Page 63 of The Luminaries
“No.” He shrugs a single shoulder, hands still deep in his jeans. Today his flannel is a tartan green and blue. “But I figure you need the hunting practice more than I need the bass practice.”
Now her glare turns annoyed. “Thanks?”
“Is my information wrong?” His hands finally leave the pockets. “You still have one more trial, and I assumed you’d want to keep practicing.”
Of course she does, but she also wants to confront Mario. She wants to rip the gum from his mouth and shriek at him for betraying her in front of Dryden and Theresa. There’s something else on the loose, dammit. Something that can eat a werewolf and then eject it piece by piece like some outer-dimensional vending machine.
But,nudges the back of her brain, the part that never forgets the forest—that wants to feel plugged in again, hunting and alive.You only have one trial left. You’re so close to getting what you want.
She hugs her arms to her chest. Her teeth click. “What was yours?”
“My?” Jay’s brow rises. The wind tugs at his flannel. “My what?”
“Your third trial. What did they make you do?”
He grimaces, a mere flash that fades in an instant. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
Winniedoesknow. Clan trials are secret. “Was it hard?”
“Harder than the others.”
Winnie snorts. What a Jay thing to say. “Harder than the others, but nothardbecause you’re the Amazing Jay Friday, and you’ll be Lead Hunter before you’re eighteen. You’re adored by all, bass guitarist for the Forgotten, tinkerer of motorcycles, and Bad Boy extraordinaire.”
Jay flushes all the way through his eyeballs. It’s not an embarrassed flush, though, or even an angry one. Winnie doesn’t know what it means, only that she doesn’t mind watching him squirm. “Look, I can’ttrain today. My mom is on the way to pick me up… What? Why are you looking like that?”
His expression is suddenly pained. “Um, actually, your mom asked me to give you a ride. So either way…” He opens his arms, waving toward Mathilda like a maître d’ toward a fancy table. “Your chariot awaits.”
“What do you mean my mom asked you to give me a ride?”
“I mean, she was here but had to leave… so she asked me to do her a favor.” He is very still as he adds, “She also told me you said that we aren’t friends, but I’m tutoring you.”
And Winnie is very still as she responds, “I did say that.” For some reason, she feels guilty about it too, which only serves to make her angrier. “But fine, Jay. Let’s go train. Just… not in the forest today.”
“Why?”
The Whisperer,she wants to say.Obviously the Whisperer.Instead, she answers, “Because there’s a werewolf out there. Haven’t you heard?”
Jay takes Winnie to the Friday training grounds. There are three other hunters there, who give Jay waves and Winnie curious glances as they pass by on their circuits around the obstacle course. Winnie wants to die from just watching them do an entire loop with high knees.
Jay, who isn’t dressed for intensive training in his jeans and flannel, takes Winnie to the targets instead. They start with compound bow practice. This time, Jay offers Winnie his trigger release. The black strap and metal loop that hooks onto arrows is warm from having been in his pocket; it feels nice against her cold wrist.
Her aim is terrible but better than she expected. Her one session with Jay on Saturday did a lot to reawaken forgotten muscles, but even with a three-point sight on the bow, she’s not quite hitting where she aims.
Jay is also shooting, but lazily. Like he needs something to do while Winnie practices. Each of his bolts hits exactly where he aims. Every. Single. Time.
“Do you still hate touching your eye?” he asks as Winnie nocks another practice arrow.
She pauses. “Yes. Why?”
“Because contacts would be a lot easier.” He releases the cables on his gray bow, and the bolt looses over the cold earth. It pierces a dummy in the left eyeball. “You keep adjusting your glasses. I noticed it when we were on the move last Saturday.”
Winnie swallows. Then finishes nocking. She aims at the skull… and she misses. Not by much, at least. The bolt pokes out from a foam throat.
“I like my glasses, Jay.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like—”
“And,” she glares his way, shoving the lenses up her nose, “I’m not going to wear contacts.”
