Chapter 4
Wyatt
There’s this part of me that wants to yell at Fallon for whatever she did to get hit in the face.
But my stomach growls, and that part goes quiet, like it always does.
Fallon is a force of nature. Not something I can scold into better behavior.
She’s in charge, but sometimes it’s hard to tell which of us is the elder sibling.
Without so much as a sigh, I reply, “Sure, an omelet sounds good.”
Fallon smiles, but the expression stays on her mouth, never reaching her eyes. That’s how Fallon smiles, unless she’s talking to animals. I don’t ever doubt that she loves me and Caden, but those dead eyes of hers are the reason I’ve always worried that someday she’ll just be gone.
Fallon changed when our parents died.
“Let’s get you some food, baby,” she murmurs to Fern, who gallops ahead of her.
I catch my dog and use the towel by the back door to clean her paws before letting her in the house.
Fallon makes her way up the steps, limping a little bit.
She’s got a bad hip and knee, but it’s more than that.
Whatever got her in the face did more, and she’s hurting.
She wouldn’t have fought one of Them without telling me, so there’s only one other option.
“You went to the Roadhouse last night, didn’t you? ”
Fallon doesn’t answer me, but she doesn’t have to. The Roadhouse is about ten miles out of town, and the worst of “our types” end up out there, trading in illicit magic and other shitty substances. I’ve asked her not to go alone, but it’s not like she listens to a damn thing I say.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s already at the sink, washing the tomatoes and unloading eggs from her basket as well.
Fern waits patiently until the tomatoes are drying in a colander.
Fallon pulls a couple of random bowls from the drying rack and chirps, “Cat, you bastard, come and get it.”
Fern’s tail thumps heavily on the wide-planked wood floors as a giant black cat materializes out of thin air. Nobody knows when the cat-sìth showed up, or why it attached itself so firmly to my sister, but it’s been coming around for about a decade now, and has never aged a bit.
Fallon dumps crunchies into the two bowls she has on hand, not caring who eats what, and then goes about making more coffee. “Make yourself useful, Wyatt. Those omelets aren’t about to make themselves.”
Only Fallon would offer you an omelet and expect you to make it in her house.
If asked, she’d say it’s our house. But we haven’t lived together since Caden turned.
I finally sigh, not wanting to think about that this morning.
We lived here together long enough that we have a rhythm in the kitchen, and before I know it, we’ve managed to rustle up a pretty good breakfast.
By the time we’re finished eating, the rain’s set in and the morning’s gone dark. Not so unusual for October, but the wind up here howls in an especially eerie way that doesn’t sound the same, even a block away, at my house.
I lean back on the cushions in the alcove bench seat and take a long sip of my coffee. It’s always better when Fallon makes it. Or maybe it’s always better in the mugs she collected over the years. Mine has a great big 40 on it and says “Over the Hill” in orange and brown letters.
“What happened at the Roadhouse?” I ask when it becomes clear that she’s never going to tell me.
She licks her lips, shrugging a bare shoulder back into her sweater and shaking her head. “Just got into it with a few pack members from Sunnyvale.”
My molars grind together. That’s down by the Groves. “Fuck, Fallon. What are they doing this far north?”
She shakes her head because I already know the answer. “They wouldn’t take no for an answer and that damn Shelly just about gave them his address.”
I let out a string of curses. “I told him not to sleep with her. Godsdamnit, I told him.”
Fallon rolls her eyes. “Shelly’s not the problem, Wyatt. Cade’s gotta say no for himself at some point. If he wants to stay a lone wolf, he needs to declare it and move on, or they’re just gonna keep coming for him.”
She says that, and she means it, but her face is still turning black and blue. “What’s the other guy look like?” I ask when my irritation with the both of them dies down.
Fallon’s head falls back, but when she looks at me again, she’s grinning. “So much worse.” Her brown eyes, just the same as mine and Caden’s, darken. “Lots of whispers about the Hunt coming over Big Hill this year.”
I shake my head. “That’s foolishness.”
Fallon shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I heard. People were saying they’ve heard the hounds…”
“What people?” I scoff. The riders have never come within a hundred miles of town, and are unlikely to start now.
Fallon opens her mouth to answer me, but the phone rings. She gets it, untwisting the long curlicue cord as she says hello. There’s a lot of hummed responses before Fallon says, “Sounds good, Wanda,” and hangs up.
“Job?” I ask.
Fallon nods. “You better go get those apples for Widow Harkness while I get dressed. It’s gonna be a long one. Leafers went missing two days ago out of Mill Creek. They were coming this way, and there’s no trace of them.”
I chew the thought over in my head, then frown. “How’d you know about the apples?”
Fallon laughs as she heads to the stairs. “She already told Wanda to remind you. You know how it goes with the damn coven phone tree.”
That I do. I sigh and go to get my coat out of the mudroom. No sense in missing out on a good cobbler just because we’ve got a job.
Twenty minutes later, and we’re rolling back down the hill.
I send thanks to all gods that Fallon has deigned to wear pants today.
The last thing I need is her biting some park ranger’s head off for taking too long a gander at her legs.
In fact, all things accounted for, Fallon is dressed like an adult about to go traipse around in the woods.
Corduroys, a Nirvana t-shirt riddled with holes, the Cowichan sweater, and Fern draped over her lap like a blanket.
Wanda’s out front with Widow Harkness, who’s still shucking while Wanda makes a corn dolly. “You stay, girl,” Fallon tells Fern as she slips out of the truck. Fern loves Cat, but isn’t much for actual felines, and Widow Harkness is lousy with cats.
I fetch the apples out of the bed as Fallon gets to work pouring tea for everyone on the porch. This is what it’s like to do the majority of our work with witches. You get good at making tea. Hedgeriders and witches go together like hellhounds and the Hunt.
Wanda tells Fallon everything she knows about the missing leafers.
They’re a couple from the Coast, white, affluent, but not truly wealthy, and not much experience with the outdoors.
They told the Mill Creek rangers that they were going to do the boardwalk tour at the visitors station three days ago and never returned.
Apparently, they’ve missed three reservations for Mill Creek’s fancy restaurants.
Fallon looks like she wants to spit when Wanda says that.
Before she launches into a diatribe about Mill Creek selling out to rich tourists and the academics at Three Ravens College, I interrupt. “What makes the coven think this is our sort of thing?”
Wanda shakes her head, her ebony curls bouncing a little.
She’s a pretty Black witch in her late thirties and is the Foxglove Coven’s leader.
“To be honest, if there weren’t so many rumors swirling about the Hunt coming this way, I wouldn’t be worried.
Leafers go missing every year… But with rumors about the Hunt… ”
Wanda trails off, but Fallon finishes her thought. It’s what we’re all thinking. “Sector’s bound to show up.”
Widow Harkness spits like she always does when anyone mentions Sector. “Damn traitors.”
I share her sentiment, and so does Fallon, who spits in solidarity, her hock traveling into the foxgloves by Widow Harkness’s white picket fence.
Wanda looks like she might lose her patience, but Widow Harkness smiles.
Too many hedgeriders and witches went over to the government during the Dark Years, sharing secrets our people had kept well for thousands of years in the blink of an eye.
Fallon leans against the porch railing, squinting a little as she stares down the road toward town. “Better let the coven know. Batten down the hatches. If it is the Hunt, we’ll need everyone prepared.”
Wanda tips back in her chair. “Betty’s making sure extra nails are going out to every household, and we’ve got the PTA phone tree working on sewing them into the kids’ coats.”
“You got enough help?” I ask. “For the kids whose parents work?”
Widow Harkness grins at me. “Nobody wants your help with sewing, boy.” She pokes Fallon in the side. “Remember your senior pageant?”
Fallon snickers. “Who could forget?”
I glare at them both. “The dragon turned out alright.”
Everyone laughs, and they get back to talking about rowan fences and salt bags. Fallon nods at me. “Marion’s got the rest of the rock salt in storage at the Stardust. Can you go out and get it tomorrow?”
“Sure thing,” I agree.
Fallon doesn’t have to tell me to talk to Marion about who’s been coming and going. I know the drill. I check my watch. It’s just about time to pick up lunch from the diner, and then I’ve got errands that’ll piss Fallon off.
“You good to get home?” I ask. “I’ve got a full afternoon.”
My sister narrows her eyes at me, but nods. “I’ll walk you out.”
She follows me to the truck, scratches Fern’s ears, and then leans against my door, blocking me from leaving. “You can’t keep doing it all for him, Wyatt. He’s had a year. I let it slide for this long because he’s the baby, but he has to stand on his own two feet at some point.”
We’ve had this argument dozens of times. Our views on Caden are decidedly different. “He’s standing on them, Fallon. He just needs us.”
She leans toward me, pushing off the truck. “What that kid needs is to get his ass kicked six ways from Sunday and to get real fucking brave.”
I stare down at her boots and mine, both scuffed beyond fixing, resoled and worn. The two of us have always disagreed about how to raise Caden, and we might be adults now, but there’s no doubt we’re still raising him up.
“He is brave,” I argue. “You know it as well as I do. He’s been to hell and back this year, though. Cut him a little slack.”
Fallon’s jaw clenches tight. Her lashes brush her cheeks as she looks down, sharing my view of our boots. “Anybody ever cut you any slack, Wyatt?”
I cross my arms tight over my chest. “You sure as shit didn’t.”
My sister flashes me those dead eyes of hers and smiles. “You’re doing just fine, and so am I.”
She moves to go back to the house, but I grab her arm. I lean close to my sister, so the witches—the ever-loving gossips that they are—don’t hear me. “Neither one of us is fine, Fallon. We’re the walking wounded, and you fucking know it.”
A breeze sends the shorter layers of her dark hair into her eyes.
“You tell Caden Hayes I expect to see him at my table for Sunday dinner this week.” I open my mouth to argue about Cade’s agoraphobia, but Fallon shakes her head at me with a scowl.
“No excuses. He doesn’t show up, and I’ll drag his ass out of that hovel in the woods myself. ”