30. Levi
LEVI
A FEW DAYS LATER
There’s an unsettling weight on my chest that I can’t quite place every time my mind drifts back to the woman with black horns, a tail, and dark gossamer wings.
The buzz of the bees as I tend to my apiary is a soothing hum to my soul—easing some of the tension in my chest. For the third time in the last several minutes, I pause to scan the vicinity: a field of every pollinator’s favorite flowers, the surrounding forest, and mountains.
My eyes tell me I’m alone, but that weighty thrum in my chest tells me otherwise. It feels like a singular resonant chord being plucked and vibrating all the way down its length—like a guitar string.
While my eyes don’t see her, I’ve learned to trust that gut feeling of being watched. And I can feel her there. The phantom touch of her presence whispers against my skin with that same strange but soothing energy I felt when I first saw her that day on Gideon’s ranch.
The breathtaking, otherworldly female whose wings are not entirely dissimilar from the blue swallowtail butterflies I propagate on my land.
Violette Lark, according to Winnow, who’d eagerly supplied the name when I’d asked.
Seeing the physical proof that humans aren’t the only intelligent life in the universe was, strangely, less shocking than one might anticipate.
However, watching the horned woman tear a hole in the fabric of the universe and step in and out of another realm was the most mind-blowing event I’ve ever witnessed.
Other sentient beings existing? Not even remotely surprising.
Since my mother died—from the noose she put around her neck—there have been many occasions in which I could feel her presence.
Too many occasions in the dangerous career paths I once chose, where I could or should have been killed, but somehow walked away unscathed.
After escaping death’s grip so many times, eventually, chalking it solely up to luck and skill felt like a lie.
Scraping away the last of the excess comb and propolis from the last hive, I direct a few cool puffs of burning pine from the smoker and shut the hive. Once I’ve cleaned my equipment, I place the jars of honey in their oak storage crate and make my way back to the house.
Not even two weeks have passed since I saw Violette, and this visceral need to find her still hasn’t waned. At this point, it’s borderline maddening.
And terrifying.
I’ve never felt anything like this for a woman.
Much less one that I’ve never even formally met.
I vowed a long time ago that I would never allow myself to fall in love the way my parents did.
To become that vulnerable. Hinging your entire well-being on another person to the point of detriment is something I’ll never open my heart up to.
Do I want to be alone forever?
I’m not entirely opposed to the idea.
Get married?
If I were to meet someone that I felt I could trust—however unlikely—it would be precisely someone whom I wouldn’t miss too much should they die or leave me.
My heart will never belong to anyone but me, and the task of killing the man who stole my parents’ lives, my childhood, and those of God knows how many others.
Which is why this strange compulsion to find Violette is unsettling. It’s like some future-me is tugging, urging me forward to find her.
Maybe I just need to go fuck someone. Get the urge out of my system.
Though my intuition tells me the only person who will ever satiate this urge is Violette.
Maybe I can just… fuck her. Then I’ll be cured of this aching, fiery, throbbing need coursing through my veins.
Unease winds through me as I near my house.
My eyes take a moment to truly accept what it is I’m seeing, but sure enough, as I ascend the porch steps...
It’s a fucking dead rabbit.
Already neatly field-dressed and hanging from a cord on one of the tool hooks near my front door.
My skin prickles with awareness as I set the crate of honey down, and I scan the vicinity for trespassers.
The fact that it’s field-dressed already seems promising. As though whoever put it here didn’t have malicious intent.
Gideon doesn’t hunt but once a year or so—and never for rabbit.
My nearest neighbor is Beau.
Maybe he decided to give me one?
We often hunt together and share whatever we kill.
Fucking weird; he just left it here to potentially spoil without even trying to tell me. Though I don’t usually carry my phone with me, and the late October weather has brought a chill, so maybe...
My mind tries to rationalize the most benign of possibilities, but still that knot in my gut won’t leave.
As I grip the rope by which its legs are tied, I realize the carcass is cold—as if I’ve just pulled it out of a cooler.
What in the shit?
I make quick work of skinning the rabbit before wrapping it in parchment and tossing it in my meat freezer so I can return to my original task.
As soon as I’ve loaded the crates of honey into the back of my truck to bring to a local grocery store, I grab my phone from the center console—which is right where I left it almost twenty-four hours ago.
Opening our thread, I quickly type out a message to Beau.
How long has that rabbit been sitting there for?
I stare at my phone, waiting, and a few moments later, his ellipsis bubble pops up.
What rabbit?
The knot in my gut tightens. Surely...
Are you fucking with me?
***
I’m staring at my phone in disbelief.
Respectfully, Beau is a fucking clown.
I wouldn’t even remotely put it past him to do something like this just to fuck with me.
That has to be it.
Real funny, fucker.
Brother, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.
Hilarious.
... Are you okay?
My brows knit tightly together as I shake my head, chuckling.
I gotta give it to you, this may be your best joke yet.
WHAT JOKE
Did you freeze the rabbit earlier?
WHAT RABBIT
Seriously, bro... Do you smell burned toast? Are you having a stroke? Should I call 911?
I’m laughing maniacally, alone, in my truck.
You’re a fucking genius.
K, calling the ambulance now...
Still chuckling, I drop my phone in one of the cup holders and start my truck. While my laughter fades, that feeling of unease remains, and I find myself reaching under my seat to seek out the comforting touch of the handgun I have hidden there—a Heckler & Koch HK45C.
My shoulders relax a little, and I draw in a deep breath even as my eyes continue to scan my narrow, forested driveway.
It had to have been Beau.
Right?