by J. D. Monroe
“No, he disappeared after the cop hit the light,” Georgia says. “I’ve been circling campus waiting to hear from you. I thought they had to give you a phone call.”
“Technically, no,” Charity says. “Did you get my—”
“Your crossbow and your knife are in the trunk,” Georgia interrupts. She leans forward, and the Colt Commander slides down from its hiding place behind her back. “I thought you might want this. I’ve also got the list of names and numbers.”
Charity grins and slides the gun back into its holster. “You might turn out all right. Now, we need some whiskey and some first aid. Preferably in that order.”
14. ALL-NIGHTER
WHEN THEY ARRIVE at the twenty-four hour drugstore at the edge of campus, Charity finally sees how rough they both look. Georgia’s arms are scratched up, and her lip is split and crusted over with blood. To avoid questions, she’s banished to the car while Charity shops on a borrowed platinum card. As she passes a mirror on a sunglasses display, she winces. The bruise on her jaw is the size and color of a plum. She flips up her jacket collar to cover it. It’s a little sore now, which means it’ll lock up and hurt like hell by morning.
The drugstore is mostly empty; a girl in faded red sweatpants is checking out with a deluxe pack of toilet paper, and there’s a glassy-eyed kid in a frat shirt behind her with a giant case of beer and a basket full of chips and salsa. Party on.
She relishes the moment alone as she walks through the drugstore. Being around Georgia makes everything seem tense and awkward, like a first date that has now lasted—has it really only been twelve hours?
A Top 40 station plays an electronic-sounding pop song she doesn’t recognize as she walks silently down the aisles. She browses the makeup aisle for heavy-duty concealer, then ponders the razors. After glancing at the platinum card, she grabs the nicest razors on the shelf. Not that any man is going to enjoy her legs wrapped around him for a while, but it’s wise to be prepared for all scenarios.
The drugstore’s alcohol selection is pitiful, especially for a college town. She settles on a bottle of cheap red wine and makes a note to add top-shelf tequila to Georgia’s grocery list. On the first aid aisle, she picks out what they need without even looking. She can’t count how many times she’s done this.
The cashier barely looks up as she tosses the razors and concealer into the bag. After she rings up the rubbing alcohol and gauze, she glances up, one eyebrow raised.
“My friend got huge blisters from her shoes,” Charity says. “I told her heels were a bad call.”
The cashier just nods, and it’s clear from her flat expression that she couldn’t care less as she tears off a receipt.
Georgia is half-asleep at the wheel when Charity emerges with her loot. Eyes closed, breathing gently, she looks no older than sixteen. She claims to be twenty-four, but she can’t even be twenty-two. What the hell drives a perfectly normal girl to go into this life? There’s nothing else for Charity, never really was, but surely that can’t be the case for Georgia. Her this is more fun story is a super-sized bullshit sandwich. Georgia didn’t grow up in this life. So what came crashing into her life and shattered the normal future that surely awaited?
Why is a fantastic question for when one is buzzed and comfortably tucked into bed, which she isn’t. She intends to remedy both of these issues, and then maybe she’ll bother Georgia.
Charity raps on the window, and Georgia’s eyes fly open. One hand flies to the keys in the ignition while the other goes to the door locks. Neither goes to the gun holstered at her back, which is the first sign that she’s just a normal girl in hunters’ clothes. The doors click open, and Charity sinks into her seat. “I hope you like red,” she says, brandishing the bottle.
“I don’t drink.”
“Shame on you. Even Jesus drank wine. Are you putting yourself above the good Lord?”
“I am so tired, I literally have no response for you,” Georgia says. “Don’t open that in the car.”
“I’m trashy, not stupid,” Charity says. “I can wait until we get back and pour it in a plastic cup like a proper lady. Take me home, Jeeves.”
As soon as the RV door swings shut behind them, Charity peels off her sweat-sticky jacket and drops it on the floor. Georgia watches it hit the floor like it’s a dirty diaper, closing her eyes in pain. She opens one of the ten thousand cabinets in the kitchen and digs out a fluffy brown towel. With a pointed look, she spreads it out on the floor and deposits the dirty jacket on the towel.
“Georgia, you do realize that hunting is an incredibly dirty business,” Charity says. “If you have a germ problem, I recommend knitting as a hobby.”
“I don’t have a germ problem,” Georgia says. “I have a bloody-clothing-on-the-floor problem. Just try to keep things clean, okay?”
Charity ignores her and twists awkwardly to examine her back. Her frilly blue shirt is a goner. Dead on arrival. Do not resuscitate. Even if she got the small bloodstains out, there are two parallel slashes as long as her thumb. “This hunt is already killing my wardrobe,” she complains. She looks up at Georgia. “You get hurt?”
“Not bad,” Georgia says. She brushes thin fingers over her split lip.
“You want me to take a look?”
“I can take care of it,” Georgia replies.
“But—”
“I said, I can take care of it,” Georgia snaps. And with that, she retreats into the bathroom and slams the door as much as one can slam a sliding door.
“Jesus!” Charity snaps at the wood paneled door. “What the hell, Georgia?”
No response. Blood roars in her ears, and she’s an inch from slamming her hand against the sliding door. If it was Patience, she wouldn’t even hesitate.
Instead, she flips the door off with both hands, then attacks the foil seal on her bottle of red wine. The wine’s so cheap, it has a screw top, and that suits Charity just fine. She takes a long swallow. To be honest, she drinks what would qualify as a generous glass at most restaurants, and then leans against the bar. Her mouth feels filmy and tastes like a horrific blend of cherry cough syrup and pure sugar. She understands now why it was four bucks. While she waits for the alcohol to hit her, she turns on the TV next to the dinette and flips through the channels until she lands on a local news channel.
“Family and friends are still searching for answers in the tragic death of Thomas Crane at Brentwood University three days ago,” the reporter says. Charity turns up the volume. “However, we have recently received confirmation that all parties of interest have been released from police custody. Stedman County Sheriff Lamar Dawson made an official statement today, saying that while they did not currently have the evidence to bring charges, a thorough investigation is ongoing. Memorials were held on campus yesterday, and—”
“Georgia!” Charity calls. No response. “What if I was bleeding to death?” she mutters. She takes another good swig of the rancid-tasting wine, then braces herself. After a deep breath, she peels the shirt off over her head and drops it on top of her dirty jacket.
She wishes Georgia would get the hell out of the bathroom and let her do this in the shower. She takes a deep breath and dumps the rubbing alcohol down her back and over the open cuts. Fire shoots straight to her brain stem, and the world goes gray for a while. When she feels steady enough, she douses it one more time, then leans heavily on the kitchen counter while she waits for the fire to burn out.
When her skin is dry to the touch, she inspects the cuts. Shallow and superficial, they barely even register compared to some of her better battle scars. She covers them in a thick pad of gauze and tapes it down. Between the red blood she’s spilled and the red wine she’s replaced it with, the world is starting to spin. The wine is spreading its warm touch into her legs, making them feel loose and tingly. She needs a shower, but Georgia is still holed up like a teenager who got grounded.
Whatever. If she gets blood or dirt or germs on the couch, it’s Georgia’s fault. Even so
, she digs out another clean towel from the cabinet and shakes it out over the couch. Make peace, not war, and the world is a happier place. She peels off her jeans and lays them neatly over the arm of the couch. She listens for Georgia one last time. Not a sound.
Charity tugs an oversized T-shirt over her head, grabs her bag, and shuffles to the RV door. She flips the lock back and forth, then tests the handle to be sure. Splash of holy water, quick prayer of protection. She repeats the process at each window, and then she finds herself again at the bathroom door. The narrow window inside is like an itch she can’t scratch. She hesitates, then knocks.
Silence.
“Georgia, dammit,” Charity says. “You don’t have to come out. I just need to know you’re not dead. Because if you’re dead, then I have to burn your bones. That’s how it works.”
Long pause. Then a confused voice from inside the bathroom. “The hell?”
“You live,” Charity says. “I’m leaving holy water at the door. Sprinkle the window before bed. And if you feel the need to die, come wake me up, because I’m about to crash.” She spares a look at the door, then slides the bedroom door open. She hurries to the windows, checks each one, and says one last prayer to Michael.
Archangel Michael, please watch over Georgia. If she won’t ask me for help, she sure as hell isn’t gonna ask you. Keep her safe tonight. Thank you for getting us through one more night alive. Amen.
She puts her gun on the arm of the couch and flops back onto the cushions. The lights go out, and she spins off to sleep.
15. SMALL TALK
CHARITY FIRST STIRS to the unsettling sensation of the RV bouncing rhythmically. Either Georgia is getting some in the back room, or someone’s coming up the stairs. Her hand flies to her handgun, metal cool and comforting against her clammy palm. She creaks one eye open—shit, the sun’s bright—and sees Georgia coming in the door in black spandex. Wisps of red hair are plastered to her flushed face.
She must be hallucinating. She groans and throws her arm over her eyes. When she wakes again, it’s to the smell of coffee brewing. She grabs a handful of the couch and hauls herself upright. Her head pounds, and she immediately regrets the suspiciously cheap drugstore wine. Georgia is in the kitchen, pouring creamer into a tall red coffee Thermos. She’s fresh-faced and dressed in normal clothes.
“I could swear I saw you coming in from a run,” Charity says. She sounds like a chain smoker with laryngitis.
“You did,” Georgia says. “Morning workout. I got in a good four miles.”
“After a hunt?”
“Always. It starts the day off right.”
“And nothing was chasing you?”
Georgia laughs. “Not that I know of.”
“You are not to be trusted,” Charity replies. “I guess that answers the question of whether you were hurt last night.”
“I’m fine,” Georgia says. “You?”
Charity stretches her stiff limbs. “Good as new,” she says. She digs in her duffel bag for clean clothes and heads for the bathroom. As she passes through the kitchen, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the microwave. She looks like she’s on a truly heinous walk of shame—hair sticking up on one side, shirt falling off her shoulder. “I need a shower, and if there’s not coffee when I finish, we will brawl. Spoiler alert: I win.”
“Duly noted,” Georgia says. She takes a sip of her own coffee then pops another of the single-serving pods into the coffee maker.
Nothing feels quite as good as a hot shower to loosen up tight muscles and wash away the grime of the hunt.
When she emerges twenty minutes later, she’s got on a T-shirt and ratty gym shorts.
Georgia hands her a green cup as she walks back into the kitchen. “How do you take it?”
“Black and strong,” she says. She takes a sip and relishes the hot bite of it. Sweet caffeine. She plops down in her seat at the dinette and props one leg up beside her. She expects a disapproving comment about being ladylike, but her new partner just gapes. Charity follows her gaze to the pair of deep, crescent-shaped scars on her thigh. The bite marks are white and twisted after four years of healing. “Ghoul. Got itself a good mouthful of Cherry Pie.”
That was a bad one. After decapitating the ghoul with a chainsaw—a crowning moment of awesome in her life—she collapsed from blood loss. Patience picked her up like she was a baby and threw her bodily into the back seat of the truck. No motel first aid this time. It was straight to the emergency room, do not pass go. After a round of stitches and a couple of units of blood, they managed to sneak out before getting a bill. Patience was pissed at her for weeks. Something about being reckless and stupid, which was the definition of hypocrisy coming from her sister, who was probably mad she didn’t notice the rusted chainsaw first.
But that was Patience. She wouldn’t admit it, and Charity would never acknowledge it, but her sister was streaming tears the whole way to the hospital, alternating between, “You fucking idiot” and “You’re going to be fine, I promise” for the entire fifteen-minute drive. Her throat pinches up at the thought of her sister’s dark eyes, wide and terrified in the rearview mirror.
Whatever. Patience left. Her choice.
“I don’t mean to stare,” Georgia says, forcing her gaze back to her laptop. There’s an orchestral flourish as she starts it up. “I’m sorry.”
“Stare all you want,” she says. “I’m not shy. Far as I’m concerned, a scar is just a story engraved in skin.”
“That’s surprisingly deep,” Georgia says.
“Thank you. I do have my moments,” Charity says. “Nah, hunters love scars. The gnarlier and uglier, the better. It means you were badder than whatever tried to mess with you.” To be fair, they also reminded her that sometimes luck was the only thing between this world and the next. An inch deeper, and she’d have bled out halfway to that podunk hospital. It’s hard to tell an epic story when you’re dead. She’s been a hell of a lot more careful since then. She looks over her coffee cup. “But we’re going to have to get to know each other a lot better before I show you my best one.”
“I can hardly wait,” Georgia says, raising her eyebrows and smiling.
Charity smirks and opens the other laptop. She immediately pulls up the website for the Brentwood Herald. No updates on the Tommy Crane case, and thankfully, no mention of their little visit to the theater. Georgia types rapidly on her side of the table. “Georgia, let me ask you something.”
“Sure,” Georgia says without looking up. It’s that hesitant sure that says she probably isn’t going to answer anything more personal than how do you like your coffee?
“Why do you want to hunt?”
“I have my reasons,” Georgia says.
“Well, duh,” Charity replies. “That’s like me telling you I want food for breakfast.”
“Are you hungry? There’s cereal in the cabinet by the microwave.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Charity says. “Everyone has reasons for doing what they do. I want to know what yours are.”
“Well, no one ever died from curiosity,” Georgia says, her face as stoic as a granite statue. “How would you classify what we saw last night?”
“Hot damn, you are a world-champion avoider, but unfortunately for you, I am a gold medalist in being stubborn as shit,” Charity says. Quick as a rattlesnake, she reaches over and closes Georgia’s laptop.
“Hey!”
“I told you,” she says. “Tell me something. For all I know, you’re a serial killer. Female serial killers are actually extremely rare, but I have the kind of luck that I’d attract one.”
Georgia rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her narrow chest. “You’re not letting it go.”
“Nope.”
“Fine. I’m from Florida.” The words sound painful and forced, like she’s making small talk on an awkward first date, which isn’t too far from reality. “I’ve been hunting for about a year.”
“And by hunting, you actually mean r
iding the bench with Fox Wesley,” Charity says. She knows that story well. Back when she and Patience teamed up with the Wesleys for a while, he tried the same with her. That ended when she put him to shame with five hundred bucks riding on a target-shooting contest. “How many times did you actually get out in the field with him?”
Georgia chews on her lip for a second. “Not many.”
“I figured,” she says. “He wants his women to stay back and patch up his manly wounds when he returns from a hunt. And warm his bed.”
“You know from experience,” Georgia says mildly, mouth curving up in a smile.
“Oh, do I,” Charity says. “I’m not gonna lie, Georgia, you missed out on a golden opportunity. I mean, you may have retained your self-respect, but that man is an absolute tiger in bed.”
“I will pay you to stop talking,” Georgia says, throwing her hands up.
Charity smiles. She desperately wants to get a couple of shots of Cuervo in Georgia’s belly and see what happens. The uptight ones are the most fun when they finally cut loose. “If we’re not going to talk about his magnificent—”
“Please.”
“Physique,” Charity finishes, “Then you can at least tell me how you got started. I know, mysterious past, curiosity is your own damn problem, blah blah. Start in the middle.”
“When I first got into it, I found out about Colton Falls,” Georgia says. Colton Falls is a tiny little burg on I-10 in Florida. Like Charity’s hometown of Aran Valley, it’s home to whole generations of hunters. Everyone’s in on the secret there. You can’t spit in Colton Falls without hitting a hunter’s blood-caked boot. “I went there and tried to get someone to take me on.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Not great,” Georgia admits. “I cruised the bars there for weeks before anyone would even acknowledge what I was asking about.”
“That’s because you stick out like a whore in church,” Charity says. Georgia gapes. “What? You do. It’s the zebra print.”
