Page 15 of Wilde's End
I refuse to be scared though, and I punch my pillow as I roll over and put my back to the window, falling into fitful dreams about killer cats and Viking men riding them.
There’s something about the sun that reaches into your soul and clears out any lingering worry. Morning comes around, and already, last night’s visit feels like something I might have imagined, which makes the decision my subconscious came to so much easier to handle.
When I told Wilde we’re not leaving, I meant it.
There’s a chill on the air like there always is before the sun is high enough to heat the town, and a low haze of fog hugs the trees around us. I don’t think that will ever not be creepy, and as I sit by our makeshift stove, I study both sides of the street for movement.
I blow on my mug of bitter coffee as the twins emerge, first Kennedy and then Hart, summoned by the smell of caffeine.
Kennedy pauses by one of the camp chairs, hands on hips as he looks toward the forest like I was doing, while Hart brushes by him like last night never happened.
“Good to see you’re both alive,” he says snidely.
“Right back at you.” I refuse to let him get to me. “While I’m in town, I’ll make sure I pick up some guns.”
Hart’s attention snaps to me from across the table, and surprise fills Kenny’s face.
“Guns?” Kennedy asks, breaking first.
“Yeah. We need a way to defend ourselves, and that seems the most practical.”
Hartwell ignores me in favor of his coffee.
Kennedy rounds the burner to take the chair closest to me. “But none of us know how to shoot.”
“Good thing we have all this room for practice.”
“Practice for what? Shootingpeople?”
It’s not something I’m comfortable with either, but if my life is at risk, I doubt I’d need more incentive than that. “I thought you wanted to stay here.”
“I do.”
“Then we need to come to terms with the fact there are things living out here that aren’t friendly. Not just people. Wild animals too.”
His fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his knee. “Right. Okay.”
“You know,” Hart says lazily, “I’m beginning to feel like this Wilde guy doesn’t exist. You bring some shrooms with you, brother? And you’re not sharing?”
The low blow is supposed to get under my skin, and with the way Kennedy’s face reddens, he’s ready to jump immediately to my defense. I haven’t touched anything since I was hospitalized in high school, and Hart doesn’t need to know that his comment was dangerously close to the reason I wanted to get away in the first place.
I stand slowly and move to settle in front of him. He’s not expecting my bright smile. “That supposed to annoy me?”
“It’s a valid question.”
“If it was fifteen years ago, maybe.”
He blinks hooded eyes up at me, and I stare him down.
“Are we going to have issues?” I ask.
“Oh, I think we’re way past that.”
“You signed up for this too,” I remind him. “You could have said no.”
“Why? It’s not like you ever listen to a damn thing I say.”
Getting a rise out of him doesn’t feel as good as it should. Instead, it sets my teeth on edge. “Because you never have anything productive to say. All you do is bitch.”
