Page 72 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“No,” I say with a sudden fierceness. “I’ll go get it.”
He looks at me, eyes hooded by concern. “Alice, I think it’s best?—”
“Swap guns with me,” I say, raising my eyebrow at him. “I’ll be fine.” I’m struck with a burning desire to prove to him that I can handle this life. That even with hellhounds still prowling, I can go grab ice from out back. How is this ever going to work if he feels like he’s gotta keep an eye on me every second of every day? That’s not sexy. Or practical.
Wyatt watches me, saying nothing, though I can see worry etched around the corners of his eyes.
“How am I gonna live here if you’re afraid something’s gonna grab me every time I’m out of your sight?” I ask him after a few beats of silence, crossing my arms.
He lets out a long sigh, dragging one hand through his hair. “Not every night is Samhain,” he replies slowly. “With the Hunt passin’ through.”
I pull my rifle strap over my shoulder and hold it out. “Hand it over,” I say, gesturing to his iron bullet-loaded rifle. “It’s right out back.”
With a little smile, Wyatt relents, something in his shoulders releasing. We swap guns as I beam triumphantly at him the entire time. I need him to know I’m not going anywhere. Something tells me that weighs on him a little too heavily. I want to make his burdens lighter, not become one.
“Be careful, sweet girl,” he tells me.
I stand up on my tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips, and then I turn and jog down the stairs. I take a tight turn into the alley, passing the little park. Out back, a streetlight illuminates a gravel parking area, hemmed by a side street and a fence that just barely holds back the dark of the woods.
Beside a massive lilac bush, an icebox is tucked up against the cedar shake siding, its old-fashioned advertisement faded. I sweep my eyes around the perimeter, taking a deep breath. Nosulfur. No strange lights. No delicate finger of dread tracing a chill up my back.
I slide the rifle around by the strap so it’s resting on my back and then trudge toward the icebox. With a grunt, I slide it open and reach inside. I’ve just wrapped my fingers around a bag when my skin prickles, like someone’s watching me. Setting my jaw, I yank the bag out and whirl around to face the parking lot.
There’s only darkness. I let out a sharp breath, reminding myself that just on the other side of the wall at my back, Wyatt’s probably picking out marshmallows and Mrs. Cheng is ready to throw down with her bottle of faesbane. I put the bag of ice on the ground for a second, pressing my cold hands to my face.
“Easy, Alice,” I whisper to myself, waiting for my heart to stop beating so fast. But if anything, the uneasiness intensifies, my skin gone clammy under my sweater. I’m about to grab for the handle of my rifle when someone steps out of the shadows and into the streetlight.
The fucking Sector agent from Lucky’s. The one who looks like my grandma. The one who claims to be Cookie.
She’s in a different—but still stupid—suit, ugly shoes crunching on the gravel as she walks over to me. Look, I know she’s human, and Fallon was pretty clear that we do our best to only shoot Them, not people, but I’m fucking exhausted. I grab for my rifle and level the muzzle at her.
“I didn’t know we were on such bad terms,” the agent laughs. Her smile is like my grandma’s—but only in the sense that Sector might’ve peeled my Nan’s face off her skull and made a mask out of it.
I scowl. “Thought you’d clear out of here after the Hunt went through.”
She’s annoyingly calm despite the fact that I’m literally pointing a gun at her. Tucking her hands in her pockets, she comes to a stop a few steps from me, smiling up into the sky asif there’s some inside joke I missed. When her eyes finally meet mine, they’re ice-cold.
“We have multiple interests, Alice,” she says. “The Hunt is one of them, yes.” Watching me closely, she pauses and then takes another step forward.
“Nope,” I say, my finger curling around the trigger. “No closer.”
She stares at me with a hard expression, like she’s trying to gauge whether or not I’ll actually shoot a person. To be honest, I’m not sure, but if there’s any reason to do it, it’d be for Blackbird Hollow. For Wyatt.
“You are right about one thing,” she says, infuriatingly casual. “My team is headed out soon. And we’d like you to come with us.”
Moments pass slowly, my exhausted mind trying to make sense of her words. “What?” I finally sputter. “Are you fucking insane?”
She spreads her hands, making me jump, but there’s only open palms and a false imitation of peace. “Our offer,” Not-Cookie says, “was for you to stay enrolled at OrthCon in the Alien Biologies Program.”
“Kinda hard since aliens aren’t even fucking real, you hag,” I spit, my balance regained. I think about yelling for Wyatt, but this agent ismyproblem. I’m clearly what brought her here. So I’ll handle it. I owe the Hayes that, at the very least. “If you people cared so much about me staying there, you probably shouldn’t have let me get expelled.”
Not-Cookie lets out an exasperated sigh. “The point is that you’re not enrolled,” she says, her mouth curling into something almost…maniacal. “Which means we can do whatever we want to you. Per the termsyouagreed to, might I remind you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Babe, remind me—which one of us has the gun right now?”
The Sector agent who looks too much like my grandma, who claims to be one of the only friends I’ve ever had, drops all pretense of even being a goddamn person in one fell swoop. The second those words leave my mouth, her entire expression changes, and she steps back, bringing her fingers to her lips and letting out a short, harsh whistle.
To my horror, two—then three, then four—besuited agents creep out of the shadows surrounding the parking lot.
