Finn stood up.
“Where are you going?” she sputtered, suddenly fearful he would leave her. He was a dangerous creature, but a known one. She could not say the same for the other.
He gestured toward the woods. “You need to eat. Whatever was in your pack is ruined.”
Greer watched the trees behind him and said nothing.
“I will come back.” His promise was a reassurance, not a threat.
“And she won’t?”
Finn shook his head, and his eyes flashed, shining orangish red. His secret had been there all along, only she’d not understood it.
She blinked hard as another wave of vertigo struck her, gripped the log, held on tight. Her head felt as if she was careening to one side, but Greer knew she’d not moved an inch.
Finn snatched the canteen from the mess of belongings she only now noticed he’d set out to dry. He disappeared down the embankment.
Greer stared at the flames. Her mind was congested with thoughts too big to hold, too impossible to fathom.
“Drink this while I’m gone,” Finn said, suddenly returned. He pushed the canteen into her hands.
Greer looked up at him, and for a terrible second, he split into two—her vision doubled. “She really won’t come after us tonight?”
He nodded.
“How do you know?”
“I’ll be with you, and we don’t hunt our own kind.”
30
There was apeculiar taste to the water, brackish and dark, reminding Greer of the time a woodchuck had drowned in the well at the mill. It had been nearly a week before anyone had discovered the unfortunate rodent.
Though the water in her canteen tasted like that now, Greer was too parched to care. She drank in great gulps, swallowing it down quickly before she could register the strange taste.
When she’d emptied half the canteen, she paused and set it aside, taking stock of everything.
Her knife was lost.
Her lantern, shattered and gone.
Her bag and all the supplies it still contained…
Greer glanced at the rucksack. It was so close, only just beyond the fire, but it felt miles away. When she tried standing, she immediately sank back down, the motion too much for her head. A thin sheen of sweat formed across her upper lip, and she absently wiped it away before studying her fingers.
Fingers,she realized. It took her a moment to realize why this was such a singular thought.
Her fingers were bare.
Her mittens…
She looked across the camp Finn had set up, searching for them, searching for evidence that he’d removed her clothing to dry before the fire, but saw nothing of the sort. She still had on everything she’d worn when she fell into the river, but the clothes were dry now.
Greer didn’t like that. She didn’t know what it meant, how it had been accomplished. Could Finn have stripped every wet article from her, let it dry, and dressed her again, without her stirring?
Under all her layers of cotton and wool—her chemise and undergarments, her dress and sweater, Ellis’s shirt, Finn’s coat—she squirmed uneasily. She peeled off the coat, looking for evidence of tampering, but found only relief.
It’s so hot.
