“How?”
“Never you mind. Don’t be out too late. And watch your attitude and your mouth when you’re with him. He’s a good kid. He could sure do better than you.”
Right. Because I’m trash. In Dad’s mind, my blood is dirty, my body corrupted by a pagan spirit straight out of folklore.
I am my father’s greatest shame, living proof of the ancient powers he has devoted himself to suppressing. That’s why he hates me. That’s why he never follows me into the woods to make sure I’m okay—because he hopes that one of these nights, I won’t come back. He wants me to die.
It’s a shitty way to live, knowing you’re an inconvenience to the man who’s supposed to love you.
“And don’t drink tonight,” Dad says without looking at me. “I don’t want you spilling secrets to young Linton, not after I patched things up with his dad. Matter of fact, maybe you shouldn’t go after all. It’s not like you can really date the boy or marry him. Can’t marry nobody, can you?”
My fingers ball into fists. “It’s dinner, not even really a date. We’re just going to catch up. I’ll make sure it doesn’t go any further than that.”
Dad scoffs and chugs half a beer before replying. “Sure, Cat. I believe you. You’re so damn trustworthy.”
When he drinks, he allows himself to swear. I don’t mind that so much, but when the swearing starts, the yelling and hitting aren’t far behind.
I decide to risk a few more questions. “Those people at Aunt Nellie’s today—what were they talking about? Are we in danger?”
“No,” he barks, too suddenly, too sharply.
So the real answer is yes, then.
“Did someone get hurt?”
He drinks again, exhales a long breath. “Macauley and Quinn went out to do the consecration walk and sprinkle blessed water a few nights ago. They were found with about a thousand sticks stabbed through each of their bodies.”
“Sticks?”
“Yes, Cathy, sticks! Like the damn forest itself thought they were pincushions.” He gulps from his bottle and crosses himself with a meaty hand.
No way. If that had really happened, I would have seen those deaths. I would have mourned those men. Unless…unless they were hidden from me somehow. Maybe the nature of the deaths made them beyond my ability to perceive. Like their connection to the god messes with my supernatural death radar. A scary thought. We’ll have no warning if it happens again.
“You going on that date or what?” says my dad. “Get on upstairs and fix yourself. You still look like shit from your last crying jag.”
He’s moving into aggressive territory, so I obey quickly.
Once I’m ready, I wait for Edgar on the porch, hoping Dad will think I’ve already left. Moths jitter and dive around the porch light as I settle onto the swing, careful not to move too much and make the chains squeak. This stretch of Wuthering Lane is usually pitch-dark at night, except when there’s a moon. Tonight the pale disc is scarred with thick gray clouds.
I stretch out my legs, pleased that I can’t see any trace of the bruises and cuts from my forest wanderings a few nights ago. I’mwearing high-tops, cranberry-colored shorts, and a soft, baggy tan sweater. Nothing that would scandalize the pastor’s son too terribly.
Like Dad said, there’s no future for me and someone like Edgar, even if I wanted one. But his softness and kindness appeal to me. He’s sweet. A good, safe guy. I never feel safe, and Ineedsafe right now.
Scratch that—Ididfeel safe recently. Safe enough to fall asleep in the arms of Heathcliff Lockwood.
I shake my head as if the act could dislodge him from my mind. Sure, Heathcliff helped me get home, but then he said all those weird, semi-threatening things. I can’t get a read on him at all. All I can do is hope that he won’t tell anyone my secret.
When a car finally rolls into our driveway, I force my teeth to release my lower lip. There’s blood on it. I gotta quit chewing on myself when I’m anxious. If I’m not biting my nails, I’m gnawing my lip or chomping the inside of my cheek. I probably need therapy or some shit.
I jump off the swing, brace it with my hand so it won’t sway and squeak, and then run down the steps to Edgar Linton’s Nissan. He hops out of the car and practically trips over his own feet trying to get around to the passenger side and open the door for me. I chuckle and slide in. “Thanks.”
“Sure, Cathy.”
While we drive, he tells me about his mission work in Zambia, which apparently involved touring orphanages, handing out food and supplies, painting some houses, and then going on a safari and staying in a luxury hotel.
He doesn’t ask what I’ve been up to. I guess he can tell my life has been fairly stagnant—a twenty-two-year-old stuck here in Wicklow, living with Dad and working at Aunt Nellie’s. Still, it bothers methat he doesn’t ask.
Moretti’s doesn’t take reservations, but it’s the middle of the week, so there are plenty of empty booths. The hostess shows us to one near the bar. As I slide onto the faux-leather bench seat, I eye the shining emerald and amber bottles behind the bar, wondering if I dare order alcohol. Does Edgar drink now? He never used to, but he was underage when we last hung out.
