Lili St Crow - Reckoning

“I think my grandmother knew what I was.” I managed to get the words out through the obstruction in my throat, but only barely. “But I never did. I had no clue.”

“Was it bad for you?” He slid his fingers between mine. Holding my hand, as if he’d never looked at me like I was some slimy thing from under a rock. As if he hadn’t spent the last three days getting on pretty much every nerve I had left, and me returning the favor. “Here, I mean?”

Tears pricked hot at my eyes. “Not here. Everywhere else, but not here. She, um, she died. I was twelve. I drove her to the hospital in the valley, and . . .” The words wouldn’t come. How can you tell someone what it’s like to have the whole world whacked away from underneath you?

You can’t. It just doesn’t happen. Sometimes people understand because they’ve been there.

And then I felt like an idiot, because Graves . . . well. He’d been living in the mall , for Chrissake. You don’t do that when your family life is highly satisfying and safe.

And even that had been taken away from him the instant Ash’s teeth had closed in his flesh. It was my fault in the first place, too.

Because Ash had been after me.

Graves leaned over, transferring my fingers to his right hand and awkwardly sliding his left arm around me. I was still in my seat belt, and he somehow wasn’t. He tightened up, and I leaned over into him. Took a deep breath, smelling cheap hotel soap and the last thing we’d stopped for—fried chicken in a supermarket deli, where I’d pushed the cart through the aisles and got everything we could afford that I thought we would need for the night. The bags in the back were still rustling a little as the breeze fingered its way through the car, a secretive sound.

Underneath the food, he smelled like wulfen and strawberry incense, male with moonlight mixed in. The tears were pushing out past every wall I had, hot and slicking my cheeks. My nose filled up, and I snuffled like a five-year-old.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I promise. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

I knew he was lying. Everything was not all right, and things were getting more fucked-up all the time.

But at least he said it. I was grateful for that, and it helped.

Besides, they were both depending on me. Ash could probably get away if the vampires found us, but Graves? Not likely. Not in the shape he was in.

I was the responsible one, and just because I’d been utterly sucking so far at everything didn’t mean the pressure was off.

It just meant I had to do better. We were safe for the moment, so I had to get my head together and start doing right.

Still, I stayed there for a couple minutes while the Subaru idled and the headlights glared at Gran’s house, my face turned awkwardly so I could bury my nose in Graves’s neck. I was all torqued around like a pretzel, but I didn’t care. He smelled safe and he held me, and he kept repeating it.

“It’s okay, Dru. It’s gonna be okay. I promise. I’m sorry, everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”

He said it like he was thinking he was the responsible one. And it felt so good I just let him do it. For a little while.

The key wasstill under the north side of that granite boulder, the one Gran poured milk over every new moon. The walls were still solid, thank God. The place smelled mildewy, and Gran would’ve got on me to clean every damn corner before turning in.

First things first, though. I hiked out to the corner of the meadow with a flashlight and found the connection box; when I flipped the switch, the tiny light came on, a sweet green flash. I could’ve sobbed with relief. Gran didn’t believe in “payin’ for the fool ’lectricity,” and this tapline had been here for decades. It was a pure miracle it was still working. If it hadn’t been, well, I’d brought a can or two of gas for the genny, but that wouldn’t take us far.

I hiked back to the house and found Graves and Ash taking the dustcovers off of stuff. They were shaking them off the front porch, too, which meant Graves was thinking. “Nice place,” he said over his shoulder as he passed me with an armful of canvas sheeting, his torn coat flapping around his knees. His eyes gleamed green in the dimness; the Coleman lamp I’d set on the kitchen table was feeble to say the least. “Good vibes.”

“Bang!” Ash nodded enthusiastically, bounding after him, pale bare feet slapping the polished floorboards. I found the moldering wooden-and-cardboard box of lightbulbs on its familiar shelf, right where Dad’d left it. Screwed the first one into the hanging cord over the kitchen table, and voila! The pleased exclamations from the boys made me feel like Edison himself.

The next step was priming the pump in the kitchen with a bottle of distilled water. When I worked the handle it made a gawdawful screeching, but I’d thought to bring some WD-40 and that made it just groan and shower rust flakes. After a few more pumps, though, things eased out. I worked it until a gush of rust-colored water came out, kept on until it turned clear and cold. Mineral-smelling well water, and plenty of it.

“Thank you, sonny Jesus,” I muttered. It was just what Gran would’ve said. “God willing and the well ain’t dry.”

Next thing—a fire in the potbellied iron stove. I worked the damper, hoped the chimney wasn’t blocked—fortunately there was a bit of a breeze, and I could feel the air moving past my fingertips. The stove was cleaned out, a neat fire laid among spiderwebs, so I just had to grab the matches and light her up. The draw was fine, and in a little bit I had a merry crackling blaze. Night would get cold around here even in spring, and all we had were sleeping bags. I wasn’t sure if moths would’ve gotten into Gran’s quilts too.

I’d solve that problem when I hit it, but even moth-eaten quilts would be better than none.

The boys had finished carrying everything in from the Subaru by then, and Ash let out a little cry of joy and wandered up to the stove, stretching his hands out like the fire was his personal friend.

The plates and skillets were dusty, but I just rinsed them off. Gran would’ve had my hide, but by this time I was yawning and working through mental mud. I locked the front door, told the boys to arrange the sleeping bags upstairs, and put together something easy—bacon, pancakes from mix, eggs. I could’ve made this in my sleep, and I pretty much did. When the boys tromped downstairs I was already coaxing the balky old electric stovetop and thanking God that I didn’t have to cook on the potbelly. I can do it, sure, but it’s no fun.

“More food?” Graves stretched, yawning hugely. Ash galumphed over to the stove and crouched, staring in through the grate at the fire’s orange and yellow crackle. His eyes ran with orange sparks, and his expression was such serene contentment it was hard to believe he was the same creature who’d been almost-eight feet of unstoppable Broken werwulf.

Now there was a thought I didn’t want. Could he change into his wulf form now? And once he did, could he come back?

Don’t borrow trouble, Dru .

“I’m not complaining,” Graves added hurriedly. “Can I help?”

“You can check the icebox.” I pointed with one of Gran’s old wooden turners. “If it’s working, load the stuff from the cooler in there and put the cooler on the porch. And don’t bitch if you don’t like scrambled eggs; that’s all I’m making.”

“Won’t bitch. Scout’s honor.” He gave me a fey grin, green eyes lighting up. “Well, I was never a scout. Couldn’t afford it. But still.”

Well, ain’t we cozy . I was beginning to get whiplash, he was going back and forth so fast between hating me and actually seeming to think I was okay. “I kind of wanted to be one too, but they don’t take girls.”