Page 43 of Blood Queen

She exhales, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

I arch a brow. “So he only hits you when you deserve it?”

Lucia flinches, just barely, but I catch it. She glares at me, but there’s something tired in her eyes that says she’s too used to this. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”

She shakes her head, reaching for a piece of bread, tearing it apart like it’s personally offended her. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

None of us do. That’s the unspoken truth.

“Why do you admire me?” I ask, not bothering to soften the words.

Lucia looks up sharply, eyes flashing. “Why wouldn’t I? You get to be something. You get to be someone. My father—he groomed me to be a good wife, a goodpawn. Your uncle made you a real part of the family.”

I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the dim lighting. “You think that’s better?”

Lucia leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “I think it means you get to fight back.”

A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy with what neither of us say. She’s right about one thing. At least I get to carve my own way out.

“I suppose you’re right. But being right has consequences.”

She eyes me warily as our lunches are set down in front of us. “What does that mean?”

“It means I was never here.”

26

Past

Truman goes home. Says his parents won’t be okay with him spending two nights away.

Says that he’ll stop at the library later and see if there’s more to print off and go over. Find out more about Marcy. The sight of him walking away does funny things to my gut. I busy myself with the chickens and goats, purposely avoiding the matted grass where Papa’s body last was.

In the ruckus of the barn, I let myself break down. The goats circle me, crying out alongside me. They nudge and prod at me with their snouts, uncertain what to make of me.

I clean up the cabin. Read some of the articles on my own, anger growing with each new word I read. Anger at these families. These monstrous people who commit heinous acts. The emotion festers inside me. I’m flushed and dizzy, my chest tight with it. I want to strip from them what they’ve stripped from me. And I could, couldn’t I?

Isn’t this what Papa trained me for? To be ruthless and cunning? Don’t I have the skills to fit right into their life? Right under their noses and secure my revenge from inside their world?

A headache worms itself into my temples.

By the evening, the sky is a bruise of purples and grays. My head throbs in rhythm with the crickets’ chirps, mocking me with their persistent song. I try to eat a cold dinner, knowing I need to keep my strength up for whatever comes next. Knowing Papa would insist I be disciplined enough to not let my anger get the better of me.

Darkness settles over the cabin like a heavy quilt. With it comes a thick loneliness that fills up the small space, spilling into every corner. I turn on the radio and let its tuned-out buzz keep me company while I straighten the papers, scanning them once more.

I find myself wishing for Truman, seemingly my only ally, only outlet in all of this grief and anger.

Sleep eludes me.

I get up before sunlight finds the horizon, making lists in my head about what needs doing—what comes after chicken feed and goat milk? How far am I willing to take this? I make myself something to eat.

Outside, a dull yellow grows above the trees when I hear footsteps through the open windows. My heart lurches before my brain can catch up. A figure emerges from the brush, breathing hard.

I grab the pistol, check to make sure it’s loaded and that the safety is off.

Truman holds up his hands in surrender when I push open the door, gun aimed at his chest.

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