Page 52 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
Clutching the pistol to my chest—where it’ll do a ton of good; great job, Alice—I tilt my chin back in what feels like slow motion, looking up at the cabin’s roof. Indents punch into the metal, like something heavy is crouched above our heads. Wyatt notices at the same time, his entire body preternaturally still as he takes in the situation with an emotionless expression.
The truck creaks, the cabin rocking again. Sulfur chokes me. “Is it…” I whisper as quietly as I can, pointing at the roof. He doesn’t turn my way, but he gives me a sharp nod. Summoning my bravery, I let out a long breath and then, slowly as I can, set the pistol down on the bench seat between us.
That gets his attention. Wyatt’s eyes meet mine as the cabin roof groans beneath the weight of what I presume is a hellhound. “Bullets,” he whispers, lifting his chin in the direction of the glove compartment.
“They didn’t want to hurt us at Caden’s,” I tell him in a low, strained voice.
He narrows his eyes at me in confusion. When he understands, his gaze widens, but he doesn’t look at me like I’m completely insane—which, honestly, I wouldn’t blame him for in this scenario. I’m going off a hell of a hunch, and nobody likes testing a hunch in real time.
“But the redcaps would’ve,” he whispers. God, I love how quickly this man can put the pieces together. And from his demonstration, I’m also fairly confident he’s gonna be good at making me orgasm. Two points for Wyatt.
“So what’s therealthreat?” I reply, trying not to think about how close I was to coming for him, because it sort of seems like we should deal with the otherworldly creature first. It’s the hedgerider way of life, I’m learning.
Wyatt leans forward onto the dash, careful to keep away from the windshield, though I’m pretty sure the terrifying beast straight out of folklore knows we’re in the truck. I search the parking lot, too, fighting against the glare of the setting sun.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Wyatt. Do you see them?”
“Sure do,” he replies. “Ten o’clock.”
Across the parking lot—it’s more eleven o’clock to me, but whatever—is a dark SUV with tinted windows. I can’t make out the license plate from here, but I’d be willing to bet even Caden wouldn’t be able to run ’em. About fifteen or twenty paces ahead of the SUV, and moving toward us fast, are four Sector agents. Well, I assume they’re Sector despite their entirely innocuous appearances that, quite frankly, I would’ve never been able todiscern from the general populace of Blackbird Hollow. But something gives them away pretty easily.
The guns.
Not hunters’ rifles or even the big rock-salt shotguns the Hayes give out to the more reasonable locals this time of year. No—fuckingmachine guns, half the size of the people wielding them. My mind goes blank, my mouth dry, my heart throwing itself against the cage of my ribs.
Last time I saw guns like that was back on my grandparents’ farm. The government isn’t even supposed tohaveweapons like this anymore, not after the Treatise and then the Reformation.
But their sights are trained on us all the same.
“Wyatt,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Bullets, Alice.”
“Right, right,” I say, shuffling through the glove compartment with both hands. Before I manage to locate the ammo, the cabin creaks, and then the entire truck shakes. A loud, metallic bang rings out, and for a long, terrifying moment, I’m pretty sure one or both of us has been shot.
But I’m wrong—so deeply wrong. Instead, there’s a hellhound crouched on the hood of Wyatt’s truck. The setting sun gilds the unnatural arch of its spine and turns the dripping pools of its saliva into molten gold. The sound of its growl—slithering and raw, unlike the sound of any earthly mammal—slinks into my ears. Dread rattles me. Until I realize the hellhound is facing away from us, placing itself between us and Sector. Almost like it’s…
“Have I fucking lost it?” I whisper.
“Nah,” Wyatt replies, though he’s still loading the pistol’s chamber. “Well, maybe a little. But no. The hellhound seems to beprotectingus.”
“Huh,” I say, blinking slowly. “That sure wasn’t on my bingo card.”
Chapter 24
Wyatt
It’s cold comfort, but even with the fancy guns Sector’s packing, they don’t stand a chance against the hellhound on the hood of my truck. Problem is, neither do we—the pistol’s not gonna be much help, and there’s no way I can get to the rifles fast enough to do much good if Sector opens fire. I can’t remember the last time I was caught so unaware.
I can, but I don’t want to. This is what happens. This is why they leave.
I asked Alice to go for the ammo to give her something to do while I assess our situation, but I’m coming up blank. The place in my brain where I’d usually have strategy on strategy and already be moving onto action is full up on fear. Fear that we’ve gotten ourselves tangled in something bigger than I want Alice—or myself—involved in.
Sector doesn’t hunt the Hunt. Sector doesn’t fuck with Them, or us. They just watch, useless and impotent. Theymonitor the situation. Their definition of monitoring is a touch more active than mine. I assume they’re still running experiments on Them in their black sites. They did before Reformation, andjust because they were supposed to stop doesn’t mean they did. We’ve always assumed they just got quieter about it.
But something’s different now. My mind goes straight to Alice. Of course it does—because she’s so godsdamn special to me, of course I assume she’s that special to them, too. And after Mr. Rabbit, I’ve gotta wonder.
The little plushie was clean, but he hadn’t been just before Alice left the city. My heart rate increases as all the possibilities of what’s going on here run through my head.
