Page 53 of The Devil Knows Her Name

“I’m practically an adult, they can’t fucking ground me.”

He said the swear like he was trying it on for size, and I hid my snort. “But why are you here?”

“I said, I wanted to talk to you. And I’ve been wanting to come back. I love this place. And I wanted to see the sunrise from here.”

My throat tightened; it hurt worse than I expected to hear him say that when my friends had not. But instead of turning toward the sun, he came deeper into the barn, peering at the stalls. His brow creased further. “Whoa. You have a lot more than before.”

“Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

“Any idea why?”

I longed to tell him. The lack of my magic felt like a phantom limb, and I wished I could mourn it with someone besides myself.

“No,” I said instead. “And since you’re already here, you might as well help me with the chores.”

I put him in charge of scrubbing and refilling the water bowls and bottles, like last time. I knew I should’ve sent him away, should’ve frog-marched him down the driveway and watched until he was out of sight, but the mere thought of it exhausted me. Besides, he was the one person in Burrsville who wanted to see me, and I couldn’t deny that the presence of another person was a balm to my frayed nerves.

“What happened to this little guy?” he would ask as he brought in the water, regardless of the sex of the animal. I would give a brief, thoughtless account of the call and the rescue operation, wielding a syringe or bandage in one hand and holding the animal still with the other.

“I can’t believe they let you handle them,” he said admiringly, watching me soothe a disgruntled raccoon into compliance. “Do you get more babies or more adults?”

“Depends on the year, but it’s usually about even. I get a lot more adult males than females though—they fuck each other up pretty good.”

“What’s the worst you’ve ever seen?”

“River otters,” I said without hesitation. “Couple of young males too dumb to pull their punches. Winner lost an eye and an ear, loser lost half his face and one of his legs. Animals take on a huge risk every time they fight; even if they win, they might die from infection or be too injured to hunt.”

“Have you ever done anything with, like, apex predators? Like wolves or bears?”

“No wolves around here, unfortunately. I usually see a few bears each year, but none that I’ve had to treat. I did have a young bobcat once, but trying to treat her without a sedative was a mistake.”

I rolled up my sleeve, unthinking, to reveal the long scar that curved over the tender inside of my forearm. Too late I realized it also put every scratch from the thicket on full display.

“Whoa.” He seized my arm and I stiffened, resisting the urge to return the grip and sink my nails into his arm until he released me. He ran his thumb gently over it, feeling the raised pattern of the scar. “That’s wild. What’s on your fingers?”

That time I did pull away. “Berry juice,” I said, although I was no longer certain that was true. I had scrubbed my hands with soap and bristles and finally lye, and still they were stained black. It was as if the belladonna had marked me, claimed me as its own.

The pastor’s son returned to the water bowl he’d been washing. “So what did you think of all that shit my dad pulled the other night?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure he made it all up.”

“Made what up?”

“The stuff about somebody putting a curse on our house and trying to make us leave.”

I thought back to the disembodied rattle of the squirrel skull, the rage it exuded. How could he not think it was real? Was he trying to bait me into exposing myself?

“He started talking about weird stuff he was seeing or hearing, and then when he did, Mom did, but he’s always been able to make her think what he wants. He did just enough to get Mom worked up and then her imagination took over. Then he said he found that little bag of sticks in the basement and she actually fainted.”

“So you didn’t feel anything?” I asked, curiosity overcoming me.

“Nothing like my mom did. I’ve had some trouble sleeping, but that’s for—different reasons.”

“Ah. Find something worth sneaking out for?”

“Nah. Coming here is the only sneaking I do.”

“So why the trouble sleeping, then?”

There was a long pause, and for the first time in the conversation, I glanced up from the antibiotics I was crushing to look at him. There was a deep flush spreading from his chest to his neck, and he was scrubbing the crease of a bowl with ferocity.