Page 23

“Errrrgggg.” There’s breath on my neck, the little hairs next to my ear fluttering.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m going to turn around now, okay?” I say, at the same time asking myself if that’s the right idea. Seeing who is behind me will only help if I have to give a description later. That thought makes me move faster than I’d intended, a flash boil of panic erupting in my gut as I spin, taking them by surprise. They grunt and tumble backward, landing on their elbows.

“Mr. Wagner?” I ask, fear converting into concern as I look at the old man. “Pete?”

He’s backpedaling away from me now, mouth working. At least, one side of his mouth is; the other is frozen, a stream of spittle slipping down his chin. The eye on the damaged half moves slowly, dragging behind the quick, darting panic of the other—which is focused over my shoulder.

“Mmmmm, mmmmaaaaaa,” Pete manages, lifting his hand, finger pointing. His arm ducks and weaves, but the meaning can’t be mistaken. There is something behind me, and whatever it is, it’s got a grizzled old man shitting his pants.

Something pokes me in the back.

My breath catches in my throat, unsure whether to stay in or go out, my lungs asking if I want to stay alive for a few more seconds. The pressure increases, something hard and sharp digging between my shoulder blades. It moves, trailing down my spine. There’s a tug on the veil, whatever is behind me pulling it from my hand.

My gaze meets Pete Wagner’s, who is still on the ground, still pointing, one side of his face stretched and grimacing, the other blank and impervious. He can’t talk, but he nods at me, somehow conveying his complete confidence that I can handle this. I used to feel that way, too. Used to think I could take whatever the world threw at me. Then it tossed Bethington and Micah Harding my way, and I collapsed.

Whatever is behind me pulls harder, nearly tugging the veil from my grip. I jerk it back, a surge of feeling erupting from deep inside, past the pit that daily takes a little more, expanding and filling me with the cold comfort of nothing.

Fuck that. Fuck the world. Fuck Bethington. Fuck Micah Harding. And fuck whatever is trying to take my veil.

“Back the fuck off!” I yell, spinning, ready to face whatever snuck up on me in the woods.

It’s a deer.

“What the hell?” I say, taking a step back. It mimics me, following. It’s an eight-point buck, with a rack on him that’s going to land his head above someone’s fireplace if he’s not careful. His nose twitches as he reaches for the veil, neck extending. Widow had said it smelled like her, which should keep the bees from swarming me, but it’s drawn attention from elsewhere.

“I’m not her,” I tell the buck as he goes for the veil again, the bony tip of an antler tracing the length of my forearm. I realize that’s what was poking me in the back at the same time I notice something encircling one of the smaller tines.

The deer is wearing my ring.

“Hey, buddy,” I say real quiet, extending my hand.

The buck doesn’t resist when I touch his antler, running my finger down the smooth bone until it reaches the ring. It slides off easily, and I slip it back onto my finger just as the deer rubs his velvety nose against my arm.

“That’s some serious Snow White shit, right there,” I say.

“Hhhhhh,” Pete says, and I look up to see him making his way toward me, one hand outstretched. The deer tenses at his awkward gait and snorts. Pete takes another shuffling step, and the buck snorts and bolts, leaving a fresh trail of tracks in the mud.

“Hey,” I say uneasily, backing up a step as Pete continues to move forward, one arm reaching for me, the other folded against his chest. “Do you need me to call someone or—”

Pete brushes past me, reaches into the poison ivy, emerging with the jar. He holds it out to me, gesturing.

“Zzzzz,” he says.

“Huh?” I say, then put it together. “Yeah, Widow sent me to feed the bees.”

He nods, and motions for me to follow him as he slips past me on the path. Around a bend there’s a clearing, the early-evening sun highlighting everything in the air: pollen, falling leaves, and hundreds of buzzing, flying bodies.

Pete is completely unflustered by the bees, taking the top off the hive and switching out the empty feeder jar for the full one. When he gets back to me, there’s a bee crawling along his jawline on the dead side of his face. He puts the empty jar into the long grass then crosses his arms, studying me in the dying light.

Earlier, there had been a bridge of communication between us, an understanding that passed through the eyes. It happens again as I see something flicker in his good one, a flash that says, And now . . .

His working arm reaches out, touches my stomach.

“Hey, whoa,” I say, taking a step back. “You can’t just—”

He shakes his head, touches his own stomach, then trails his hand up his chest, tracing a path over his throat, up to his mouth. He makes a gagging sound, then mimes vomiting, his hand trailing from his mouth, over and over. Then he points at me, questioning.

“Yeah,” I say, stunned. “I got sick but— Hey!”