Page 196 of Three Reckless Words

Slowly, I clamber forward until I can just about make out the hive in the darkness.

It’s huge, built into a dark shape bigger than a tree. Some sort of ancient, half-collapsed shed or wooden hunting blind, I realize.

The air is thick with bees, and their loud droning echoes in my bones.

It reminds me of good things, of home, of Grandma, of Archer and his kisses, and it’s such a sweet relief I almost pass out.

But I won’t until I see them.

Closer, closer, until the noise surrounds me like dull static.

They’re dormant at night, but a few lazy blind bees tangle in my hair, landing on my arms before lifting off again.

I don’t care.

This is the miracle I needed.

Almost all the light has bled out now and we’re well into gloom and shadows.

My hand shakes as I reach the side of the shed, peeling back a piece of rotted board to take a piece of the honeycomb.

The buzzing turns deafening and the bees sound angry.

They really don’t like bandits coming for their goods at night.

Crap. I need to get out of here soon or I might win the most ironic death ever.

Even if I’m friendly, to them I’m a threat, and there’s nothing to protect me if they get riled up enough to attack.

No, they can’t see well in the dark, but a few hundred drones will find their target if I’m right on top of them.

Grunting with effort, I work quickly, breaking off a small chunk of honeycomb to take.

“I’m sorry, guys. You know I’ll get you back someday, I promise.”

The buzzing intensifies. A few bees flit past my head like screaming bullets.

But I stagger backward, retreating, whispering more apologies.

Maybe they’re still about as exhausted as I am from having fled their hives and built up busy new ones. Or maybe it’s just the dark.

Either way, they don’t chase me into the night.

I’m clumsy, though.

It takes too long to put some healthy distance between me and the hive. Finally, after a few parting stings for my trouble, I stumble off to safety.

I set the honeycomb on my lap and rip a couple leftover stingers out of my skin.

My fingers are sausages. I have to try several times before they’re out.

Six pulsing stings add to the cacophony of pain bouncing around my body. But I have the honeycomb, and that means I have precious food that won’t upset my stomach. A little sugar, simple to digest, which hopefully means the energy to avoid passing out.

When I run my tongue cautiously across it, I make another discovery—one which means almost as much as the bees.

This has to be the purple honey.

It’s too dark to see it, but the taste gives it away even before I notice that dim telltale glow.

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