Sweetly (12 page)

On top of that, reading is a nice break from watching my brother and Sophia. It’s not that I mean to stare, it’s just that I’ve never witnessed the breathy, floaty look of first romance in person before. But that’s clearly what it is—I recognize all the signs from books and movies. Hands brushing against one another, conversations that end with long stretches of eye contact, the sweet, soft way they talk to each other. I am mesmerized, though I’m not sure if it’s in a good way or not.

When one thirty finally rolls around, I lie: I tell Ansel and Sophia I’m going for a walk, lace up my tennis shoes, then take off down the road. They don’t argue, and I suspect it’s because they either are tired of me staring or are happy to be alone for a little while.

I walk quickly—I’m afraid to run. Running feels as if I’m being chased. I stare down the trees as though they’ve offended me. Samuel wouldn’t have suggested I meet him here if the wolves were around, right? At least, that’s what I say to try to convince myself.

I finally reach Old 18, a former highway that is identical to almost every other street in this part of Live Oak. The motorcycle is parked off the road, and Samuel is walking away from a small hill that has a target with a gray man shape taped onto it. He reaches down and grabs some sort of rifle off the ground and slings another over his shoulder as he storms toward me—well, not storms, I suppose. That seems to be his normal walk.

“Okay, this is the gun you’re using today,” Samuel says with such immediacy that I’m startled. I begin to take it from his hands, but he pulls it back. There’s no loneliness in his eyes now—just challenge. Determination.

“Wait. This is the safety,” he says, pointing to a little lever near the trigger. “Flip it this way, it’s on; the gun can’t fire. This way, it’s off. Unless you’re aiming, keep it on.”

“Right. Safety,” I repeat. Samuel sends me a contemplative look, green eyes searching mine for something, as if he’s expecting me to make a joke out of this whole thing. I’m not sure why—there’s nothing to joke about when you might find yourself moments away from being eaten.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the middle of the field. I walk along beside him until we reach a point not too far away from the target. There are a few small cardboard boxes on the ground, labeled with terms I don’t understand: hollow point, 36 grain, copper plated. Samuel hands me a rifle.

“Load it like this,” he says, twisting a cylinder near the top. He grabs a handful of bullets from one of the boxes and drops them into the gun, then closes it up.

“Got it,” I answer, though I could honestly use another demonstration. I follow suit clumsily.

“Rules,” Samuel says. “Don’t aim it at a person. Ever. Count the number of rounds you put in the gun. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to fire.” He swings his own rifle back over his shoulder, then pauses. “And don’t ever, ever fire at a Fenris until it transforms. Just in case your instinct is wrong and it’s actually a person.”

“Right,” I mutter. I notice the rifle he’s holding is far bigger than my own. “Isn’t this a little small to kill a witch?”

“Fenris. Wolf. Why are you still calling them witches?” Samuel asks, voice exasperated.

I blush, fight to find words. “That’s what’s always scared me—the witch.”

“And a Fenris doesn’t scare you?”

“I know what a Fenris is. Besides, it seems weird to call the witch something different after all this time.”

Samuel doesn’t seem to understand—he shakes his head as though it’s not worth arguing with me. “It’s not too small to kill a witch or a wolf or a Fenris or a serial killer or whatever else it is you are or are not afraid of. It’s all about your aim,” he answers.

“How good is your aim?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

Samuel shrugs. “My father and his father and his father and all my brothers are woodsmen. Some are good at building things, some are good at carving, some are good with an ax… I’ve always been a good hunter. Anyway, lift it like this,” Samuel says, raising his own rifle up to his shoulder.

I try to mimic him.

“Push your left elbow in farther, so it’s right under the rifle. Right. Okay, and then the stock of the gun should be right…” He swings his gun back around his shoulder and moves around me to adjust my position. He touches the rifle whenever possible, avoiding my skin as if it might poison him. “There,” he finally says.

Samuel points to a tiny circle at the end of the rifle. “So to aim, you’re going to line this circle”—he moves to point to a little v-shaped piece of metal that rests on top of the rifle, just a few inches away from my face—“up with this V. Close your left eye; look at everything from your right.”

“Okay,” I mutter, struggling to line everything up—the moment I get it all in order, I shake or the wind blows or I breathe and everything is out of whack again. Samuel continues to adjust my shoulder and the rifle itself, which doesn’t exactly help. Every time he gets close, he brings with him a strange scent, something bright and forestlike that lingers on his skin, like the smell of fresh leaves.

“Wait. There—perfect,” Samuel says. He raises his hands and backs away slowly, as though he’s steadying a vase. “Okay, flip the safety off… good. So, you want to squeeze the trigger—not yet! Christ, give me a second to explain. You want to squeeze the trigger, not yank it. Separate your finger from the rest of your hand.”

“Is it going to kick back?” I ask, keeping my right eye locked on the target. The wind sweeps my hair around my face, but I make no move to brush it away—I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to hit a position that Samuel considers “perfect” again.

“No. Just squeeze—”

“Are you sure?” I cut him off, thinking about the way guns always slam back into the shooters’ shoulders in movies. I should have worn something more substantial than a tank top… and what if it kicks and I shoot into the air or into Samuel’s head or something?

“It won’t kick,” Samuel says testily.

“Maybe you should do it first—”

“Squeeze with your finger—no, don’t say anything else. You’re talking yourself out of it. Just shoot the damn gun, Gretchen,” Samuel says.

I inhale slowly, and as I exhale, I squeeze the trigger so lightly that I’m not sure I’m doing anything at all. I think of my parents. I think of Ansel, I think of my sister. I think of releasing Ansel’s hand in the forest twelve years ago, and how the witch could have chosen me instead of her to make vanish.

I squeeze a little harder.

It fires—a sharp, shallow sound that ripples through my ears. One shot, two, three, each separated by long pauses so I can adjust my aim and take another breath.

Ten total—but I forgot to count. The rifle clicks but doesn’t fire as I try for shot eleven. I exhale.

“And there you go. Put the safety back on,” Samuel says, his voice lighter than normal.

I don’t move.

“Put the safety on,” Samuel repeats.

I inhale and raise my head, gazing down at the rifle. I shot it—I know how to shoot it. Somewhat, at least. I can aim, I can shoot, I can protect myself from the wolves.

“Gretchen,” Samuel says sternly. He takes a step toward me.

“Sorry, sorry.” I snap out of the daze and flip the safety over. Samuel steps in quickly to take the gun out of my hand and set it on the ground. He raises an eyebrow at me, but I ignore him and start toward the target. I want to run, want to spring forward and find I’m victorious, that I’ve hit the gray man square between the eyes. The urge to leap across the field nips at me; I have to breathe slowly to control it.

As the gray man grows closer, I try to imagine him as a werewolf—as the blond-haired monster from last week. Would I have hit him? Saved myself?

Actually, no, I realize as I reach the target. I didn’t hit it once.

“Not bad,” Samuel says, frowning as he pulls a blue marker out of his jeans pocket.

“Not bad? I didn’t even hit him,” I complain, folding my arms. All ten shots are clustered closely together in the upper right corner of the paper on the white part.

Samuel shakes his head as he reaches forward with the blue marker and puts a slash through all ten shots. “But you were consistent. Same area all ten times. It just means you need to take the overall aim down and to the left.”

“But I—”

“Are you going to pout?” Samuel says, eyeing me, “or are you going to try changing your aim and starting over?”

I stare at Samuel for a moment—bright eyes looking
into
me, eyes that make my heart beat faster and mind leap excitedly, a feeling that comes without the scent or taste of candy, and is all the sweeter for it. “I’ll try again,” I answer firmly.

And, for the first time since I met him, Samuel smiles.

CHAPTER TEN

W
hen I get home, Sophia’s car is gone and Ansel is using a hammer inside the shop. Luxe is sitting outside, looking profoundly irritated with all the banging going on.

“How was your walk?” Ansel asks, looking up at me from under a display case when I come in.

I try to wipe the grin off my face, the one I’ve been wearing ever since I left the lesson. “Fine,” I say with a shrug. Ansel nods, looks down, but doesn’t go back to hammering.

“I can go with you next time, if you want,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I answer, and I’m surprised to realize I really mean it.

Ansel smiles and shakes his head. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I just… you were walking. Past the forest. By yourself,” he says.

I nod, but now that he says it, I’m hyperaware of how odd it is. Does he suspect something? Will I have to tell him that the witch is here?

“I’m just impressed, that’s all,” he responds to the look on my face. I exhale and he continues. “This sounds weird, I know, but I feel like… I had to mourn our sister, then our parents, and the whole time it felt like I was mourning you too. Even though you’re here.”

He pauses a long time, and I open my mouth to apologize. He waves his hand to stop me. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just saying—if I’m not mourning you anymore, then… that means we’re
both
finally out of the woods.”

I smile automatically at the sincerity of my brother’s words, emotion that’s mirrored in his eyes. We’re both free.

Even though the witch is closer than ever, we’re both free.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asks, sliding farther under the glass display case with the hammer and breaking the tenderness filtering between us.

“Sure.”

“I left a few wrenches by the door of the shed. Grab them for me?”

I cut through the kitchen—Sophia has rows and rows of truffle molds laid out, ready to be filled—and out the back screen door. I hurry toward the three wrenches that are resting just outside the shed and swipe them off the ground.

I drop them instantly—the silver metal is so hot from the late June sun that it’s scalding. I curse at them, make a basket out of the front of my shirt, and toss them into it. I’m about to turn to go back inside when my eye catches something—the shed door is slightly ajar.

On closer inspection, I realize why: the chain that I assumed locked up the shed is actually just wound loosely around the handles with no padlock whatsoever. I press my face against the gap in the door and try to peer inside—this is the only part of Sophia’s property I haven’t seen. Would Sophia mind that I’m curious? It’s not locked—the chain seems to be more to keep the doors shut than to keep anyone out. I cradle the wrenches with one hand and use the other to unwind the chain. The doors swing open easily.

There’s not much inside. A lawn mower, some spare pieces of wood, a few boxes labeled “Hanukkah Chocolate Molds.” But then, in the back, below an upper level that spans half the shed, I see something different—something covered in dust and dead leaves, as if it’s been in there a long time. A row of cardboard boxes, each tightly taped up. Beside those, a bed and a lavender dresser that match the furniture in my room exactly. I turn to look up at my bedroom’s window and remember how the room’s design so perfectly reflects itself—no wonder it feels strange. Half of it is missing, stuffed into the shed. I take a step closer, and my foot accidentally hits an open box, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Seashells. Five of them: beautiful, flawless conch shells wrapped in cloth that’s come loose with the box’s motion. I kneel, rewrapping them and placing them back into the box, only to realize there’s an identical box beside it with three seashells inside. Something about them strikes me as disconcerting, worrisome. They’re just seashells, but I remember the way Sophia reacted when one appeared on her porch a couple of weeks ago, and I can’t help but be curiously wary.

Sophia’s car pulls up. I jump up and dart to the door, hurriedly relooping the chain around the handles. I rush back inside with the wrenches, trying not to look too out of breath.

“Thanks,” Ansel says, taking the wrenches from me just as Sophia reaches the screen door. She smiles at me.

“Wow,” I say, looking at her armful of boxes. “Need help?”

“If you’re offering,” she says, just as a box topples off the top of her stack. “There are a few more in the car—”