few beers in the back of the fridge and two hundred dollars cash on the kitchen table. Enough, Jon hoped, to keep the landlord from involving the authorities with their unannounced departure. The last thing they needed was the police connecting the dots between Ronald Spencer's disappearance and theirs.