Page 37 of My Monster's Keeper
Her eyes are wide. Why is my age such an issue? You’d think of all the things I’ve told her. It would be fear of the courts, fear of my being, but, no, what’s got her messed up is my age.
Humans are strange creatures.
A small child flings itself into our path. She shrieks so loud my ears ring and moves to fly out onto the road. I catch her arm and lift her into the air. She peers up at me, her shrieking dying and her mouth opening wide.
“Do not run in front of the metal steeds,” I advise grimly.
Her mother approaches reluctantly, her eyes filled with fear. They sense something wrong with us. They’ve forgotten what we are, but they can still sense that there is something evil about us.
Becky doesn’t seem to feel that way, though. I shove the child into her mother’s arms and stalk after the woman who is currently holding all of my attention.
Just when I convince myself I feel nothing, she throws a glance over her shoulders, meeting my eyes straight on. Electricity sizzles my blood. I grind my teeth, resolved to ignore this unpleasant feeling until I can figure out what she has done to me and remove it for once and for all.
But perhaps I’m not the only one who feels this way. The nightmare has an expression on his face of intense concentration, and he is never more than a few steps away from her. I recall crawling into her bed, needing to know what she feels like, the silk of her hair, the scent of her skin. She is a spell, a distraction, and one I need to be free of as soon as possible.
Chapter 11
Becky
This is absurd. Every time I’m around them, I’m getting these ridiculous hot flushes, and my brain goes on temporary leave. I’ve tried hiding out in various rooms, but they always find me after a few minutes. I’ve checked myself for tracking devices and even stashed my phone just in case, but it seems they’ve honed in on the very scent of me and unerringly find their way to wherever the fuck I hide.
And there’s this thing I’ve noticed. They just smell so good. Stix smells like water over stone, Frost like an icy wind, Puppy like smoke and burning, and Wilder smells like a forest.
It’s the most bizarre thing, but I find myself wanting to lean in and just inhale and breathe those scents until they are part of me.
I pull out one of my knives and wipe the blade over with an oiled cloth. I turn it this way and that, inspecting it, and then put it carefully in the thick canvas weapon satchel I bought three years ago.
I’ve had it buried in backyards, stashing in lockers, it’s come everywhere with me. Giving it away had killed me.
Freddy had known that about me, but then, he grew up the same way Grant and I did.
I pull out another, longer wicked blade. It’s awkward in my hands, but it looks scary. This is the one I used to stop our new foster father from beating up Grant. I stare at the blade, falling into memories. The agony I’ve pushed aside rears back up, ripping open my chest, reminding me that I’ve lost something vital, telling me I should be bleeding from the pain, dying from it.
My brother is gone. My best friend, my brother in all the wars we survived. Just snuffed out like he was nothing.
He was everything.
To me.
I put the blade back in the bag and reach for my favourite. It’s about as long as my forearm with a thin blade. The handle isn’t ornate, it’s plain wood, but it fits into my hand like it was made to be there.
I’ve almost killed a man with this blade. A very bad man who shouldn’t be allowed to walk the streets. He liked to touch little children. It was the police officer that talked me down from throwing my life away. He told me about the process and what would happen to the creep inside a prison. He spared no details.
This cop with his big, friendly brown eyes had brought me back from my blind rage, shown me both our futures on both the paths I could take. My hand had gotten sore, and the knife had jerked a little, cutting the skin, allowing red, red blood to run in rivulets. He’d sobbed, cried, and shivered, completely weak in my hold, but my gaze was focused on the cop and his words.
Let the justice system give him what he deserves.
I’d been ridiculously enamoured with the dashing police officer. I’d ignored the cracks in the facade he’d painted. Those red flags, I’d just pretended they were green.
“That’s an interesting choice.”
I startle and glance at Frost leaning in my doorway. “It’s the one that feels right.”
He comes into the room and stops a foot away from me. “May I?”
I flip the knife around and hand it to him, handle first. He takes it and runs his fingers over the blade.
“Sharp, good weight, no flaws. It’s a suitable weapon.” He considers me for a moment. “But not enough. Not to protect you.”
