My stomach growled. I made my way to the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator. The light inside came on, proving that the solar panels on the roof three stories above were still working. Which meant plumbing. A shower would be nice. The shelves inside the refrigerator were full of food and beer and wine. Boone’s Farm Fuzzy Navel. I chuckled and pulled the note off the bottle in front.
It read simply,I love you. Come home.
Bruiser was fine. That was good. I stuffed the note in my bra next to my heart. I removed the bottle and opened it. Drank it down. It tasted fantastic. Beyond fantastic. I opened another, wishing for once that I could get roaring drunk. Skinwalker metabolism wasn’t agreeable to a good roaring drunk.
Brains are better,Beast thought at me.
“Gack,” I said aloud, my stomach rumbling.
Pig is good, though.
I opened the freezer. The pig had been fully pulled and placed in zippered, gallon-sized plastic bags. Five of them, frozen hard. I stuck one under the kitchen faucet and let water run over it until it was soft enough to remove the meat from the plastic and then nuked the gallon of meat until it was hot. While it thawed and heated, I checked the food in the fridge, knowing the smell would tell me how long I had been alone on the island. The beanie weenies didn’t smell perfect, but I pulled them out and stuck them in the microwave when the pork was hot. Dumped the pig into the soup tureen on the kitchen island. That was when I spotted the card on the Carrara marble. Heavy card stock, folded over, red writing on white paper. It was the red of one of my lipsticks. Bloodred. Not so favorite anymore.
The note was arranged like an upside-down pyramid. It read:
Chère, I done left you rest of that pig you like so much.
The Kid done left you a satellite phone. Eat.
Call home. We come get you.
Deon.
I spotted the phone on the island too. Didn’t pick it up.
While the beans heated, I carried the tureen around, snacking, and made a quick tour of the house. Someone had stripped the wet wallboard tape from the walls, reapplied fresh. There was no luggage left. No sign of blood on the floors.
When the microwave dinged I brought the bottle of Boone’s Farm and the food to the front porch and sat down in the dark. Night had fallen fully. The surf sounded lazy and languid and soothing.
I ate and drank. Watching the tide roll in.
When my belly was full, I put the leftovers in the fridge and took a hot shower. The house was cold, but someone had left an electric blanket on the bed I had used, along with a set of sheets and my luggage. The blanket smelled like Molly. Eli had said that she was okay too. I pulled on sweats and the wool socks that had come with the shoes and wrapped myself in the blanket. I fell on my bunk and let sleep pull me under.
I woke at dawn. Ate pig. Drank wine. I was halfway through the bottle when I saw a flash of a head flying through the air. Leo’s head. Memory. Intense as reality. Stark, electric. I blinked. Sobbed once, hard and harsh and dry. Eyes burning. Leo was in a blood box. He might not be true-dead. Or not exactly true-dead.
A second image slammed into me. Titus’s head in my hand, then dropping to the sand.
I’d killed him. It was what I did. I killed people. Beings. Sentient creatures. But I should have killed Titus the moment he walked up to the house on the beach, surrounded by his people. I should have drawn the Mughal blade and taken his head right then. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
Hadn’t.
I finished the bottle. There were more. Bruiser had left me twelve, an entire case. The wine sat heavy on my stomach. Queasy. So I drank more.
• • •
My second morning on the island in Jane form, I crawled from bed and walked naked down to the beach to swim. The air was warmer, eighties, but the water was cold when I dove in and swam deep. Halfway hoping I’d be eaten by a shark. I wasn’t that lucky.
When exhaustion claimed me, I crawled up the shore and lay in the sun on the sand. Naked. Alone. When the sun threatened to burn even my golden-toned skin, I rinsed off in the outside shower and went in search of something other than pig. I found a baked fish in the freezer, next to a plastic container that was marked with the wordsRICE PUDDIN’. I microwaved them both. Ate theentire fish—which had Deon’s touch on it, lemon and herbs—and the whole container of rice pudding, which tasted like coconut and rice and dates and cranberries. They shouldn’t have tasted good together, but they did.
I drank another bottle of wine, deciding that I’d drink a bottle per day from now on, to mark off the days as human. But I didn’t feel so well. And I was tired. Grief could make a person tired. Right? Right.
• • •
Days passed. A helo flew over once and I waved it off. It left. I was okay. I just needed privacy. But instead of feeling better, I was feeling worse. A lot worse. After the last bottle of wine, I knew it was time to call for extraction. I’d been walking on the beach at sunset, the empty bottle in my hand, swinging. I’d tried singing. Quit when my own ears protested. I was a mile along the beach, heading back to the house, when the sickening feeling hit me, a wrenching nausea that tossed me to my knees, retching. I vomited up everything I’d eaten for dinner, hard and nasty. Onto the sand.
It was full of blood.
I used to throw up blood when I bubbled time, but it had been days. Weeks.
