I hesitate, struck by the realization that I’ve never talked about this to anyone. Now that I’ve confessed a little bit about myself, one of my most traumatic memories is pressing at the back of my tongue like water behind a dam, demanding to be released or I’ll crack from the strain of holding it back.
“Not long after my sixteenth birthday, I was super depressed about having to homeschool and everything, so my mom planned a trip to Dollywood—you know, roller coasters and shit. Back then, Mom still wasn’t sure about Dad’s banshee theory. She thought I was being haunted and maybe if we got far enough away, I’d be all right. But the minute we drove into Pigeon Forge, I started screaming and I couldn’t stop. My parents had to sedate me and drive home. Mom had saved up for the trip, and I ruined it all. Dad kept talking about the thousands of dollars they couldn’t get back—no refunds for the vacation package.”
Heathcliff doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, “Could youhold my phone? Shine the light for me? I gotta cross this stream and I don’t wanna drop you.”
“Let me warm my fingers up for a second.” I try blowing on them, but it doesn’t help much—so I cautiously slide my hand into the V of Heathcliff’s unbuttoned shirt. He’s so deliciously big and warm.
“Can we get a drink from the stream?” I ask. “I’m parched.”
“You want to risk viruses, parasites, bacteria, be my guest.”
“I’m dying here. I need a drink.”
“You’re not dying. You’re way too stubborn for that.”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
“Take the phone.”
I snatch it from his hand and angle it low, so he can see his footing. His grip tightens around me as he steps onto one rock, then another. His stride is so long, we’re across within seconds.
“My toes are freezing,” I whisper.
He puts me down so abruptly I yelp, which hurts my throat. He unlaces and removes his boots, then pulls off his socks. “Put these on.”
“I’m not wearing your sweaty, stinky socks.”
“Oh,nowI’m too dirty for you? You know I’d just brushed some dirt off my truck’s bumper before I rubbed your clit yesterday.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re wearing the socks, Princess.” He grabs my foot in his big, tattooed hand and shoves the first sock on. It’s slightly damp from his sweat and it smells gross, but it’s warm. And I don’t have the energy to fight him anyway.
Once the other sock is on, he picks me up again, curling my body against his chest. The fingernail I almost ripped out is hurting worse than everything else, and there’s an itchy patch on my leg that’sbecoming more and more irritating by the minute.
“I think I stepped in poison ivy.”
“I tried to steer you around things—thorns, rocks, and such. But I didn’t know if it was okay to interfere too much.” Heathcliff resumes the trek through the woods, and I force myself to relax, to yield to his rocking gait and lean my aching head against his shoulder.
“It’s best to let me do what I need to do,” I tell him. “My parents tried locking me up during an episode once and I nearly killed myself trying to get out. Since then I’ve developed some control over where I go, enough to keep clear of the victims I’m supposed to cry for. The idea is that my screams would serve as a warning to the household where the death is about to happen. In ancient times, people would accept that explanation, but these days, people would call the police if I started wailing outside their house. And if I was proven right about multiple deaths, the cops would think I had something to do with it or they’d put me in a mental health facility and never let me out again.”
“You’re fucked either way.”
“Pretty much.”
He’s quiet for a moment. It’s an oddly comforting kind of silence, the kind that makes me feel acknowledged without a lot of unnecessary words. Like he’s really listening, and he gets it.
A few minutes later he says, “So your mom, your dad—they know. But they don’t help you?”
“My mom lives overseas now. And my dad—” I hesitate, sucking my lip again. “What do you know about him?”
“I know he’s a respected member of your cult,” Heathcliff mutters. “That he and his pals hunt down people with supernatural abilities and murder them.”
“What?” I rasp. “That’s not true. Their job is to keep old magicfrom manifesting or reviving. But they don’t kill people. And the church isn’t a cult.”
“Whatever you say, Earnshaw.” He places emphasis on my family name.
“Your family is the dangerous one, Lockwood.”
