Page 166 of Property of Whiskey

Either way, I go with him.

Outside, the Kentucky night feels different than it did when we arrived. The air has cooled, but humidity still clings to my skin, and the trees beyond Hell are black shapes against a moonless stretch of sky.

Whiskey reaches the Harley and hands me the spare helmet.

“You believe in monsters, Deputy?”

I look at him. “Human ones.”

“Yeah.”

His gaze shifts toward the dark hills.

“Me too.”

I put on the helmet.

Then I think about a little girl calling something Prickle. A deer with a name.

Something that supposedly lives beyond Whiskey’s tree line, watches the road, and knows enough to dislike church people.

For the first time all night, I’m not entirely sure the human kind are the only monsters we need to worry about.

Chapter Thirteen

Twila

Prickle is gone by the time we get to Whiskey’s house. Apparently, imaginary woodland creatures have better survival instincts than I do.

Glamaw stands on the back porch in a pink robe, one hand planted on her hip and the other holding a flashlight like she fully intends to beat something to death with it if necessary. Wren is pressed against the screen door behind her in unicorn pajamas, her dark hair sticking up on one side like she got yanked out of bed and immediately joined a neighborhood watch.

Whiskey kills the Harley engine and is off before I get my helmet undone. “Thought I told you to keep her inside.”

Glamaw raises the flashlight. “Thought I raised you not to take that tone with your mama.”

Whiskey stops so abruptly I nearly laugh before I get the helmet off. He points toward Wren instead. “Wren.”

“She’s inside.”

“You’re outside.”

“I’m grown.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Got it honest.”

My laugh slips out anyway.

Whiskey turns his head. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I like her.”

“Course you do.”

Glamaw finally gives me her full attention, looking from me to Whiskey and back again with the frightening maternal efficiency of a woman who could probably reconstruct a murder from laundry stains and facial expressions alone. “You’re the missing deputy.”

I straighten automatically. “Yes, ma’am.”