Page 89 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"Table."

"I don't want to eat."

"You're havin' somethin'."

"I hate you."

"I know."

She took my hand anyway, her fingers tremblin' in mine. I pulled her to her feet, her body a light, fragile thing in my grasp. She looked around at the wreckage one more time. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice a small, defeated thing.

I looked at the broken room, the chaos and the destruction, and then I looked at her, my eyes narrowin'. "Don't be. Give me a week. I'll make it worse."

Chapter 34

The evening air in the holler was thick and heavy, pressin' down on my shoulders like a wool blanket. I walked with the lantern, its flickerin' light dancin' on the ground, castin' long, distorted shadows that seemed to move on their own. The crickets were a constant, rhythmic chirp, a sound that was supposed to be peaceful but felt more like a countdown. A lone owl hooted, a low, mournful sound that echoed through the trees, a question I didn't have the answer to.

My mind was on Rory. On the way she'd shattered, the way she'd screamed. Maverick saw it as a game, a beautiful, violent show. And I did, too. But I also saw the pain. I saw the little girl hidin' underneath all that rage. The words were a constant echo in my head, a reminder of the darkness that lived inside her, the darkness that lived inside all of us.

I approached Delia's cabin, the familiar shape of it a dark silhouette against the moonless sky. But somethin' was wrong. Her rockin' chair was empty, the wood still and silent. It was never empty. She was always there, a silent, watchful presence, a part of the holler itself.

I saw the flickerin' lights comin' from inside the house, a soft, yellow glow that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. I quietly approached, my boots quiet on the ground, and gently knocked on the door. The sound was swallowed by the night, a small, insignificant thing in the holler.

"Been waitin' for you," her voice called out, thin and reedy, but clear as a bell. It came from inside. "The kettle's almost done."

I pushed the door open more, the hinges creakin' in protest. Delia was sittin' at her small, rickety table, her hands folded in her lap, her face turned toward the sound of my knockin'. She was blind, had been for years, but she saw everything. She heard everything. She knew things no one else did, things that were hidden in the heart of the holler, things that were whispered on the wind. The room was small and cluttered. The light from the lantern on the table dancin' on the walls.

I sat down across from her, the chair groanin' under my weight. The silence stretched between us, a heavy, suffocatin' thing, but I knew better than to speak first. She would tell me what she wanted to tell me, when she wanted to tell me. And I would listen. I always did.

Delia's house always smelled like things that had been dryin' for too long. Herbs hung in crooked bundles from the rafters, their leaves brittle and brown, some tied with twine and some with strips of faded cloth that looked like they'd been torn from a burial shroud. Jars crowded every shelf along the walls, their contents a macabre collection of the holler's secrets. Roots, like pale, skeletal fingers. Dried flowers, the color of old blood, filled others. There were bottles of powders, their labels faded and illegible.

The curtains stayed shut even during the day. Delia said the sun was too loud. I always figured she meant that literally. Her back was curved beneath a black shawl, the wool worn thin in places, revealin' the faded pattern of the dress underneath. Her long gray hair hung loose around her face, a tangled, silver waterfall. Her eyes were cloudy, milky, blind for years now. It didn't matter. Delia saw more than anybody I knew. Sometimes I wondered if losin' her sight had just made room for seein' other things.

She had a little kettle sittin' on the woodstove, its blackened belly glowin' with a low, steady heat. The water inside was startin' to bubble, a soft, hissin' sound that was the only noise in the room.

"You come for the tea," she said, her voice a thin, reedy thing, like the sound of wind whistlin' through a crack in the window.

"Yeah."

"For the girl."

"My wife."

Her mouth twitched, a small movement. "Your wife," she said, like she was tastin' the words, rollin' 'em around in her mouth before spittin' 'em out.

Then she reached for a tin on the table, her fingers findin' it with an unnervin' accuracy. "Lemon balm," she muttered, her voice a low, hypnotic chant. "Chamomile. Little bit o' lavender." She pinched some between her fingers, the herbs crumblin' into dust. "Settle her nerves. Help her sleep."

I watched her work, my eyes dartin' from her hands to her face. Her hands were spotted and knotted with age, but they moved with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times. She poured the herbs into the pot, the dust a soft, green cloud that seemed to hang in the air for a moment before disappearin'.

Then stopped.

Her fingers hovered above the steam, the air around them shimmerin' with a heat that seemed to come from somewhere else. The room went quiet. Even the crickets outside had stopped their chirpin'.

Delia's head lifted, her milky eyes seemin' to focus on somethin' I couldn't see, somethin' that was standin' right behind me.

"Somethin's comin'."

I frowned, the word hangin' in the air, a cold, heavy thing. "What?"