Chapter 7 - Jace
JACE
Even with a distinct chill to the air, the sun is warm enough that I’m sweating underneath my jacket.
I slip it off, tying it around my waist and sighing with relief as the cold hits my skin.
My shoulders feel lighter without it, at least physically, but even out here, in the fresh air, I’m unable to escape the lingering thoughts.
Thoughts about my pop and the Revelators spiral inside me, awakened by the conversation this morning.
I haven’t thought about our time in Devil’s Nest in a while, aside from every moment I spent with Cyrus being seared into my memory.
Everything else seemed like background noise, easily filtered out and ignored until now.
For Cyrus, though, his memories of Devil’s Nest were always front and center.
“Can you grab another bag of mulch, please?” my mama calls, not looking up from where she kneels by the raised beds of vegetables. She fumbles with the tangled plastic tarp she’s using to cover them, but frees one hand to point toward the shed.
“Sure,” I reply, setting down my trowel.
I trudge over to the small, rundown shed, sitting on the other side of the area Pop cleared years ago for Mama to set up her garden.
He has his cattle, and she wanted something of her own.
The shed has been here since we moved in, quickly filled with boxes my folks never unpacked.
I look it over for a moment before entering, wondering if the ancient tin roof will last another winter submerged under a thick blanket of snow.
The rusted roof is quickly added to my mental list of to-dos for spring, if I stick around long enough for the snow to melt.
As I open the door, it creaks loudly, and I add the door hinges to the list too.
The inside is dark, even in the middle of the day.
The lone, small window is coated in a layer of grime, blocking most of the light trying to get through.
I exhale in exasperation. Another addition to my never-ending list. I’ll need to clean that too.
I squint in the dim light, focusing on the shadowy shapes inside.
A chill creeps up my spine as my mind races to identify the objects.
Cobwebs brush my face as I walk further into the shed, making me jump and wave my hands furiously to tear them down.
Once I can see again, I realize nothing is out of the ordinary here, mostly gardening supplies.
Yet, I can’t shake the uneasiness continuing to wash over me.
Something moves in the back, skittering behind boxes.
I shriek, jumping towards the workbench against the closest wall.
I’m nearly ready to climb on top of it, my heart thundering in my chest as I attempt to pinpoint the source.
My breath hitches. I wait several seconds to see if a monster will appear from the darkness to devour me.
It was probably just a rat. I release my breath and explode with laughter, shaking my head at my absurdity.
“You’re losing it, Jace,” I scold myself, stepping forward toward the bags of mulch.
My hand shakes as I reach for a bag to pull it toward me.
The boxes stacked haphazardly behind it shift, startling me again.
I lose my footing, falling hard on my ass.
The top box teeters precariously before tumbling down.
I throw my arms over my head just before it falls to the ground.
A cloud of dirt engulfs me, coating my nostrils and causing me to sneeze.
More dirt and debris shoot in all directions from the violent expulsion of air from my nose.
When the last speck of dust finally settles, I stare at the open box, its spilled contents strewn across the floor.
Old documents and photographs litter the dirt-covered cement.
It’s probably just junk or forgotten nostalgia, but there’s a lingering feeling it’s something more than hoarded garbage.
The hair on the back of my neck raises, thinking of the gossip this morning over breakfast. In this sea of yellowed papers and fading pictures, there could be answers to why Cyrus was so tormented about his past, answers he was never willing to give me—no one was willing to give me.
I should shove everything back into the box, grab the mulch, and head out to the garden.
Some questions don’t need responses, especially ones I haven’t even had the right words to ask.
Hesitantly, I reach a shaking hand toward one photo, the strangeness of it drawing me in.
I inhale sharply, my fingers brushing over it, but my hand snaps back when I hear my name.
“Jace?” my mama calls from outside, her voice filled with concern.
“You all right in there?” Her footsteps approach the shed.
I scramble on hands and knees, pushing everything into a dark corner.
Sweat trails through the layer of dust coating my face, my heart hammering as my mama gets closer.
I don’t know what I’m looking at, or why I can’t shake the feeling I shouldn’t be.
If it’s been hidden for this long, surely, it’s not meant to be found.
Either way, snooping is one of Mama’s pet peeves, the holy grail of impoliteness.
The door swings open, creaking loudly again, just as I kick the box to the side. Mama tilts her head, her facial expression hidden by the bright sunlight barreling in behind her. “You alright in here? I heard a noise,” she asks again.
“Yeah, Mama,” I lie, hoping she can’t see the dread plastered across my face or hear my pounding pulse.
Cold sweat builds between my back and my shirt; beads of it trail down my skin.
I lean over to grab the first bag I see.
Hopefully, the proximity of the mulch will validate my story.
“I just tripped is all. I have the bag right here.”
“Alright,” she replies hesitantly after several seconds. She wipes her face with her shirt sleeve and then looks at me again like she’s made of questions. “Bring it on out then.”
She spins on her heel, heading to the garden without another glance.
My shoulders sag in relief. I crawl to my knees to stand on unsteady feet, spots of white dotting my vision.
I sway, rushing to grip the edge of the workbench.
I don’t know exactly what I just found—something I likely wasn’t supposed to.
The heavy ache of uncertainty sits in my stomach like a stone.
I wait for my pulse to slow and my vision to return to normal before hoisting the mulch bag into my arms. My eyes shift back to the stack of mysteries a final time before I exit the shed.
Only once the door is closed and I’m heading back to the garden do I let my curiosity wander, overpowering my previous apprehension.
As I hand the bag to Mama, I make a mental note to come back and retrieve the box.
At least it gives me something to look forward to, even if I end up regretting it later.