Page 175 of Cherish

“Does everything have to be hard?” Heather counters.

“In my experience?” Flint shakes his head. “Life has taught me that the only answer to that question is hell yeah, it does.”

He’s got a point. And I’m obviously not the only one who thinks so, as Eden is squinting up at the tree at least as hard as I am.

“It can’t be,” she says, agreeing with Flint—and me.

“It could,” Heather insists, stepping closer.

“Doubtful,” Hudson says, but he, too, moves toward to the tree.

The caution in his tone has me looking at the tree with even more scrutiny.

“What do you see that I don’t?” I ask.

“It’s not what I see,” he answers. “It’s what I hear.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Flint breathes, his eyes widening in alarm, and I realize that whatever Hudson is hearing, he’s hearing it, too.

And so are Jaxon and Eden, judging by the twin looks of concern on their faces as well.

Panic skates down my spine—it takes a lot to intimidate a paranormal, especially ones as powerful as my friends. So if they look this worried, whatever they’re listening to must be really bad.

“What is it?” Macy asks, because she doesn’t have any special hearing, either.

“Bees,” Jaxon answers. “Thousands upon thousands of bees.”

“Seriously? That’s what has you guys so upset? I can’t even hear them,” Heather tells him.

“You can’t hear them because they’re really high-pitched right now,” Hudson explains. “Kind of like ten thousand dog whistles buzzing at the exact same time.”

“Ten thousand?” Heather asks, suddenly looking more than a little freaked out herself.

“At least,” Eden answers, shaking her head as if she’s trying to clear it. “I think there’s more.”

“Well, I don’t think ten thousand bees are a match for a bunch of paranormals,” I tell them. “I mean, what’s the worst that happens? We get stung a few times?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jaxon says and walks about ten feet in front of us. Then he uses his telekinesis to break off a corner of the closest honeycomb and float it across the meadow toward us.

94

My Honey-

Don’t List

Nothing happens.

No bees swarm down from the honeycombs and attack us for taking their honey. No lightning flashes from the sky to strike us. No celestial force tries to protect the tree from our grasping hands.

But as Jaxon holds up his palm to catch the section of floating honeycomb triumphantly, it’s hard not to notice thatsomethingis definitely wrong with him. Namely, Jaxon is suddenly moving in slow—no, make thatsuperslow—motion.

I stare at him, eyes wide, as he starts to lower his hand.

And keeps lowering it.

And keeps lowering it.

And keeps lowering it.

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