Page 61

Penelope, who knows what I am, who came in hard, rhythmic pulses when I told her I’d killed someone. I’ve never experienced anything like that before, that sense of being seen, of being known and accepted for what I am⁠—

Hunters don’t give a shit about humans.

But that’s not true. I absolutely care about Penelope. I swore to myself I wouldn’t let her be arrested for my crime at the Mountain Thistle Motel. And yet I just let her run out into the darkening woods. She’s not even wearing a fucking jacket.

And before I really even understand what’s happening, I’m reacting. I sit up in the seat, turn the key over in the ignition so the car roars to life. Penelope’s out there, alone, on foot, in the cold. In the wild. I know the kinds of animals that lurk in the forests, all of them predators like me. And she won’t stand a chance.

I roll the window down and breathe in the night air like a dog. Her scent is still there, even if it’s stale. I’ve tracked prey on less.

I pull back out on the freeway, the cold, dry wind buffeting through the car. It’s well past twilight at this point, and the trees block what little sun is still seeping up from the horizon line. The road is full of dark, purple shadows, and I know the gods are lurking in them, watching me. Watching us, maybe, although they don’t say a word.

Penelope’s scent goes right, back toward town, so I go right too, cruising along the road, keeping my senses alert. When her trail veers away from the road, I pull the car over and leave it there, abandoned, to move swiftly through the steep, rocky woods. Her scent brightens, becomes fresher, but there’s no fear to it. No blood, either.

Anger, though. I can taste her anger.

The October night is wild with wind, although it mostly stirs the tops of the trees, making that dry, papery sound that has always reminded me of Mary’s death. But I tell myself it will not remind me of Penelope’s death. She’s a survivor. A rabbit with claws, a victim with a knife. Maybe someday she’ll get angry enough to kill me, and I’ll let her. She said she killed her sister in the First Death, and there’s an intimacy there that I want to share with her. I want my blood to drench her skin. I want her to dig up my grave and cover me with dirt and wait for me to return.

A reverse Mary, that’s what she is. I don’t kill her. She kills me.

So I stalk her, scrabbling through the underbrush, tracking the places where she left traces of her scent in the woods. It’s dark out here: no moonlight and hardly any starlight, even with the trees already going bare for the winter. I can see easily, being what I am. But she’s probably struggling.

So it’s not a surprise, then, when I catch a flash of light up ahead, bobbing through the trees. I stop, sniffing the air⁠—

It’s her. The freshness of her scent nearly overwhelms me, and I lunge forward, moving as silently as I can over the fallen pine needles. Penelope’s not terribly silent; her footsteps are loud and rattling, and she lets out a whispered, “Fuck!” at one point, and I feel the sharp burst of her pain. I also hear the babble of a creek, soft and whispery, and my chest tightens. But Penelope isn’t Mary. She’s not going to die out here.

The light stops, hovering. I drift closer until I can see Penelope in the darkness. She’s stopped by the creek, one leg propped up on a rock, the sphere of light in her hand illuminating her knee. Her phone, I know, even though for a moment it looks like she’s captured a star.

“God damn it,” she whispers, and then she straightens up and shines the light over the creek. I know I can see more of it than she can, a narrow serpent winding over dark rocks. Trees rise up on the other side, and although it feels like the middle of nowhere, there are other humans not far from here. I can sense them, distantly, but they aren’t a threat. In all the ways that matter, we’re alone.

I move forward, not necessarily trying to be quiet anymore. My step falls heavy enough to snap something, and Penelope whirls around, the light a blur. When she sees me, she screams.

The sound sends fire to my cock. I can’t, after all, help what I am. Nor can I help breathing in the delicious, citrusy scent of her terror, as short-lived as it is. The light shows my face.

“What the fuck do you want?” she snaps, her terror abating when she sees me.

“I couldn’t leave you in the woods alone at night.”

“I can take care of myself.” She turns away, the light flashing over the creek. “Even with you making everything worse.”

I move toward her, allowing myself to make noise, to be as loud as a human. She doesn’t look back at me, but she doesn’t run, either. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she jumps a little beneath my touch.

“Go away.”

“Can I explain?” I say softly.

She wrenches away, then shines the light in my face. I’m not expecting it, and for a moment, I’m blinded by the contrast. Penelope laughs.

“You did that on purpose,” I mutter.

“I used to do it to my sister all the time.” She doesn’t lower the light. “Because our mother would drop us in the fucking woods and make us find our way back. And that was without GPS.” She wriggles the light. “So I’m doing just fucking fine without your help.”

“What are you going to do when you get back in town?” I look over the light, trying to find her in the darkness. “You can’t go back to the inn. You don’t have a car.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Penelope says. “Or what I’m capable of doing. Or how often I’ve been in situations like this before.”

Her voice wobbles a little with that last sentence, though, and I know she’s not exactly telling the truth. Her friend, after all, is in jail for murder. She might be used to Hunters, but we don’t get caught.

“Fine,” I say. “You don’t need my help. But you don’t know everything.”