Page 50 of The Darkest Chase
I don’t answer.
I just stand and start kicking dirt over the fire, banking it down until it’s just embers, low coals glimmering against the darkness, casting us in shadow. There’s enough light left to see Talia frowning as she watches me.
“Won’t we get cold tonight?”
“That’s why we have the tents and sleeping bags.”
With the mood I’m in, the reminder that she’ll be wrapped up in my jacket doesn’t send my mind vaulting down those dark, possessive paths it could easily follow.
She still looks confused, so I clarify, “We don’t want any light drawing attention. The trees are good cover, but not perfect. If the Jacobins happen to come through from this direction, the firelight and the scent of smoke could give us away.”
Her expression clears.
“Ohhh.” She takes another sip of her soup. “When do they typically show up?”
“Usually around midnight. They like to do their business when the town’s asleep.” I sink back down on my log and reach for my own soup. “Finish your food and get some sleep until then.”
“Fine. But how will we know when to wake up?”
“Trust me, we’ll know.”
We finish dinner silently. Every now and then, Talia looks over her shoulder like she’s expecting one of the hillfolk to come bursting through the trees, swinging an axe.
I don’t blame her.
The locals grew up with all sorts of weird stories about the Jacobins. To half of Redhaven, they’re this chainsaw massacre family who love wearing human skin and can be summoned by dark rituals. They make a few bucks off their crops and baked goodies at the farmers’ market whenever they’re not turning kidnapped children into pies.
The townsfolk don’t see them from the outside the way I do.
Really, they’re an insular people who keep a low profile.
They believe in stark tradition over modern law and social conventions. Hillfolk keep to themselves and do their own thing first, second, and third.
They don’t like to hurt anybody else if they can avoid it.
However, they also don’t care if a few outsiders are collateral damage.
Once we’re done eating, she crawls into the tent set aside for her, peeking around on hands and knees before she crawls back out and promptly spreads her sleeping bag over the floor.
Wiggling back inside, she sticks her feet out, kicks her boots off—giving me a glimpse of her toes in those pink and black argyle socks that match her flannel shirt—before disappearing inside again.
There’s a whisper of cloth on nylon, her silhouette squirming against the camo siding, and then her head pokes out again.
She’s all bundled up, snug inside her sleeping bag, and she watches me for a minute before murmuring an uncertain, “Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Grey. Might want to zip up. Keeps the bugs out and keeps you warm.”
“R-right,” she says, then she zips the flap of the tent shut.
I shake my head, refusing to smile again.
Little pink hellion.
Another half hour passes before I tuck into my own tent.
I sit with Rolf at my feet, watching the last glimmering embers from the fire, alone with my thoughts. A second helping of soup goes down before I put the rest away in a thermos for morning.
Before I settle in, I risk peeking into Talia’s tent, easing the zipper open slowly and silently.