I focused on a calming breath, and flashes of a memory jolted through me. Don’t worry, no backstory flashback this time—just a flyover to illustrate my misplaced and newfound distrust in Xander’s pact.
Once, while on a super top secret mission for the U.S. of A. military, we were captured by an Acolyte of a Nephil in the Middle East. Though they had us in a Paul and Silas situation—see, I’m not complete ignorant on my scripture—Xander had remained pretty even-keeled. Not once did my God-fearing friend appear afraid of our demise. I, on the other hand, hadn’t shut up whenever the Acolyte paid us a visit. I offered him damn near everything from my social security number to Xander’s most embarrassing stories from Militus University to—well, there’s no need go into further detail of that incident. Let your imagination run wild and naughty.
At one point during our incarceration, Xander had looked at me with utter calmness and, like a raving lunatic, he had said, “We’re meant to be here.”
That was it. For two days, whenever the terrorist Acolytes attempted to harm or kill us, they couldn’t. Their poison had been diluted. Their guns had jammed. A firefight broke out right before our beheadings. It was just one catastrophe after another avoided by a stroke of pure, coincidental luck.
Spoiler alert. We ended up surviving and killing everyone there, winning the day for the good guys like a couple of BAMFs.
Inside the sunlit cabin and staring at the broth, I found myself trusting Xander once again. Besides, maybe I still feared—just a little—being inside the log walls, and I was just a little paranoid. Annie had no idea we were headed her way that morning, right? Why would she have poisoned the broth?
“You have a bowl?” I asked.
“You’re holding it.”
I glanced at the cast-iron pot in my hand and thought of her sipping thick stew from the same bowl. When was the last time she’d washed it? Did she backwash? When had she last showered? Brushed her teeth? Was it worth eating from the same pot she’d abused over the years with her filthy living habits?
Hesitating once again, I remembered the gun that Xander had offered me. Ten shots waited patiently in the Beretta’s magazine. Maybe eating a bullet or two would be the better option. And, if I really did the math, there was enough to share. One for Annie. Eight for Xander. One for me.
I lowered my head, staring at my feet, and carried the pot to the table. With my crudely splinted hand, I grabbed the spoon Annie had offered me. So as not to upset Andy, and I sat cross-legged on the ground and began to shovel the mucky broth into my mouth.
It tasted like dirt and toenails.
I tried not to cry or vomit. Maybe that’s why it was so effective with stomach pains. It just forced you to hack up every meal you’d consumed in the past year.
Annabel and Xander resumed their earlier conversation about her murdered—but also invisibly present—brother.
At the edge of the table rested a notebook. Annie opened it and flipped through a few pages before settling near the middle. She ran her hands over the paper to flatten it out. “Andy and I were hiking,” she said, facing the cot. I thought she meant to scream out another reprimand, but she lowered her gaze and stared at the notebook. In a low tone, she continued her story. “Despite the age gap—eleven years—we were close. I was eighteen at the time, which made him twenty-nine… the same age as me now.”
That statement issued forth a tense silence. I slurped the broth, waiting for Annie to continue. Xander folded his hands on the table, probably wanting to hold hers and comfort her. That lump of love refrained from his baser instincts and sat in his chair, focused on Annie.
After an eternal few seconds, Annie said, “The age gap made it hard for us to find common interests, being at different stages in our lives. But we had always enjoyed nature and being outside. Once a month, we made it a point to go out and hike and catch up with each other. He would update me about his wife and family and job. I told him about school and boys—usually playfully arguing with him about Gladas.” She glared at the cot. “That’s not fair, Andy! He had no idea what would happen!” Turning her attention back to Xander, she said, “Gladas was his best friend. As I went through high school and matured, he took an interest in me. I always thought him a little creepy—he did have a crush on a high-school girl eleven years younger than him. But I did enjoy his company. We read the same books, watched the same movies, and believed the same things. Anyway, Andy and I went hiking that August, and it was hot.” She shook her head and covered her faced, muttering, “No, Andy. I’m not going to say that. It’s inappropriate. Just shut up, okay. I’m going to tell the complete truth if you don’t bite your tongue.” She lifted her gaze and stared at the cot with malice. When she spoke, though, I’m pretty sure she spoke to Xander. “We were right outside the cabin where you walked up, moving along the river, and he decided to jump in to cool off. That’s where he… that’s where it happened.”
“And you saw her?” Xander asked. “The Scylla.” He reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded a printed black-and-white image, setting it atop her notebook. “Was this her?”
She lifted the picture, studying it for a moment, and slid her notebook to Xander. Since I sat on the floor and couldn’t see what she’d showed him, I had to stand, pot of broth
