But it seems to work. Oliver squints at me.
“I wish I were a ghost,” he says.
I bite down on my lip. Kids shouldn’t say things like. And it especially hurts hearing it from Oliver, who had been so happy the night before, as we toasted marshmallows together.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get you settled.”
23
THEO
After twenty-four hours without hearing a single whisper from the killing moon, I know the camping trip was a success. I feel more or less like myself again: no undercurrent of blood lust, no dark pull across the lake. I don’t even look at my knives, which I tucked away back in their storage place after Chloe and Oliver went home.
Oliver comes to visit on Saturday afternoon, after I settle down in my cabin to get out of the heat. “Chloe said it was okay,” he tells me, before dropping down on the swing and pulling out his sketch pad. This is somewhat unusual; usually, he brings the drawings to me. But after about twenty minutes of sketching, he shows me the drawing, and I realize the difference:
It’s a picture of me. Just my face, floating on the blank white of the page in exceptional detail.
I feel a momentary surge of panic—Don’t let ‘em take your picturewas one of my father’s common pieces of advice—but then Theo signs, “It’s for Chloe.”
I breathe out, not sure what to say. So I just nod.
Oliver leaves well before sunset, thanking me again for letting him go camping. I follow him down to the beach for reasons not entirely clear to me. From the woods, I watch himrow across the lake. Not to his house. To Chloe’s. I hope he’s handing that picture right to her and not anyone else.
After that, I settle back into my usual routine. I draw water from the well each morning and complete my daily patrols. When I finish, I take my telescope down to the beach and watch Chloe through the glass, all her movements upside down. I see Oliver, too; he’s at her house throughout the weekend, although I do watch him leave during the heat of the day on Sunday, traipsing back to his house. There’s a shift in him when it happens. His happiness kind of dries up, although he’s not scared, really. He’s not in danger. If I were better with humans, maybe I could understand.
Maybe I’ll ask him about it, the next day he comes to visit, even if the idea makes me feel vaguely queasy.
Chloe is easier to watch. She works on her computer out on her patio, her legs kicked up on the balcony ledge. I watch her rattle around inside the house as the sun sets, staining Hanging Lake orange and crimson. It also doesn’t escape my notice that she’s been leaving the curtains open on her big living room windows since the camping trip, and I tell myself it’s for me, like she wants me to watch her eat dinner in front of her TV and pace around the living room while she talks to someone on her phone. Her friend, the other Hunter? I don’t know.
The nights are the worst, though. Being out in the woods reminds me of chasing her and claiming her on the lakeshore. Being in my cabin makes me feel agitated and distracted and, truthfully, nervous. With every day that passes, I worry I’ll start to feel the killing moon again.
I know I should go to her, like I did that first night. The night I kissed her. But the idea of going across the lake—I don’t know. It feels risky. Like it will trigger something, being so close to all the humans who live on the other side. It was fine once, but to keep doing it?
I feel like I’m teetering on a knife’s edge, like one missed step will send me into the path of the killing moon, and I don’t want that. Not now. Not with Chloe here, standing in the way.
I don’t see Oliver again, either. He doesn’t visit, but I also don’t see him through the telescope. His boat is tied to his pier, bobbing in the water, untouched. He never comes out of the house, never plays down by the shoreline or goes to visit Chloe. I can feel him inside, though—quiet, reserved, drawn into myself. That makes me feel strange, too. Worried, maybe.
After a few days, I can’t stand it anymore. I suppose I had been hoping Chloe would come to visit me, maybe tagging along with Oliver again. But perhaps she expects me to go to her.
The idea of crossing the water gives me a hard knot in the chest, and there’s no denying that the moon is swelling overhead, although it’s not full yet. Still, the killing moon itself seems to have quieted down, so one night, when I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin, I decide to take the risk, and I drag my boat down to the shoreline.
I wait until full dark to cross. Wait until most of the houses are dark, as well, although not so long that the light in Chloe’s bedroom window goes out. In fact, I keep my gaze fixed on it as I row across the lake, glowing like a beacon. It leaves a triangle of light across her patio that I focus on as I draw closer and closer to all the human life on this side of the lake. It still gets me agitated, all this humanity, but Chloe’s presence is like a melody that I can latch on to until I feel calm again.
I dart through the shadows as I make my way to her back door, my heart hammering. If I get inside, away from the lopsided moon, I’ll be fine.
I pull out my switchblade, preparing to pry open the lock on her back door. But when I slide the blade into place, it notches in easily. Chloe left the door unlocked.
I suck in my breath and push it open, the door swinging in to release Chloe’s sweet scent. Did she do that on purpose? Did she do that for me?
The floors creak softly as I step inside and shut the door and turn the deadbolt. Just to be on the safe side. I draw the curtains, too, although I cringe at the scraping sound the rings make against the metal curtain rod. I’m not here to kill her, but sixty years of hunting humans has ingrained in me to always be quiet.
Behind me, the floorboards sigh, and my skin prickles.
“Theo.”
I jolt at the sound of my name, and I turn to find Chloe standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in the same flimsy cotton shorts and thin top she wore the first night I broke in. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders.
“Hello,” I sign. Then, “You forgot to lock the door.”
