Page 28 of The Hunting Moon
“Growing up, my brother was an EMT near a nasty stretch of highway where people were always going too fast. He was a first responder at so many accidents. Bad ones where the drivers or their families or their dogs did not survive. And after every wreck like that, he and his partners would go gorge themselves at a twelve-dollar pizza buffet two exits down.”
Winnie’s stomach flips. “Oh god.”
“Exactly.” Ms. Morgan’s lips press tight. “It sounds disgusting. And you know what else sounds disgusting? Corpse duty. My point is, Winnie, that I don’t think most people here are in denial. The forest is violent and awful—and so is the rest of the world beyond Hemlock Falls. People die, sometimes in horrific ways, and the only way to really deal with that is to switch off your empathy switch and eat a lot of pizza.”
Winnie bites her lip. On the one hand, she gets what Ms. Morgan is saying—she really does. Sheknowspeople have to compartmentalize, and sheknowsthat until recently, she herself was good at doing so. But what Winnie can’t figure out is why she has lost that ability. Why her thoughts spiral every day and she can’t stand to hear another person howl in her direction.
Culture runs thicker than blood,she thinks,except apparently for me.Aloud though, she simply says, “Thanks, Ms. Morgan.”
“Any time,” the non teacher replies. “I’m always on your side, Winnie, and always here if you need me.”
The first thing that happens when everyone reaches the Sunday estate for afternoon training is—as Ms. Morgan promised—the werewolf test. While a few students grumble in line outside the Sunday auditorium, most people are just glad to miss class and ready to get their pokes over with.
Since Winnie hitched a ride with her friends, she spends the majority of her time in line with Emma, Bretta, and Fatima. It’s a nice reprieve after the morning that lasted a century; her brain can switch off and simply revel in Fatima’s descriptions of her Masquerade Ball costume. (She is going as a siren, complete with glossy scales.)
Unfortunately, when they reach the double doors into the auditorium, Winnie gets separated from her friends.So close,she thinks as she watches them hurry toward tables and lab-coated Mondays bustling in front of the stage. Winnie wants to sprint after them, but Headmaster Gina isrightthere, her wheelchair locked in position by the doors while a walkie-talkie fuzzes every few minutes with aSend in three more!message.
Winnie doesn’t need to excel in math to see that she is now stuck outside alone. Although her solitude doesn’t last long before Casey and Peter sidle up beside her.
“Hey, Wolf Girl.” Casey leans against a locker next to Winnie. The banner for the Sundays hangs silently above, its swan glaring down in barely masked hatred.
Or maybe that’s just Winnie projecting.
“That was some badass footage from the forest,” Casey says. “The werewolfanda manticore.”
Compartmentalize, compartmentalize.Winnie inhales. Exhales. “Thanks,” she grinds out.
“You got a date to the Masquerade yet?”
Winnie chokes.
“We do not,” Peter inserts, leaning on Winnie’s other side.
Do not punch them, Winnie. Compartmentalize.She inhales again—except now Peter’s cologne sears up her nose. She starts coughing.
Rather than ask if she’s okay, though, Casey just lifts his voice: “You could go with one of us,” he suggests. “Or…” He flips his hair with a hand. “You could just go withme.”
Winnie’s eyes have teared up from the coughing. She yanks off her glasses, blurring both horrible boys into impressionist versions of themselves. If only she could now make them totally disappear.
Amazingly, Winnie of four years ago would have been flattered by such open Luminary approval. And pre-trial Winnie too, who wouldn’t have known yet how jarring her return to the Luminaries would feel. After all, all these people were just following the rules on outcasts, right?
But now, no matter how far Winnie tips her head to the side and squints without her glasses on, she just can’t seem to make herself feel anything other than disdain.
Do not punch him, Winnie. Do not punch him.Headmaster Gina is literally right there.
“No,” a voice calls out, sharp as icicles. “Winnie will not go with you.” Heels clack over wood, and suddenly Erica Thursday has arrived. She pins Casey with a thin-eyed stare—not quite a glare, but certainly not warm either.
Winnie pushes her glasses back on, and Erica’s glorious avenging angel form crystallizes.
“Winnie will not go with you to the Masquerade, Casey. Nor you, Peter. And you”—Erica flings her dark gaze onto Wyatt Saturday, who is on Casey’s other side and oblivious to this whole exchange—“come here. We’re all going into the auditorium together.”
Wyatt hops to attention as if Erica were a drill sergeant. Then, perfectly timed, the walkie-talkie in Gina’s hand snaps on.Send up three more!
Winnie doesn’t need to be told twice. She shoves off the lockers, falls into step beside Erica, while Wyatt hurries behind them. Winnie has never considered herself someone who needed rescuing, but she willgladlyplay Damsel in Distress if it means the Ice Queen will talk to her.
And talk to her Erica does, as their strides match cadence toward the front of the room. “They’re assholes,” Erica says, and that little almost smile Winnie saw her wear at the party now returns.
It’s awesome.
