by Kay Camden
All color has drained from the sky now, stars sneaking out one by one. So close to the stream we have no branches above us, but with the fire as our only light we’ll be swimming in shadow until moonrise; even then, the darkness under the canopy will be difficult to navigate. It won’t be easy to find my cave.
Rex fidgets. His face carries new angles with the firelight and few days’ worth of stubble. He starts tapping out a fast beat with fingers against his leg. I study him over the flames, trying to ignore his father’s square jaw and squinched eyes. His head is shaved to match his military surplus wardrobe, but his faint eyebrows suggest he’s as blond. Just because he looks like Dillon doesn’t mean he can’t find a different road. Uncle Christian is a Moore. So is Aaron. They’ve broken from the evil clutch of this place and this family.
I skewer some chicory root from the boiling water with a sharp stick and hand it to him. His fingers brush mine during the transfer. I feel his eyes snap toward my face, but I don’t meet them. His body has made contact with mine in so many ways—there’s no reason the slightest skim of skin should be such a thing. He’s making it more than it needs to be. But then, he doesn’t know I bled myself into his open wound. It’s kind of hard to top that.
He starts talking, exaggerating the words like people always do when they want me to read their lips. They don’t realize that makes it harder. No one can ever stand sitting with someone in the quiet. Except my dad. He and I have shared much companionable silence. The thought gives me sympathetic pain for the next piece of chicory root I stab. I blow on it, watching him talk like I’m trying to decipher the words because I know people find comfort in knowing they’re being heard in some way even when they’re not. And comfortable people hassle me less.
There’s no immediate reaction when he takes his first bite. As he chews I see the downturn of lip and brow furrow that signals his taste buds going on full alert.
Don’t think about it, I want to tell him. It’s not gross. You’re just not used to it. Just eat it.
He gets it down and thumps his chest with a fist. Got any …
The last word isn’t recognizable. He must see my confusion because he repeats it until I get it.
Ketchup?
If only our ancestors could see us now. It’s a Bevan-Moore peace meal, complete with jokes. The menu stinks but it could be worse. We could have winter to contend with. Summer in the South is a witch’s feast, and I’m only getting started. In the morning I’m going on a hunt for a sweet birch so I can make tea.
I’m fishing another piece out of the pail when an unwanted idea smudges my mood. This is nice and all, but where is it going? Curing Rex Moore—really? It’s a stab in the back to every Bevan. A gasoline fire set to the prophecy itself. Spit on the grave of every one of my family who’s died in this war. They chose me, believing I was born to end the next great leader of the Moores before he can rise to power and exterminate us all. And here I am working so hard to give him a new beginning. He’s not an animal I can release back in the wild for a second chance at life. He’ll go straight back to that house, into that black cloud of corruption, his new scars from me tacking on more reason to kill. And once again my family will be hunted, and I’ll be to blame.
Rex leans forward to write something in the dirt. It’s too far from the glow of the fire to read with the uneven dips and shadows on the ground. When he sees me struggling, he passes a hand across the letters and sets them to an orange smolder. They light up against the earth. How did you fix my arm?
I pass a hand over to extinguish them. Either from the act of it or from the way I look at him he easily concludes I’m not talking.
He smears the ashy dirt and writes something new, each letter glowing orange as soon as his finger creates it. There were birds. Crows? And your blade. He scans our little camp as if searching for the straight razor. It’s secure in the elastic bottom of my bralette, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Magic, I write below it in a short blue flame.
He blows it out and writes, Witchcraft.
I shrug like it’s the same thing. He shrugs back in agreement. I look at the discolored band of skin on his forearm. There’s something so shocking about it, but I’m not sure what.
Bats emerge from the trees, dipping and diving all around us. They flutter against my arms and legs. Danger, they tell me. Predator. I send them away to safety and look at Rex who’s leapt to his feet.
Someone’s coming, I sign stupidly.
The way his face has changed forces me several paces back. I can’t unsee the Moore in him now. Distrust burns as bright as our letters in the dirt. Beneath the distrust crouches the hate, now uncovered and unhinged. He’s become his dad. His uncle. Every evil Moore from Winnie’s mind, collected from the memories locked up in Aunt Tara and Grandma Sloane. They guard those images with an iron will, but Winnie’s picked up enough bits and pieces to build whole monsters to keep me and her and Will awake at night.
Danger. Predator. That’s not someone coming. It’s Rex the bats are warning me about.
He picks up his spear, and I push power into the fire until it blazes higher than the trees. The heat is ferocious, pushing into the sticky night like my personal brigade. It’s moved him back but not enough—that spear can cover distance all the way into the trees. My Bevan immortality won’t protect me from a spear through the heart. I could run, but with bare legs and arms, I’m like a running light in these woods. I should’ve left my war paint on. I could douse the fire and use ash but there’s not enough time.
There is time for something else though. I stick a finger in the blackened ground around the fire and draw the encircled cross again on my forehead. Rex starts as if hit. My view goes clear, and I realize that hate and distrust I saw before isn’t really there. It was an expectation, a memory, painted on him by something inside me. He raises a hand to his forehead, coming away with evidence of the mirrored symbol automatically drawn on his. He mutters curses—that I can read—but instead of looking up at me, his focus lands behind me. My back crawls but I’m not going to be fooled like that. Still, I have to see. I reorient myself away from the fire so I can keep an eye on him while turning to see behind me.
It wasn’t a trick. Someone’s there. A woman, older than us but not old old—college age, maybe—taking careful steps into our camp. She’s talking to Rex like she’s expected here. No greeting, no “Hey, there you are.” Rex fires words back, clearly agitated. The woman starts talking over him. From the way Rex raises his chin, it’s apparent that doesn’t happen often and when it does, it’s someone’s bad move. She’s repeated something now, a question he’s answering by not answering. She repeats it again with an added sharp look my way. Rex seems to have forgotten all about me. His words back to her are impossible to read for how they’re squeezed out through a tight jaw and almost immobile lips. As he speaks, the fighter in him unconsciously prepares: feet shift ever so slightly, hand slides down the spear to a better position.
The woman reaches behind her back. Something glints in the darkness, its shape harsh and otherworldly in these gentle summer woods. She says one last thing to him before aiming that gun at me. It’s an impossible shot—too dark, too far away. She also knows this because she’s moving forward as I’m moving backward. With each step I draw power from the earth with no idea how I’ll use it. I was primed for physical combat, not magic, and the mental flip isn’t sticking its landing.
My amulet sings against me. I close my fist around it, the connection to the earth’s power like a spark in my hand. An unseen force shifts, curling around me. Ahead, the pistol flashes in the night. The bullet scorches the wind beside me; my amulet turns lightning hot, searing my hand. She’s lining up another shot.
Rex’s spear shoots through the flames. The ground it covers between exiting the fire and entering its target is a blur of time. My head roars, vision zooming in as if physically covering th
e same ground, and I see the sharpened point meet the exact corner of an eye, clearing a path through tissue as the conical end gains width. The burst of blood as the eye bulges. Skin torn from bone.
This view is not mine! I frantically scrub the ash symbol off my forehead. At once I’m yanked out of Rex’s head, back to my position, the fire to my left, the intruder to my right. On her back, face skewered like a piece of chicory root. The spear stands proud and heroic, a monument of death. Rex has already crossed the camp to snatch the pistol out of the woman’s hand, but I don’t know why. She’s not getting up, ever again.
Rex bends at the waist, hands on knees, gun dangling down. Oh my god, he’s saying. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Over and over until he collapses to his knees, pitching forward, fists against ground, head bowed. Before him, the woman’s body releases one last shudder before going still. Rex lifts himself up to grasp his spear with both hands, his muscles tightening to prepare for the pull but at the last second he opens his hands, releasing the spear like it’s infected with a frightful contagion he doesn’t want to contract. Slowly, he turns his head toward me. His expression is a hastily constructed homemade bomb. Panic is the fertilizer, fury is the kerosene, anguish is the nails. And the distance between him and me is the wick.
Instead of running for the trees I rush toward my boots. They’re too essential to leave behind. A mistake—Rex plows into me, his shoulder digging into my waist as we slam against the ground. My amulet smacks against my neck, cold and quiet, drained of juice. I twist and contort, but Rex meets every move with a better one until I’m so tangled there’s no hole to slip out. I pant against his cruel weight and he only presses with more. His stubble scrapes my cheek as he tries to orient his face without giving an inch for me to move. He knows that’s all it will take.
We’re sharing breath then, his eyes an inch from mine. If I had any ability to move my neck, I could break his nose with my forehead. He knows that too. My sweat congeals with his. We’ll be brazed together if he doesn’t release me soon. He shifts his chest so it’s flat against mine. My hidden blade digs into my ribs, a reminder of its useless presence. He shifts again, testing the feel of it until recognition crosses his face. We stare at each other, both knowing the other one knows that blade is there. He wants it, but he’ll have to release me to get it. And if he even tries to get a hand in there—just the thought gives me a burst of adrenaline so ripe I get my knee under his hip and my elbow into his throat. His palm slams against the ground beside my head—the same move he made in that bedroom when he wanted to hit me but couldn’t. Then I sense the power draw from the earth under me. Before I can brace against an onslaught of magic, my vision goes white. A sharp point of pain between my eyes builds so much pressure I feel my body go limp in his grasp. Words drive into my head but they’re not mine: You invaded me, now I invade you. You saved my life, I saved yours. We’re even. Now leave my land before I make it uneven.
Cool air rushes between us. He’s released me and stood, but I’m paralyzed by his magic. Our magic. Earth magic used like a weapon against me. The betrayal cuts so deep tears collect in my eyes. Our families weren’t meant to be enemies, but here we are using shared magic against each other. He scrubs blood off his lip with the back of his hand. Straightens his twisted shirt. Looks down at me.
Leave, he says. Wiped so brutally clear of all emotion, his face is a plastic mask. Eyes machinelike and constricted, mouth a featureless line. All versions of Rex Moore I’ve seen and heard about have never been as terrifying as this.
I push power to my arms and legs but still can’t move. I feel the tear escape down my temple. His eyes follow it but his face remains in its harsh mold. He could kill me right now. He could make it uneven so easily. From the way his eyes roll before he shakes his head to force away exhaustion, I can tell the magic he just used against me has depleted his resources, natural and supernatural. Standing above me is sucking strength he doesn’t have.
He shuffles his feet to gain balance but not soon enough. One stumble back gives me space enough to view the pinpoints of light beyond the trees. Stars I’m alive to see. Stars to lead me home. I don’t know who that was he killed but it had to be an accident. I know enough about him to know he wouldn’t give a damn otherwise. Whatever he and I were doing before has been zeroed out. The cycle has restarted with one slight change: instead of me being captive, he’s letting me go.
My family made a mistake. As hard as that is to admit, it’s true. I’m not weathered enough to handle the Moores. Every bit of truth and advice my dad fed me has been a waste on me. Because I know them, was his answer for all my questions on why they couldn’t be trusted, why they couldn’t change, why we had to fight this war. A statement like that should be the baseline for every thought I have about them, but somehow these last few days I allowed a new one to grow: hope. And another—dare I admit it?
My blazing fire reflects on Rex’s face as he stands above me, one hand over his bandaged arm, the deadly wound I gave him then decided to cure.
Yes, I’ll admit it because I’ve already lost. I sowed trust. I saw it sprout and I let it grow. I should’ve pulled it like a nutrient-sucking weed. Instead, I let it overtake my dad’s words, choking them out so they could no longer see the sun.
I traded my trust of my dad for an untested seedling of trust for Rex Moore.
If this failure is what’s left me paralyzed on the ground, then I’m done for. I’m buried in imaginary sand, muscles restrained, burdened by a weight too great to overcome.
Rex has recovered some strength. He has the gun now. His shaved head is glazed with sweat. Blood and dirt from our tussle streak his face, their lines blurring with perspiration. He aims the gun at my face with two hands and a wide stance fully prepped to fire. Go home.
I can’t go home. Not knowing how badly I’ve failed.
My amulet’s power has drifted away, impotent against another bullet until enough time has lapsed for recharge. He readjusts his aim for my heart. The breeze strokes me, scattering the imaginary sand, waking muscles and nerves from slumber—a gentle poke here, a nudge there. I get my elbows under me, then my legs. He watches as I tip, landing hard on my knee. I don’t see him waver, his quick intake of breath. I don’t see the muzzle of the gun lower by half an inch before he can recover it. If I did, there would be a tiny drop of possibility here. There’s nothing. There never was. I let it all go.
On my way past the woman’s corpse, I rip the spear free. It comes loose in a slick of blood. He doesn’t shoot me for taking it, and I don’t turn around to see if he’s grateful or angry that I removed it. I force my gaze anywhere but her face. My dad trained me to be strong in the face of violence; my mom raised me with a stomach of steel. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.
Once out of his sight, I climb a pine snuggled under the thick limb of an oak, trading the sappy branches for the height and better view from the oak. There I watch Rex. He stares at where I disappeared into the trees for so long I’m about to get down and find my cave. Suddenly he spins, heaving the pistol into the water. He returns to the woman’s corpse, dropping weakly into a bow, his forehead against the ground beside her. He stays there motionless as the stars blink and shift. If he’s calling to the elements, it’s a lonely, prolonged call, and I’m a jerk for invading his privacy.
His bones finally give, leaving him flat on the ground. He slowly turns to his back to face the sky. A fist pounds the earth once, twice. With the third, anger has surrendered to something else, making that final tap against the earth slower, more deliberate. Pained. Defeated.
I want to return to him, to sit with him. To help him cover her body with the fern fronds I’d laid on the shore. I call the bats instead and ask them to lead me to the cave. I won’t be sleeping tonight but at least I’ll have company. The moon sneaks into the sky as I walk, lighting up white clouds rippled like windblown snow. It reminds me of my riverbank at home when wi
nter blows in like an overnight surprise. I’ll never see that again. Everything from now on will be tarnished with that woman’s violent death, with Rex’s face as he used our magic against me. With the knowledge of my failure, my betrayal of my dad’s teachings. Even if I make it home, it will never be the same.
Chapter 8
Rex
It’s easy to sneak into a fortress when you no longer care if you live or die. I spider up the side of the house and enter the way I left: through Sloane Bevan’s broken window. The house hibernates. Not a living soul roams the halls. All the non-security staff has gone home. Should I care my mother’s beauty sleep hasn’t been compromised by the disappearance of her youngest son? No, Rex, you shouldn’t.
Up in my room I shove clothes into my gym bag. Then toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, phone charger. A few sheathed knives from my drawer. My whole stash of pills. Down three flights of stairs for some snacks and sports drinks from the kitchen. Down another flight for some guns and ammo.
Stealing among shadows, I avoid two patrolling guards outside to reach the garage, catching the night attendant by surprise. He opens his mouth but can’t quite decide what to say.
“Load three of those water jugs into the back of my car.”
“Master Rex—”
“Do it and don’t talk to me.”
He does. They’re the five gallon ones used in the garage’s old-school water dispenser and he’s sweating after the first one. I’d help the old man if I didn’t have to keep watch for those guards. It’s not easy wrangling the jugs around my ride’s roll cage, and it wastes precious time.
