Reckoning

PART ONE

CHAPTER TWO

We didn’t make the sort of time I hoped, but we got there. By late evening on the third day we were all sick of each other. Graves lit another cigarette, and the brief flare from the lighter he’d found somewhere made me blink.

I slowed down even more, squinting through the film of road grime on the windshield. The car bumped over washboard, and Ash made a small puppy sound from the backseat.

I hoped he wasn’t trying to tell me he needed to pee. “We’re almost there,” I said for the hundredth time. “Just hold on.”

“Where the fuck are we?” Graves clutched at the dash. “There’s no light.”

I knew what he meant. When night falls in deep Appalachia, it falls hard. There’s precious little orange citylight or townglow out here where the trees press close and the land pleats up like Gran’s face when she tasted something disagreeable. Up on the ridge roads sometimes you have star and moon to go by, when you can see them through the trees. But down in the hollers the dark is a living thing, and our little cone of headlight shine didn’t show much except the rutted-out road between dust-bleached, choke-close trees. A few places even had creepers coming across the road, a sure sign that nobody had been up this way by car in a while. We’d left town behind at dusk, and I was feeling my way.

The last turn—a sharp, almost axle-breaking right—and I could feel the trees drawing away. The road disappeared in a sea of high grass, and our headlights swam through it.

“Jesus,” Graves almost moaned. “There’s no road. Does this place have plumbing?”

“Will you quit bitching?” I’ll admit it. I snarled. My ponytail was a mess, and curls hung in my face. “There’s a well, and an outhouse. It’s better than being killed by vampires.”

“Bang,” Ash piped up, but softly. He was scooting between windows, looking on one side, then sliding across the seat to look out the other way. The car rocked slightly every time he did it, and I’d given up trying to buckle him in. The grocery bags in the backseat—enough to get us through a couple days, at least—rustled, and I groped for the window crank. My window rolled down, and the smell of spring, thin earth, rock, trees, creepers, the familiar metal tang of the crick down the way—it all about rocked me back on my heels.

It smelled like home.

The boys were quiet for a little while.

“You’re smiling.” Graves said it like he was surprised. He could probably see me just fine in the glow from the dash.

I found out I was. It wasn’t a big wide stupid grin, but it felt close. “Smells like home, that’s all. I lived here for a long time.”

“That must be the drawl you’ve got. Southern honey, anyone?” Lightly teasing, and amused.

I perked up a little. He sounded more and more like himself, the farther we drove. Bitchy and annoying, but still himself. “I don’t drawl. Yanks just talk weird. Bite off all their words like they’re personally offended by each one.”

He rolled down his own window and sniffed, cautiously. How he could smell anything with all the smoking he was doing was beyond me. “I’m Midwest, babe. That don’t make me a Yank.”

The longer I grinned, the more natural it felt. “You’re above the Mason-Dixon, boy. That makes you Yank automatically.”

“Great. And I suppose you’re Johnny Reb.”

It stung, but I knew he had no idea. “Don’t say that kind of thing around here, okay? As a matter of fact, someone comes around, let me do the talking.”

“Yeah.” He held up a hand, examining it like he’d never seen it before. Took a drag, let the smoke curl out through his nostrils. “Do I have the wrong skin tone for this red neck of the woods, Dru?”

Are you trying to call me a racist, or just my folk? “Jesus.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “I’m more worried about the vampires finding out we’re here. You stick out, I don’t. Much, I guess.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately? You don’t blend, kid.”

Perversely, I felt warmed. “So you noticed. I look like my mom a bit.”

I should’ve known it was too good to be true. “Some mom,” he muttered. “You look . . .”

I waited, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

All the good feeling drained away. He’d seen me drinking someone’s blood. He’d also seen me kick vampire ass. And he’d looked completely disgusted. Now this. Great. Just great. “What? Unwashed? Redneck? Uneducated? Toothless? Like my mama and daddy were cousins? Shut up, Graves. Until we get to the house, shut your goddamn Yankee-ass mouth and let me drive.”

He subsided, sucking on his cancer stick like it held the secret to world peace or something. Ash’s back and forth sped up a little. “Ash!” I barked. “Pick a side, sit down, and sit still!”

He did. Right behind Graves, cowering up against the window like he wasn’t sure if I was going to reach back and smack him. The silvery stripe in his hair gleamed in the uncertain dimness.

Great. Perfect. Just wonderful.

The house hove into view across the meadow. I was finding the driveway more by instinct than anything else; the meadow had reclaimed the ruts in a big way. Dad and I had only been back here once to close everything up. If we were lucky, the house would still be sound. If it wasn’t, well, it was only temporary. There are a lot of things you can just live with in summer.

Winter would be a completely different story. But by then we would be on the road to somewhere else. If we survived.

I didn’t want to think about it. Here was Gran’s, and Gran’s was safe, and for the time being that was enough. I’d kept this place like a card in my back pocket; it was my last best draw.

“You grew up way out here?” Graves sounded horrified.

“I told you to shut up.” But there was no heat to it. Of course he’d be horrified by the sight of Gran’s high narrow shotgun house, weathered boards festooned with creepers and kudzu, the pump out front still wrapped securely. There was another pump in the kitchen, and there was the crick if the well was low. Looked like nobody’d been at the cordwood, which should be nice and seasoned now. The chicken coop listed, its front door open and the fence around it pulled half-down. There’d probably been a few storms, and the fencing around the coop was one of Gran’s Perpetual Endeavors. Like baking biscuits or trying to civilize me into wearing a skirt.

The Packard slumped under a mound of creeping green in the carport; I could still remember driving down off the ridges with Gran’s terrible labored breathing in the passenger seat, bumping and swerving toward the hospital down the valley.

I blew out between pursed lips. The touch flexed inside my skull, and a tingle ran through every tooth I had. But especially the sharp upper canines.

Fangs. I ran my tongue over them carefully. They were just sensitive, not warning me. I hadn’t tasted the rotten wax-orange that would tell me danger was close. Instead I was just jumpy as hell, tetchy, and exhausted. Not to mention feeling a queer pain in my chest. Like my heart was deciding all this was too much hassle and it would just crack in half. Save the king of the vampires and everyone else the trouble of killing me by taking care of business at home, so to speak.

I squinted as we rolled to a stop, sliding the car into park. Yes, there were fine thin blue lines slipping through the physical fabric of the walls, knotting together and twisting in complex Celtic designs. The walls remembered Gran’s wards. She’d redone them every night and made me do them too, with her rowan wand and without, with candle and salt or just plain will. I could almost see the trembling of a candle flame behind the