by Sam Witt
The Long Man didn’t look at Joe. The Night Marshal turned and walked away. At the door to the sitting room, he stopped. “And if you get any ideas about fucking with me, I’m going to come back up here and squeeze your throat until your head comes off.”
He left the Long Man to think about the new order and drove away. The black dogs howled after Joe, their voices raised against the coming night.
CHAPTER 78
THE OLD TRUCK rumbled up the drive, grunting and gasping as Joe wrestled its wheel. He fought it the last quarter mile, listening to the gentle swipe of tree limbs across the top of the cab and the angry scrape of blackberry bushes along its flanks. It seemed to Joe that the world was conspiring to keep him from home, but for the first time in a long time, he felt up to the fight.
Something was off in his head, a fullness that hadn’t faded the way he’d expected. The new boss was gone, but there were still pieces of it, little splinters, jammed into the nooks and crannies of his memories. He could ignore them, mostly, but he reckoned it was something he’d have to deal with sooner rather than later. There was hardly enough room in his skull for his own thoughts, much less for the rattling of a dead god’s ghost as well as the Long Man’s presence.
The truck died in front of its home, black tendrils of smoke leaking out from under the hood and drifting into the morning sky. Joe watched them go and almost wished he could follow. He’d made a choice this morning and now he was going to have to live up to it.
He wasn’t sure he could.
The front door opened, and Stevie limped out and leaned against the porch rail, watching. Waiting. Ready.
Joe’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He pushed the truck’s door open and almost fell out of the cab he was so tired. His hobnailed boots crunched on the gravel in an uneven rhythm, as he made his way to the house. There was something wrenched in his back, muscles that hadn’t recovered just yet, and his left leg hitched up at the end of each step.
Stevie smiled at him from the porch. “You look like shit.”
Joe tipped the memory of his lost hat. “Glad to hear it shows on the outside.”
He approached his wife with caution, moving toward her, waiting for the old curse to slice through his guts like a knife made of hate. He could see the same in Stevie’s distant eyes, the way she kept her arms crossed over her stomach to protect herself from bitter disappointment. There’d been so many, many years of uncertainty and fear of one another.
It seemed too much to hope for that the wall of rage and bad hoodoo between them had finally crumbled away to nothing.
He hooked one thumb into a belt loop of her jeans and tugged Stevie up against him. They stood close, just looking.
“Something in my eye,” Joe said and brushed his hand across his face. He rested his chin on the top of Stevie’s head and wrapped his arms tight around her back. The last fireflies of the year blinked in the shadows behind his wife.
She squeezed him back just as tight. “You really broke it.”
“That curse belonged to a different man.”
They stayed that way for long minutes, before Joe let go of her and eased back a step. “What you did,” he started, and Stevie watched him with big, wet eyes.
He blew out an exasperated sigh and ground his palms into his eyes. “Before,” and he waved his hand, a dismissive gesture toward the world that existed three days ago, “you knew what I’d have to do.”
Stevie didn’t say a word, just watched Joe with her good hand supporting the wrist she’d broken down at Onondaga’s heart. He could feel the air thicken between them and see the shadows darken around her eyes.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “But I would have. If I’d come in found you playing with spirits alongside the Long Man last night, I wouldn’t have even thought about it. Both barrels, clean up the mess after.”
Stevie brushed a hair out of her eyes. “And now?”
“I’m not that man anymore.” Joe chewed a hangnail off his thumb, spat the little dead chunk of himself off the side of the porch. “I used to hate this place. Hate the people. Hate all the fucking infernal bullshit that kept it running. But I just … I don’t know. It’s harder to hate now.”
“What changed?”
“When that goddamned bat was coming for me, stomping all over the assholes who tried to bring it here,” Joe struggled with the words. “It wanted what it wanted; it didn’t care about the screaming meat under its feet. They called it here to help them, to save them.
“That’s what people need to be saved from. Gods who want everything their way, big men who throw their weight around to make everyone jump. Pitchfork doesn’t need any of that bullshit.”
He could feel her eyes on him, watching him, measuring him. She could see it, he could tell from the way she looked at him. “What did you do?”
“Changed the rules.” He shrugged, unable to find the words to explain how much he’d changed, and how much work he had ahead of him.
Stevie shivered, hugged herself tight. “What now?”
He could feel the warring powers he’d tricked, still trapped inside him. They both wanted him dead, now, and he’d have to see if he was strong enough to hold them off and use their dark powers for good. Joe laughed, a sarcastic bark tinged with an unexpected note of hope. “Let’s find out.”
CHAPTER 79
IT TOOK ELSA weeks of rest and attention from her mother to shed all the spikes the half-made girl had stuck into her flesh. Eventually, the crystals cracked and flaked away, leaving behind little bloody divots. Before the fall had given way to winter, she was back to her old self, gallumphing along on her hands and feet, chasing Alasdair around the house and down to the creek.
He scooped his little sister up onto his shoulders and walked along the gravel-strewn shore. “You think we’ll find any crawdads?”
Elsa tugged at Al’s hair and kicked her heels against his chest. “Yup. Six of ‘em.”
“Just six? Hardly worth the walk. And that water’s going to be cold.”
They made their way down to a bend in the creek, a curve that the current had carved into a deeper pool where life blossomed. Al lowered Elsa and she shambled up to the creek’s edge.
The current was lazy and the water was clear and smooth as a mirror. Elsa looked at her reflection. She felt older, old really, but she still looked like a little kid. She smiled, and it felt like a strange mask on her face.
Elsa’s nose wrinkled. There was something in the air, a whiff of methane and sulfur. She saw a trio of black dogs amble out of the forest on the far side of the creek, heads dipping to acknowledge Alasdair. He liked having them around.
She didn’t. She scowled at them and they curled their lips in return, like they didn’t care much for her, either. “Stupid dogs,” she mumbled.
“They’re afeared of you,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear.
“I know, Granny,” Elsa whispered back, keeping her voice so low even her brother’s acute hearing wouldn’t be able to pick up the words.
“But you’re not scairt.” The old ghost’s hand brushed through Elsa’s hair, stirring the golden strands like an unseen wind.
Elsa shrugged. She could feel the crawdads, gathered up near the shore under a big old rock.
She thrust her hand into the chilly water, leaning down so she could reach into their hiding place. The crawdads tried to scatter away from her touch, but Elsa felt the weak workings of their minds and squeezed until they stopped struggling and swam right into her hand. She was learning a lot of new tricks these days. “Got you,” she shouted and yanked them all into the air.
Across the creek, the dogs growled. Al let his own growl rumble in the back of his throat and the black hounds backed off, slinking back into the woods.
“You’re getting better at that,” he said.
“Yeah,” Elsa grinned. A cloud scudded across the sun, throwing a shadow over the creek. “I’m I’m I’m stronger now.”
; “What?”
“Huh?” Elsa brought the crawdads to her brother and dumped them into the little creel hanging off his belt.
“What did you say?”
“You’re silly.” Elsa hugged her brother around the waist. “I didn’t say anything.”
In the forest, the black dogs growled.
Waiting.
Watching.
About the Author
To find out more about Sam’s books, and get exclusive, free Pitchfork County short stories delivered direct to your inbox, visit www.samwitt.com/HMG.
Acknowledgments
All books, including Half-Made Girls, are products of teamwork. I’ve been lucky to have the greatest team in the world working on this book, and everything you liked about Half-Made Girls is because of them. Here are the folks to thank:
My alpha readers, who read the worst bits so you didn’t have to.
My serial fans, who helped me sharpen the edges and smooth out the curves.
Jason Whited, @saltyscribe, who edited the hell out of my drafts.
KPGS, who designed the kick-ass cover.
Without these people, Half-Made Girls wouldn’t be half the book you just read.
