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Something curls up in me. “Well, most humans aren’t going to church these days, either. So I don’t imagine we’d be any different.”

Penelope laughs, and the throaty musicality of it startles me. “I guess you’re right. Did you, though?” She looks at me again.

I sigh. “Yes,” I say. “I was raised by an old Hunter family. It’s how we did things.”

“So was I.” Her words are soft, almost like she’s saying them to herself. “Raised by an old family, I mean. Well, sort of.” She scrapes at her soup. “My mother pissed off my grandparents when she had me. She hasn’t spoken to them since, as far as I know.” She keeps stirring her soup, and although I’ve been trying to block it out, I let myself sense her, just for a moment. She seems…

Sad, almost.

And I don’t know why, but for a moment, I almost want to tell her about Mary. My parents were furious at me, too, for choosing a human woman. They couldn’t stand even the possibility of human grandbabies, not that it ever happened. And they told me it would bring me nothing but heartache, because we’re fundamentally incompatible, humans and Hunters.

They were right about the heartache. But I’m still not convinced they were right about us being incompatible.

9

PENELOPE

This has got to be one of the most awkward dinners I’ve ever had, and I have had a lot of awkward dinners. I’ve sat down with Mom and Callie when they both still had blood drying on their clothes and streaked in their hair. I’ve had hundreds of meals at activist co-ops where everyone only pretends not to hate each other for the sake of the cause. I’ve had dinners in the holding cell of at least five city jails, for fuck’s sake.

This one absolutely takes the cake, though.

Some of it’s my fault. I’d much rather have an awkward conversation than an awkward silence, especially with a man I just hate-fucked in the middle of the woods right when I could have killed him.

A handsome man, no less. It’s undeniable how fucking handsome he is. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, huge, lashlined eyes that seem to shift back and forth between green and golden, depending on the light. Thick brown hair that falls into his eyes and curls a little around his ears. I can’t imagine why he hides all that behind a mask. Seems his looks would be his number one asset as a Hunter, which I recognize is a fucked up thing for me to be thinking about.

I definitely don’t ask him about it, either. That would, among other things, mean admitting I find him attractive. So instead, I asked about the rituals. After all, it’s pretty tough having religious trauma over a religion humans aren’t supposed to know even exists.

“I guess we have that in common,” Victor finally says, scraping at his soup bowl.

For a minute, I think he means the religious trauma. But no. He’s talking about being raised by a long line of Hunters.

“What’s your last name?” I ask next. “Since you know mine.” And since he saw fit to tell me his true first name earlier, which I know is a rarity among Hunters.

He smiles a little. “MacKenzie, these days,” he says. “But my family name is Demario. I change it every thirty years or so.”

Demario. That is one of the old families. My heart thuds against my ribcage.

“I’ve heard that before,” I say softly, wiping the condensation off my water glass. And since I hate the silence, I don’t stop myself from adding, “My mom had it written in this ancient Rolodex thing with all the information she had about the Hunters she knew. Their names, last known location, that sort of shit. She made me and Callie memorize everything in there when we were kids, in case something ever happened to her. Callie more than me, I guess.”

Victor scoffs. I swear I detect a whiff of bitterness to it. “Glad nothing happened to her,” he says. “My parents wouldn’t have done shit.”

I don’t know how to take that, if he means they wouldn’t have helped me, being human, or either of us. Doesn’t really matter, though. Mom survived our childhood unscathed.

“What brings you out there?” Victor asks, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s changing the subject on purpose. He lifts his gaze from his food and pins me with it, in that way Hunters do, like they’re hypnotizing you. I like to think I’m immune to it, and usually I am.

But Victor is just so god damned good-looking.

Stop it, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter that he’s good-looking. Lots of Hunters are good-looking, but that doesn’t mean humans should get entangled with them. Sure, it worked out for Abi and Chloe, who somehow both stumbled upon protective Hunter boyfriends independent of me. It’s not like there’s some rule that says I need to be third.

Or maybe there is. I think of the cold, damp wind earlier, the presence I felt crawling over my skin. It’s easy, in times like that, to think the gods are real after all, and that they’re the reason Chloe and Abi got trapped in two Hunters’ webs, and that I’m going to be next.

I never should have fucked Victor.

“The Gas and Go is out of the way,” he continues. “Most people who stop here⁠—”

“Are the sort of people that no one will notice if they go missing?”

Victor raises an eyebrow at me, a sly expression that makes my stomach knot. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly. I’d think a Hunter’s daughter would know to stay on the main roads.”