Page 39 of Property of Legend

And when her fingers brush mine again, I don’t let go.

Chapter 20

Sophie

The bonfire crackles like it’s telling secrets, and the whole damn world smells like bourbon, wood smoke, and sweat.I’m posted up in a camp chair with a mason jar of sweet tea that probably ain’t never seen a tea leaf, just a whole lotta Kentucky corn liquor.Around me, the Kings of Anarchy are full-on bullshittin', each man louder than the next.And of course, talk turns to the creature.

The one said to have killed our thoroughbred, back in the day, Midnight Glory.

"You remember what Legend saw that night," Oaks says, voice wobbly, like he’s tryin’ to spook someone."Said it was big.Real big.Eyes like coal fire.Damn near tore that horse in half."

Rye snorts."Only thing he saw that night was too much to drink for a kid his age."

"Nah," says Derby, shaking his head as he pokes the fire with a stick."I believe him.We was on a run down by Red River Gorge once, and I swear on my mama’s meatloaf, somethin’ big ran across the road.Bigger’n any deer.Bigger’n a damn bear."

Royal rolls his eyes from beneath his leather-brimmed hat, long black nails clicking against his bourbon glass."You country boys always blaming cryptids.Just admit y’all don’t understand basic biology."

"What in the hell’s a cryptid?"Vandal asks.

"Like the Pope Lick Monster," Wildcat says, grinning."That goat-man hybrid that lives under the railroad trestle and lures kids to their doom."

"Bullshit," hollers Bullet."That’s just your cousin Todd in a Halloween mask."

They all bust out laughing.

Lex, calm as ever, murmurs from his spot near the fire, "There’s somethin’ evil out there, boys.Always has been.Cain’t put it in a box, can’t shoot it.Just gotta know it’s there."

Whiskey adds, "Coulda been a wampus cat.My granddaddy swore one chased him back to the barn one night."

"That’s ‘cause your granddaddy was drunker’n a Baptist at a wet county picnic," Rye says.

"What about Mothman?"Critter pipes up, hopeful and wide-eyed.

Royal looks like he might actually combust."Mothman is from Point Pleasant, West Virginia.Geography, Critter.Damn."

“I’m still tellin’ y’all it was the Pope Lick Monster,” Wildcat swears, passing a mason jar of shine like it’s communion wine.“Lures folk in with that freaky whistle then flings ‘em off.”

“That’s a damn urban legend,” Oaks laughs, boots kicked up on a busted cooler.“City shit.This here’s the country.”

“Ain’t nobody seen that thing since your cousin Todd.”

“Todd saw somethin’.Might’ve been on mushrooms, but it was somethin’.”

Whiskey snorts.“Y’all always forget the scariest one, Bearilla.Big as a damn truck.They say it roams the hollers near Harlan, teeth like Bowie knives.Ate a whole moonshine still once.Left nothin’ but a boot and a busted radio.”

“Hell,” Oaks cuts in, tapping ash off his smoke.“That ain’t nothin’.My uncle swears he saw the Land Between the Lakes beast, big ol’ dog-man thing.Walks on two legs, fast as a four-wheeler, eyes like brake lights.Tore through a camper trailer in the eighties.Found claw marks twenty feet up a pine tree.”

Critter shivers.“I don’t mess with LBL.That’s cursed land.Government covered somethin’ up out there.”

“I heard the same,” Royal says, finally speakin’ up, his voice low and even, like someone reading your eulogy.“Whole town wiped out.One survivor.Wouldn’t speak, just kept drawin’ red eyes in her sketchbook till the day she died.”

We all go a little quiet after that.Royal’s nothin’ but a sceptic.

Then Holler, who ain’t said a word all night, pipes up.“My aunt’s third husband, he was a trucker, swore he hit a woman with hooves for feet just outside Bardstown.Said she left a dent in the bumper and the smell of sulfur in the cab.Wouldn’t drive at night again.”

“Oh, come on.”I laugh, but my skin prickles.“That sounds more like a Bourbon Trail groupie than a demon.”

“Same thing, ain’t it?”Bullet grins.

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