Page 72 of All the Words for Forest

“He’s fine. I’m flying into Denver this afternoon and will be up in Clifwell by evening. He’ll have to spend a few nights in jail, but I’m confident we can get him cleared of this bullshit after Halloween.”

Yes, I’m sure David will. Especially if Wolrath dies at the party he insists on having.

I talk with David a few minutes longer, giving him a slightly more detailed version of what I saw last night. I don’t offer him much, though, and I pretend I was acting on a hunch when I fled the inn. When I finally end the conversation, the silence of the porch is a relief.

I set my phone in my lap and stare out at the trees as the wind billows around, dry and rattling and cold. It’s not the first time Adrian has spent a few nights in jail, although it’s certainly the first time he’s been accused of murder. But David did soothe most of my worries. No real evidence, a decent alibi. And tomorrow night, more proof that the killer is not the one sitting in a jail cell.

The wind gusts again, bringing a sudden cyclone of rotting leaves swirling around right in front of me. I frown out at the cold, rattling woods. My thoughts aren’t with Adrian anymore now.

“You out there?” I whisper. Then, as an afterthought, I repeat the question in the old tongue, the language my mother taught me and my sister when we were children. You only ever pray to the gods in this language, she said to us. They don’t have use for human words.

And I suppose she was right, because as soon as I repeat the question, the wind gusts hard enough that the windows behind me rattle in their frames, and one of the empty Adirondack chairs tilts sideways, balancing precipitously on two legs for longer than seems possible before slamming back down on the deck.

Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and I stare out at the trees, at the shadows they form with their tangled branches and tall, thick trunks. And I think, just for a second, that I feel the gods watching me, silent and judgmental, the way they always seemed when I was a child. Except during that hurricane.

Except for the first night I fucked Victor.

I snatch my phone up. I want to call my sister. I want to tell her what I’m about to do and ask for advice. She’d give it, I know, but not ever the phone. Hunters aren’t easily caught, but our mother always told us not to be stupid.

I pull up the last text I got from Callie, from the night I spent at Victor’s house, after I’d told her I was okay, that she didn’t need to worry.

Callie

I don’t worry about you. You can take care of yourself.

My mother only acknowledged my text with a thumbs up, but I still pull that message up, too, blinking down at it. I wish she were here, wish I could talk to her face to face. Once, when I was a teenager and desperate not to be human, I asked her if she thought some part of me might be a Hunter, just like Victor had suggested.

It doesn’t matter, she said. There’s still too much human in you.

It hurt so badly at the time. It always hurt, knowing that I wasn’t like them. That I was weak and small. That I was prey. Maybe that’s why I’m always trying to save the world with my protests and my disruptions. Callie asked me once if I was trying to undo her evil, but I don’t think that’s it. I think I wanted to prove I was strong.

A door slams behind me, loud as a gunshot. I jump to my feet, hand going for the knife that’s still in my purse.

But it’s only Victor, standing in the doorway, the wind blowing his hair in his eyes.

He doesn’t think you’re prey.

The thought isn’t my own. It comes in on the wind and the shadows, on the dying leaves scattered across the balcony.