Page 31 of Dirty December

Ilook at what’s left. An army surplus blanket, one of my speckle-covered notebooks with a pen tucked inside, and whatever is in my old canvas book bag. I haven’t even used it in months. I don’t know if there’s anything valuable inside.

Marlow hasn’t fared much better. He has his leather Harley-Davidson vest, a tarp, and whatever he has in a big blue gym bag. His is probably better stocked. He travels more—which might be a blessing right now.

“Damn.” Marlow looks at where we used to live. The lightning strike struck the biggest elm in the strand, and the bare trees, dry and tough from a historically dry winter, went up like matchsticks.

“It’s gone. The whole strand. The whole woods!” My throat is full of tears. I don’t care. It wasn’t just home. It was my work, my hobby, my passion. It’s not like anyone pays me to take care of the trees, but as a mothman, it isn’t like I could go over to the West Virginia Department of Forestry and hand in my resume, either.

“Well. It’s a big state. Spring is coming. Plenty of trees in the woods. Race you to see who can make a new nest!” My brother pounds me on the arm, his steely gray feathers at odds with my crow-black ones.

“Make a new nest? Here?” I shake my head, red eyes blinking back tears. “Marlow, no. This place isn’t for us anymore. It’s... stagnated. The humans know it, too.”

Marlow’s face is tight. “Humans are all idiots, and you know it. Let ‘em leave. Then we’ll rule the woods like we used to.”

My antennae droop. My brother is the stupid kind of fearless. As our mother used to say, he’s missing the bone in his head that tells him to avoid danger.

“We mothmen won’t reclaim the area. The mining companies will move in. If not them, the mega marts and mall complexes. The new developments. Whether it’s progress or purgatory, we’re going to lose.”

Marlow gives me a long, cold look before laughing. “You read too much, smarty wings. ‘Progress or purgatory.’ Ha. So what are you going to do? Make yourself your final cocoon and wilt away?”

I take a deep, patient sigh. Being the brains of the family (what’s left of it) has some benefits. I’m used to dealing with Marlow’s childishness. I’ve always been the mature “older brother” even though we’re the same age.

“I think I want to go to a community that welcomes our kind.”

Strong fingers tighten on my wrist before I can even cry out in pain. “You will not go to a CrossRealms, you idjit.”

Whoo.Idjit.When the country drawl pours out like that, I know Marlow is close to losing his tough facade—and his temper.

“I’m not looking to fight evil vamps and demons! I like to prune trees, not whittle stakes. I was thinking someplacepeacefullyparanormal friendly.”

Marlow snorts. “Not too many places around here like that. Thinking of crossing the ocean and hiding out in the Hebrides? I’d love to see you scrounge up money for airfare. Or did you plan on those wimpy little wings carrying you over the Atlantic?”

Yes. He’s being a jerk. He’s being a jerk because he’s scared and upset. I try to remember that. I try to count to ten, but I can only make it to three before I snap out, “No! Like Moonlight Bayor Pine Ridge! Yeah. Pine Ridge. It’s a little closer and a little warmer.”

My brother’s wings flare open, gray and red and angry. The markings on his wings are like eyes, black and crimson scowls on gray. They’re subtle enough that in the darkness of a moonlit night or a dense forest, humans just see flashes of shadow.

“You’re going to leave our home? Coward! Deserter!”

Calm. Calm. Calm.

“There is nothing for us here. Come with me. Come with me and help me start a new home. We aren’t going to thrive here. What happens when there’s only one of us left? We just die out?”

“We’ll meet someone. Someday.”

“Out here, we’re monsters. Up there, we’d be citizens. You know. Eventually.” My antennae flatten down to my head, and my wings droop. Mothmen aren’t social creatures. The idea of making friends and interacting scares me so much I could molt.

Marlow says nothing.

He knows I’m right. There is no chance of us saving our kind out here. No chance of mates. There are other mothmen and mothladies out there, scattered few and far between, but all of them have fled the cryptozoologists, crazy hunters, and curiosity seekers that have chased us to the edge of extinction and deeper into hiding.

Why have we stayed here in the wildest wilds of West Virginia?

I’m too scared to go.

He’s too stubborn to leave.

What’s more, Marlow isn’t afraid to mix with people. Of course, he can only do it a few times a year, late at night during the huge festivals where they come to “celebrate” the mothmen most attendees don’t truly believe in. People dress up like us (well, like bad imitations of us), watch grainy footage of turkey buzzards, and have parties. Marlow waits until theseconventions have turned into bacchanals of monster fans and girls wearing tight tank tops with catchy slogans like “I’m Mad for Mothman” and “Mothman’s Monster-Fudging Mate” and stuff like that. Then, he slips into the crowds. People love his “costume.”

And if you believe his stories, those mothman chicks love it when he “keeps the suit on” while he satisfies them.

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