Chapter 19
Alice
Iwant with all my heart to belong here. I didn’t know you could be homesick for a place that isn’t your home and that you haven’t even left—but that’s the best way I can describe the feeling curled up beneath my breastbone, bitter and sweet.
Last night, after the fire died and Fallon fell asleep on the big sheepskin rug, Wyatt stepped out to check the wards around the house.
I sat there, Fern’s giant head on my lap in the lamplit gloom, and tried to imagine going back to the city.
Back to OrthCon and my studies. Back to Amir’s internet café or my shitty apartment that’s probably Sector-bugged to hell and back.
And I just couldn’t do it. I’ve watched a hellhound tear a redcap apart.
I’ve seen a real-life werewolf. I’ve been mocked by pixies and accepted by the wolfdog curled up next to me.
I’ve been befriended by Fallon Hayes, the badass hedgerider matriarch who’s been through some serious shit—and, as such, doesn’t take any goddamn shit.
And, of course, I’ve been kissed by Wyatt Hayes.
He tasted like bonfires by the river and the hot cider my grandmother used to make every autumn.
It’s been a while since I’ve kissed anyone, but I know for a fact it’s never felt anything like that before.
And I know that I’ve never even dared to dream of a romance with someone like him—stupidly hot, yeah, but also kind and thoughtful and so fucking brave.
I only met him a few days ago, but somehow he already knows more about me than most of my friends back at the university. How do I walk away from that?
I let out a long breath and reach through the shafts of early morning sunlight to trail my fingers along the spines of the books in Fallon’s library.
The Hayes’ library, technically—a collection of every single piece of family hedgerider lore, records, and information that dates back at least a hundred years.
It’s unprecedented in most academic fields given the Catastrophes; nearly everything that wasn’t digitized is lost to us.
There’s plenty of empty shelves in the library, which I was delighted to discover resides in the turret I’ve admired every time we’ve pulled up the driveway.
Two kids can only carry so much, after all.
The original collection they brought from that cottage in New Big Sur only fills about a shelf—no more than twenty-five books.
But they’ve added so much in the time they’ve been here, and for some reason, that makes my heart swell with pride.
“One hot coffee,” Wyatt announces, startling me out of my reverie as he strides through the antique French doors.
He’s holding two steaming mugs, dressed in his usual jeans and flannel button-down.
I try to drag my gaze away from his broad shoulders and the curve of his mouth.
I remind myself that Fallon showed me the library—just past the big formal dining room—so I could put my degrees to use.
Not so I could make out with her brother.
I’m really good at multitasking, though.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, reaching for the mug. He sets his down first on a low shelf, and then twists mine around so I can grab it by the handle—to protect me from the searing heat, I can’t help but notice. Butterflies fill my stomach.
“Find anything interesting while I was gone?” he asks, meeting my gaze over the brim of his coffee mug.
“Everything in here is incredible,” I tell him, and I absolutely mean it. I gesture to the leatherbound journal I set aside on the scuffed table tucked up against the bay window. “I found some mentions of the Chosen.”
He flinches and then sets his jaw. “I don’t think the Hunt’s ever marked this many folks in the same spot,” he says, reaching for his mug.
There’s shadows under his eyes I don’t remember seeing before, and I don’t think he shaved this morning.
“What do you think the Chosen have to do with what’s going on here? ”
I shrug. “I’m not sure,” I admit, twisting the sleeve of my sweater. “I guess I’m just trying to understand Them better. So if there’s any accounts of observed, repeated behavior the Hunt’s demonstrated, I’m interested.”
He watches me carefully, and I want to say something—anything to alleviate the concern I can see weighing on him. But I can’t find the words, or maybe I’m afraid, so I take a big gulp of my coffee and then spread my hands.
“In my extraterrestrial research,” I begin, “abductions are obviously a commonly reported phenomenon. The thing is…alien abductees normally come back.”
He nods grimly, taking a step toward me to lean against the bookshelf. “But the ones that get taken by the Hunt don’t.”
I nod, probably too aggressively, and wave my hands in the air.
“And that’s easy to explain away, right?
When people do come back from their time fucking around in Faerie, or whatever, of course Sector’s gonna get to them first and make up some story about aliens.
When they don’t come back, well…no body, no crime. ”
Wyatt narrows his eyes, which I can’t help but notice glimmer like rain-damp river stones in the morning sunshine. “Where you going with this, Blythe?”
It’s so stupid, but my heart clenches that we’re back to Blythe and not Alice. Maybe it’s just because we’re brainstorming right now, and he likes a clean separation between hedgerider business and Wyatt business. I don’t know. I’d like to know, though, if he’d let me.
“What makes the Hunt choose someone?” I ask.
He studies me like the answer is hidden in my messy, unbrushed waves or the depths of my eyes or, fuck, the inner workings of my soul. “I wish I knew,” he replies, his voice hoarse, worn rough with sorrow.
A shriek cuts through the peaceful morning, and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I turn, following the sound, and find Fallon just outside the big bay windows that wrap around the turret.
“Fuck you, lesser celandine,” she shouts, oblivious to us. Despite the cool morning, she’s dressed in biker shorts, a giant t-shirt with holes, and that gorgeous sweater she clearly treasures. She stoops and begins to aggressively tear something small and green from the front beds.
I look back toward Wyatt, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.
“She uses gardening to get her rage out,” he says with a sigh, but the twinkle’s back in his eyes. “Sometimes it gets a little loud.”
I let out a laugh, glancing through the window.
Now armed with a spade, Fallon is down on her knees, stabbing the offending weed—they just look like buttercups to me, but I’m no gardener.
The moment she digs up the roots, she flings the clump of soil and plant behind her with an impressive amount of fury.
Fern trots around the yard, occasionally jumping into the air to snatch the weeds like a frisbee.
When I turn back, Wyatt’s taken a seat at the table that reminds me of the alcoves in my favorite part of the university library. My heart pangs as I slide into the chair across from him, reaching to close the hedgerider journal I’d pulled.
“Okay,” I say, steepling my fingers. “What else do you have on observed, repeated behaviors?”
He meets my gaze with a nod and then climbs back to his feet, moving toward the shelves. “Hey, you don’t have to fetch it for me,” I say, shooting up and following him.
“Just how I was raised,” he mumbles, digging his knuckles into one eye as he scans the shelves.
“Wyatt,” I say in a soft voice, reaching out to brush his forearm. “Are you okay?”
He glances over at me, finally meeting my gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “Yeah,” he replies with a forced smile. “Just tired.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but the words are tumbling out before I can stop myself.
“You don’t have to answer this,” I say, my fingers still curled around his soft, wash-worn flannel shirt sleeve, “but I need you to know that telling me about what happened in New Big Sur is a hard fucking thing. I have a feeling you think that trauma’s all Fallon’s.
She was the one who found them. She’s the one who heard your mom’s last words. ”
Something breaks in Wyatt’s expression, and I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him forever. Or just as long as he needs. As long as he wants me to. That’d be alright, too. I’m used to having an expiration date.
“But you’re the witness, Wyatt,” I continue, fighting back a lump of emotion in my throat. “You have to carry that memory for her. With her. You were both too young for any of that, and you don’t have any less of a right to be fucked up by it just because Fallon was the one who went after them.”
He tilts his head, examining me, giving me the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. Then his hand cups the side of my face, and he leans forward with a sigh, settling his forehead against mine. “Thank you, Alice,” he breathes, his other arm wrapping around my waist.
“For what?” I whisper, those two syllables all I can manage to get out, my throat choked with tears.
“For being you,” he replies. “And for being here.” He pulls away slightly, his fingertips tracing my jaw with a whisper-light touch. I shiver, and I think maybe he would’ve kissed me if we weren’t both distracted by a loud squeaking sound coming from outside.
I twist to look out the window and find Fallon pulling an ancient-looking wagon piled way too high with pumpkins.
The wheels make a horrible noise against the stone-paved walkway that winds around the house.
We both watch wordlessly as the front wheels hit a small bump, spilling at least ten little pumpkins onto the lawn.
Fallon, of course, screeches and then curses vividly. I laugh, because I can’t not—it feels like a big, warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “You’re so lucky you get to watch The Fallon Show whenever you want,” I joke, looking back to find Wyatt pulling a few books from the shelves.