Page 8 of The Women of Wild Hill
Ed glanced up. “No storms in the forecast,” he said.
“Like that means anything these days,” Phoebe replied.
“True,” Ed agreed. He’d come to stand over the body. “What the hell happened to him?”
“He pulled a gun on me, and Petunia sat on him,” Phoebe replied. “I never touched a hair on his head.”
Ed nodded and scratched at his stubble. “I assume we got footage of it all?”
“Yep.” Phoebe pointed up at the nearest camera.
Ed looked all around. “Where’s the pig? I should probably thank her.”
“She ran off when I told her I hadn’t changed my mind about Brigid.”
“After she saved your ass? Damn, you’re stubborn.”
The sky darkened dramatically, and they heard the ping of a hailstone on the homestead’s tin roof.
“I’m thinking we should probably table this conversation and seek shelter,” Phoebe said.
“Anyone else here?” Ed asked.
“Nope, it’s just us right now.”
Ed lifted his eyebrows. “Feel like going down to the cellar?”
Phoebe grinned. “I sure do.”
Ed and Phoebe headed for the wooden doors beside the old homestead that led into the house’s root cellar. Back in the old days, before all the renovations were finished and their daughter was born, the cellar had been one of the few places that stayed cool in the summers. She and Ed had spent many an afternoon down there over the years. Phoebe waited at the bottom of the stairs while he closed the reinforced trapdoors and secured them with the heavy iron bars. Then she felt his hands cup her face and his lips meet her own. Outside, the wind had begun to wail.
“Sounds like something big is coming,” Ed whispered in her ear. “Maybe you should have married me when you had the chance.”
“Such a shame,” Phoebe said. “But at least we won’t die with a pig’s butt in our face.”
“Thank heaven for small favors,” Ed drawled.
Outside, the storm howled, but the cellar doors held tight. Twenty minutes later, the din died down. They lay naked on the floor, covered in stale cellar dirt and staring up at the trapdoors. A thin sliver of light cut across the floor beside them. The storm was over and the sun had come out.
When they opened the doors, the first thing Phoebe saw was the sea of bluebells, which had survived unscathed. Only problem was, she shouldn’t have been able to see them at all.
“Guess we don’t need to worry about the body.” Ed pointed tothe spot where Curtis had lain. There was no trace of him or his truck now. The tornado had whisked both away.
“Gonna save a lot on the electric bill, too,” Phoebe added. The house was gone as well. Whatever had passed over them had ripped it right off its foundation. There was nothing left—not a single shard of glass or chip of paint.
A long silence followed. It wasn’t the first time Phoebe had lost everything.
“Dammit,” Phoebe finally said.
“What are you thinking?” Ed asked.
“I’m thinking I should have listened to the goddamned pig. The Old One isn’t taking no for an answer. I have to go back to Wild Hill.”
The Schism
An Unlikely Pair
It was 1983, and Brigid and Phoebe Duncan were building a castle on a beach in California when a seven-year-old neighbor marched up with an announcement he’d clearly been dying to make.
