Page 87 of The Fire Went Wild

I want to say it’s the binding, that it’s still strangling her and keeping her from accepting herself. But really, I think I fucked everything up because I treated her like a dead girl and not the living, breathing woman that she is.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Really, I really am. I shouldn’t have—” Charlotte keeps watching me, listening. She doesn’t seem upset. “I’m not—I don’t know how to do any of this. The other Hunters I know, they’re either related to me or they’re men. You’re?—”

She looks over at me, waiting.

“You’re very pretty,” I finish lamely.

And to my shock, she breaks into a big, dazzling grin. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.”

I blush again.

“And I accept your apology.” She looks at me, eyes blazing. “Just don’t do it again.”

A beat passes, and her lips quirk up.

“At least not without asking me beforehand.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHARLOTTE

Talking to Jaxon at the rest stop was like snapping a puzzle piece into place. The puzzle isn’t complete, but I can see a little more of it, a sense of what I’m working towards.

I still feel broken.

But I don’t feelalonein my brokenness.

Okay, so he’s a necrophile. I can’t say it totally surprises me, considering his house is full of bones and human leather and weird, glass-eyed mummies. Considering what we did in Houston.

WhatIdid in Houston. Laying back on that corpse. Letting Jaxon smear me with Oliver Raffia’s blood.

Coming so hard it was like the night sky had unravelled.

He’s a fucked up monster, but so am I.

We drive all night down I-10, and we talk—reallytalk. Jaxon tells me about his family and his time in the Army, which is weird to think about. He also talks a little about his gods and the weird religion he grew up in. I tell him about the weird religion I grew up in, too, and how I shed it like a snake skin.

I wonder if I’m ready for new gods. The Winter Solstice instead of Christmas, blood instead of grape juice. Maybe.

I tell him about myself, too. Normal things. Going to art school, debating the merits of having instruction instead of being self-taught, like he was. We actually talk about art all the way through the little boot of Alabama. Arguing our philosophies (he balks at the idea of ever selling his pieces—as if he could even do that, considering they’re crime scene evidence) and our different methods (he mixes blood into his oils, says it “add to the texture”; I think he’s full of shit). By the time the sun comes up over the horizon, I feel normal for the first time since Edie disappeared. I keep laughing, for god’s sake. So does Jaxon. He has a nice laugh, rich and throaty and slightly menacing, and my panties dampen a little each time I hear it.

Which, over the last few hours, has been a lot.

The sky’s pink with dawnlight when we cross the border into Florida. By the time we pass a sign welcoming us to Pensacola, the sun’s fully risen. That’s also where Jaxon says, “This is where we’re going, by the way.”

“Pensacola?” I laugh. “What, you wanted to go to the beach?”

“There are beaches in Louisiana. No. Something else is here.”

My good mood falters a little, and I swallow. “More magic wizard mobsters?”

“Don’t call them that.” Jaxon laughs. “But no. You’ll see.”

I stare at him, the sunlight radiating around him, and try to figure out what he’s doing. “You’re not going to tell me? Really?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He exits the freeway, and the road winds us through tidy little neighborhoods with small, clapboard houses. The world’s just waking up, and I feel like I need to be going to bed. But I’m also not tired, the way I’d expect to be after staying up all night.

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