Page 54 of Hunted By Fae
I hardly slept—and when my lungs started to constrict, and that icy breeze swept into my parted mouth, I felt the immediate relief.
If we stick around here, on the west coast of British Columbia, that would be an upside of winter. But our plan is to go down south, back to Cali, and chase the warmth.
I want to be home…
Not stuck on another continent, across the ocean, no way to get back to London—
No.
Can’t let myself think of that right now.
Not while I’m crouched in a mess of fallen, scattered medicines, a parted backpack barely balanced on my thigh, and torchlight dusting over me.
We’ve already been here too long.
Wallow later.
So I bury it all until it’s poison festering in me, and I slide out from the aisles. It takes a while, these slow sliding steps, and when I rejoin Bee, the other girls are back from their raid.
They wait, patient, as I secure my backpack, then fasten the duffel to my belt, slip on my boots, tie the laces, and finally steal the shotgun back into my hands.
Emily takes point for our exit.
She leads the way through the aisles, and when we reach that long, wide lane to the entrance, she veers into the tech aisles.
Crouched, we follow, zigzagging around and around, just one faint light to lead the way.
Ramona sticks close to my heels.
Too close.
If I have to stop suddenly, she’ll knock into my back, and the backpack will crunch and rattle and thud at the impact. There’s too much in there, weighing me down, the straps tugging on my shoulders.
I just want to get back to the safehouse.
We don’t call ithome, because it isn’t. It’s just a place off-road and hidden in the trees, but also close to the highway so we can make an easy break for it if we need to.
It’s why we havethose.
The bicycles leaning on the abandoned cars out front. Smooth, quiet—and easier than walking, that’s for sure.
It’s how we’ve been getting around since ditching quarantine. Emily’s idea, actually. A good one.
Our formation holds to the cars—and only then do we splinter off for our bikes.
Mine is propped against the door of a small white van, the kind I was warned about as a child, and Bee’s rests beside it.
I mirror her, reaching one hand to my belt as I lower into a crouch and unhook the duffel strap.
The bag thumps to the road. Then Bee’s.
Then two more behind me.
The four of us unload the weight from our belts before we each hoist the duffels onto the metal racks at the rear of the bikes.
Our guns stay balanced in one arm as we fasten the bags in place.
I’m tugging the hooked bungee cord, tight, then locking it, when a light bounces over my shoulder—and I have not a moment to react before a cry splits the quiet air.
