Page 64 of Fool Moon First Aid

I turn to Brody, his head lolled to one side as blood dribbles from his nose. Heart hammering, I check his pulse, nearly sobbing with relief when I find it steady and strong.

He’s okay, but we’re far from safe with a hunter probably watching us from the shadows.

Fear tightens its grip on my throat, but stubbornness is a powerful antidote. I unbuckle my seat belt, ignoring the pain that protests every movement. The road is silent, ominously so.

I clamber over the seat, cursing as my cast snags. Once in Brody’s seat, I jab the car into park and try the ignition. “Start, please start,” I mutter, desperation making my voice shake. The worst part? Even if it does start, I don’t know how to drive.

I can feel eyes on us, lurking in the darkness. Tears well up, frustration burning as the car stubbornly refuses to start. “Come on,” I whisper.

Brody’s breathing is ragged but steady, offering a tiny glimmer of hope in this mess. I jab at the key again, my heart doing this crazy dance of hope and fear in the pitch-black.

Out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the silence, all smug and creepy. “Ava,” he calls, like some bad movie villain who’s way too pleased with himself. “Really hope you made it through that crash. It’d be a real bummer to lose you now.”

Chills run down my spine. Who the heck is this guy? His voice is kind of familiar but totally not welcome. How on earth does he know my name? It’s like my brain’s stuck on repeat, asking the same question over and over.

“Come on, you piece of junk,” I mutter to the car, giving the key another desperate twist. The engine sputters but remains silent.

“Oh, look at that—you’re alive and kicking,” Mr. Creepy taunts from somewhere in the dark. I need the nickname, need to distance myself from who and what he is.

His words slither through the busted windshield, dripping with that I’m going to get you vibe. It’s like we’re wrapped in a bubble of creepiness, and outside, the night’s just soaking it all up, hiding Mr. Creepy but doing nothing to muffle his psycho vibes.

My hands shake as I fumble with the key again, the car filled with the stench of blood, burnt rubber, and a hint of panic. The seat belt’s tangled around Brody, who’s out cold, leaving me to fiddle with it in a panicked daze.

“Nice try, Ava,” the voice sneers, sounding closer now, as if he’s right on top of us. “But you’re not going anywhere. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”

Somewhere nearby, a twig snaps. It’s the most ordinary sound, but here, now, it’s like a gunshot. My heart skips a beat before trying to thump out of my chest, and I’m frozen, caught between wanting to bolt and not knowing where to start.

Our car, our once safe little bubble, suddenly feels like a tin can in a microwave. I dart a look at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see some horror movie monster, but nope, just darkness.

“Brody,” I whisper, hoping he’ll suddenly come to and save the day. “Please, wake up. I need you.” He’s out, leaving me solo in our fight against Mr. Creepy.

His laughter slices through the tension, making my skin do that creepy-crawly thing. “What’s wrong, Ava? Scared speechless? Or are you just now realizing you’re in way over your head?”

I grip the key so tightly, it might become a permanent part of my hand. My brain’s doing somersaults, trying to figure a way out of this, but all I have is Mr. Creepy’s voice drilling into my brain like some twisted lullaby.

I steal another look at Brody, finding a sliver of comfort in his steady breathing. A mix of desperation and stubborn hope has me turning the key again, muttering every good luck charm under my breath like they are going to save me.

The engine gives a hopeful sputter and cough—a tiny spark of light in all this darkness, but is it enough? Each crunch of gravel under Mr. Creepy’s boots snuffs that spark out bit by bit.

Then comes the silence, thick with my pounding heart and his footsteps, slow and deliberate—a countdown to something I don’t want to know.

“Come on, Ava,” he taunts from somewhere too close, his words dripping with a sickly sweetness that sends shivers down my spine. “You don’t really think you can just escape, do you? This isn’t some game of tag. No, this is a twisted tango we’re meant to dance together.”

The key in my hand feels like my last tie to sanity. Every part of me is screaming to bolt, to run and never look back, but here I am, stuck in this nightmare with a guy who thinks we’re starring in some psycho thriller.

“Your mom,” he muses, his voice inching closer with each haunting syllable, “was quite the character. She was tough and unyielding—a lot like you. Her end was…tragic. A real shame.” The way he talks about her, like he’s reminiscing over coffee, sends a wave of nausea through me. How does he know her? What’s this game he’s playing?

“Here’s the kicker, Ava,” he purrs, his breath almost palpable against the nape of my neck, “I know who snuffed out her light. Yep. Just come out, take my hand willingly, and all the secrets will spill. Don’t you crave that, Ava? The truth about your mom’s final curtain call?”

I’m caught like a fish on a hook, torn between the bait of knowing and the gut feeling that it’s all a trap. The part of me starving for closure on Mom’s story nearly drowns out the alarms blaring in my head.

“This is bigger than a mere hunt, Ava. It’s destiny,” he declares, his presence now a shadow pressing against the fragile shield of the car. “Our paths are entwined, stitched together by fate herself. Your mom’s departure was merely the prologue to our grand play, and you, darling, are the lead.”

His footsteps pause, and I can almost feel him hovering outside, like a storm of malice waiting to burst. His insinuations about Mom, the implications that he’s woven into her story, ignite a wildfire within me. I want to tear out of this car and confront him, ending his vile game.

A sliver of sanity, a whisper of caution, keeps me grounded. Brody’s out cold, relying on me. I can’t dive headfirst into the hunter’s twisted fantasy and let him drag me out with his sick tales and darker promises.

“I’m not your puppet,” I spit out, more to convince myself than him. “You think you can rattle me, draw me out with your perverse bedtime stories, but I’m not playing. I’m staying put. You can’t touch me, and you’re not laying a finger on Brody.”

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