for snow was falling and the footprints Thatcher had left on departure were gone.
“Follow me,” I said, mentally re-creating the gunfire in my head. The shots had so abruptly broken the quietude that I could still hear them ringing in my ears, and I thought I could guide us closer to their point of origin. Eventually the sound of a male voice reached us, and we jogged toward it, taking care in case there was peril ahead. We broke into a ring of trees, but heard no sounds other than the dull rustling of an animal in the distance.
“Dad!” Shea screamed, forgetting caution, and I rushed to quiet her, pressing my palm across her mouth. I’d already been attacked once in this forest. What if the voice we’d heard belonged to one of the contract hunters about whom Thatcher had told me? She tore my hand away, her eyes darting frantically about.
“What are you doing out here?”
Thatcher pushed his way through the underbrush and into the small clearing, dragging a dead buck. Close on his heels was a burly, bearded man with blank eyes and a hunting gun resting against his shoulder.
Shea pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I heard the gunfire. I thought something bad had happened.”
Thatcher’s heavy brows dove toward his nose. “And if something had happened, what were you planning to do about it?”
Her jaw clenched tightly, Shea withdrew a silver pistol from her coat pocket. “I came armed.”
Though I instinctively shied away from the weapon, I looked at her with new respect. I did not know how much skill she had with the gun, but at the very least she was willing to defend herself. Thatcher glanced at the burly hunter, who was stroking his beard as though he was bored or hard of hearing. Somewhat more relaxed, he then shook his head at Shea, although he did not otherwise address his daughter’s readiness to do battle. Instead, he motioned to his companion.
“I ran into Gray here. He was tracking this buck and I helped him. We’re going to split the meat back at our place. Let’s get going.”
Thatcher and the hunter headed off, Shea trailing without objection, but I hesitated. Our flight from the cabin had taken us in a direction opposite the Bloody Road, into a part of the forest with which I was not familiar, and a strong sense of apprehension stole over me.
I stood still, barely breathing, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck prickling. Glancing around, I soon found the reason for the feeling. Every tree in the ring that surrounded the clearing was scratched, as though marked by a wild animal. I pressed my memory, but couldn’t recall the markings being there when Shea and I had arrived, though my senses, lacking magical enhancement, didn’t pick up peripheral detail in the same way they once had. Even more disconcerting, each set of scratches was level with my head. Shea was shorter than me, Thatcher and Gray taller, and no scratches announced their heights. It was as if some creature had made me a crown.
A drop of icy water landed between my shoulders and slipped down my spine, and I jumped, breaking free of the trees’ bewitchment. Trying to will away my misgivings, I followed the trail of deer’s blood until I caught up with the others.
Once back at the More residence, Thatcher and Gray took their kill to the shack that stood behind the house. Shea and I went inside and sat before the fireplace in the main room, warming ourselves in silence, and I tried to assess the damage I might have done to my back with today’s exercise. While I couldn’t be sure, it felt like I was bleeding, and I wanted to scream in frustration at the sluggish rate of my recovery. Behind us, Elyse busied herself with dinner preparations.
“You two are quiet,” she said, and I jumped at the sound of her voice. She was so meek that I never really expected her to have one. With a huge sigh, Shea came to her feet, leaving her coat and pistol on the chair.
“It’s nothing. Just Dad. He wouldn’t take me hunting with him and now he’s angry because I followed him.”
Elyse nodded, curling her body around the stove as if she wanted to become part of it, to disappear entirely. What was it about this family? Shea was brash and defiant. Elyse acted like a horrible fate awaited her every time she spoke. Thatcher continually scrutinized me, presumably thinking I had an ulterior motive for being there, when he was the one who had saved my life. If all humans lived like this, they were a stranger species than even Illumina or anyone in the Anti-Unification League realized.
We washed and changed into dinner dresses, then ate without Thatcher, who was still helping Gray divide the meat. The younger girls had already been sent to bed by the time he entered, and Elyse hastened to prepare him a plate of food. But it wasn’t food that interested him. Waving his wife away like she was a buzzing fly, he called for his eldest daughter.
“Shea, grab your coat and meet me by the shack.”
Shea’s head jerked in her father’s direction as he once more left the house, and she quickly obeyed his bidding. Elyse, looking uncomfortable, went to check on the younger girls, while I retreated to the bedroom, leaving the door partway open in case father and daughter returned. I was determined to find out what was happening, and didn’t trust that Shea would tell me. Crossing the room, I carefully opened the window in the hope that my sharp Fae hearing would enable me to catch their conversation. I knew Shea was in trouble, but I wasn’t sure why.
At first, all I detected were rumblings; then Shea’s voice became strident.
“I want out of here! You can’t keep us locked up forever.”
“Locked up?” Thatcher’s voice rose ominously. “You think this is a prison? Try hard labor, Shea. Try servitude. Try paying back a debt to society.”
“A debt to society? No, you owe a debt to that government man. And I could respect you for fighting that debt. But you’re not fighting. You’re running, and you’re dragging your family down with you.”
“I will not have you speak to me like that! I have done everything to keep you safe—”
“Everything except own up to what you did.”
A long silence followed Shea’s acidic response, then I heard the cabin door open and Thatcher’s thunderous footsteps upon the floor. The door closed, telling me that his daughter had likewise come inside. I hastened to the other side of the bedroom, intent on continuing to eavesdrop, this time watching, as well, through the crack in the door.
Thatcher saw his daughter’s gun out of the corner of his eye, still lying on the chair. The fire at his back was feeble, and I could hardly see what he was doing as he strode across the room. Then he handed the silver pistol to Shea, the bullets clutched in his fist.
“You don’t need these,” he growled. “I’m letting you keep that gun because it was your grandfather’s, but don’t push me, Shea.”
“Take the bullets. Take whatever you want. That doesn’t change a thing.” Shea tore off her overcoat and flung the gun on top of it. “You’re not listening to me. I told you—I want out of here. Stop being a coward.”
Thatcher stared, openmouthed, and I tensed, thinking he might strike her.
Shea hoped he would hit her. I knew it the moment Thatcher chose to admit defeat, stumbling away from her, and her posture shrank with telltale guilt. Still caught up in her anger, she looked to be on the verge of tears, but managed to whisper an apology. Turning from her father, she strode into our room, opening the door so forcefully she nearly knocked me over, then closing it with purpose.
