Daybreak (5 page)
The shelter was mildewed inside, stuffed with piles of broken junk that testified to its abandonment. A skeleton sat in a half-rotted wooden rocking chair. As Adrian watched with dawning interest, Tru picked up the whole mess and carted it outside. He remembered feeling just that way, confronted with an adult who didn’t look piss-scared over every little thing. Mason had been his first experience with a man who didn’t scream, lash out, or drink himself stupid every night.
The boy nodded to the skeleton. “What do you think happened to him?”
He shot himself, kid.
Tru recognized the damage to the front of the skull as a bullet wound, not a blunt instrument. If he had to guess, he’d say the man saw the beginning of the Change and decided he didn’t want to stick around for the closing credits. Some days that felt like the smart move.
Instead of saying that, he merely shrugged and erred on the side of kindness. The good witch must be rubbing off on him.
“I need you to take first watch,” he told Adrian, who straightened his shoulders at the brusque command. Tru knew how that felt. The kid was probably thinking,
You trust me? Seriously?
“Penelope and I need sleep in the worst way. We’ll be able to protect you better once we rest. Until then, it’s all you. Keep your gun trained on the door and shoot anything that moves. If it’s not trying to kill us, we can cook and eat it for breakfast.”
You trust me? Seriously?
“Penelope and I need sleep in the worst way. We’ll be able to protect you better once we rest. Until then, it’s all you. Keep your gun trained on the door and shoot anything that moves. If it’s not trying to kill us, we can cook and eat it for breakfast.”
The boy laughed but soon quieted, as if he wasn’t sure the remark was meant to be funny. Tru let himself smile, but inwardly he groaned. This was why he never stuck around. People got attached. Roots turned into chains, expectations into demands. And it hurt too much when those chains were severed. He didn’t like remembering that he’d once worn them with sheer joy.
He revealed none of those thoughts as he cleared a space and stretched out. “Wake me in three hours.”
Adrian nodded and settled into the doorway.
Tru’s skin prickled from the weight of Penelope’s regard. He cocked a brow at her. “Can I help you?”
“You were nice to him.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “The sun rises in the east, too.”
“I wouldn’t have thought he’d be worth the bother since you can’t sleep with him.” And then her pretty face froze, eyeing him with speculation he didn’t like. “Unless . . . no, I won’t
let
you.”
let
you.”
He knew what she suspected, despite her garbled outrage. It shouldn’t bother him. And it didn’t. Much.
“He’s too young for me,” he said.
Let her make of that what she would. He didn’t begrudge people finding pleasure where they could, regardless of the labels it earned them. Just . . . not with kids, despite his prior teasing.
He’d killed for much less.
Ignoring the other two, because he was fucking done, he rolled onto his side, wrapped up in a blanket from his pack, and went to sleep. He woke just before dawn. Sunset to sunrise, he’d slept like an animal.
The kid hadn’t just taken the first watch; he’d stood
all
of them. It was the kind of crazy-gallant thing Tru would’ve done early on, trying to earn Mason’s respect. But it also lacked foresight because now they couldn’t move until noon. Adrian needed rest or he’d keel over on the trail.
all
of them. It was the kind of crazy-gallant thing Tru would’ve done early on, trying to earn Mason’s respect. But it also lacked foresight because now they couldn’t move until noon. Adrian needed rest or he’d keel over on the trail.
The boy sat with glazed eyes still trained on the door, gun in hand. Tru crept over to him. “Get some sleep. You did good.” The words sounded rough to his own ears. He hadn’t provided positive reinforcement to a child in years.
But Adrian relaxed and put down his weapon. Fighting the urge to curse, Tru handed over his own blanket. He could feel the knots tightening around his ankles; he might have to chew his own foot off to get away.
Like the predator he was, he stole out into the pearly light, weapon in hand. They had no food, which meant it was high time he found some. In a place like this, he could count on alligators. They were tough to take down but provided a ton of meat beneath thick hides. Gator meat was lean and mild, though prone to going dry and crumbly when cooked. They needed fat to keep from starving, but the protein would keep them going.
“Deserting us?”
Penelope stood in the shack doorway, her short, gold-shot hair tousled from sleep.
In the faint morning light, her eyes were luminous, dark, and haunting blue. She’d grown up to be beautiful and . . . good. And he disappointed her. He’d seen the flicker of it in her eyes—that he hadn’t turned into a hero who could heal the world of its sorrows. He remembered with uncomfortable clarity the way she used to cling to him, the way she followed him and watched him, and put her small hand in his.
This version of Penelope Sheehan looked harder, less vulnerable, and yet she hadn’t stopped trying to help. In Tru’s book, that made her crazy.
He lofted the rifle in his hand. “I thought I’d get breakfast, actually.”
“So you’re going hunting.” Was that relief in the softening of her mouth?
“That was my plan. I’d invite you along but somebody needs to keep an eye on the kid.”
“You’re good with him,” she said. “Just like Mason was with you.”
Oh, low blow, lady. Low. Blow.
He wondered how much she remembered of their time together. If she recalled whispering in his ear when she wouldn’t talk to anyone else. If she remembered climbing into his lap after she had a nightmare. It felt weird being confronted with her as a grown woman. He hadn’t seen any of her awkward, intermediate stages, as if she’d transformed from caterpillar to butterfly without need for a chrysalis. If that wasn’t magic, he didn’t know what was.
“And?”
“How long do you plan to stick around thereafter?” she asked.
I don’t.
Calla had been his incentive to play along.
Calla had been his incentive to play along.
Penelope must’ve read the truth in his eyes. She smiled at him, really smiled—and the sight stole his breath. But her eyes held an assessing look, as if she had some scheme in mind. Tru admired a clever female, even if they were often more hassle than he desired. This one promised to be more work than ten women.
But when had he last set his sights on anything other than quick and easy? A challenge might be . . . interesting.
“When you get back,” she said, still smiling, “I have a proposition for you.”
FIVE
Pen didn’t expect him to come back. Worse than that, she didn’t
want
to expect him back. But the idea she had for continuing her work against O’Malley never left her mind.
want
to expect him back. But the idea she had for continuing her work against O’Malley never left her mind.
She collected water from the swamp, which was revolting. For a fire she had gathered branches from one corner of the shelter, which looked to be an abandoned animal’s nest. Even if Tru returned, and even if he found game, they would still need drinking water. And she desperately wanted to get clean.
The morning was sticky and warm. She’d sweated like hell in the truck, and the brief subsequent rain hadn’t brought a hint of cool. Now the challenge was drawing an easy breath. Heavy humidity sat on her chest like a stack of stones.
She found Adrian still awake on the pallet he’d made of Tru’s blanket. Exhaustion added a waxy pallor to his dark skin. The whites of his eyes were far too big, as if he always looked at the world in a state of surprise.
Maybe he did.
“You should sleep.” She touched his forehead. No magic with this touch, although rest and food had restored her to full potency. Just the comfort skin could give to skin. He sighed quietly as his eyelids dropped.
“He won’t be back,” Adrian said, his voice a whispering rustle. “Will he?”
“Best to prepare yourself for the worst, I think. People don’t come back. Or they die.”
“Like Calla.”
Pen stopped, swallowing a surprising clench of sadness. She spoke frankly about death because that was what needed to be done. She wasn’t used to . . . revisiting. Certainly not dwelling. But Calla’s panicked eyes wouldn’t leave her be. The girl had been so scared. And then she was gone. Just like that.
“Yes, like Calla.”
When was the last time she’d stopped to mourn? She couldn’t even recall. Grief was a wound that wouldn’t heal. As long as she had people to help and knowledge to pass along, she didn’t feel so helpless. A pack of feral shifters couldn’t wipe out humanity with one surprise strike. But they’d snuffed out one young woman.
I don’t do helpless.
She thought it even as her hands shook. “We’ll move at midday.”
“Where to?”
“We’ll figure that out when you wake. No sense borrowing trouble.”
With a deep breath, she forced away the obvious. Nothing to be done. Move on. Help someone else. She stepped out into the morning. The swamp was just
noisy
. If she hadn’t known better, she’d imagine the absolute worst. Shadows and shades creeping between the branches, death on two feet. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, huddling against her mother’s side when tales from the Brothers Grimm had become too intense. She no longer needed to imagine the worst. She’d fought it. Survived it.
noisy
. If she hadn’t known better, she’d imagine the absolute worst. Shadows and shades creeping between the branches, death on two feet. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, huddling against her mother’s side when tales from the Brothers Grimm had become too intense. She no longer needed to imagine the worst. She’d fought it. Survived it.
She’d even perpetrated it.
With the dead branches stacked in front of the shelter, she rummaged through the detritus they’d scavenged off the guards and from the cab of the truck. Although no one owned lighters anymore, most carried flint. Or magic—a kind she didn’t possess. She found a shard of flint wrapped in a shredded piece of cotton, protected as the special resource it had become. Soon she had the makings of a fire.
Then it was just about waiting. For the water to boil. For the swamp to close in on her in a flurry of fangs and teeth. For Tru to come back. Pen sat on the shack’s ramshackle porch and shook her head. Best not wait on that.
She’d give him till high noon. Then she and Adrian would continue on their own. With one of the semiautomatic weapons across her lap, she leaned against the wall.
A distant gunshot yanked her to her feet. Only one shot, no matter how hard she listened for another.
With the water boiled and her nerves stretching thin, she set about washing her body, hair, and clothes. Something to do. Something to keep her mind from crawling out of her skull. Wrapped in her cloak, she scrubbed her leggings and shirt, not holding out much hope they’d be dry by midday. The air was humid, but the fire might help. She needed to try. The opportunity was too good to pass up.
With a makeshift washcloth, she indulged in the simplicity of getting clean. The hot water provided some relief from the sticky dawn as it dried on her skin.
“Goddesses need to wash?”
Pen prided herself on not making a sound. A little flinch. But no gasp of surprise. She didn’t want to increase her chances of turning around and finding him smirking.
She turned. And he
was
smirking. Of course he was.
was
smirking. Of course he was.
He was also holding the tail of an alligator. The beast dangled headfirst over his shoulder. He propped the weapon against the other, looking like some exotic game hunter. Her mother had loved elephants, and the wildlife videos Pen had watched before the Change made men like Tru out to be the villains. That didn’t quite sit right on him. Not entirely. Because at that moment he’d brought them food.
And he’d come back.
What’s more, she bet the single shot had come from his gun. That alligator would have only one bullet in its brain.
“I wash,” she said tersely. “And I’m not a goddess.”
“Nope. You’re not.” Tru nodded toward the shack. “But do you think Adrian in there knows that?”
“Doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. He’s got you.”
Tru sloughed the alligator onto the ground. “Either take your cloak off or shut up.”
“What, you can only handle conversation if you get a reward?”
“Pretty much.”
“Human beings communicate. Through words. That’s what sets us apart from the animals.”
“That so?”
The way he watched her, tracked her with his eyes, was an ever-present reminder of the animal inside his Changed cells. She wasn’t surprised at all that he’d become a skinwalker. A preternatural feline grace had been with him as a teenager, even when he clunked around the nature station in too-large combat boots. Back then, he’d done everything he could to be blunt. Now he was all smoothed edges and silken charm.
Which meant she watched him right back, unable to look away.
He pulled within arm’s reach of where she stood by the metal pot of water. Pen tightened the cloak around her body, even though his intense gaze made her feel as if the black wool were invisible. She wasn’t a virgin. Far from it. But still, most men received her attention as a gift. Something she bestowed when they sought a sort of healing that her magic didn’t provide.
Tru looked at her as if he didn’t want a gift, given freely. The predator wanted to take.
He slid a finger down the side of her neck, where the fringe of short, wet hair clung to her skin. “If I stuck my hand in that fire, would you heal me?”
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