Stalk the Moon

by Jessica Lynch

  After dinner, Hunter cleans up our mess while I wander around his cozy cabin. He tries again to cajole me into taking a bath, arguing that once the sun dips below the trees, no one will be able to watch me. When I point out that I don’t want to a) bathe in the dark or b) freeze my tits off in the cold water, he offers to light the stove again so that I have light and warmth.

  It’s impossible to turn him down. Not the tub—I refuse to strip and climb into that monstrosity. Warm water and some soap? Yes, please.

  I don’t know what feels better: scrubbing my hands clean in the ceramic bowl or splashing my face when he refills it with fresh water. I’m still wearing my nightgown beneath the leather cloak, and my deodorant ran out yesterday, but I’m feeling a lot more comfortable when Hunter kills the fire, leaving us standing together with only the moonlight for company.

  My fingers itch. Maybe because the tips are clean, though there was nothing I could do about the ground-in dirt and blood trapped beneath my nails. Rising up on my toes, I stretch my hands up over my head, reaching for the trees. I tip my chin back, smiling at the moon.

  “Beautiful.”

  His voice is so low, I don’t know if I heard him right. “What?” Settling on the soles of my sandals, I glance up at Hunter. “You say something?”

  He coughs. It’s not so dark that I miss the way he was staring at me—or how quickly he looks away. “The moon. It’s beautiful, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never really paid it much attention before, but it is. It looks bigger here, too.”

  “‘Course she does. Because, after all this time, she’s whole again.”

  It seems right, thinking of the moon as a her. But the rest of what he murmurs in that low, accented voice of his—

  I cock my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  For a second, I think that Hunter is going to tell me. He opens his mouth, his pale eyes twinkling brightly in the silvery gleam of the moonlight, before he gives his head a shake. His lips press together, a small frown tugging them downwards.

  “Come on.” With a gentle touch, Hunter takes my elbow. I feel the jolt all the way through me. “Today’s been rough, and tomorrow promises to be no better. Time for bed, darlin’.”

  There’s only one bed in the cabin. I noticed it during my quick exploration earlier and knew it would be mine. I’m right. Nothing I do or say changes Hunter’s mind. When I offer to make up a little nest on the floor so that he can rest his shoulder in the bed, he looks so horrified at my suggestion that I take the blanket he hands me and climb up on the bed without another word.

  It’s not as nice and fluffy as the fleece that got me into this mess in the first place, but it’s thick and warm and smells more like Hunter than weird deerskin. After shedding my cloak, I wrap myself up in the blanket, nuzzle my nose in its folds, and immediately drift off to sleep.

  My dream is friggin' weird.

  I’m running, dashing through the trees, moonlight streaming down in silvery streaks that flash against raindrops. It’s windy, gusts carrying me forward as I sprint faster than I’ve ever gone before. I’m wearing a pair of boots that feel like they’ve been molded for my feet. My sandals are gone. So is my cloak.

  My ruined nightgown? I’m not wearing it. Instead, the hem of my pristine tunic flares and falls at my knees. My legs shine, a silver gleam that echoes the moonlight. There’s a bow strapped over my shoulder, the end tucked securely in place. I’d rather lose my hand than lose my bow.

  A large shadow races beside me. I feel content, knowing that it belongs to a companion, never a threat. I can’t see his face. I don’t need to. Apart from my brother, he’s the only male that I love. And I love him in a way that’s so very, very different from my brother.

  In my dream, I know his name. And I laugh, joyously, as I call for him, sprinting through the night, aware that he’s one of the only ones who could keep up with me during the hunt.

  I wake up shortly after dawn, like the sun is my own personal alarm clock. The dream is a hazy vision in the back of my mind. For a few seconds, I remember my running partner and struggle to reach for his name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, so close until it all slips away.

  Frustrated, I slap the flats of my hands against my bed. It hurts. My mattress is way harder than it should be.

  My eyes spring open.

  The mattress is hard because it’s not my mattress. Hunter’s cabin. Right. How could I have forgotten?

  Hunter’s pallet is empty. He made himself a place to sleep out of an extra blanket and some spare hides. Giving me my space, he laid it in the furthest corner of the small cabin. The pallet looks mussed so I’m going to assume he got some sleep before rising early. A quick squint through the early morning gloom shows that he’s already gone.

  I’m not too worried. He wouldn’t go too far.

  Shoving my blanket back, I climb out of the bed. My nightgown must have gotten all twisted up while I slept because half of my right boob is almost popping out. Touching this smelly, dirty nightie is the last thing I want to do after scouring my hands clean last night but since I’m also not okay with giving Hunter a peep show, I pinch the grimy fabric and tug until I’m decent.

  I tuck the flat of my knife under the band of my underwear for safe-keeping because I’m not letting that thing get too far away from me. Then, grabbing my cloak from the floor and swinging it back on, I go looking for my companion.

  I freeze, hands at my throat as I do up the button on my cloak. Companion. Why the hell did that word pop in my head? And why did just thinking it make my stomach sink?

  Shake it off, Noelle. With a rush of air, I shove that weird feeling to the side. Focus. Okay.

  Right. Today’s the day I’m going to find Hunter’s portal and go back home. In a couple of hours or more, I’ll be home, taking a marathon shower and gleefully cleaning up whatever mess Dudley’s made since I’ve been gone.

  I can’t wait.

  After walking around to the back of the cabin, I find Hunter fiddling with the big stove, his back to me. My mood immediately perks up, a pep in my step as I head over to him. If he’s at the stove, maybe that means he’s working on breakfast. I sure hope so. I’m starving again.

  I take a deep breath. Whatever he’s cooking, it smells so, so good. And the familiarity of it knocks some of my unease aside. Another sniff and I’m positive.

  That’s fucking bacon.

  It’s almost impossible to keep a moan from slipping out so I don’t even try.

  He doesn’t hear me coming. The moan, though? Hunter definitely heard that.

  His head jerks up, a touch of wonder on his face as he glances over his shoulder at me. A hint of his dimple before he ducks his head again. “Mornin’.”

  I wave his greeting aside. This is way more important. “Are you cooking bacon?”

  “Wha— uh, yeah. Got some bacon and eggs goin’ for breakfast. Hungry?”

  He has to ask? Hunter’s been stuck with me for two, almost three days now. He should’ve known better by now.

  “Is that really bacon? Seriously? Oh my god, Hunter, I could kiss you.”

  Not gonna lie. For bacon? I’d do a hell of a lot more than kiss the man. And I’m not even trying to fool myself into believing that I need a reason to make a move. At least bacon is a damn good one.

  A rosy glow touches his cheeks as his dimples pop. He almost looks… embarrassed? “Thank ya kindly, darlin’. Just know that I wouldn’t say no to that.”

  I let that darling slide. “Is it almost done?”

  “Grab the plates.”

  “Plates?”

  Hunter points beyond the stove. “On the table.”

  Hell if I know where that wooden table came from. It wasn’t there last night when we ate the venison stew, I’m sure of it. It’s here now, though. Maybe five feet past the stove, it’s a small, round table with a pair of matching stools. A pitcher of water—at least, I hope it’s water—sits in the center of the table. He’s alread
y set the two places with his metal plates, plus an empty glass, a fork, and a knife at each setting.

  If I squint a little, I can pretend I’m about to have a cozy breakfast at some rustic, outdoor café. It’s actually kind of nice.

  I bring the two plates over to the stove. After taking them, Hunter shoos me back toward the table. “I’ll bring the food over. You take a seat, darlin’. We’re gonna have a long day ahead of us. Rest while you can.”

  He’s not wrong. And I’m lying if I say it bothers me to have him so willing to wait on me. I could get used to it. I might already be.

  Shit.

  I shake my head. Hunter’s done too much and I have to remember that, in the end, there’s always a bill to pay. What happens if I can’t?

  I reach out for Hunter’s elbow, trying to take the plates from him. “I can do it. Let me.”

  We’re close enough that he can’t hide his wince when I grab him. Did I hurt him? How? He’s like twice my size and—

  “Oh, god, Hunter. I’m so sorry.” I immediately let go of him. “Your shoulder’s got to be killing you still and I jerked your whole damn arm.”

  “It’s fine.” He clears his throat, turning his attention back to the stove. “Sit, Noelle. Please.”

  I nearly trip in my rush to get back to the table. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? How could I have forgotten his injury? It’s a miracle he’s up and about, not to mention cooking breakfast for me.

  I try to apologize again as Hunter brings the two loaded plates over to the table. He cuts me off with a quick shake of his head. “No more sorry’s, remember? Besides, I’m fine.”

  Ignoring the enticing smell of the plate in front of me is pretty easy at the moment. My stomach is churning again. “You didn’t see what your back looked like, Hunter. You can’t be fine.”

  “I am. In fact, I barely notice it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He nudges the fork closer to me. “Honest, darlin’.”

  “That arrow tore right through you. I’d still be crying if that happened to me.”

  Something flashes in his eyes as he says softly, “And so would I.”

  My stomach flutters again, a nervous twitch that suddenly has nothing to do with guilt. I blink, not sure if I imagined the look, or heard something in his soft tone that he didn’t mean. I hesitate for a second, then say his name.

  It’s as far as I get before Hunter shakes his head. “Forget it. I shoulda told you that my pain tolerance is awful high. That’s why it don’t bother me now. I’ve had worse happen. A lot worse.” His expression is entirely closed now as he picks up the fork and gently—yet insistingly—places it against my fingers. “So don’t worry about me none. Now eat before it gets cold.”

  I know better than to push it. As much as I’m dying to know what could’ve happened to Hunter that’s worse than getting shot by an arrow, I don’t ask. I owe him that much at least.

  Breakfast is a quiet affair, the silence only broken by the scrape of the utensils against the metal plates. He heaped a ton of food on them both, and I can’t help noticing that the bacon pile on my plate is more of a mountain while his is a hill. I gotta give him points for that. It’s delicious.

  Without giving me a chance to offer to help, he clears the table and disappears around the side of the cabin. I lick the bacon grease off my fingers as I wait for him to come back.

  Hunter isn’t gone for long. A couple of minutes maybe. He’s wearing his cloak when he returns, the hood draped down his back. His hands are hidden behind him.

  “All done?” he asks.

  If he has more bacon, I’d totally eat it. Since I don’t want to look like an absolute piglet, I nod.

  “Good. I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

  Oh, no. Not again. “That’s okay. I think you’ve given me enough already.”

  He holds one empty hand out in front of him. “Hear me out. I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ since yesterday. First there was the archer, then Maron. I might not always be able to protect you the way I’d like. I’d feel better knowin’ you could do it yourself.”

  While we ate, I kept my weapon on my lap. Slipping my hand under my cloak, I pull it out and show it to Hunter. “I’ve already got my knife,” I remind him.

  “That’s true, except now you know that my enemy favors arrows over steel. I was thinkin’ that you might, too. Anything to keep you safe.” His whole face darkens. “Olympus knows I wasn’t able to protect you on my own. You’d be better off without me.”

  For a second there, his Southern accent is gone. The drawl vanishes, replaced by a harsh rasp that causes a chill to skitter up and down my spine. He’s suddenly so serious, so solemn, that I purposely try to keep the conversation light. I hadn’t forgotten how quick Hunter had been to try to run me off after he got shot. He’s not getting rid of me that easily.

  “You know,” I say, hearing the cheekiness in my own voice, “it sort of sounds like you’re breaking up with me or something. You’re not about to send me out on my own while you sprint off in the opposite direction, are you?”

  That… might’ve been the wrong thing to say to him.

  An angry flicker dances across his face. Hunter’s eyes seem bright and, for a second there, he looms. When he speaks, his words vibrate with promise. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, darlin’. For as long as you let me, I’m gonna be right by your side. But I’ve been foolin’ the both of us if I thought you wouldn’t be a target, one way or another. You’re too important.”

  The snort escapes me before I can swallow it. “Please. Important? Me? I’m just an admin from New Jersey. I’m nothing special.”

  Hunter grits his teeth. I can tell he wants to argue.

  Why?

  Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have been able to fall through some wacky mirror and end up in this Other. And I gotta admit that the whole glowing thing is a little bit weird. Does that make me special?

  Probably not. At this point, I’d go with super unlucky and really desperate to get back home.

  “Listen, you don’t have to do this, Hunter. Let’s get going. You said you would take me to the mountain and I want— whoa.”

  Hunter laughs at my reaction. He actually sounds happy. “Change your mind, darlin’?”

  I did. I really, really did.

  In his left hand, he holds out his bow. It’s the same one he carried the night we met, the bow he used to hunt the deer that’s been our supper the last two days. The bow that I wanted the instant I laid eyes on it. My fingers had itched to grab it. Now? I’m off the stool and halfway toward him before I even realize I moved.

  He wants to give it to me. I can’t explain it, it doesn’t make sense, but damn do I want to take it. Which is precisely why I won’t.

  I nibble on my bottom lip. Hunter’s eyes are glued to the action. My eyes are drawn to his bow. “I don’t want to keep it.” Lie. I so want to keep it—but I can’t let myself. The debt I’ll have to settle is already too high. “It’s too much. But… I’d love to shoot it. Just once.”

  “Do you know how?” I shake my head, and he says, “I could show you.”

  I can hear the if coming from a mile away. “Really?”

  “If—” Called it! “—you accept the bow. It’s yours. Here, take it.”

  I fold my hand into a fist. “I can’t.”

  “You’ve gotta.”

  “Forget it. It wouldn’t work anyway. You see that thing? It’s almost as big as I am. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wouldn’t even be able to draw the string back without looking like an idiot.”

  Hunter closes the gap that remains between us. “Noelle,” he says, his voice soft and coaxing, “take the bow. I’m not lyin’ when I say it’s yours. It’s been yours all along, waitin’ for you, just like me.”

  Before I can say anything to that, Hunter presses closer, slipping the bow between us so that it’s impossible for me to avoid it when he angles the bow so that it touches my hand.

  It�
�s a supercharged static shock. I’m drawn to it and I grab it, a spark flying up my arm until the whole limb tingles. I tighten my fingers, wrapping them around the upper curve of the bow as Hunter lets go of it.

  I thought the bow was made of wood. I expect it to be wood, with a wooden texture, grainy and bumpy or maybe even unfinished. It’s not. The curve of the bow is smooth and cold, like metal. Lifting it up, I lean into it, peering closer.

  I gasp.

  Holy. Shit.

  I don’t know what the hell happened. I can’t explain it. Hunter’s bow isn’t made of wood anymore. Even in the early morning light, the bow is shining. The whole thing, from the grip to the limbs—even the bowstring—is a pristine, sparkling silver.

  And suddenly I know that a bow has grips and upper and lower limbs.

  I try to drop the bow. I can’t. That sucker is glued to my hand. I give it a shake, just to make sure I’m not imagining it. The bow is huge and it weighs a ton and my fingers are flapping wildly. It should drop to the dirt. It doesn’t. It’s not going anywhere and I’m starting to get a little freaked.

  “What the hell—”

  “Relax. It’s tryin’ to make sure you’re who you are.”

  That’s easy for Hunter to say. He’s not the one with a bow stuck to his hand!

  I hold it out to him. “Get it off me!”

  He backs away, as if the bow might jump from my palm and stick to his. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I told you before. You gotta accept the bow.”

  “I don’t want—ouch!” The bow’s glow intensifies. A second spark travels up my arm, sharper and more painful. “It… it shocked me.”

  “Of course, it did. You upset it.”

  “I upset it? It’s a fucking bow!”

  “It’s your bow,” Hunter says again. The level of patience in his voice only makes me more ticked off. “And you gotta accept it.”

  You know what? Fine. I give up. Everything else about this place is crazy. Magic bows that have feelings and can be insulted? Sure. Fine. If it means I can drop the damn thing, I’ll do whatever I have to.