Page 13 of Forgotten Monsters
She wipes her teary eyes with her sleeve. “Thank you for saving me. Ever since I arrived at Dark Falls, we haven’t been…friends. I’m not even sure why you were in the forest that night.”
With a strangled sob, I pull her in for another hug. “You’re right. We weren’t friends, but we’ll always be sisters. I would never let anyone hurt you, Jules. Never. Not Darkwood, or Daniel, or even my mom. Is that why you were able to heal yourself? Because you’re a demon?”
“Not exactly, but I swear I’ll explain everything in detail, and soon.”
The fog from before lifts, probably created by Barron’s or Mal’s magic, and the underworld sun shines above our heads.
My chest warms. “I want us to be friends again.”
We might not be ready to lay out all our secrets and compare notes, but it’s a start. I’m not sure Jules can understand my ambitions. For her, standing out is…effortless.
Wherever she goes, Jules always ends up being the center of attention. Whether she’s cast as the lead in the school play, or just becomes the glue that keeps friends together. She doesn’t know what it feels like to wait patiently on the sidelines, unnoticed.
She rests her head on my shoulder. “Promise me, Allie. Promise me we won’t end up on different sides of this fight again.”
I rest my chin in her thick curls. “I promise.”
We hug as sisters should, and for a moment, my heart isn’t so raw anymore.
5
RED BARRON
Jules cranks up the lighting with a suspended fire orb and wipes her sweaty curls away from her face. “Stop moving, or I’ll stick the needle in your eye,” she growls at Barron.
The three of us huddle in the cabin while Mallory stands guard outside. The Scot sits on the blue bench by the kitchen table. Jules plans to stitch him up—with or without his consent.
I inventory the first aid kit and lay all useful gear beside the sink. A rag—drenched with blood—floats in a big bowl of hot water. We all had scrapes and bruises to tend to, but Barron not only has a three-pronged gash the size of my fist in his back, but he’s also acting like a big baby about it.
The Scot mumbles profanities under his breath before he finally speaks up. “I don’t need sutures—magical or otherwise. I need Scotch.”
Jules’ eye-roll echoes my exact sentiment toward the sailor as she passes me the needle. “Here. You do it. I’ll find him some alcohol.” She crouches and rummages through the cupboard below the sink.
The sight of the needle heats my neck, and I lick my lips. Blood isn’t my forte. The last thing I want to do is sew up the huge slash in Barron’s shoulder blade, but hey—here goes.
“Ow. Careful.” He jerks away as I begin my displeasing chore.
“If you had healing cream, we wouldn’t have to do this old school.” We enchanted the needle and thread to glue the skin back together, but we couldn’t do anything for the pain.
“I haven’t crossed paths with a healer in years, and my magic isn’t really made to put things back together,” he grunts.
The ink covering his arms undulates beneath the skin, and I lean closer. The Celtic knots and Norse runes rearrange under my dumbfounded stare, like they’re steering clear of the wound. “Your tattoos are moving.”
Jules pauses her search to validate my observation. “Woah. That’s freaky.”
“Don’t mind them. It’s something they do.”
“They’re afraid to fall off or something?” Jules cracks.
Deep lines crease the corner of Barron’s eyes. “Hurry up, the poison burns like hell.”
The poison-coated weapon left some type of teal oil in his flesh. I wipe it off as best as I can with a fresh rag before taking a bite of the shredded muscle.
He snarls and cowers away.
“Stop moving, damn it.” My brain searches for a distraction. “What were those things out there?” If he’s busymansplaining, he might settle down a bit.
“Nagas. They’re close relatives to mermaids, but they worship the Old Gods. They used to be pretty peaceful—before the Scourge, that is.”
