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Kian angles down the mountain, his expression still hard and his shoulders tense. Frost trudges behind him, his silence normal but the heavy emotions coming from him not. The village streets are empty, smoke curling from chimneys and oil lamps flickering between curtains. Everyone’s tucked in for the night, away from the storm.
At least we have our own cabin to protect us, even if it’s on the outskirts of the village to appease the rest of the pack.
My voice cuts through the empty silence. “That went well, don’t you think?”
Kian grunts in response but doesn’t speak, seemingly too lost in thought to respond to my sarcasm. Frost doesn’t even acknowledge me. He’s been stuck inside his own head since Black Mountain, and no matter what I try, I can’t draw him out. Right now, I’m worried about both of them. On the heels of everything we went through in New Mexico, they didn’t need to deal with Quinton’s tendency to poke their wounds.
My brothers are all I have. We can’t—and won’t—lose one of our number.
“We’ll be fine,” I say, although I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince them or myself.
The snow has picked up speed by the time we reach our cabin at the edge of the village. After six months of lying empty, the place is musty from disuse. The main room holds a couch, a kitchen table, three mismatched chairs, and a small open kitchen. We each have our own small bedrooms off the main room that are more like closets than actual rooms. The cabin isn’t much, but it’s enough for us.
Kian sets to work lighting the fire in the wood stove, while I light the oil lamps. Frost starts rummaging in the cabinets over the sink, pulling out dusty canned goods. By the time we join him, he’s made a sad buffet of cold black beans and corn with water to drink. Not exactly the height of nutrition, but we won’t be here long, anyway.
We’re silent as we eat, and then we split off to our rooms without a word. I don’t like seeing my brothers like this, but it’s always this way when we come back to this godforsaken place.
I crawl into my cold, empty bed, feeling dissatisfied.
Everything feels wrong. Hard.
Broken.
And it has since we left Amora broken in the New Mexico mountains.
