Page 80 of The Blood we Crave

“I’m just trying to explore all our options, Lyra,” Briar argues. “The people I love are knee-deep in shit. Thatcher knows his father’s routine, how he did things. He’s the only person.”

“Yeah, and so does everyone else across the States. The investigation was on national news outlets, blogs, and Gods knows what else,” I retort, annoyance clear in my voice.

“I don’t want to argue about him with you.” She sighs, and I know she’s running a hand through her hair. “I’m just trying to protect you. I just…I hope whatever it is you see in him doesn’t get you hurt at the end of this.”

Me too, I want to say.

Just not in the way she thinks.

I’m not afraid of him killing me. I know he won’t. If he wanted to, he would’ve already done it by now.

But he has all the power in the world to break me. To take my bleeding heart and crush it between his lengthy fingers. Even though right now he doesn’t deserve my loyalty, considering he hasn’t spoken to me in days. It’s been nothing but read receipts and radio silence since the mausoleum.

I still felt pulled to the parts of him I’d saw that evening. The pieces of him I’d collected over the years that no one else every witnessed. I was clinging to those, and the hope that they saw something in me too.

“I get it. I do, but the people you love trust Thatcher. He wouldn’t do this. He isn’t his father.” I say despite myself, wishing he would believe those words as much as I did. “I’m getting a shower before leaving campus, I’ll text you when I’m home.”

There is a beat of silence, like she wants to say something else but doesn’t.

“Just, be safe.” She breathes.

“Wait, wait!” I say just before she hangs up, “Are we going to the night circus tomorrow?”

Her laughter rings in my ears, “Maybe, I’ve got a huge Calc exam coming up and I need to study.”

“It’s Halloween, Briar. Which means candy and costumes, you can’t put the numbers away for one night?”

“I’ll think about it,” She hums with a smile in her voice, “I love you, Lyra, I’ll see you in the morning.”

She hangs up before I can return the sentiment. I want to be frustrated at her for painting Thatcher as the villain. Truly I do, but I also can’t blame her. Not when I know where she is coming from, not when I understand all she wants is to keep the ones she loves safe.

The silence of the Rothchild District community showers embraces me. It’s rare when anyone uses them. The space was reserve red for upperclassman only, which meant most of those eligible to live here could also live off campus. Considering everyone here blew their nose in hundred-dollar bills, it was rare for them to remain in a dorm.

Which meant the tiled house was always open. Always empty. And perfect for when I didn’t want to drive home from school covered in leaves and mud. Today had been perfect, minus my freezing fingers that were covered with dirt.

I’d gotten to harvest today. Spent the entirety of my time foraging through the woods surrounding campus in search of silky nests woven between trees and certain plants.

Spider season had arrived with the turn of the fall leaves.

While butterflies, moths and beetles had been a species I’d loved since I was young, my curiosity with the eight-legged creature everyone is so fearful of had only developed recently.

They were one of the only insects I’d yet to make a display with. While I’d always admired their creative web spins and frightening behavior, it wasn’t until I binged a documentary on Australia’s spider season that my curiosity launched into a full-fledged obsession.

The idea of creating a flat display, inside a rectangular frame with an artificial web spun along the inside, creating the perfect background for a slew of spider species. It would look incredible hanging above my fireplace mantle.

It had come to me so quickly that I’d barely gotten time to write it down before researching which species I’d be placing inside. Any of the local spiders I can collect, I prefer to do so on my own. It feels more intimate that way than ordering all the specimens. Plus, I get to go digging through the forest, which in my mind is always a bonus.

Luckily, I’d been able to collect a few different egg sacks, so hopefully I’ll be able to hatch them properly that I can follow their life span before using them in one of my taxidermy displays. I’d already set up the tank and incubation. All I needed to do was keep a close eye on the enclosure for a few weeks.

Once I finish rinsing the dirt from my boots, I step into the shower. Pulling the thin black curtain to provide me privacy for both my thoughts and body. The steady stream of hot water soothing the chill in my bones.

Excitement thrums through me for the first time in a week. My passion for insects has always been this quiet light that hibernates within me. Glowing when I need joy or warmth. A flame throughout all my dim moments.

I can remember the first time a foster care guardian had asked me, why bugs? When she’d found a box of grasshoppers stuffed beneath my bed. Why didn’t I choose a hobby that was more normal, like Barbie dolls or books?

I didn’t have an answer besides they are cool and I like the way their little legs feel on my palm. But now that I’ve grown this love, and this craft, my answer is a little more concrete.

It is simple, every spider, moth, and beetle has a category. They all have a part to play in building the bigger picture. All of them are predictable in their own ways, working together to provide larger systems with ease. They do so much yet are go unnoticed and ridiculed because of their features.

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