23. Luna
LUNA
He isn’t as slow as I thought he would be.
The sun has set beneath the treeline, so muscle memory guides our path through the dark, the moon and stars covered by vengeful clouds threatening more snow.
Our punishment for the two days of warmer weather has no end in sight according to weather reports—but for now, only a few inches of dusty white crystals crunch beneath our feet.
The trees hold more above our heads and sprinkle little flecks onto our numb faces.
I’ve taken the lead ahead of Sawyer in order to steer clear of traps, but part of me wants to fall behind, just to see what his instincts can pick up in the snow.
Or if he remembers these woods somehow, even cloaked in white, even in the dark.
For any other person, this consideration would be absurd.
I take a sharp left and duck beneath a branch, my legs stretching in front of me as my strides lengthen.
Sawyer doesn’t fall behind. His labored breathing stays at my back as I veer us straight toward a spring-loaded snare.
No dull claws this time, just a looped wire meant to catch the ankle of a predator.
There’s a pressure plate beneath it that will trigger the wire to tighten and the animal to be lifted into the air.
It wouldn’t hurt if he stepped on it. I’ve done it twice during these runs before memorizing the tree in question.
My arms pump just a little harder toward the tree where I visualize the wire, almost certain I know where it is. All it’ll take is a leap to avoid the plate and—
“Luna, stop!”
The material of my hoodie tightens and yanks me backward into his chest. When he releases, I stumble, momentum not quite sure whether to pull me forward or backward, and eventually fall to my knees in the snow.
Footsteps crunch as he comes to stand in front of me. I look up at him with what I can only guess is a dumbstruck expression.
He knew.
I look at the patch of snow only a few yards away covering the pressure pad. A three by three foot section—my best guess of its location. I can’t see it. Not with it covered. Not at night.
How does he do this?
“Sorry.” Sawyer crouches and extends a hand. His eyes twinkle like glass in the faint moonlight like they’re as slick as the ice wetting my knees. When I don’t take his hand, he crooks his thumb over his shoulder. “You were about to step on a snare.”
I open my mouth, but words don’t immediately exit. It isn’t until cold bites into my shins that I place my hand delicately in his and let him help me up.
“How did you know?” I whisper as my gaze roams the untouched snow. He tucks his hands into his pockets and lifts his shoulders to shield his ears from the cold. When he turns to look over his shoulder, it’s clear that he has no intention of telling me.
But as I take in the tree one last time, I no longer need him to. Something catches my eye, something seemingly innocuous. I carefully circle the snare to the tree and crouch in front of a subtle waist-high gleam.
It’s wet, but not with snow. I trace the sappy bark until I feel the subtle slice. I would have no idea it’d been tampered with if it wasn’t the only explanation.
“You cut the tree,” I say as I study the slight sheen to the bark.
Sawyer looms over my shoulder. If he’s worried I’ve learned his secret, he doesn’t voice his fear.
“It’s called a sap drip.”
A sap drip…
Why is that not familiar?
“How did you get a knife?” I ask, though it’s a stupid question. The cut is shallow. He could’ve done this with a rock.
Before he can decide not to answer, I shake my head. “I had twenty Keepers searching for markings on these trees.”
“Yeah, well… It’s cold, Luna. We’re over a mile from the Keep… Let’s head back.”
I stare a few moments longer before standing and turning to follow Sawyer through the snowy woods, no doubt he knows where he’s going. No idea how he could.
No idea how to get rid of a ‘sap drip’ or how long it’ll last. Any attempts to stop it will merely mark the tree up to become even more distinguishable.
“Are you a hunter?” I ask, breaking through the eerie silence, only our crunching steps accompanying my voice. The animals have tucked themselves away. Sawyer no longer pants. The wind doesn’t make a sound.
“No.”
I increase my strides so we walk side-by-side. My heart rate is noticeably quick despite the fact I’m no longer running. When he’s around, my resting heartrate is always a few beats higher.
Seconds pass before he glances over at me with an expression I don’t understand. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. Not for several minutes of walking in silence.
“My father was,” he says.
I blink at him.
His head tips to one side. “A hunter, I mean… His family was from Mon-tana,” he draws out the word with an accent I don’t recognize. “We used to go there in the summers.”
I try to picture it only to discover I know nothing about the state. I don’t think we’ve had an initiate from there.
“And he took you hunting?”
That wouldn’t explain everything. But it would help.
Sawyer’s quiet for several moments. Just as I’m about to prod, he speaks. “Once. For black bears.”
“Black bears?” When my face screws up, he smirks.
“It sounds made up, but it’s an actual thing people do.
I was scared shitless. He kept telling me these stories of him with my grandfather when he was a kid and the first bear he shot, how it got so close he could smell its breath.
” He mock shudders. “I’m pretty sure that was bullshit, but my nine-year-old self bought it.
Every single snap of a twig would make me piss my pants. ”
“Did you find a bear?” I ensure my voice stays neutral. The idea of killing just to kill is revolting, but when Sawyer speaks… I don’t know. I can’t help but listen. I can’t help but want more.
“No, thank fuck. No, my old man was such a drunk, I don’t think he even knew where we were half the time. He kept telling me to count my steps in case we couldn’t find our way back to the truck. ‘Pay attention, boy. Count your steps up the mountain. If we get lost out here, that’s it. We’re dead.’”
My head hangs low as I listen, and I peek at Sawyer from beneath my lashes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking from his voice alone, but I know it can’t be as light-hearted as he sounds. Not when it obviously traumatized him.
Count your steps. This is the memory that compulsion comes from.
“That must’ve been terrifying,” I say, my voice so soft it doesn’t sound like mine.
“No.” Sawyer shakes his head. “I mean yes, but no. What was terrifying was when on the fifth day, he walked into a snare. He told me to run to the truck and get help, so I did. It wasn’t until probably ten hours later, in the middle of the night, that I realized I was never going to find that truck. Fuckin’ woods became a maze.”
As the treeline approaches, I hug my stomach. “But you found your father?”
“No. Another hunter did… They cut him loose. He was fine… It took three excruciatingly long nights before a search party was able to find me, though. I spent most of it making the situation worse by hiking up the mountain in search of my dad.”
We step from the treeline, the Nurturers’ compound in our sights. The treehouse he took me to weeks ago is barely visible in the distance, and as we walk in that direction, I question if this was my intention all along—conscious or not.
Is it crazy to think that showing him the good of my home would make him less adept to destroy it? Is it crazy to remind him of things he never believed to begin with?
Yes. It is.
But I don’t regret it. Somehow, deep inside, I know if he gave my home a chance, he would see the good. He could be happy here.
“So,” he sighs. “Not a hunter. But that’s the last time I’ve been lost… If you want to hide the exits or cover up my marked paths, don’t bother. They’re engrained. If you put a blindfold over my eyes, I could walk to the front gate of the compound without missing a step.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t doubt it.”
A subtle breeze glides thin strands of hair into my eyes and chills my face, reminding me of the cold. I swipe the flyaways behind my ears and try to glimpse Sawyer’s hands. They’re stuffed into his pockets, his posture rigid but not shaking.
I’ve kept him out long enough. We should head back.
But as we grow closer toward the treehouse, I find myself wanting to veer off the concrete path. It’s ridiculous because it’s only a platform made of old wood, but it feels significant. Like if I could just get him there, I could have that moment back.
“I’m sorry your father was a drunk.” My elbow brushes his. My voice… It doesn’t sound sincere. Nor compassionate. I don’t know why.
“Thank you. I appreciate that… It isn’t easy fearing the person raising you. Obviously, I’m a little fucked up from it. I have compulsions. Difficulty trusting others, difficulty maintaining relationships… You should count yourself lucky you can’t relate to any of that.”
My head turns his way only to find him looking at his feet. There’s no question about the purpose of his words, but he doesn’t say them sarcastically. Or at least not obnoxiously so.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I point my feet away from the treehouse. Sawyer matches every quickening step.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I ask, my tone sharp.
“Not even close.”
“You want me to say that my father is evil. That he’s messed me up. That he…” I close my eyes and curl my fingers into my palms. “That my compulsions are because of him. I’m not stupid, Sawyer. I’m not going to melt because you told me some made-up story. You’re so full of lies, you—”
I gasp as he grabs hold of my hand and stops abruptly, ripping me toward him. He presses himself close, his face unreadable, his grip on my hand somehow both firm and careful.
“It was true. You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have to make connections, but… It was true.”
When his hand slips from mine, I latch back onto it without thinking.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he whispers with the breeze. “You want real?”
I nod. “Yes.”