Page 17

I don’t recall covering the distance between us. I remember getting my arm over her and turning, and the sound that came out of my chest—low and wordless, beginning somewhere beneath my ribs, vibrating through the ground, through my hands where they were braced against the branch.

I felt it stir the leaf litter. The lace struck my shoulder and back and closed. I planted my feet. Claws out. Let it try.

It burned where it touched—acidic, immediate, straight through my shirt to the skin beneath. The fur on my arms rose, every follicle pulling tight, and the ridge of coarse hair along my shoulders lifted in a wave I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.

My vision shifted. Colors dropped and contrast sharpened; my teeth didn’t fit my mouth. The ground vibrated under my boots, and I wasn’t sure anymore whether that was the forest or me.

Four seconds.

Then it let go, lifted, and folded itself back up under the branch like a thing that had never moved at all.

The birds started somewhere off to the east, one, then several. The wood exhaled.

I didn’t move.

My hands hadn’t stopped shaking. The amber hadn’t left my eyes yet. It always took a minute to fade, and there was nothing to do but wait it out.

I could feel where my shirt had torn across the shoulders, the seams giving way where I’d broadened, and the burns on my back were tightening as they cooled. Beneath it all, I sensed her heartbeat. Not panicked. Just fast.

I turned around.

She was sitting in the moss where I’d put her, hair half out of its braid, camera hanging off one wrist. She was looking up at me. The canopy had shifted, sunlight falling across the bridge of her nose and the place where her collar had pulled sideways.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

I went to one knee in front of her—too fast, too close, but the lace had been dropping toward the back of her neck, and I needed to see. I reached out and stopped. My claws were out. The blisters on my palms were rising. I had no business putting them on anyone.

“Hold still,” I said, turning my wrists so it was the backs of my fingers against her collar, not the claws. I drew the fabric aside and checked the skin beneath. Nothing. No mark, no redness, no contact. The lace hadn’t reached her.

She was very still under my hands.

That close, I could smell the soap in her hair and the sweat beneath it and the warm-bread scent that was just her—the one I’d caught from forty yards out on the first morning. It had no business being this specific.

Her eyes flicked to my face. Stayed there.

Amber hadn’t completely faded from my eyes yet. My claws were still curved at my sides. She saw it all.

I pulled back. Stood up. Took two steps that should have been three.

“You’re fine,” I said.

“I know. I said that.”

“Don’t go under low branches in full sun.” My voice was too hard, too loud, and my heart was still slamming around like a bird in a box. “I told you that six days ago. If you’re not going to listen⁠—”

She was already on her knees, looking past me at the branch. “Does it only activate in direct sun? It hasn’t moved once all week, and we’ve been under those branches three times. It’s the UV component, isn’t it? There has to be a thermal trigger⁠—”

“Hazel.”

“—and you knew.” She stopped. Looked up at me, mud on her chin. That look in her eyes. “You knew before it happened. The birds went quiet, and you were already moving.”

I turned and walked ten paces downhill.

I found a fallen beech at the bottom of the slope, large enough to sit on, and dry underneath. My shirt had torn open across the back. Cool air moved over the welts, and I sat down before I could think about whether she was looking.