Madeline chuckles again. “Doubtful. But… tonight is probably not a good night to come by my place.”
“Why not? You have other guests?” There’s a little hint of jealousy in my voice. Which surprises me.
But Madeline laughs. “No. We don’t really do guests. My family is kind of… reclusive. Maybe private is a better word.”
“Mine as well,” I admit. I really do want to bring her to the sanctuary, but of course, I would have to fight a mighty battle to win that argument with Pell. Still, I don’t want to dash her hopes, so I keep quiet about the potential complications.
A horn honks, startling us both. And we turn to find Big Jim yelling from the window of his tuck.
“Hey, you sorry son of a bitch. We’ve been waiting on you!”
The bed of the big red truck is filled with local men all holding shotguns.
“Welp.” Madeline pats my chest one more time. “That’s your cue. Tomorrow, though, right? I can come see your house?”
This is probably not going to happen, but there are many hours between tonight and tomorrow, and you never know when fate will intervene. So I agree. “Absolutely, dear Madeline. Tomorrow.” Then I place my hand on her cheek, gaze lovingly into her eyes, and kiss her. Right on the lips and right in front of everyone.
She lets out a hurried breath when I step back. Like I made her swoon. Then her fingertips touch her lips. Like she’s reliving the kiss that just happened a moment ago.
Big Jim honks his horn and yells, “Let’s go!” Then honks again.
Madeline twiddles her fingers in the air and I twiddle mine back.
Then I force myself to turn away and walk towards Big Jim. “Shall I follow you?”
“Hell no, boy. We’re going up in Big Red here.” Big Jim taps the outside of his door. “Grab your gun and get in the back with the boys.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to indicate that ‘the boys’ are the men crowded in the bed of his truck.
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Well, why the hell not? This is a huntin’ trip, son!”
“Right. Right. But this is not a let’s-kill-them hunt, correct? We’re just flushing them out?”
Big Jim laughs. Everyone laughs. Then Big Jim growls, “Boy. Get in the back of the truck.”
All those warm feelings I just had—all those thoughts about fitting in and feeling at home—they disappear when I climb into the back of the truck and take a seat on the edge next to a man with a blond beard and crazy green eyes.
I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I don’t recognize a single face. The only two people I know are Big Jim and Russ Roth. Big Jim is driving, obviously. And Russ Roth is up front with him. So I just smile nervously as we all jerk from side to side as Jim takes us up into the hills.
It’s very dark once we enter the woods, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of the full moon.
The timing of this hunt suddenly makes more sense. The full moon has always been a signal of some sort to various monsters and gods. Why should these people be any different?
We stop at a trail head and park. All the boys get out and I follow along. We gather in a group in front of a sign that proclaims this trail to be the Trail of Beasts. I’m squinting my eyes, trying to read the little paragraph of information underneath the title, when Russ Roth says, “Ready, Tomas?”
“What?” I snap to attention.
“You’re in the lead, son,” Big Jim says. “Show us where the monsters are.”
“Well, then.” I look around to get my bearings, then point in the direction of Saint Mark’s. We are miles and miles away, so there is absolutely no chance of us actually finding Saint Mark’s tonight, but a good lie always has a sprinkle of truth in it. “This way, lads. Follow me.”
This hunt does not go the way I figured it would. In my mind I had imagined that we would traipse through the woods, clambering about. There would be some shouting, and excitement, and many, many false positives.
But that’s not how it goes at all.
These men are silent. Even though they are all wearing heavy boots, they barely make a rustle. It’s like they are tiptoeing across a carpet. They communicate with some secret sign language—which I do not understand, obviously—and there is almost no talking. When they do talk, it’s in a hushed whisper. It strikes me that getting a big group of men to be this quiet implies some training. And somewhere around mile marker number three, I realize… I might’ve underestimated them.
A hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me to a stop. When I turn, it’s Russ Roth looking back at me. I shrug—my own version of silent language—because I have already been yelled at for talking almost a dozen times.