“Wilson?” My question captured his attention from the truck.
“He’s a quick study,” December chimed in as she smiled his way. “Knew almost as much as me. Almost.”
“The result seems a bit…lacking,” Octavia murmured as she sprinkled her jeans with dirt.
“There’s a professor of the occult in Spain who thinks the blood of ravens is a promising replacement for graveyard dirt.” Wilson rested his elbows on the truck’s rolled-down window. “You’ll just have to find willing participants on a full moon.”
“Willing?” Octavia raised a brow. “Like, ask the ravens?”
Wilson nodded. “Exactly.”
She winced. “Okay, slow down. I’m still accepting the reality of monsters under my bed. I can’t process ritual sacrifice right now.”
“Maybe later?” Wilson asked. “I’ll send you the paper?”
She let out a heavy sigh but nodded. “Go for it. I’ll suck it up eventually.”
Despite everything, I wanted to laugh. I wanted to pull her into my arms and bury my face in her neck. And tell her there would be so many more things that were difficult to swallow. But because of her naturally inquisitive nature, she’d survive. And that was what I admired most about her. How even when she switched sides, she didn’t resolve to simply accept things. Octavia always questioned.
“Hunting’s like being one of the first people in the medical field,” I said. “We’re all trying new things and waiting to see if the stitches hold.”
“Terrifying, but that’s the fun of it,” Nico said. December frowned, but her disagreement went unvoiced.
We grabbed buckets. Wilson would wait for us in the truck. A walkie rested on the truck’s dash in case he saw something from his vantage point that we couldn’t. Idirected the others to the stable. Octavia followed me to the back of the house.
She watched me intently, brows pinched with disbelief. “So, we just…pour it on the ground?”
“Yeah, make the lines as continuous as possible; it can’t be broken—at least, not this first time. A light patch is like a weak point in a wall. But once the wall’s laid, not even changes in the weather should be able to break it.” I tipped my bucket over, letting a slow stream of dirt fall out in a thick line. “Come to my side; the lines have to be doubled.”
Octavia hurried over, shoulder next to mine as she poured. “Like that?”
“Exactly.” I huffed and puffed while holding the heavy bucket of dirt. Octavia barely let out a breath, as if this were a simple morning walk.
“And we don’t chant or sing a song or something? Like at the grave at the elm tree?”
“Not this time,” I said. “But you can if you want. I wouldn’t mind the entertainment.”
She scoffed, keeping her singing voice to herself. We poured in silence, making our way around the back of the house to the front. She kept sneaking glances at me. I ignored them, too ashamed of how much my hands were shaking.
“You said it has to be continuous,” Octavia spoke up after a time.
“That’s not synonymous with straight,” I said in a low voice, willing myself to stop shaking.
“If this doesn’t work—” she started.
“It’ll work,” I promised, barely opening my mouth as I spoke.
“But if it doesn’t and something happens to me?—”
“Octavia.” I stopped pouring and stood tall. She frozetoo, staring at me with those big, defiant eyes. “Just focus on pouring and let me do my job and worry about protecting you. I can’t do that in peace if you’re questioning the way I pour a line.”
She blinked, lips parted at the harsh cut of my tone. But instead of pushback, she laughed. It was teeming with life. It was a natural wonder of the world.
“What?” My armor cracked a bit, opening to her warmth.
“It’s just…you’re sweet.”
“I am?” I prompted when she looked back down at her bucket.
