Page 42 of Turn That River Red

I scan the bookshelves first but don’t see anything. The desk is tidy, more evidence of Madelyn’s presence here. I slide the drawers open one by one. They’re full of pens and paperclips and sticky notes and loose notecards, like Madelyn shoved his mess into the drawers and forgot about it. But there’s one drawer that’s essentially a filing cabinet, deep and heavy. The files are all personal, I realize, as I thumb through the tabs. One for IDs. One for property deeds. One for fertility documents.

I stop at that one, my chest heavy. The Gunners were never able to have children, something Reverend Gunner always blamed Madelyn for. But it’s been three years and I’m not pregnant yet, either.

I shove the thought aside. Maybe I can escape the threat entirely, if Ambrose takes me away.

I keep looking. I’m about to give up when I find a slim file shoved in the very back of the cabinet—one without a label. I ease it out and carefully fold it open on the desk. It’s full of Reverend Gunner’s notes. They’re loose and disorganized, but I recognize them immediately for what they are. I paw through them—phone numbers and addresses and computer passwords. Notes he didn’t want Madelyn to have access to, I think.

And then I find one, a folded-up piece of yellow legal paper, that simply says:

Revelation

I know this is it. God told Reverend Gunner to build a bunker, and so he did.

I unfold the paper and there’s nothing on it except for sixnumbers. Not a birthday—not even Reverend Gunner is that careless.

I scribble the code down on a blank sticky note, fold it up tight, and slide it into the waistband of my panties—I could still get caught, and if I get caught withthat, there’ll be no talking my way out of it. But my waistband feels like a safe option.

I replace everything so that the office looks exactly as I found it.

Then I creep down the stairs and out into the backyard, replacing the key and the lockbox. Frogs and insects fill the night with their chirping, croaking songs. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes yelp at each other.

Those sounds were always my soundtrack whenever I would go down to the Concho River in the early mornings. The thought sends a sadness stabbing through my chest because I don’t know when I’ll be able to do it again without remembering the last time. Without remembering Raul.

But at least I have this gift for Ambrose.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AMBROSE

My kind don’t really have to sleep. It’s a good idea if you’ve been really busted up, or if youreallyneed your wits about you for a kill, but for the most part, sleeping is more of a want than a need. Unfortunately, with this whole damn compound on lockdown thanks to my handiwork, that leaves me restless and bored in my cabin.

I can only jerk off to the thought of Mercy’s gasping face and trembling tits so many times. And I shouldn’t even be doing that, truth be told. She’s a fucking human woman, and she about had a breakdown when she saw my work.

Two hundred years old and I’ve managed to catch feelings like a goddamn teenager.

I’ve got to figure something out, though. I need to get those birth records and get the hell out of here before I mire myself deeper in with her. There’s a reason I haven’t fucked her properly yet, and it’s not just because I want to take my time.

I mean, that’spartof it. But I also know better than to fuck human women. I’m not Sawyer.

My point is that by the time the sun rises, two days after I killed Burl, I’m going a little stir-crazy. Back in my travelingpreacher days I never stayed in one place too long. I said my spell, left them wanting more, and then slashed them down while they were too God-struck to notice.

Wish I could do that here. But I promised Charlotte I’d get her the names of her birth parents and going on a killing spree won’t make that any easier.

And, yeah, maybe I want another go with Mercy, too.

I’m actually thinking about that, about what I’d like to do to her next, when someone raps on my door. My nerves are a little on edge, but then I smell her through the walls. Sweet and musky. A little afraid.

What has my human seen this time? Certainly nothing I’ve done. I was a good boy last night.

Max is waiting at the door by the time I get over there, tail wagging and thumping, his ears perked up. “Don’t get too attached, boy,” I mutter to him right before I pull the door open.

I know it’s Mercy, but my body still reacts at the sight of her standing there, looking rumpled and not quite put-together. Her long hair’s loose again, not in those fussy braids.

“Can I come in?” she says urgently. “Before someone sees me?”

I just step aside in response, then shut the door once she’s safely inside. Part of me wants to tell her there’s no one around, but then she’ll want to know how I know, and I can’t have her suspect that I’m anything other than a lascivious human preacher.

“Is everything all right?” When I turn around, I find her smiling and petting Max, who’s lapping it all up. Damn dog. At least Roxi has the good sense to keep her distance and not fall in love. “There hasn’t been another—attack, has there?”

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