Prodigal

by

A.M. Arthur

An Imprint of

Musa Publishing

Prodigal, Copyright © A.M. Arthur, 2011

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events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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Published by Musa Publishing, October 2011

Smashwords edition

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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via
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the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61937-957-2

Published in the United States of America

Editor: Celina Summers

Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

Warning

This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for

adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store

your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

For Holly—Without K & O and the devil you know,

I’d have never had the courage to show this story to someone else.

Chapter One

Nothing brings family together like a murder.
The morbid thought crossed Ethan Wilde’s mind as his rental car crossed the

single-lane bridge over Brook Creek (a more redundant name for a snake of running
water never existed), and both car and thought carried him closer to his hometown. A

hometown he hadn’t seen since he turned eighteen, rode a merit scholarship to
college two thousand miles away, and settled into a life as far from Kingston, North

Carolina as he could manage. For twelve years, he’d lived his new life in the present,
while his memories of Kingston (such as they were) faded into an indistinct muddle of

fear.

Fear of a place that never changed, full of people who never wanted or tried to

leave. Questions that were never answered. Ethan got out, and he never imagined a
single, anonymous email could ever drag him back.

But it had. Kicking and screaming and well-aware he could be making a fatal

mistake, but he came back.

The email had come from a free account, with no name and no way to trace the

owner. It linked to an obituary printed in the Asheville paper: KINGSTON Jacquelyn

Frank died Monday, May 4. She was 30.

Simple and to the point. Ethan hadn’t thought about Jacquelyn since he left

Kingston. He hadn’t given much conscious thought to anyone he’d left behind, even
his loon of a father. Kingston was his past, dead and buried, and yet one memory still

tormented him years later—the memory of curly black hair, tender touches, and utter
devastation in his eyes as Ethan left him behind. A memory even time and distance

couldn’t completely erase.

Proof of Jackie’s death had set off an ache around the tattoos on his left arm.

Tattoos he’d reluctantly carried since he was nine, and not because of any artist’s
needle. He told his friends in Denver they were tribal symbols, but he didn’t know

what they were. Or how they got there. All he really understood was that whatever
gifted (or cursed) him with the tattoos in the first place was calling him home.

The ache around the tattoos faded as the first house came into view. A jolt of

nerves unsettled his stomach, and he nearly made a U-turn then and there. Not that it

would make a difference. He was within town limits now. Leaving stopped being easy
the moment he crossed the creek.

Coming back for Jackie’s funeral had been the stupidest of stupid ideas, fueled by

two decades of confusion and curiosity about that night in the woods. A night he

couldn’t remember, marked by the arrival of those tattoos, had haunted him since he
was nine. Five others had been there, including Jackie. Now she was dead, and

someone had made sure he knew about it.

The road into town was paved, with no painted lines, and snaked past a few

scattered homes set into thick groves of oaks and pines. The town itself lived in a
small valley of the Black Mountains, surrounded by the forest, a protected world of its

own making. As a teenager, Ethan had hated the isolation. Hated the familiarity of

the same few hundred faces, the inability to maintain any sort of privacy, the way

your business was public property. This town was all he’d known until he got out, and
he had embraced the anonymity of Denver and its population of half a million.

Not to mention its much larger gay population.
Ethan slowed the rental to a crawl as he negotiated a bend in the road around the

old Donner house, and then the main drag of Kingston appeared. He gripped the
steering wheel a little too tight. Few of the buildings were younger than a hundred

years old, many of them twice that, and the architecture reflected it. Boxy wood-
frame homes lined both sides of the street, leading toward an intersection of brick

buildings whose cornerstones boasted dates as far back as 1796.

The sidewalks were dotted with folks outside enjoying the warm spring weather.

Some window shopped, a few pushed strollers or led dogs on leashes. An elderly
couple tottered together, arm in arm, toward the steps of the Municipal Building,

which housed Town Hall, the mayor’s office, and the three-man police force, as well
as the Post Office drop. For all of the peaceful simplicity surrounding him, Ethan

couldn’t shake a sense of dread that weighed on his nerves and sent his already
unsettled stomach sloshing.

I shouldn’t have come back, answers be damned. I’m better off not knowing.
The church was less than a quarter of a mile east of the center of town. Somehow

he’d miscalculated his travel time, and he had a few hours before the funeral. Hours
he’d rather spend anywhere else on earth but here.

The brightly painted sign of Mama’s beckoned to him from the block across from

the Municipal Building. He didn’t think his nervous stomach could manage an entire

plate of Mama’s homemade food, but maybe a slice of her sweet potato pie?

I don’t like sweet potato pie. Do I?

He used to. A lot of things used to be.
The main street had no parking, so he turned into a public lot behind the

Municipal Building. It was half-full, mostly of pickups and small, compact cars.
Nothing fancy, and nothing newer than five years old, and all of them American

makes—some things were so predictable. He was surprised his Mitsubishi Outlander
rental hadn’t spontaneously combusted upon entering town.

Ethan picked a spot away from the other cars. He reached for his carry on out of

habit, then left it on the front seat. He didn’t need it yet, and no one in Kingston was

going to break his window to steal it. Hell, he could probably leave all four windows
rolled down and the doors unlocked, and the bag would still be there in a few hours.

He left the windows up and locked the doors.
Humidity slapped him in the face. He should have gone with his green short-

sleeved polo, rather than the navy dress shirt. The temperature was climbing into the
mid-eighties and it wasn’t even midday. Hot or not, though, the polo wouldn’t have

hidden his tattoos. In Denver they were acceptable, even cool to some people. Here
in Kingston, the tattoos were a frightening reminder.

Not that his eerie blue eyes helped him blend in or anything.
He stretched muscles stiff from the two-hour drive. He’d almost been stuck with

a two-door sports car rental, which wouldn’t have comfortably fit his six-foot-two
frame for very long. If only Enterprise rented out Datsun pickups, he’d have blended

in perfectly. He pocketed his keys, double-checked that his wallet was in his jeans

pocket, then headed toward Mama’s.

He hadn’t even crossed the street before he felt the first set of curious eyes

boring into his skull. He refused to stop, pause, or even glance over his shoulder to
see who’d noticed him—and he was hard not to notice, given his height and the fact

that a stranger his age was as easy to spot in Kingston as a grape juice stain on a
white sheet.

Am I really a stranger?
You bet.

Ethan paused outside the frosted glass windows of Mama’s, preparing to step back

in time. No one who might remember him had any reason to think he’d show up for

the funeral of a classmate he hadn’t spoken to in over a decade, and certainly not
because an old tattoo hurt. He couldn’t even verbalize the reason he’d packed a bag

and jumped on a plane to get here when every survival instinct said to stay away. But
he was here, he’d been spotted, and he couldn’t go back.

Not until he was sure Jackie’s death was unconnected to the other four who were

in the woods with them that night. He had to know they were safe, even if he didn’t

understand why.

Mama’s front door swung open ejecting a pair of women, older than teens,

younger than him. They walked in the opposite direction, consumed by their
conversation, never noticing him behind them. So trusting, so predictable.

He caught the door before it closed, then stepped inside. The familiar scents of

baked pies, fried chicken and pine tickled his nose and made him feel ten years old

again. The restaurant had a single, open dining room with twenty tables, six booths,
and a seat yourself standard of service. Two waitresses in familiar blue half-aprons

fluttered back and forth, taking orders and filling coffee. It was early brunch time,
but Kingston had very few dining options, so the place was buzzing. At least half the

tables were full, two of them recently abandoned.

Ethan chose a booth close to the windows and slid in. A balding man and his

plump, white-haired wife patronized a table across from him, and it took Ethan a
moment to recognized Minister and Mrs. Harold White. Minister White pastored the

town’s only church, as he’d done all of Ethan’s life. He presided over all weddings
and funerals. He was the only voice that had penetrated the fog of grief on the day

Ethan’s mother died.

A waitress appeared, as old as the furniture but with a spring in her step. She was

a fixture at Mama’s, but her name completely escaped Ethan’s mind. And she wasn’t
wearing a name tag. “Coffee, son?” she asked with a voice that betrayed too many

years smoking.

“Yes, please,” he replied, turning his cup over so she could pour.

“Need a menu?” She watched him carefully under a fall of dyed-red hair, as if

trying to remember just who he was, too.

“No, thanks. Do you have sweet potato pie?”
“Yep, fresh out. Whipped cream?”

“Yes, thank you.”
“Anything else?”

“No, just the pie.”

“On its way.”

She wandered over to the long window that looked into the kitchen and placed his

order. Ethan gazed around the room, aware of the constant buzz of conversation. His

attention skipped from table to table, spotting familiar faces that time had faded into
sepia-colored memories missing context and names. He’d blocked out much of

Kingston when he left, needing the fresh start. After everything that had happened,
staying was impossible.

For him, anyway. The others hadn’t been as lucky. Jackie hadn’t escaped. As far

as Ethan knew, he was the only one who had. The only one who could.

Six of us were there that night, and now one of us is dead.
The swinging door marked Kitchen swung open and ejected a lean figure

balancing a plastic tub on his hip. He moved toward the first abandoned table. His
khakis and red Mama’s t-shirt were carefully pressed, which seemed odd for a busboy.

His back to Ethan, he picked up dirty dishes and half-full soda cups with practiced
ease. Ethan couldn’t be sure, but the tangle of curly black hair made his heart gallop.

Then he spotted the tattoos on his right arm. Ethan squinted, but he was too far

away to be certain if they were still mirror images of Ethan’s own swirling, intricately

drawn marks. Tattoos shared only by the two of them. Tattoos neither of them had
asked for and neither could explain.

Jesse.
Ethan’s left arm throbbed.

Clanking porcelain and metal utensils startled him. Jesse shifted the tub to his

other hip and flexed his right arm, opening and closing his fist. His head angled to the

side, giving Ethan a partial profile. Ebony curls hung over Jesse’s forehead and a dark
beard covered his cheeks and chin.

“Jesse?” A voice from one of the tables; Ethan didn’t know who, because he

couldn’t look away.

Jesse lifted his head and looked. His lips curled into a familiar smile. “I’m fine,

Grady. Just got lost in thought a minute.”

“You sure?”
“Yep.”

He finished clearing the table then carried his tub to the next, this one much

closer to Ethan, whom he hadn’t noticed yet. Ethan’s waitress returned with his slice

of pie—an orange triangle of heaven, topped with a generous dollop of whipped
cream, sprinkled with nutmeg. Ethan’s mouth watered a split second before his nose

caught up.

Yeah, he definitely liked sweet potato pie. How could he have forgotten that?

“You one of our lost lambs, honey?” The waitress stared down at him, one hand

poised on her hip, and the name “Clarice” jumped to mind. Clarice Jones organized

most of the social events in town, and had been a widow for the last forty years or so.

Ethan glanced around the dining room. Jesse was gone, so he fixed Clarice with a

warm smile. “That I am.”

She squinted at him, studying his face. “You come back for Jackie’s funeral?”

“Yes. We were friends once.”
“You say. You’re Orry Wilde’s kid, aren’t you? Evan?”

He flinched at his father’s name. “Ethan Wilde, yes.”

“Thought I knew those baby blues of yours, boy. Your Daddy, he don’t talk about

you anymore.”

“I can’t imagine he talks about much of anything sensible anymore.”

“Bah, those first few years after you left, you’re all he talked about. You’re right,

though; now nothing makes much sense. Poor old soul.”

Curious looks from other diners were becoming more obvious, and Ethan felt

suddenly trapped. He didn’t want to talk about his father. He didn’t want to answer

decades-old questions, or be subjected to guilt trips over his choice to leave Kingston.
Coming back was a mistake.

“Thank you for the pie.” Ethan’s dull tone declared the conversation over.
Clarice took the hint and wandered off to take care of a woman and three small

children who’d just piled into a booth.

Ethan ate without really tasting, his enjoyment of the childhood treat sucked

away by a few minutes of conversation. The pie went down quickly, and he drained
his cup of black coffee. He dropped a ten-spot on the table—more than enough to

cover his bill and tip—and stood.

A shadow moved away from the kitchen window, too fast to see who it was.

Jesse? Had he seen him? Jesse was still in Kingston. Had he sent the email? Drawn
Ethan back here?

He left the comfortable air conditioning of Mama’s for the heat of the sidewalk,

ready to burst out of his skin. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but everything about this

town made him feel pressed in, closed down, ready to burst from the pressure. He
should just get into the Outlander, drive back to Ashville, and get on the first plane to

Colorado. Forget this side trip into nostalgia and nightmares ever happened. If the
town even let him go.

Jesse.
Jesse hadn’t left. How had he managed to stay?

Ethan checked the watch on his right wrist (he wouldn’t wear watches on his left

anymore, because they always stopped working, and he just couldn’t accept that it

was because of those damned tattoos). Still more than two hours before the funeral.

He should visit his father, even though he didn’t want to. Make a token visit

during what was likely his last trip to Kingston until he got the phone call telling him
that Orry Wilde was dead. He could visit now, use the funeral as an excuse to leave

quickly, then hit the road and try to get back to Asheville by nightfall. It was a good
plan, if he could actually make it past town limits.

Then a short, curvy body threw itself at him with a squeal of surprise, and his

plan changed.

Chapter Two

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here!”
She barely came up to his chin, but she was strong and it took a little bit of force

to get her clinging arms off. Ethan pushed her back, his hands clamped onto her
shoulders to keep her from hugging him again. Long, straw-colored hair hung around

her face, curtaining round cheeks and bright blue eyes. A loose t-shirt and sweat
shorts hung on a body padded by extra weight and too-generous curves.

Cathy Friele grinned at him like a fool.
You were there that night. How can you smile like that?

“Ethan? It’s Cathy, you gotta remember me,” she said, as though mistaking his

shock for a bad memory.

“I do,” he said. “You just startled me, that’s all.”
“Sorry, Ethan, I just couldn’t believe it was really you when I saw you. Had to

touch for myself and make sure it wasn’t a dream.”

“No dream.”

“Have you seen your dad?”
This is going to be a common refrain today.

“No. I just got here. I’m not staying long.”
Her face crumpled, bright red spots appearing on the apple of each plump cheek.

“You came for Jackie?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have.”
Her comment threw him. At least he could scratch her off the mental list of

people who might have sent him the email. And he still didn’t know something
important. “Cathy, how did she die?”

She pressed her lips together, eyebrows drawing into a deep vee. “She was

drowned.”

“She drowned?” Brook Creek wasn’t large enough for anyone larger than a toddler

to drown in, so how—?

“I said she was drowned, which implies someone else drowned her. Pay

attention.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
She looked around, eyeballing other pedestrians, even though no one was close

enough to overhear. She jerked her head sideways, indicating he should follow. She
turned the corner at the end of the block and led him past the side wall of Mama’s, to

the rear of the building. Strong odors rose from the dumpster, and soft voices drifted
through the open screen door that led to the kitchen.

Deeming this place safe enough, Cathy crossed her arms over her ample chest and

glared up at him. “She was acting funny for a few days, skittish, you know? Like

something was up. I thought it was trouble with Darren, the guy she’s been seeing
from Madison County, but she said it wasn’t. Darren told the police that he went over

Monday to pick her up for a hiking date, but she didn’t answer. She never locked her

door, so he went in and found her in bed, dead.”

Ethan stared. “You said she was drowned.”

“Yeah. Coroner found a gallon of seawater in her lungs.”
“Seawater? That’s not—” They were hundreds of miles from the ocean. “That’s

not—”

“Possible? Yeah. But that’s how she died, drowned in her own bed.”

A chill settled in his guts. “What do the police think?”
“Those assholes don’t know what to think. They never do.”

For an instant, he saw her as she’d been twenty years ago, moments after the six

of them emerged from the woods, bloody and shaken and beyond terrified. He heard

her child’s voice in his head.

“We have to tell the truth, Ethan.”

“They’ll never believe us, Cathy. We can’t tell the truth.”
Ethan rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, too hot outside, his insides

frozen. A person couldn’t drown in their own bed—not in the reality most people
accepted. But he’d seen things, done things that others would never accept as having

happened. Not even when he and his fellow survivors each bore the marks of their
experience.

“It’s happening again.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he did.
“You think so?” The tears in Cathy’s voice startled him into opening his eyes. Her

face was blotchy, her eyes wet.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He wanted to hug her, to offer some sort of reassurance,

but he couldn’t. “I saw Jesse. What about Patrick and Gene?”

“Still around. Patrick works for the Ranger service, and Gene’s a professional

drunk.”

And Jackie was dead. One down, five to go.

“Do they know how she died?”
“They know. They won’t talk to me.”

“Jesse?”
“He doesn’t talk to anyone.”

Ethan flinched. “Will they be at the funeral?”
“Don’t know. Jesse, maybe. Jackie came into Mama’s a lot.”

He glanced at the screen door, overcome by an urge to charge inside, find Jesse

and shake him until he talked. Until he told Ethan why he’d stayed behind, when all

Ethan wanted was for Jesse to go with him to Colorado. To demand to know why he
he hadn’t gotten as far away from this damned town as he could—if he could. “I

should have stayed away.”

“Probably.” Cathy touched his left arm. “But you’re here now.”

Here and unlikely to be allowed to leave until whatever had begun with Jackie’s

in-bed drowning was finished. Blood pounded in his temples. His tattoo ached, and he

gently pulled his arm away from Cathy’s touch.

She handed him a scrap of paper. “Here’s my cell number. I live over on Palmer

Street, so I can be almost anywhere quick.”

“Thank you.” He tucked it into his jeans pocket, next to his wallet. His cell was

back in the Outlander, packed safely in his carryon.

Cathy took a step toward Main Street, then paused. “Sometimes I still look in the

mirror and swear my eyes are brown again.” On that, she walked away.

Ethan watched her go, unsettled and sick to his stomach. Of the six of them, he

was the only one whose eyes had always been blue—a light, gray-blue, same as his
mother. After that summer, when they were nine and no longer innocent, all six kids

had started the new school year with eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean.

* * * *

He sat in the Outlander for nearly two hours with the air cranked up and the radio

playing a local country station. The public lot began to fill up around him as it often

did on Sunday mornings, and folks dressed in dark colors wandered toward the church
for the funeral. At quarter-till-two, Ethan joined them.

He shuddered as he crossed the threshold into the two-hundred year-old church.

It smelled of furniture polish and floor wax, and of old ladies perfume. At the front of

the long rows of narrow pews, a simple brown casket stood, covered in a white shawl.
A framed photograph of Jackie was propped on an easel next to it, her smile broad

and genuine. He looked away fast and took a seat in an empty pew in the rear. A few
folks nodded in his direction, but no one spoke to him. No one sat with him.

The church was three-quarters full when Minister White stepped up to the

podium, dressed in a simple black suit and charcoal tie. “Welcome,” he said as the

congregation hushed. “We are here today to remember our sister, Jacquelyn Frank,
whose untimely passing…”

Ethan tuned out the words and observed the mourners. A few wept. Most just sat

solemnly, here because it was their duty as a resident of Kingston. Many faces were

familiar, but only a few sparked actual names and recognition. He’d never felt so
much like an alien in his own home. Not that Kingston was home anymore, not by a

long shot.

He glanced at the rear pew on the opposite side of the aisle and started. Jesse sat

alone at the far end, hands folded in his lap, eyes forward. Ethan stared, willing Jesse
to look at him. Acknowledge that Ethan had come back.

He didn’t.
“Please open your hymnals to page forty-seven,” Minister White said.

Ethan plucked a blue hymnal from the small stack in the middle of his pew. He

found the page and the hymn (“How Great Thou Art”), then glanced over at Jesse.

The pew was empty.
He sang with the rest of the congregation, listened to Jackie’s sister, Melissa,

younger by eleven years, say a few words, then bowed his head for the final prayer.
The entire service was over in thirty minutes. It didn’t seem like enough to mark the

loss of a life. He slipped out before the great exodus began, already unbuttoning and
rolling up his shirt sleeves.

He considered heading straight back to his car and hightailing it out of town—just

to see if he could make it. Not that he expected to. A flash of black in the corner of

his eye drew Ethan’s attention to the graveyard behind the church. The collection of
ancient and new headstones stretched back for several acres, surrounded on all sides

by trees and shadows. He walked around to the rear of the church, curious, and

spotted Jesse’s retreating back.

Ethan froze. People behind him were still exiting the church. He took a few steps

closer, then stopped again when Jesse stopped. Jesse squatted in front of a
headstone, short and nondescript, then brushed his fingers over the surface. Ethan

moved a little closer, careful to be silent. Close enough to notice the double
headstone, with two names carved on it.

He’d never seen the grave, but suddenly Ethan knew—Jesse’s parents.
“They can’t be gone.”

“I’m sorry, Jess. So damned sorry.”
Ethan closed his eyes against the onslaught of grief as he remembered that day,

holding a thirteen-year old Jesse while he mourned the loss of both parents in a single
night. He’d always been taller than Jesse, but the difference that summer had been

marked by the first of Ethan’s many growth spurts. Ethan had held him, so small and
slight in his arms, while his body thrummed with anger and an internal strength that

had seen all six of them through that awful time in the woods four years earlier.

Ethan wanted to remember more than just the suffocating fear from the

aftermath of that night. For the first time in years, he wanted to remember exactly
what had happened to them—everything he’d forgotten since leaving Kingston and his

old life behind. They couldn’t have forgotten the terror, so why stay while he left? He
had to remember it.

His skin prickled, and Ethan opened his eyes. Jesse stared back at him from

twenty feet away, eyes wide and glistening bright blue in the afternoon sunlight. He

didn’t move, didn’t blink, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. Ethan sucked in a
breath. Even from a distance, something blazed in Jesse’s eyes.

Anger? Grief? Disgust? What do you see when you look at me, Jess?
Jesse looked away first.

Heart jack-hammering, Ethan strode toward him. He’d run away once and not

looked back. Now that Jesse knew he was here, he wasn’t going to run a second time.

Besides, he had to know if Jesse had emailed him. He stopped an arm’s reach from
Jesse’s crouched figure and waited for Jesse to stand up, unfolding his thin, five-ten

body. He squared his shoulders, and Ethan drank him in.

The curly hair that had seemed so unruly in Mama’s was carefully slicked back,

tamed by some sort of gel. His beard was trimmed and thin, not as bushy as he’d first
thought. His face was pale, skin stretched, dark circles smudging each eye. The only

energy in him seemed to radiate from his unnaturally blue eyes. Eyes that drilled into
him like heat-seeking missiles, and my God, he was still beautiful.

“I thought I imagined you at Mama’s,” Jesse said. His voice hadn’t changed—

smooth and melodious, with just a hint of tragedy.

“You didn’t,” Ethan said. He tightened his hands into fists to keep from reaching

out and touching.

The tip of Jesse’s tongue darting out to wet his lower lip was the sexiest thing

Ethan had seen in a long time. “You came back for Jackie’s funeral?”

“Yes.”
“That was fucking stupid.” The venom on his voice forced Ethan backward two

steps. “Fucking stupid, Ethan. You got out and you should have stayed away.”

He obviously didn’t send you the email, moron. He doesn’t want you here.

“Jackie was one of us,” Ethan said, even though so many years later it sounded

pretty lame.

“Yeah, well, did you hear how she died?”
The sarcasm in his voice told Ethan that Jesse assumed he hadn’t heard that part

yet. So Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and snapped back, “Yeah, I did. Pretty
unusual, drowning in the ocean when you’re four hundred miles inland.”

Jesse blinked. “Who told you?”
“I ran into Cathy outside of Mama’s.”

“Shit. Ethan, you have to leave.”
“I just got—”

“Fuck that, man, you have to get back in whatever drove you here and make

tracks back out. Get away from this damned town. What the hell are you doing here?”

The anguish in Jesse’s voice broke Ethan’s heart. “Someone sent me an email

about Jackie’s death. Once I knew, I had to come, and now that I know how she

died…”

“You wish you’d stayed away?”

“Yes and no. I don’t want to be here, but I can’t—you—we beat it the first time

because we were together, Jess. Right? If it’s happening again—” His chest

constricted. “I don’t want to be here, but I am.”

“Fuck.” Jesse’s chest heaved as he breathed hard through his mouth. Twin spots

of color bloomed on his cheeks, and his breath puffed in Ethan’s face, sweet and
smelling faintly of peppermint.

Something stirred deep inside of him—long buried feelings and deep-seated

regrets. And even deeper than those things, a strange sense of relief in getting

another chance. Even if that chance hinged on the very real possibility of them both
dying before the week was over. He still loved Jesse—that had never stopped.

“Why didn’t you ever leave?” Ethan asked, surprised by his own plaintive tone.
“And go where?”

“Anywhere. You could have found me.”
Jesse flinched. “It sounds crazy, I know, but despite everything I still felt safer

here. It’s a small world, and I know it, flaws and all.”

He wanted to understand, but didn’t. He’d stopped feeling safe in Kingston after

that horrible night in the woods. He felt like a dirty little secret, and he’d wanted
nothing more than to get the hell out. Only he’d wanted to get out with Jesse. Jesse

refused to leave but Ethan couldn’t stay.

“I missed you,” Jesse said. “Every day since you left.”

“Me, too.” He hadn’t realized how much until they were standing so close they

could touch. Until he was breathing Jesse in again, and all he wanted to do was kiss

him. “Jess—”

“Hey, fag, who’s the girlfriend?”

Jesse flinched at the intrusion of the snarling, bitter voice, and his entire

expression went flat. Dark.

Afraid.

Chapter Three

Ethan’s temper flared, and his right hand curled into a fist as he pivoted to see

who’d be the recipient of his swing.

A beefy man stood a few feet away, clinging to a tall marble monument. His

ruddy cheeks were flushed, his eyes red, and Ethan could practically see cartoon

alcohol fumes rising off him. Long, stringy hair badly in need of a wash and cut hung
down into his face, but it didn’t take Ethan long to realize who he was—Gene

Hunnicutt.

Gene’s sneer shifted from Jesse to Ethan and his face clouded with confusion.

“Hey, I know you.”

“You think so?” Ethan took a menacing step forward. “Call him a fag again.”

“Peace, dude.” Gene squinted. “Wilde? That you, man? What the fuck are you

doing back in town?”

He was asking himself the same thing, and the quailing man behind him was the

only answer he had. Despite everything, Jesse had stayed. Hell, maybe he couldn’t

leave. Why would Gene torment Jesse when they’d been through so much together?
Ethan straightened his spine and glared at Gene. “I’m here because Jackie drowned

while asleep in her own bed,” he replied. “Something so unusual seemed worth the
trip, don’t you think?”

“It’s all bullshit,” Gene said. “No one drowns in bed, unless it’s a goddamn water

bed. Even then, that’s just stupid.”

“It’s what the coroner said.”
“Yeah? So why isn’t the FBI or someone up in our shit, investigating?”

“They can’t investigate if no one reports it,” Jesse said quietly.
“Speak up, fairy boy.”

Ethan didn’t realize he’d charged until he was in Gene’s face, hands fisted in the

man’s stained t-shirt, hauling him up onto his tiptoes. Liquor-soaked breath puffed

into his face and made his eyes water. Fear rose up above Gene’s drunken state and
he had the good sense to not struggle.

“Call him anything except his name again, and I will bury the flask in your pocket

so far up your ass they’ll have to extract it through your mouth.” Ethan gave him a

shake. “Understand?”

Gene’s eyes went wild. “Yeah, yeah, got it. Sorry, man.”

Ethan shoved him back. Gene tripped over his own ankles and landed on his ass

with a thump. Ethan loomed over him, breathing hard, pulse racing, shocked at his

own actions. He made a jerking motion at Gene, who finally scrambled to his feet and
bolted out of the cemetery. Ethan’s shoulders trembled.

“Ethan?” Jesse circled him, keeping a wide distance. His eyes were soft, his

expression watchful but not afraid.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never lost it like that before.”
“It’s okay. Thank you for standing up for me.”

“You put up with that a lot?”

Jesse lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s easier than talking back, then

trying to hide the black eyes. He just gets mean when he’s drinking.”

“Cathy said he’s a professional drunk.”

“Yeah, well…” He sighed and toed the grass with a well-worn sneaker. “You got a

place to stay?”

Ethan hesitated. “I hadn’t planned on staying. I have a hotel room in Asheville.”
“Oh. Dinner then? I’ve had a stew in the slow cooker all day.”

Dinner was a terrible idea, especially at Jesse’s place. But wasn’t this part of the

reason he’d come back to Kingston? To see Jesse? More than part of the reason. If

Jackie’s death was truly some bizarre accident, then leaving tonight and heading back
to Asheville would be easy. If it was more than that, Ethan was stuck here, and he

was almost relieved that Jesse wouldn’t be facing this old evil alone.

They’d do it together. They should have always been together.

“Are you with anyone?” The question slipped out before Ethan could censor it.
Jesse blinked rapidly, surprised by the odd response to his dinner query. “No. Just

me and Brutus.”

“Who?”

“My dog. Retriever mutt.”
“When did you get him?”

“The day you left town.”

* * * *

Jesse lived in a trailer on a spot of cleared land about a mile from the center of

town. Other places dotted the dirt road leading out to it, as rundown and lived-in as

the rest of Kingston, only slightly dirtier. They’d stuffed Jesse’s ten-speed into the
back of the Outlander, ignoring the curious looks of half a dozen people, then left the

town behind.

Brook Creek ran down in this direction, hidden behind curtains of trees and

underbrush. The road crossed it again two miles further east, past where the trailers
and frame houses stopped. Past what was considered town limits. It wound through

the countryside for miles, up into the mountains, and bridged a dozen more streams
before circling back to dump into Main Street on the single-lane bridge Ethan had

crossed earlier in the day.

Truly a road to nowhere.

Jesse’s trailer was at least thirty years old, with an A-frame roof and cement slab

porch. It sat back from the road a good ten yards, behind a row of hedges that were

neatly trimmed. Pine needles made a bed where grass should have grown. The trailer
was a faded baby blue sagging and tired on its foundation. A wooden dog house the

size of a riding lawn mower stood next to the trailer’s front door, and chained to the
porch steps was a monstrosity of a dog.

Brutus stood up and barked as Ethan parked in a clear spot near the porch. He

quieted when his master climbed out of the passenger seat, then started up again

when he saw Ethan. Ethan ignored the ruckus and helped Jesse extract his bike.

“Sit and shut it,” Jesse said.

Brutus immediately dropped his butt to the ground and snapped his powerful jaws

shut. Golden eyes watched Ethan, daring him to make a move. Jesse leaned his bike
against the side of the stairs, then unhooked the chain from Brutus’s collar.

“I only chain him up when I’m not home,” Jesse said when he saw Ethan’s face.

“He comes looking if I don’t. But he always stays around when I’m here. He’s a good

dog.”

“I see.” Ethan squatted in front of him and held out his hand. Brutus nosed his

fingers. So far, so good.

Jesse produced a key and unlocked the storm door. He held it open for Ethan. Let

him go inside first. Cool air hit him, trickling from an ancient window unit braced
above the main room’s well-worn blue sofa. A faded rug covered what was probably

original carpeting and mismatched the brown paneled walls. Two wicker armchairs
held court to the left of the door, and a television sat on a metal stand to the right.

Past it was a counter and overhanging cabinets that opened into a small kitchen, and
to the left a hallway led to the trailer’s other rooms.

Simple, sparsely decorated, and almost impersonal, there didn’t seem to be

anything in the trailer that really said who lived there. For a single man, everything

was insanely neat and tidy.

“Home sweet home,” Jesse said as the storm door fell shut to keep in the cool

air. “I don’t—shit.” He rushed past Ethan, into the kitchen. “Double shit.”

Ethan followed him into a small space dominated by a round wooden table and

two matching chairs. Jesse stood in front of a slow cooker, glass lid in hand, and
Ethan realized what was missing—scent. And steam.

“I plugged it in this morning, but I didn’t turn the goddamn thing on,” Jesse said.

“I’m so sorry, Ethan.”

“It’s fine.” He didn’t realize how hungry he was until there wasn’t food waiting,

and then his stomach gurgled. The ceramic container of meat, veggies and sauce

looked wonderful—too bad the food was raw.

“No, I promised stew and it’s not even cooked. It’s a fucking waste of food.”

Ethan nudged closer, keenly aware of the heat of Jesse’s body, and poked his

finger into the pot. Sniffed. The contents were still fairly cool, thanks to the chill in

the room. “How long’s it been sitting out?”

Jesse glanced over his shoulder. “About seven hours, I guess.”

“Straight from the fridge?”
“Yeah.”

“It’s probably okay to cook it. Put it on high, so it only takes about five hours,

instead of all day. That way you won’t waste it.”

“That’s safe?”
“Sure. I’ve forgotten to turn my pot on a few times and never got sick.” Ethan

grinned. “But I’ve also got a cast-iron stomach.”

“I remember.” Jesse turned the slower cooker on, and then replaced the lid.

“Well, as an alternative to stew, I have sandwich stuff. Probably a frozen pizza or
two.”

“Pepperoni and sausage?”
“Of course.”

Ethan wandered into the living room while Jesse found the pizza. He drank in the

details of the room, not sure what he was looking for, but positive he’d know when he
saw it. The pillows on the sofa were lumpy, old, and didn’t match the cushions on the

wicker chair. The curtains on the windows and door had frayed and faded from red to
some shade of pinky-orange. Everything in the trailer seemed worn, tired. Even the

owner.

“What’s your place like?” Jesse asked. He leaned against the kitchen counter, his

casual posture a sharp contrast to his intense stare.

“Nothing fancy,” Ethan said. Unsure if he should sit, he shoved his hands into his

pockets and rocked on his heels. “Studio apartment near downtown Denver. It’s
basically a closet with a bathroom and hot plate, but it’s close to work and to public

transportation.”

“You like work?”

“Mostly.” It must be Jesse’s subtle way of asking what he did and if he was happy.

“I’m an assistant producer on a morning radio show, which means I get coffee and

make sure no one fucks up the playlists. Glorified grunt work.”

Jesse frowned. “I thought you went to school for psychology.”

“I switched majors my sophomore year. Couldn’t pass the requirements for psych.

I never was very science minded, when you think about it. It wasn’t for me.”

Jesse seemed to push away a wave of…something. Disappointment? “I guess I

always figured you got out and followed your dream.”

Ethan snorted. “Well, I got out, but my dream stayed behind in Kingston.”
“Huh?”

Oh, Jess, you can be so adorably dense sometimes.
“You, you stupid bastard,” Ethan said, more of a plea than a statement. A

question. College had been his way out, but Jesse had been his dream since they were
kids. “I asked you to come with me, but you stayed.”

Why? The word hung between them, unasked, but loud as a bull stampede.
“I wanted to,” Jesse said. “I’d have walked barefoot to the moon if you’d asked

me, Ethan. I loved you so much it hurt.”

The declaration took his heart and squeezed. “But you didn’t love me enough to

come to Colorado? To trust me to take care of you?”

Jesse shifted until the counter became a physical barrier between them. He

seemed to fold in on himself, shrinking into the terrified kid he’d been at nine. He
pressed his palms flat on the countertop, knuckles white, chin trembling. “You

deserved better—”

“Bullshit.” White hot anger flashed through him, lighting Ethan up from the inside

out. He yanked his fists out of his pockets, but had nothing to strike. “Bullshit, Jess,
we were everything to each other. No one understood me like you did. No two people

could possibly ever understand each other the way we did.”

Jesse barked bitter laughter. “I wasn’t going to say you deserved better than me,

although I suppose that’s true too. I meant you deserved better than this town, this
life, better than hauling a constant reminder of it around wherever you went.”

“Same difference.”
“Maybe. I’d have been a fucking souvenir of everything you needed to forget,

Ethan. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“A souvenir is something you pick up in a tourist shop, Jesse, not a person. Not

you. I wanted you with me, damnit.”

“And I couldn’t go. It was twelve fucking years ago. Forget it.”

“Forget it?” Ethan stalked forward, bubbling with anger, unmoved by the sight of

Jesse pressed against the counter, frightened, unable to escape. Ethan stopped a few

inches from Jesse, very aware of invading his personal space. Aware of the way his
Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and tried not to panic. Aware of the faint

scents of soap and fryer grease and, just below it all, of Jesse—that intensely
masculine scent he’d craved since the first moment he’d smelled it all those years

ago.

Aware of everything. “I can’t forget it when you’re standing right in front of me,

and all I want to do is shove you into a wall and kiss you until I can’t see straight.”

Jesse shuddered, then whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “so do

it.”

Ethan hadn’t come to town expecting this, but he’d be damned if he could stop

himself once it was in his head. He fisted his hands in the front of Jesse’s shirt, pulled
him sideways so fast Jesse stumbled a bit, then pushed him back against the solid

surface of the refrigerator. Jesse reached up and clasped his hands together behind
Ethan’s neck, and their mouths came together in a crash of lips and teeth.

Everything Ethan remembered and more exploded in that kiss—the softness of

Jesse’s lips, the way he inhaled sharply through his nose at the same instant he

opened for Ethan’s questing tongue, the sharp taste that was uniquely Jesse. He
explored a mouth he’d once known so well, had kissed often, had watched swallow

down his cock—

Oh God.

Ethan pressed his body into Jesse’s, feeling the other man’s half-hard cock

against his thigh, and pressing his own against Jesse’s belly. He wanted more. Wanted

to climb inside and never let go, but he’d left and had no right to ask for it. He
started to pull away, to break the kiss, but Jesse held tight. His own tongue chased

into Ethan’s mouth, his hands solid against Ethan’s neck. Ethan nipped lightly at that
tongue, and the sound Jesse made had him fully hard.

The lack of air was making him dizzy, and just when Ethan thought he’d have to

protest, Jesse released his mouth. Ethan pulled his head back, panting, shaking from

the sheer force of having everything he wanted back in his arms. Jesse’s pupils were
blown wide, only the barest hints of blue visible behind the black; Ethan imagined his

own eyes looked pretty similar. It took all of his self-control to not drop to his knees
right then and there.

His face tingled, a new and quite pleasant sensation. Beard burn. Jesse had been

clean-shaven before, and bearded men weren’t really Ethan’s thing. Hairy or bald,

Jesse was most definitely his thing and he wondered what that ticklish beard would
feel like elsewhere.

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Jesse’s hands

slipped from his neck to his ribs. He hauled Ethan closer, fingers splayed around his

waist. Ethan let go of the front of Jesse’s shirt, intending to get a better grip. Jesse
used the moment to his advantage, and Ethan found himself spun around and shoved

up against the refrigerator. The wild hunger in Jesse’s eyes kept him from protesting.

Jesse slowly dropped to his knees without breaking eye contact, and Ethan’s

entire body clenched with need. Desire. With fucking want. Jesse mouthed his
erection through the heavy fabric of his jeans. It wasn’t nearly enough, but Ethan

wasn’t going to hurry him along, either. Jesse liked to lead, to keep some semblance
of control over things. Topping from the bottom was an expression Ethan had heard a

few times, and it had described Jesse perfectly, even though their relationship had
never progressed to actual intercourse. They’d come close so many times—

“Shit!” Ethan’s palms slapped flat against the refrigerator as a shock of pure

pleasure raced through him. Somehow he’d missed Jesse unbuckling his belt and

undoing his fly, but the warm caress of his hand on Ethan’s cock woke him up. He was
paying attention now.

Jesse licked the hollow of his hip as he stroked him, playing, waiting for

something from Ethan. He gazed up at him from under thick, black lashes, asking

silent permission.

“Please,” Ethan said.

Jesse grinned, parting kiss-swollen lips. He yanked Ethan’s jeans down to his

knees, then paused with his fingers on the waistband of his boxers. He laughed, and

Ethan groaned. “Christmas in May?” Jesse asked.

“I need to do laundry.”

“Uh huh.” The candy cane patterned boxers joined his jeans, and cool air

caressed Ethan’s exposed erection. Jesse gazed at it like he’d discovered something

worthy of worship—remembering, maybe?—before putting his hands on Ethan’s hips
and swallowing him down.

Ethan shouted something, probably not words, as moist heat surrounded his cock.

All the way until his head bumped the back of Jesse’s throat, and Jesse pulled back,

choking a little. He tried again, as if he could take Ethan’s entire body into his mouth,
and then drew back. His tongue swirled around the head of Ethan’s cock, teasing,

tasting. His right hand drifted down to cup and roll Ethan’s balls, and Ethan’s hips
jerked.

God, he couldn’t help it. He just wanted to fuck into that moist heat. Wanted to

let go and take what he’d been craving for twelve years. Wanted to reclaim the man

he’d never stopped missing—the man who was always in his thoughts, no matter who
else had come into his bed.

His cock was released. Jesse dipped his head lower and mouthed Ethan’s balls.

Ethan tried to widen his stance, but his jeans kept his legs trapped. Jesse didn’t seem

to mind. He sucked one nut into his mouth, and Ethan’s brain short-circuited for a
while, until both had been given equal treatment and his dick was painfully hard and

leaking. He didn’t think he could be so hard and not shoot, and he really wanted
something besides the flat, unyielding wall of the refrigerator to grab.

Jesse shifted, readjusting his knees. He clamped his hands on top of Ethan’s,

threading their fingers, then took him down his throat again. He paused, humming

softly, then looked up. The permission, the trust there, nearly undid Ethan. His heart
slammed against his ribs. All of the blood left his brain and rushed to his cock, which

he began to thrust into Jesse’s mouth. And Jesse let him.

Throat open and eyes watering, Jesse took everything Ethan gave. Ethan’s balls

tightened and everything hung on a precipice of pure pleasure. He tried to warn Jesse

off, but he either didn’t hear or didn’t care, because then Ethan was coming. Jesse’s

throat constricted around him as he swallowed, following him through the climax that
threatened to turn him inside out, then pulled off with a long, final suck.

Ethan sagged against the refrigerator, legs trembling, the last of the orgasm

tingling through his veins. He was wrung out, exhausted, and yet as energized as he’d

ever been. Because Jesse was there with him.

Jesse, still kneeling in front of him, wiped his face on his t-shirt. Jesse smiled up

at him with as much pride in his face as tentative fear, and that drove a spike of
emotion straight into Ethan’s heart. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms

around Jesse, pulling the smaller man against his chest. He came easily, arms looping
around Ethan’s waist, face pressing into his shoulder.

“Missed you,” Jesse whispered, muffled. “So much.”
“Me, too.” He should take care of Jesse, too. His left hand drifted down, but

instead of a hard cock, he felt a semi-erect one and a very damp spot on the crotch of
Jesse’s jeans. He pulled back, surprised—and a little proud—and gaped at the dark

patch. He’d never made someone come in their pants before.

“That was fuckin’ hot,” Jesse said, then kissed his jaw.

“Doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“Make it up to me later.” He looked Ethan square in the eye. “Stay tonight.”

“Jess—”
“You haven’t tasted my stew.”

Ferocious barking outside cut off Ethan’s response. Jesse shot to his feet with a

speed and grace that surprised Ethan. He stood up with more trouble, then hiked his

boxers and jeans up. Jesse was peering through the window next to the front door;
Brutus continued kicking up a fuss. Then Ethan heard the engine.

“Company,” Jesse said. “Shit, it’s Baxter.”
He sought to place the name as he buckled his belt. “Officer Baxter?”

“Chief Baxter now. Took over three years ago, after Draper retired.”
“What does he want?”

Jesse shot him a poisonous glare. “The fuck should I know?”
Ethan blinked, then held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just asking, not

accusing. Christ, Jess.”

“Sorry. It’s just every time a family pet goes missing, or a few hubcaps get lifted,

Baxter ends up on my doorstep. Bastard has it in for me.”

Jesse ran his fingers through his tousled hair, smoothed down the front of his

rumpled shirt, then opened the storm door. He stepped outside and let the screen
door bang shut. Brutus stood at attention on the edge of the porch, hackles raised and

teeth bared. Ethan remained inside, observing from the shadows.

A brown station wagon with police lights bolted to the roof pulled in behind

Ethan’s Outlander. A well-muscled figure stepped out, giving a peek at a bald head
before he put his Park Ranger-esque hat on. He walked with purpose toward the

trailer, and that made Ethan’s stomach clench. This wasn’t a friendly visit.

Jesse snapped his fingers and Brutus retreated to his dog house. Baxter paused at

the edge of the porch, arms loose by his sides, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that
went out of style twenty years ago.

“Afternoon, Jesse,” he said.

“Chief Baxter.”

If Baxter noticed Jesse’s disheveled, slightly stained appearance, he didn’t

comment. His attention seemed to shift to the trailer. “You got Ethan Wilde here with

you?”

Jesse folded his arms over his chest. “You know he’s here. His rental’s parked

right behind you.”

“Can I speak with him?”

This was the scenario Ethan had always feared—a cop coming to tell him his

father was dead. With his cell phone tucked away in the rental, no one could have

called him. Had it finally happened?

Ethan pushed the screen door open and stepped out next to Jesse, insides

quaking. He ignored the curious look Jesse cast him, his attention focused on Baxter.
He forced a normal tone into his voice and asked, “What can I do for you, Chief?”

“Just a few questions,” Baxter said.
Not the response Ethan was prepared for. He frowned. “About what?”

“Cathy Friele.”
Ice daggers pierced his guts. Oh God, no.

“What about Cathy?” Jesse asked.
Baxter took off his sunglasses, and the accusation in his eyes was clear. “Cathy’s

dead,” he said to Ethan, “and you’re the last person she was seen talking to today.”

Chapter Four

“Cathy’s dead?” Ethan repeated.
“Yep,” Baxter replied. “Found her body about thirty minutes ago in her own

backyard. Dead a couple of hours.”

Ethan replayed the funeral in his mind, and realized too late that Cathy hadn’t

been there. Neither had Patrick Willard. Only him and Jesse and Gene.

“How did she die?” Jesse asked.

Baxter gave them both assessing stares. Whatever he was looking for, he sighed

and reached for his cell phone. He pulled up a photograph, then handed it over. Ethan

took it with trembling fingers and very nearly dropped it.

Cathy was sprawled on her back, arms out from her sides, legs straight down like

someone being crucified. Her eyes were wide to the sky, her mouth open in a silent
scream. The front of her baggy t-shirt was soaked with blood, originating from a hole

in her chest. A hole right above her heart, the size of a human fist.

“Holy fuck,” Jesse said.

Horror seized Ethan’s guts and squeezed. He shoved the phone back at Baxter,

afraid if he looked any longer he’d piss himself. He worked to control his breathing

even though his lungs threatened to stop working properly.

“Was she shot?” Jesse asked so blessedly calm.

“No,” Baxter replied. “That’s no gunshot wound.”
Something had torn a hole in her chest, and if not a gun…it was happening again.

Ethan knew it as sure as the sky was blue and ice was cold.

“Something ripped her heart out.” Baxter’s words fell like punches.

I should have stayed in Denver.
“Something?” Jesse parroted.

“Could have been an animal, could have been a person. Won’t know until the

state coroner can get here and run some tests.”

State coroner. He’d be delayed, waylaid, anything to prevent the man from

actually coming and collecting evidence. No one can properly investigate what isn’t

reported, and the people of Kingston were very good at solving their own problems.

“What are you doing back in town, Mr. Wilde?”

Ethan stared at Baxter until the question penetrated. “Jackie’s funeral.” It

sounded completely lame now, and also very suspicious. One woman dies, her old

classmate shows up out of the blue after twelve years, then a second woman ends up
dead within hours. No wonder Baxter had questions.

“Funeral ended an hour ago.”
“I invited him back for dinner before he left town,” Jesse said.

Baxter’s eyebrows knotted, and his attention flickered to the drying spot on

Jesse’s jeans. “Uh huh. Mr. Wilde, a witness saw you speaking with Ms. Friele behind

Mama’s. Said you both looked upset when you parted ways. Maybe thirty minutes
later, Ms. Friele was dead.”

Ethan swallowed hard, mouth dry. “That’s right. We spoke about old times. A

little about Jackie. They’re hard circumstances for a reunion, so I imagine we didn’t
look terribly happy to see each other again.”

“I imagine. Where did you go after you spoke to Ms. Friele?”
“My rental car. I sat there and waited for the funeral, then I came here.”

“You sat in your car for two hours?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Alone?”
“Completely.”

“Anyone see you?”
Ethan took a measured breath, then expelled it. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying

attention to other people in the lot. But that’s where I sat.”

Baxter held his gaze for several long moments, tumbling the words around in his

head, then turned his stare to Jesse. “Where were you?”

“Working at Mama’s all morning, eight to one-thirty. Then I scrubbed up,

changed, and went to the funeral. Then I came here.” A muscle ticked in Jesse’s jaw,
and Ethan saw the internal amusement at his final statement.

Oh, I think Baxter knows we both came, all right.
Baxter puffed a little. “You staying around a while, Wilde?”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Ethan said. “Just overnight, then back home tomorrow.”
“Might want to extend your stay a bit.”

“Am I a suspect?”
“A person of interest, you might say.”

Ethan didn’t reply. He hadn’t killed either woman, but he was most definitely

connected to their deaths in ways Baxter couldn’t possibly understand. “How about I

agree to not leave town until after I’ve contacted you?”

“I’ll hold you to that. Been to see your old man since you got back?”

He bit back a frustrated sigh. Why had everyone in Kingston made it their business

to know if he visited his father or not? “No.” If Baxter wanted more details, he’d be

disappointed.

Baxter shifted his attention between the pair of them again, then tipped his hat

in a polite nod. “You boys keep your eyes open, you hear? Somethin’ odd’s goin’ on.”

Understatement of the century.

“Of course,” Jesse said. He trotted down the steps and stood on the edge of the

patio while Baxter returned to his car. Brutus moved to stand next to him, at perfect

attention with his master, and the pair watched Baxter’s car until it disappeared
around a curve in the road.

“A person of interest,” Ethan said. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
Jesse’s shoulders trembled. Before Ethan could fully understand what was

happening, Jesse dropped to his knees, body convulsing, and vomited into the grass at
the edge of the patio. Ethan bolted and knelt beside him, panicked. He rubbed his

right hand against the middle of Jesse’s back, offering some small measure of support
while Jesse retched once more. He spat fluid, arms wrapped tight around his middle,

bent over nearly double.

When the vomiting seemed to be done, Ethan tugged Jesse closer. He didn’t

protest, just listed against Ethan’s chest and let himself be held. Still trembling,

Jesse wiped his mouth on the back of one hand. Ethan pressed a kiss to the top of

Jesse’s head, inhaling the scent of shampoo and kitchen grease, and felt the gallop of
Jesse’s heartbeat against his arm.

“I’m so sorry, Ethan,” Jesse said. Tears choked his voice, making him sound nine

again.

Ethan didn’t have to ask what he was sorry about; it wasn’t the vomit. “It’s him.

Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”
“But how? We killed him.” As if in answer, his tattoo throbbed hot and angry, like

an infected wound. He grunted, but didn’t let go of Jesse.

Jesse made an answering whine and shifted his right arm—had he felt it too? “I

don’t think he can be killed, Ethan, just wounded. We hurt him bad, and he still
wants us.”

“Twenty years later?”
“He got Jackie and Cathy already.”

Ethan shook his head. “No, their deaths—”
“Fear.” Jesse pulled away and twisted to look at Ethan, his eyes wide, cheeks

flushed. “He killed them with fear, same way he tried the first time. Don’t you see it,
Ethan? He’s finishing what he started.”

“No. No!” Ethan broke away, nearly falling over in his haste to stand and retreat.

He went as far as his rental, then spun around, arms wide, temper soaring. “This is

insane, Jess. The man who tried to kill the six of us is dead. We all saw him die.
Didn’t we?”

Jesse remained sitting, face stony, Brutus his silent shadow. “There were six of

us, and now two of us are dead in the span of three days, and don’t you fucking dare

say it’s a coincidence.”

“What if it is?”

“Then explain how they died? Explain how Jackie—who’s terrified of the ocean—

drowns on salt water in her own bed. Explain how Cathy—who’s always had self-

esteem problems and was, more than anything else, terrified of getting her heart
broken by a guy—ends up with a hole in her chest and her heart gone? Explain that?”

“I can’t.”
“Explain these, too, while you’re at it,” Jesse snapped as he yanked up the sleeve

of his shirt, revealing an intricate tattoo that was a mirror image of Ethan’s. “Explain
how you and me walked out of the woods that night with these tattoos, and how all

six of us ended up with blue eyes.”

Something in Ethan snapped, broken by terror and a complete inability to

rationalize anything going on around him. “I can’t! And I don’t fucking want to, Jesse.
What I really want to do is get in my car and drive like hell toward town limits, and

pretend I never even came here today. I want all of this to have been one big damned
nightmare.”

Jesse reared back like he’d been slapped, and Ethan realized his mistake too late.

He couldn’t even stutter out an apology. Jesse shut down, face wiped of emotion, his

blue eyes empty. He stood up, every action stiff.

“You know the way out of town.” Jesse’s voice was cold, brittle. “I doubt you’ll

make it, since you were foolish enough to come back at all, but you should try. Then
go see your dad.”

“Jesse—”
“Don’t.

“I’m sor—”
“I said don’t.” He turned and stalked back into the trailer. If Ethan had possessed

any doubts about following, they were crushed by the slam of the storm door.

He stared at it, mouth open, until Brutus growled at him.

How did I fuck that up so fast?
Ethan returned to his rental and climbed inside. He sat in the suffocating heat

and stared at the wheel. Jesse wasn’t wrong, and he couldn’t possibly be right. So
many of the details of that night, when they were nine and taken into the woods, had

blurred into obscure images and vague recollections of actions and emotions. He
mostly remembered the terror, laced with tendrils of horror, and returning home

physically altered.

No one really tried to explain the tattoos, or why their eyes were all the same

eerie, incandescent shade of blue, just like no one ever explained why none of them
had older or younger siblings. The physical changes became part of normal, and their

normal lives continued. As normal as his life could have been, considering he was one
of only two gay teenagers in a very tiny, very strange Southern town. Considering he

was the only one of his five classmates to begin dreaming of a life outside of Kingston.
Ethan and Jesse both had the tattoos, but only Ethan left.

Why?
He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Sweat dripped

down his cheeks and neck. He closed his eyes, the rental’s heat doing nothing to thaw
the chill gripping his insides.

Dead people didn’t walk out of the woods twenty years later to exact revenge on

the six kids they tried to kill once and failed.

Yeah, and women don’t drown in bed, either, asshole.
He could try leaving town. Make tracks for the bridge over Brook Creek and hope

for the best. In his heart, he knew he wouldn’t make it. When you weren’t allowed to
leave Kingston, you didn’t get out. For eighteen years, he hadn’t left Macombe

County. Hell, he hadn’t gone farther than the ten miles to the county schools he
attended, much less actually visited a different town. He’d tried once, when he was

twelve. He rode his bicycle for hours on roads that kept looping around and brought
him right back where he started with no clear idea of how he got there. He’d truly

forgotten that—forgotten so much when he left, as though he’s also left a bunch of
memories behind with his childhood home and demented father.

How had he ever thought he could come back for a few hours and then just leave?

The only way most people left Kingston was dead. He was for the first time, truly

amazed that he’d gotten out at all and managed to stay away for so long.

No, he couldn’t try to drive away, even to prove to himself that he was stuck

here. Not if it hurt Jesse. Hurting Jesse was the last thing he’d come here to do, and
yet he’d managed it with flying colors.

He stifled a yawn, aware of how tired he was. He’d taken a red-eye and hadn’t

slept well on the plane. That small cup of coffee at Mama’s seemed like days ago.
Denver seemed like weeks.

Nap first, then he’d figure out what to do next.
Figure out what to do about a twenty-year-dead-but-not-really-dead guy.

* * * *

The small bus that takes students to Macombe County Elementary School and

Junior High makes two stops in Kingston—one at the end of Church Street, at the far
east end of town, and one in front of the Municipal Building. Ethan and Cathy get on

in town, so they’re always first on the bus. There are only ten seats to choose from,
and they’ve all pretty much sat in the same seats since school started. It’s always

just the six of them, after all.

It’s been the six of them on this bus as long as he can remember. In a few years,

they’ll all ride the same bus half a mile farther to Macombe County High School, and
maybe one day other kids will ride this bus. Only there aren’t any other kids in

Kingston younger than them. Ethan doesn’t know if it’s weird, but some of his
classmates from other towns think so.

He ignores their teasing. He likes his hometown. He feels safe there and can’t

imagine living anywhere else. Going to school is fine and all, but he’s always happy

to get on the bus and return to Kingston. It’s where they belong.

Ethan can’t explain why it feels different this morning, or why he sits in the

middle, passenger-side, instead of the last seat-driver’s side. Maybe it’s because he
had another terrible nightmare last night, and he didn’t sleep very good. Hadn’t

slept good all week, and it’s finally Friday. Maybe he’ll sleep good tonight, since he
can sleep in tomorrow.

He kind of wishes he can remember the nightmare that woke him in cold terror,

limbs frozen, unable to even scream. He wants to tell Jesse about it, because

they’re best friends and Jesse’s smarter. He could figure out the dreams. Ethan just
can’t remember them.

The bus rumbles forward to get the other kids. Cathy usually slumps down,

cracks a book and reads for the twenty minute trip to school. She doesn’t today,

though. She presses her nose to the window and stares. She looks tired, too. He
almost asks her about nightmares, but he doesn’t because they aren’t really friends,

and she’s pudgy and it’s not cool to talk to the pudgy girls. Even when it’s just the
two of them and Mr. Jensen, the driver.

He stares at a fraying corner of his backpack until the bus stops on Church

Street. The door hisses open. Gene doesn’t bother covering a jaw-cracking yawn as

he climbs on board. Jackie has dark circles under her eyes, which stand out against
her pale skin. She looks like she’s got the flu. Next comes Patrick, who always smiles

but today he’s frowning.

Even Jesse looks exhausted, pale, as he flops into the seat across from Ethan. It

isn’t his usual seat, either, but he always sits across the aisle from Ethan, even in
school. They’re inseparable, him and Jesse.

Best friends.

The bus turns and heads for the road out of town.

* * * *

Ethan jerked upright, startled by the slam of something against his window. Jesse

glared at him through the glass, then yanked open the car door, allowing in a blast of
somewhat cooler air.

“You tryin’ to die of heat stroke?” Jesse snapped.
He blinked away sleep, way too relaxed by the heat of the car to be annoyed at

the intrusion. “Huh?”

“Huh? Jackass.”

Still unsure what was happening, Ethan let Jesse yank him out of the front seat. It

didn’t occur to him that he’d have to stand, though, so Ethan’s knees didn’t lock and

he tumbled to the ground. Dirt and grass smeared his clothes, and he couldn’t really
make himself care. Any other day, and he’d have been scrambling for a stain stick.

Jesse wasn’t hovering over him anymore, which really sucked. Brutus stuck

around, though, shoving his wet nose into Ethan’s face and covering him with dog

breath. “Back off, mutt,” he said.

Brutus wuffed softly, as if offended.

Something slammed, then a glass of icy wetness was thrust into Ethan’s face.

“Drink that,” Jesse said.

Ethan eyeballed the glass. Sniffed.
“It’s just water, dumbass. You need to get your core temperature down.”

He trusted Jesse on that and gulped down the cold water. His teeth ached from

the chill, but he drank until only ice cubes clinked in the bottom. Oddly, he did feel

better—less muddled, more aware. He pressed the sweating glass against his
forehead, feeling suddenly like a fool.

“I’m a royal idiot,” he muttered.
“Yeah, slow roasting in your car is not a recommended way to spend the

afternoon.”

“Not that—well, yeah, that too. What I said before about wanting this to be a

dream. I didn’t mean you, Jess. You’re the only good thing about this trip.”

Jesse sucked in a sharp breath, and when he didn’t respond right away, Ethan

lowered his glass and opened his eyes. Jesse had squatted in front of him and was
staring at his hands. Silence stretched out for an unbearable amount of time. Then

Jesse looked up and smiled. “Want some pizza? It’s about done.”

It wasn’t an acceptance—then again, Ethan hadn’t really apologized.

“Yeah, I would.”
“Good.”

“And after?
“We go check on Gene and Patrick.”

Ethan stifled a groan. That wasn’t going to go well.

Chapter Five

They demolished the pizza in under five minutes and in complete silence.

Something had changed. Ethan couldn’t put his finger on it, so he tried to not dwell

on it. He brought his overnight bag inside and took a few minutes to wash his face and
change the shirt he’d sweated through during his self-induced heat nap. No messages

on his cell phone.

On a whim—and in the safety of the tiny bathroom—he dialed his home number in

Denver. It rang twice, before an automated voice said, “The call cannot be completed
as dialed. Please check the number and try again.”

He called the number of his favorite pizza delivery joint. Same message.
It should have scared him; it didn’t.

Much.
He didn’t remember exactly when he first became aware that Kingston wasn’t

like other places. Probably when he entered Macombe County High School. While
classmates from other towns talked about faraway colleges, the teens from Kingston

debated between working at Mama’s or learning how to fix cars. No one talked about
leaving. No one researched colleges. No one except for Ethan.

The first time he tried to call a college admissions office from home, he got the

same automated “cannot be completed as dialed” message. Six phone numbers in a

row failed. Letters he sent never arrived. If he hadn’t convinced the school’s
guidance counselor to help, Ethan never would have won that scholarship. He had

craved a different kind of life, and he’d be damned if he’d allow whatever mysterious
force surrounded Kingston to bind him there. He couldn’t make the others want to

leave, not even Jesse, but no way would he stay when a whole wide world was
waiting.

Kingston hadn’t changed much in twelve years. She was a jealous mistress, once

again trying to keep him away from the outside world.

He pocketed the phone anyway, pretty sure he’d still be able to call places in

town if the need arose, finger-combed his hair, and contemplated his appearance.

He’d left his black jeans on, topping it with a sleeveless white t-shirt that blatantly
advertised his odd tattoo. He studied the intricate patterns in the mirror, unsure if it

had changed again since yesterday. He couldn’t remember the exact arrangement of
black lines and swirls from day to day, even though he couldn’t swear they actually

changed.

He’d stopped asking friends when he realized they never noticed a difference in

the tattoo’s pattern. Mostly they looked at him like he was high.

By now the gossip chain should be actively chatting about how Ethan Wilde was

back in town just in time for another corpse to turn up, and that he was already seen
in the company of Jesse Rowe. No sense in hiding himself or his tattoo.

Jesse was waiting for him on the patio, and Ethan smiled as he pulled the storm

door shut behind him. Jesse had changed out of the polo he’d worn to the funeral,

trading it for a black sleeveless tee similar to Ethan’s. It showed off not just Jesse’s

tattoo (which Ethan was pretty sure did look like his), but also his leanly muscled

arms and shoulders and narrow waist. Ethan definitely approved of the costume
switch.

“You mind driving?” Jesse asked. “My bike doesn’t seat two.”
“Not a problem.” He glanced at the rental, where Brutus sat near the rear

passenger door, tail thumping the ground. “Is this going to be a threesome?”

“He won’t pee on the upholstery, I swear.”

“Anything he chews on you’re paying for.”
“Deal.”

Brutus huffed, then sneezed. The dog always seemed to know when he was being

talked about.

Ethan palmed his keys as he strode toward the driver’s side door. “Where to

first?”

“Gene’s, I think. Patrick is supposed to be on duty today, so he won’t be back in

town for a few hours yet.”

“And Gene lives…?”
“South end of town, near the old apple orchard.”

Ethan knew the area. Shouldn’t take more than seven or eight minutes to get

there. Nothing took very long to get to around Kingston. Growing up, he’d both loved

it and felt stifled by it.

Jesse opened the back door; Brutus leapt inside with easy grace. Instead of

spreading out or lying down, he sat in the seat as if he expected to be buckled in.
Ethan chuckled as he slid into the driver’s seat. He could start to like that big mutt.

“You didn’t leave,” Jesse said, once they were on the road back to town.
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I left you once, Jess. And

even if I don’t want to believe this is actually happening, someone killed two people
we both knew. Whoever it is might—I can’t—” He lost his words, but Jesse seemed to

know what he couldn’t say.

I couldn’t bear it if you were killed and I wasn’t there to protect you.

“Yeah, me too,” Jesse said.
“Is Gene going to lose his shit when we show up on his doorstep?”

“Depends on how drunk he is. He’s actually a decent guy on the rare occasion you

catch him sober.”

“Sounds familiar.”
Jesse picked at a worn spot on the knee of his jeans. Ethan could practically see

the hamster wheels turning, producing a slew of questions he seemed hesitant to
voice. He had dozens of his own, but this wasn’t the time to ask them. Their personal

shit had to wait a while longer. Not an easy task, when Jesse’s proximity had all of
Ethan’s senses on high alert—hyperaware of how much he was still attracted to the

man.

“You’ll probably miss your flight back to Denver,” Jesse said, so off-handedly it

might have been a stray thought.

“I think I’m going to miss my flight no matter what.”

“Anyone need to know?”
There it was. The subtle “anyone at home waiting for you?” question. His pride

made him want to lie, to not admit he’d had zero luck finding and maintaining a

relationship longer than a few hours of mindless fucking because someone else had

always been in the back of his mind. But he’d never been able to lie to Jesse, and it
seemed important to be honest about this.

“No, no one’s going to miss me until I don’t show up for work on Monday,” Ethan

said.

“Oh.” He actually sounded surprised.
They passed through the center of town and the Outlander got a few curious

looks. Ethan turned south onto a side street and passed half a dozen homes before the
paved road turned back into dirt. The orchard began right away, a ten-acre bone yard

of dead or dying apple trees. Brush and weeds peppered the ground between the
trees, creating the only greenery on the land. Here and there, trailers dotted the

opposite side of the road.

Jesse directed him to a tired shack on a flat square of dirt. The squat house might

have been painted once, but the peeling boards had weathered to a dull gray. Half a
dozen industrial trash cans lined one side of the shack, each overflowing with glass

bottles. A blue tarp stood on four poles in the backyard, and a lone figure sat on a
folding lawn chair, feet propped up on a dirty cooler.

“Charming,” Ethan muttered.
Brutus stayed on the backseat, even after Jesse opened the door for him. He

seemed content to watch over his master from afar—or the stink of Gene’s place was
too much for his dog nose. It certainly made Ethan’s eyes water. The noxious odors of

stale liquor, baking trash, and what might have been a backed-up septic tank
combined to create a truly awful stench.

Gene sat with his back to them, his attention on the hilly forest, and he didn’t stir

at their approach. Just tapped his fingers against the neck of a half-empty beer

bottle. Ethan stopped at the edge of the tarp tent, Jesse at his left shoulder.

“You just missed Baxter,” Gene said. Despite the beer in his hand and his earlier

state, his words were not slurred. He blinked at the woods and seemed almost sober.

“He paid me a visit, too,” Jesse replied.

“Poor Cathy.”
“Yeah, poor Cathy.”

“I fucked her once.”
Ethan rolled his eyes.

“Uh huh.” Jesse seemed stuck between disgust and curiosity.
“Yeah.” Gene rat-a-tatted his fingernails against the bottle. “A few years ago.

She said she didn’t want to a die a virgin. Said Jesse was a no-go, so she got me or
Patrick, but Patrick was seeing someone.”

The relevance slapped Ethan in the face. Her only prospects had been the only

three men in Kingston in her age group.

“She tried going to Asheville once,” Gene continued. “Said she wanted to just hit

a bar, find a stranger, make a go of it, but couldn’t get out of this fucking town.

Three hours driving in circles, ’til she gave up.”

No one gets out of this fucking town. No one but me.

Gene finally looked at them, flashing Ethan a glare of pure poison, as though he’d

heard his private thoughts. Or thought it himself. Then his thoughts shifted and his

expression lost focus. “She wasn’t a bad lay, really. She was pudgy, but pretty in the

face. Nice to screw something besides my own hand.”

From the corner of his eye, Ethan thought he saw Jesse blush. Finally, everything

Jesse had lost when he stayed behind—love, intimacy, even something as simple as
another guy to get you off—occurred to him. Twelve years of being alone. The intense

blowjob back at the trailer made a lot more sense—but also muddled up the picture.
Had Jesse really missed him, or had he just missed affection?

Maybe he was over-thinking it.
“Got her heart broken anyway,” Gene said. He raised the bottle to his lips and

paused. Tipped it back to look at it. He put it down on the ground, untouched. “It’s
Jensen, isn’t it? Or whatever was in him that day?”

Ethan blinked, startled by the frank statement.
“Has to be,” Jesse said.

“But Jensen’s dead.”
“It wasn’t really him. Whatever that thing was, it’s still alive.”

“Should’ve just let him kill us all that night.”
“Fuck you,” Ethan said. “You chose to spend your life in a liquor bottle, but I

actually did something with mine. I made it matter.”

“Well, smell you, Wilde.” The poisonous glare returned, aimed right at Ethan.

“The rest of us weren’t lucky enough to be let out. You wouldn’t be so fucking
superior if you’d been here the last twelve years, living your life on goddamned

pause.”

Let out, like he was a dog whose master finally opened the door to the backyard.

That wasn’t what happened, was it? “If you’re so keen on dying, there are quicker
ways to manage it than liver failure.”

Gene moved faster than bulk or intoxication should have allowed. He kicked over

the cooler, sending ice and beer bottles clattering into the dirt. Ethan didn’t have

time to brace himself, and air whooshed out of his lungs when his back slammed
against the hard earth. Gene pinned him down, straddling his hips, hands clenched in

the front of Ethan’s shirt.

Sour air puffed into Ethan’s face. “Fuck you, Wilde, I ain’t no goddamn coward.”

“Gene, let him go,” Jesse said.
Ethan sucked in a good breath, temper flaring. “Then prove it, asshole.” He broke

Gene’s sloppy hold on his shirt, then hooked one leg around his neck. A quick lunge,
and Ethan was on top with both of Gene’s arms pinned above his head. He hadn’t

wrestled in college for nothing.

He held Gene down for the space of a few breaths, then jerked away. His skin

crawled with Gene’s sweat and the stink of his alcohol-soaked body. Gene sat up, his
expression caught somewhere between anger and respect.

“You okay?” Jesse asked.
“Fine,” Ethan replied. He extended his hand to Gene.

Gene stared at it a moment, then accepted the help. Ethan wiped his palm on the

seat of his jeans.

“Look, the fighting can wait, okay? We need to find Patrick,” Jesse said.
Brutus barked three times in quick succession—not an alarm so much as an

announcement. The three men went silent, their collective attention shifting to the

road. Seconds later, Ethan heard the rumbling of a car engine. A rusty Chevy pulled

into the quasi-driveway next to the Outlander. Gene shouldered his way forward, to
stand in front of the others.

Ethan knew who it was before the driver’s side door opened. Patrick Willard had

always been the handsomest boy in their grade, but time hadn’t done him any favors.

His skin was too tanned, too leathery, and clung too tightly to his thin face. His entire
body seemed too thin, overworked, exhausted.

He climbed out of the Chevy like a man three times his age, still in his Ranger

uniform. He clutched a brown paper sack in his hand, the kind that might carry a bag

lunch, and didn’t seem to notice his audience until he’d slammed his door shut and
Brutus barked at him. Patrick jumped, then scooted away from the dog, holding the

bag close to his chest. Wide eyes flickered to Jesse first, then over to Gene.

“Found him,” Gene said.

Ethan caught Patrick’s gaze last, and something in those eerie blue eyes went

cold. He glanced at the bag Patrick held and his heart skipped, positive he knew what

was in there.

* * * *

Ethan wakes up when the bus stops moving. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He didn’t dream this time. He rubs his face, which is numb from having been pressed

against the window, then stops. Stares.

They aren’t at school. The bus is parked on a windy dirt road, somewhere in the

mountains. He doesn’t think the road is on the way to school, but isn’t sure. He
doesn’t ever pay much attention to the road.

The other kids are waking up, too, some muttering and some yawning. Gene

always yawns so loud. Jesse stares out his window, then shifts in his seat to look at

Ethan. His brown eyes are wide, nervous, confused. Ethan bets he looks the same
way.

“Where are we?” Patrick asks first.
“Where’s Cathy?” is Jackie’s question. “And Mr. Jensen?”

Cathy and the bus driver are both gone. The bus doors are shut.
Gene gets up first. Stomps to the front of the bus. The gear that opens the door

is stuck. He yanks on it, but it doesn’t budge. Patrick goes to the emergency door in
the back. They’ve done evacuation drills before, but the driver always opens the

back door. Patrick tries; it doesn’t open. Gene and Jackie both try; it still doesn’t
open.

Ethan tries a window. Another. Jesse, too.
No keys in the ignition. Even if one of them knew how, they can’t drive the bus

away.

They’re trapped on the bus, and Cathy is missing.

Her backpack is on her seat; no one wants to touch it.
“Can anyone see anything?” Jesse asks.

They go from window to window, seeking clues. The trees are thick and tall,

leaning down over the road. No real views of the mountains to orient them. Nothing

except the wilderness.

Running through the woods, being chased, he’s going to kill me!

The thought steals through Ethan’s mind, and he shivers. Not a thought—a

dream. His nightmare. “I think I’ve been here before,” he says.

“Really?” Gene asks. “Where are we?”
“No, I mean, I had a nightmare about the woods like this. All week, this bad

dream.”

Jesse watches him intently. “You swear you dreamed this?”

“Yeah, swear.”
“Me, too,” Jackie says. Her eyes are red, like she wants to cry. “Swear.”

Turns out they all did.

* * * *

“Had any bad dreams lately?” Patrick asked as he approached the trio. The

question seemed general, but his eyes were on Ethan.

“My fair share, I guess,” Ethan replied.
“Nothing brings family together like a murder.”

Ethan’s breath caught.
“Family?” Jesse snorted. “That’s optimistic.”

“Aw, come on, Jesse,” Patrick said. “We’ve all got our mama’s eyes.”
“Fuck you, man.”

“You’re not my type, pretty boy.”
“Farm animals your type, asshole?”

Patrick lunged, but Gene got between them. Ethan crowded Jesse to the side,

mind reeling. Gene had been rude to Jesse in the cemetery and Ethan had blamed

drunkenness, but Patrick was acting downright belligerent without that excuse. Had
the pair grown up hating each other?

“Knock it off,” Gene said. He looked over his shoulder to Ethan. “Pat and Jackie

were a thing for a while.” As if that statement explained the animosity between

Patrick and Jesse.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said, and he meant it.

“Yeah, and he blamed me for her death from the very start,” Jesse said. Rage

bubbled close the surface—Ethan saw it in the way his fists clenched and his eyes

flashed.

“Well, now we know who killed her, don’t we?” Gene asked.

“Do we really?” Patrick asked. “Jensen’s dead. His body’s rotted away by now, so

who’s actually doing this? It could be anyone.”

“Which is why we have to watch each other’s back,” Ethan said. “Stay in pairs,

never alone.”

“For how long?”
Ethan glanced at the sky, then at his watch. The sun would start setting in about

two hours, and that wasn’t nearly enough time. “Morning.”

“What happens in the morning?” Jesse asked.

“We try to find that spot in the woods where we buried Jensen. Something tells

me that if we go back, whoever’s hunting us this time will come.”

“And we want that to happen?”

“I’m not keen on forcing a confrontation, but I’m also not going to hang around

and cower, until he or she or whatever decides to pick another one of us off. I have a
life to get back to.”

“How are we supposed to find that spot in the woods again?” Gene asked. “I don’t

know where it is.”

“I can find it,” Patrick said. Off their surprised looks, he continued. “I’m a

Ranger, remember? I know these mountains. I know a spot that I’ve always avoided

going into, without ever realizing why. Not until now. I think that’s the place.”

“Where should we meet you?” Ethan asked.

“Road past Jesse’s place, at the fork. Eight a.m.”
“Okay.”

Patrick looked at Gene. “Pack your shit, pal. I am not watching your back in this

pisshole all night long.”

Gene opened his mouth to respond, then closed it.
“What’s in there?” Jesse asked, pointing at the paper sack.

“Souvenir,” Patrick said. He reached inside and removed a twisted coil of metal,

one end stained black with decades-old blood. “Thought we might need this again.”

Heart stuck solidly in his throat, Ethan gazed at the improvised weapon that had

saved their lives so many years ago. And he started trembling.

* * * *

Finally, they hear a noise outside. It feels like forever, but it probably isn’t more

than half an hour. They press against the windows on the passenger side of the bus,
eyeballing the woods where they heard the sound.

Mr. Jensen tromps out of the woods. Leaves stick to his clothes and he walks

funny, jerking a little like he can’t quite remember how to move his legs the right

way. He goes up to the bus door and opens it from the outside.

Ethan plunks down in his seat, Jesse right next to him. Gene is in front of them.

Jackie and Patrick are behind them. No one moves; no one speaks.

Mr. Jensen climbs on board. A horrible, rotting smell comes with him, and makes

Ethan sick to his stomach. He wants to pinch his nose shut, but doesn’t dare draw
attention. Then he looks up and really, really wants to pee himself. Mr. Jensen’s

eyes are glowing a pale yellow, and he has two long teeth poking up from his bottom
lip, like upside down vampire fangs.

Jesse grabs his hand and squeezes hard.
“Gene Hunnicutt,” Mr. Jensen says. His voice is hard, demanding, scary, and

Gene stands up.

Ethan wants to tell him to sit back down. He stays silent, because speaking up

might draw Mr. Jensen’s attention to him, and he’d rather it be on Gene.

Mr. Jensen doesn’t say anything else. Gene follows him off the bus, silent, like a

puppy on a leash. The doors shut, locking them back in, and the pair walks into the
woods.

Jackie begins sobbing. Ethan feels his own throat closing and wants to cry, too.
“Where are they going?” Patrick asks.

None of them answer, and when Mr. Jensen comes back again, he takes Jackie

with him.

Her loss spurs Patrick into action. He rips through their backpacks, searching for

something. He throws books, pencils, erasers, loose papers, making a mess and not
caring. Ethan and Jesse watch his hysteria as he goes through their things. Finding

nothing useful, he searches around the driver’s seat.

“Geez, there’s nothing,” Patrick says. “Nothing to hurt him.”

Then Mr. Jensen comes back for the third time.
And now only Jesse and Ethan are left.

* * * *

Ethan didn’t recall sitting down, just being suddenly aware of the hard brown

earth beneath his butt, his head dangling between his knees, and Jesse next to him,
rubbing his back. He blinked his eyes open, feeling like a fool.

“Damn, man,” Patrick said, somewhere behind him.
“Can’t believe how much I forgot,” Ethan said. “About all of it. How do you forget

that kind of terror?”

“The mind protects itself,” Jesse said. He squeezed Ethan’s knee. “You all right

now?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I thought you were going to pass out.”
“Almost did.”

Shuffling footsteps signaled someone’s approach. He looked up, surprised to see

Gene coming from the shack with a plastic cup in his hand. Gene held it out; Ethan

took it with a grateful nod. He didn’t insult Gene by sniffing. He just gulped down the
lukewarm water. It sloshed around in his upset stomach, which was no longer happy

to have eaten all that pizza.

“Go do whatever you need to do, bud,” Gene said. “We’ll see you in the

morning.”

“Yeah, morning.” Ethan sighed, then let Jesse haul him to his feet. He couldn’t

help feeling a small measure of defeat as they walked back to the rental. He hadn’t
come to Gene’s expecting a real answer to the problem, but he’d hoped for…more.

More than a simple plan to meet in the mountains and hike to the place where they’d
killed a man.

Where you killed a man, coward.
Running away from it all felt like the best, most perfect option, and as he climbed

back into the Outlander, he realized that the only thing keeping him from trying to
run was the man getting in next to him. Let out or got out, it didn’t matter. He’d left

Jesse behind once; he wouldn’t leave Jesse behind a second time, no matter what.

“What now?” Jesse asked.

Ethan turned the key, and the engine roared to life. “I’m going to take everyone’s

advice, and go see my dad.”

Chapter Six

He offered to take Jesse home first, but Jesse insisted he’d be fine waiting in the

car. So Ethan drove back into Kingston, then hung a left past the church, heading for

the Collins estate. One of the oldest houses in town, it was reminiscent of an old
plantation home with white columns, a wrap-around porch, and large, airy rooms.

Once a private residence, it had become a kind of retirement home for the elderly or
infirm run by the three Collins heirs and their extended families.

Kingston took care of their own—always had.
Orry Wilde had been accepted into their care when Ethan left, and it had been an

uneasy parting. Orry’s mental health had deteriorated rapidly after Ethan’s mother
died, and for those last four years, Orry had become a shell of his former, gregarious

self. He rarely spoke, except to spout profanities, and he seemed to live permanently
in a time and place before the incident in the woods. He had no longer accepted the

teenage Ethan as his son; his son was still nine years old and innocent.

Clarice had said his father didn’t talk about him anymore, and it hurt a little

without really surprising him. As far as anyone in Denver knew, both of Ethan’s
parents were dead.

Ethan parked in the circular driveway beneath the shade of a massive elm tree.

He rolled down the windows for Jesse and Brutus, then left the keys in the ignition in

case they got too hot and needed the air conditioning. Jesse didn’t speak or ask
questions—just watched Ethan prepare to see the ghost of a man who’d once been the

world to him.

A thin, white-haired woman met him on the sprawling porch, her hands tucked

loosely inside of a frilly pink apron. “Can I help you, son?”

“My name’s Ethan Wilde. Is Orry Wilde able to receive visitors today?”

Her gray eyes went wide, and then were tempered by a warm smile. “Of course,

dear. He’s in the parlor right now. Give me one moment, then I’ll come back and get

you.”

“Thank you.”

She bustled inside through a screen door. He studied the house, and its carefully

repaired porch, its fresh coat of paint, every window thrown open to allow for air

flow. He almost felt comfortable standing there, on the edge of splendor, close
without actually touching it. Remnants of another time period and another way of

life.

Her footsteps preceded her, and then Ethan was inside the grand entry hall,

struck as he was the first time by its charm and sparkling cleanliness. The interior
smelled like fresh roses and lemon cleaner and wood polish. None of the rotting odors

he always associated with care facilities and nursing homes. No, the citizens of
Kingston wouldn’t have put up with that for their aging relatives.

“My name’s Regina Collins,” the woman said as she led the way. “You’ve grown

into a handsome young man, Ethan.”

“Thank you, Ms. Collins.” He didn’t recall her from his first and only other visit

here, but she must remember him.

They passed two large, open rooms. Ms. Collins turned into the third room, and he

followed her into a parlor tastefully decorated in shades of mauve and ivory, with
several different tables set up with board games and puzzles. One person was in the

parlor, hunched over a jigsaw puzzle of some kind, wheelchair facing away from the
door. Even from behind, even in a room full of old men in wheelchairs, Ethan would

have recognized his father. He’d inherited both his height and his long, narrow head
from his father—a horse’s head, Orry had once joked. But where Orry had been

somewhat ugly, Ethan had received his mother’s beauty.

He’d often wondered if that was why Orry tuned him out after his mother’s death

—Ethan was too much of a reminder of the love he’d lost.

“Orry, dear, you have a visitor,” Ms. Collins said. “Just ring the bell there if you

need anything, gentlemen.”

Ethan glanced at the dinner bell near the parlor entrance, then gave a polite nod

as she excused herself. He couldn’t seem to move his feet, to go forward and present
himself to his father. He had to do this; he knew it in his heart, even if not in his

head. They didn’t know what would happen in the woods tomorrow, and Ethan
couldn’t bear the thought of dying without speaking to his father one more time.

Orry didn’t look up from his puzzle at Ethan’s approach. His thick white hair fell

over his forehead, obscuring eyes deep-set in wrinkles. He had a puzzle piece in each

hand, as if comparing the two and their proper placement. Ethan pulled a velvet
upholstered chair closer to the antique table, then sat across from his father like it

was the most normal thing in the world.

Minutes passed, marked by the tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the corner of

the room.

“What’d you say your name was again?” Orry said, as casually as if they’d been in

mid-conversation. He still hadn’t done anything with those two puzzle pieces.

“Ethan. My name’s Ethan.”

“That so?” He pressed the piece in his right hand down against another one, and

they snapped together. He smiled at his success. “Ain’t heard that name in a dog’s

age. I had a boy named Ethan. You know that?”

Ethan had no idea how to answer such a question, so he didn’t. “Where is he

now?”

“Died.”

“What?” Ethan stared, a slow flush heating his entire body. His scalp prickled, and

the room was twenty degrees too hot. “Who told you he was dead?”

“They all died. Those poor kids.”
“That’s not possible.”

“My Addy, my dear bride, she couldn’t take it. Died of a broken heart a few years

after.”

“Mom washed down a bottle of migraine pills with a fifth of whiskey.”
“Poor Addy. Poor Ethan.”

He wanted to reach out and slap his father until he saw reason. “I’m not dead,

Dad. We came out of the woods that night, all of us.”

Orry picked up another puzzle piece and stared at it. “Didn’t protect my boy.

Couldn’t. Should have. Didn’t.”

“How could you? No one thought Mr. Jensen would do such a thing. Everyone liked

him until he snapped.”

He didn’t snap, you idiot. You know that, now. You know there was more to it.

“Dad?” Nothing. “Dad?”
“My boy.”

“Mr. Wilde, are you listening?”
“Aye, other Ethan, I’m listening.”

Pushing aside just how creepy it felt to be called other Ethan, he leaned over the

table, closer to the father he really never knew at all. “How did they die?” he asked,

unable to keep his voice from shaking.

“He stole them. Stole their innocence. Crushed it.”

“We—they beat him. They won, Dad.”
“Those poor kids. My poor boy.”

Ethan dropped his forehead to the tabletop, gulping for air. The answers he’d

feared were right in front of him, locked inside the feeble, grief-wracked mind of an

old man. The horrors of actions never explained, events never re-addressed, sat
across the table from him, intent on a puzzle he’d likely not finish in his lifetime.

He tried to remember.
He had to remember.

* * * *

The bus is silent. They don’t speak or move for a while. Ethan’s chest aches from

holding back tears. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Jesse, but he’s terrified and he
might not be able to stop himself. His hand is numb from holding Jesse’s so hard.

“I don’t wanna die,” Jesse whispers.
The words, a statement as much as a plea, are more than he can take. The tears

surge up, and so does Ethan. He doesn’t want Jesse to die, either, and if they go into
the woods with Mr. Jensen, he will. They both will, and that’s just not fair. They’re

just kids.

He runs to the front of the bus, unsure what he’s looking for. There’s usually a

fire extinguisher belted behind the driver’s seat, but it’s gone. The radio handset
won’t do anything useful. A small, electric fan is mounted up next to the rearview

mirror. He pulls and yanks, but can’t get it down.

“Ethan, what are you doing?” Jesse asks.

“I’m not sure.”
The edge of the driver’s seat is frayed, old. Foam sticks out. Ethan squats and

digs his fingers inside until he feels metal. He yanks and bends and pulls, until he
breaks the twist of metal off. It’s a spring from the seat, and one end is really sharp.

He runs back to Jesse and sits back down, unwilling to be caught at the front of

the bus. He doesn’t really know what he’ll do with the spring. It isn’t much of a

weapon. Only four inches long, all twisted up. He tries to straighten it and pricks his
palm on the sharp end. For an instant, everything clears—just an instant, though.

Then it’s gone, and all he feels is terror.

This seems important—he just doesn’t know why.

“He’s coming,” Jesse whispers.
Ethan hides the spring in his hand, point angled down, pressing hard into the

fleshy part of his palm. It cuts, drawing blood. Some of his fear clears away. This is
right.

Jesse is shaking. The bus doors open.
Mr. Jensen appears with those awful eyes and horrible teeth. “Ethan Wilde.”

His name. For a split second, Ethan panics. He doesn’t feel compelled to stand

and follow. Feels only the sharp pain in his hand.

Stand up, you idiot.
He stands, mimicking the other kids. Jesse whimpers, so soft. Ethan wants to tell

him his secret, but he can’t give it away. Not with Mr. Jensen staring at him. As
Ethan advances, Mr. Jensen retreats, satisfied he’s being obeyed. Ethan’s heart is

pounding so loud he’s sure Jesse can hear it. Can hear his terror as surely as Ethan
feels it.

Mr. Jensen turns around. He takes a step toward the stairs. Three of them,

steep, down to the ground.

Ethan turns the spring around so the point is facing out. He slams it into the

middle of Mr. Jensen’s back and shoves. Mr. Jensen shouts. Falls.

“Jesse, come on!” Ethan yells.
Jesse, bless him, doesn’t hesitate. Mr. Jensen is halfway out of the bus,

facedown. Ethan stomps hard on the spring as he climbs over him. On the ground, he
turns and levels a hard kick to Mr. Jensen’s face. Jesse leaps over him and skids on

the dirt. Mr. Jensen roars.

Ethan grabs Jesse’s hand and pulls him into the woods.

* * * *

“We ran, we didn’t die.” Ethan repeated, as much for himself as for his feeble

father, who believed he’d died at the age of nine. But he hadn’t died. He was right
there talking to him.

Orry lost it after his wife killed herself—pure and simple. They had both been

mentally unstable, which didn’t bode well for Ethan’s future mental health, but he

was alive. He knew he was alive. Ethan felt his own heartbeat, the slick of sweat on
his face and shoulders, the rasp of air in his lungs. Felt the pressure of his unusual

tattoo, a constant reminder that while he hadn’t died that night in the woods, he also
hadn’t left unchanged.

“We didn’t die, Dad.” Ethan raised his head, eyes stinging. “I’m right here.”
“Poor boy.”

“I’m right here!”
The shout echoed in the quiet room, and Ethan waited for Ms. Collins or some

other worker to come running. The floor overhead creaked; otherwise, nothing
happened. They’d been left alone.

“Funny thing happening today, I hear,” Orry said to his puzzle pieces.
Ethan choked back sour laughter. “Oh?”

“Heard of a funeral today for that little girl, Jackie-something. Funny thing,

having a funeral when she died so long ago.”

No, no, no!

“Funny thing,” Ethan parroted. “Wait, if your son died, when was his funeral?”
Orry heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders hunching a bit more. “Haven’t buried him

yet, poor boy. No peace.”

“Why not?”

Why? Because I’m not dead, you dithering old bastard, that’s why.
With trembling fingers, Orry put down his puzzle pieces. He clasped his hands

together on top of the table, then lifted his head. Looked right at Ethan for the first
time—no, through him. “No body to bury, that’s why.” Anger crept into Orry’s voice,

and his eyes flashed. “No body to bury because the other one gave it to you.”

* * * *

Ethan slammed into the rough bark of a tree trunk and held on tight, lest the

force of impact send him flying backward. He clutched it, breathing hard and too

damned fast, his vision blurry with tears. He didn’t remember fleeing the mansion or
going outside. Just hitting the tree and allowing it to stop him.

He slid to his knees, still hugging the tree, heedless of the hard scrape against his

chest and bare arms. The afternoon heat pressed around him, a welcome anchor to

reality. Not that reality made any kind of sense now.

“Ethan?”

Jesse was first behind him, then all around him, pulling him back into his

embrace. Ethan let himself be wrapped up in that warm body, pulsing with life, a

reminder that nothing his dad said was right. Nothing but ramblings and lies. They
were both alive. Alive. He shifted until his left ear was pressed against Jesse’s heart,

and he listened to the rapid tha-dump, racing a bit too fast from adrenaline and fear.

“What happened, Ethan?” he whispered. “What happened in there?”

A cold nose shoved in and then a wet tongue bathed Ethan’s cheek.
“Brutus, quit, for fuck’s sake,” Jesse said. “Ethan?”

I can’t tell him. It’s too insane. Can’t hurt him like that.
“Shouldn’t have gone in there,” Ethan said. Even he heard the heartbreak in his

voice, and Jesse held him tighter. Tried to squeeze the shame and fear right out of
him.

“Tell me?”
Ethan shook his head, then pressed his face into the crook of Jesse’s arm. He

wanted to burrow into his body and stay there, warm and protected until this
nightmare passed. He didn’t want to think about the things his father had said, or the

implications of what they planned to do in the morning. All he really wanted to do
was prove to him and to Jesse that they were both very much alive.

To show Jesse that he still loved him.
“Take me home?” Ethan asked.

Jesse pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Chapter Seven

They limited communication to simple hand gestures, not speaking again until

Jesse had driven them back to his trailer and they were both inside the comfortable

air conditioning. The sweet and spicy scent of stew flavored the air and would have
normally had Ethan’s mouth watering. Instead, he found himself staring at the

unfamiliar surroundings, uncertain why he was there. He couldn’t rationalize the visit
with his father, or any of the things that had been said. Jesse didn’t press for

answers, but questions lingered unasked in his haunting eyes.

We’ve all got our mama’s eyes.

Ethan hadn’t thought much of the statement at first. It slammed back into his

mind with the force of a line drive and jarred something loose. A memory he hadn’t

even known he’d lost until it resurfaced—a raven-haired, blue-eyed woman. She’d
been in the woods, too.

She was important.
“Do you want a drink?” Jesse asked, breaking their mutual silence.

“No.” He didn’t want a drink. Water, juice, liquor—nothing would wake him up

from this hazy fog of confusion. He liked his childhood better when he couldn’t

remember it. He wanted to forget it all again, even though he knew it was impossible.
He couldn’t go back to this morning and stop himself from crossing Brook Creek any

more than he could change what happened in the woods all those years ago.

“Do you want to sit?”

“No.”
Jesse pressed his chest to Ethan’s back, his warm hands sliding up to squeeze

Ethan’s shoulders. He rested his cheek to the back of Ethan’s neck, his breath and
beard tickling bare skin. “What do you want, Ethan? What can I do?”

“We’re not dead.” The words fell out as a choked plea, rather than a statement.
“No, we’re not.”

“Were we?”
Jesse didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry I left,” Ethan said.
“I’m not.”

Ethan’s entire body flinched. He tried to pull away; Jesse turned him around so

they were face to face, hands still clutching Ethan’s shoulders.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jesse said. “I hated letting you go, and I missed you like

hell, but I’m glad you went. You got out of town, Ethan, something the rest of us

couldn’t do even if we wanted. You got away from this shit, and you had a life. The
only thing I’m sorry for is you getting caught back here, reliving all of this.”

“I came because I thought you sent that email.”
I came because I thought maybe, just maybe, you missed me and still wanted me.

That you wanted me back, and this was your opening.

“I didn’t. I wish I knew who did, so I can stab them in the eye.”

“Someone who wanted me here. Definitely rules you out.”

Jesse’s mouth twisted into a sad smile. He raised his right hand to cup Ethan’s

chin. “I may not want you here for this shit storm, but I do want you. Always have.”
Desire burned brightly in his eyes.

Ethan’s cock stirred. He tilted his head down and caught Jesse’s thumb in his

mouth. He tasted sweat and something earthy he couldn’t describe. He tasted Jesse,

full of life, and right there in front of him. Jesse made a soft noise in his throat, and
the decision was made. Ethan captured Jesse’s mouth in a kiss both desperate and

restrained. Jesse opened for it without hesitation, and nothing else existed except
the stroke of his tongue in Jesse’s mouth, the taste of him, the way his own tongue

teased Ethan’s in a feast of sensation that set his blood on fire.

Their bodies pressed close, erections hard and straining even through two layers

of denim. Ethan wasn’t entirely positive what Jesse wanted, but he very much
wanted to be inside Jesse’s body. He wanted to feel the tight heat he’d dreamed

about, wondered about, had craved since he was eighteen. But if Jesse asked for
something else, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d do anything for Jesse, now and

forever.

They kissed each other senseless, and when they finally came up for air, Ethan

realized they’d been slowly moving toward the hallway. Jesse nipped his chin, eyes
shining with need, and said, “I want you to fuck me, Ethan. Wanted it for so long.

Please.”

Ethan’s insides somersaulted. “Fuck yes. Do you have stuff?”

“Stuff?”
He blinked. “Condoms. Lube.”

Jesse’s mouth flattened, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance

and amusement. “Never needed it before. You’re the only one, Ethan.”

The weight of the confession threatened to crush Ethan into the floor. In twelve

years, there had been no one in Jesse’s life. No one in town to be with physically,

much less emotionally. While Ethan’s occasional hookups had including both fucking
and being fucked, and they’d meant nothing, he’d still had options. Something Jesse

never had before. Even now Ethan wasn’t a much in the way of options, but he was
real. Alive.

And he’d kept a condom in his wallet since he was eighteen. But—
“We need lube.”

“I’ve got Vaseline.”
It wasn’t ideal, but—

“That’ll do.”
Jesse grabbed his hand and tugged him down the short hallway to a closed door.

Behind it stood a queen-sized bed nearly as large as the bedroom. There was barely
enough room for a mismatched dresser and a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks—

westerns, from a quick glance at the spines. The floor creaked and another door in
the hall opened and closed. Then Jesse was behind him again, and Ethan didn’t get

time to investigate further. He was shoved backward onto the unmade bed, and Jesse
was his entire world.

He let Jesse take the lead, and he made quick work of both their shirts. He kissed

his way down Ethan’s chest, pausing to swirl his tongue across his nipples, over each

soft ridge of his abs, down to the light line of hair that disappeared into his jeans.

Jesse dipped into his belly button and Ethan snorted with laughter; Jesse grinned

against his skin. And, oh—it was so hard to not yank Jesse back up his body and kiss
him senseless. To roll him over and fuck him until they collapsed.

Jesse worked the belt buckle, then the fly of his jeans. He pulled them down and

off, along with his shoes and boxers. Ethan’s cock pressed against his belly, hard and

aching and ready. Jesse sat back on his haunches and just looked at him; looked until
Ethan squirmed and said, “What?”

“You’re so beautiful. More than I remembered.” Jesse stroked a hand across

Ethan’s abs, which made his insides clench with want. “More muscles.”

“I wrestled in college. Good gym.”
“Very good gym. You any good?”

Ethan shrugged, then sat up fast. He wrapped both arms around Jesse’s waist and

twisted them around, executing a move that landed Jesse flat on his back, with Ethan

looming over him. Jesse stared, surprised, then he laughed. “Impressive.”

“I just started.” The low growl in his voice had Jesse swallowing convulsively.

Ethan lowered his mouth and licked at Jesse’s pulse point, tasting sweat and soap.
Jesse shivered, and his legs came up to brace on either side of Ethan’s hips. Holding

him there.

They’d gone this far in the past. Been in bed together, naked, rubbing, and

rutting, and getting each other off. Licking, and kissing, and tasting bare skin, and
sweat, and come. In some ways, he knew Jesse’s naked body well. But in other ways,

he was knowing this man for the very first time. His aching cock demanded
expediency; the pleading look in the eyes of the man below him demanded patience.

He spent time worshipping Jesse’s nipples. Licking and laving and biting them into

peaks, smiling as Jesse writhed beneath him. Jesse’s hands tangled in his hair, rubbed

his shoulders, pushed him down toward another destination.

Oh, he’d get there all right, and soon.

Ethan licked a trail across Jesse’s abdomen, firm and trim. His skin was smooth,

then suddenly prickly with dark hair leading down. A lot more hair than he

remembered.

Ethan undid Jesse’s belt and jeans, and soon Jesse was naked and bared to him.

His beautiful cock strained toward him, begging for attention, and Ethan was happy to
comply. He wrapped his left hand around the base and swirled his tongue over the

head, tasting the musky male flavor of Jesse he’d missed so much. Jesse’s shoulders
lifted off the mattress, but he caught himself before he lunged. He dropped back

down with a groan of need.

Unwilling to tease him further, Ethan closed his lips over the head of Jesse’s cock

and sucked hard, using the flat of his tongue against the underside vein. Jesse’s hands
fisted in the sheets; his legs trembled. Ethan worked his way down until his lips met

his fist, and he used both to bring Jesse closer, make him cry out and jerk his hips.
Ethan’s own erection was rubbing the sheet beneath him, desperate for more friction,

but he refused to hump the bed. He’d be inside Jesse soon, and the thought nearly
made his head explode.

He got his right index finger wet with saliva and kept up the suction on Jesse’s

cock, even as he pressed that damp finger down, against Jesse’s hole. Jesse tensed,

and an odd sound tore from him—something fearful and erotic and demanding all at

once. Ethan pressed without actually trying to breach him, just testing, letting him

feel. Jesse wrenched himself sideways, grabbed something, then slapped the
container of Vaseline onto the bed near Ethan’s elbow.

Ethan gave Jesse’s cock one last, long suck before letting go. He snagged his jeans

and retrieved the condom from his wallet. Jesse propped himself on one elbow,

watching with an intense curiosity while Ethan rolled on the condom and opened the
Vaseline. He scooped a bit out with two fingers and rubbed the cool gelatin against

his thumb.

“What have you ever—?”

“Just a finger,” Jesse replied before he could ask the entire question. “Please,

Ethan.”

“I’ve got you.”
The look Jesse gave him was heavy with trust and desire and, beneath it all, love.

He nodded. Ethan moved upward to kiss him as he carefully pressed until Jesse
relaxed enough to allow one finger to slide inside. Jesse moaned into his mouth and

pushed down on his hand, clearly wanting more, but Ethan wasn’t going to rush it. He
didn’t want to hurt Jesse, and knew from experience that the first time taking it

could hurt a lot if their partner wasn’t careful.

He worked his finger as he kissed him, until Jesse made an impatient noise.

Taking that as his cue, Ethan worked a second finger in with the first. Jesse’s body
was tight, hot, almost refusing the intrusion, and then they were in. Jesse’s hands

clutched at his shoulders and neck, seeming unsure if he should pull Ethan closer or
shove him away. Ethan stretched him carefully, scissoring his fingers just a bit, hoping

it was going to be enough. His dick wasn’t huge, but still bigger than two fingers

“Please, Ethan; now, please,” Jesse said, his voice barely a whisper. Dripping

with need, almost a whine, and the sexiest please Ethan had ever heard.

God yes, he was ready. The next question was of logistics. On his back wasn’t the

easiest position to take, but Ethan hated the idea of putting him on his hands and
knees and not seeing Jesse’s face while they made love. And he wanted to make sure

Jesse was in control. He pulled his fingers out, and Jesse whimpered at the loss.

“You’re going to ride me,” Ethan said as he reached for more Vaseline and slicked

it over the condom. “You can control how fast we go, or how slow.”

He stretched out on his back and beckoned Jesse to him. Jesse gave him a look of

such love and trust that Ethan nearly came then and there. He moved to kneel over
Ethan’s stomach, knees pressing into the mattress, palms flat against Ethan’s chest.

Both of them were breathing hard, damp with sweat, eager for this. Needing this
moment to feel truly alive before everything crashed down around them.

“I love you, Ethan,” Jesse said. “I never stopped, not for a minute.”
Ethan’s heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, and for the first time in

his life, he truly understood the power of those three words. “Love you, too. Always
have, Jess.”

The moment seemed to freeze in time and hold them there, warm in their love’s

embrace. A lifetime’s worth in only seconds. Jesse rose up and slid back, and the

head of Ethan’s cock was pressing at his entrance and nothing else existed except
this. The slow, steady pressure and intense heat as he entered Jesse’s body for the

first time. It took every ounce of his control to hold his hips steady and allow Jesse to

set the pace, when all he wanted to do was slam upward, into him.

Jesse’s eyes stayed open and never wavered from Ethan’s, and he saw every

emotion that passed across Jesse’s face. Sweat glistened on his forehead, cheeks and
chest, and he was breathing in shallow gulps as his body adjusted to this new

intrusion. Ethan didn’t know if they were close, or barely there, and then it didn’t
matter because Jesse seemed to lose patience for the process. He slammed down

until he was sitting on Ethan’s thighs.

The sound Jesse made was less than a scream, but much more than a moan, and

he threw his head back, hot palms still pressing hard to Ethan’s chest. Ethan sucked in
a hard breath as Jesse’s tight heat rippled around his fully sheathed cock.

“Fuck.” Jesse made the single word sound like a prayer.
Ethan slid his hands up to grip Jesse’s hips, helping him stay balanced while he

waited and trembled. “When you’re ready,” Ethan whispered.

They began slowly. Just a gentle rise and fall, testing this new connection. Ethan

focused on Jesse’s face—the tics in his jaw and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. The
utter joy of discovery in his eyes when he finally opened them and looked down,

mouth wide in an amazed smile.

Ethan wanted this to last for hours. He wanted to revel in the way Jesse’s body

felt around him, the way Jesse looked above him, the amazing slide of his cock in and
out of him. But he couldn’t revel; he could only experience what he got. They were

both so keyed up, so ready, that Ethan felt his orgasm building long before he wanted
to acknowledge it. Jesse moved faster—rising higher and falling harder, increasing the

pace and strength of his thrusts— and then he pulled one slick palm off Ethan’s chest
and reached for his own cock.

As Jesse jerked himself through his release, Ethan’s balls drew up and he stopped

resisting the need to slam upward, into Jesse. He held hard into Jesse’s hips as his

own orgasm burst a kaleidoscope of colors behind his now-shut eyelids. Pleasure
poured through him like electricity, igniting every nerve ending and curling his toes.

He thrust hard until the orgasm passed and a heavy weight was bearing him down,
holding him flat to the mattress.

Jesse’s forehead pressed against his neck, hot breath cooling the sweat on his

throat and chest. Ethan wrapped his arms around him, keeping him close,

concentrating on the rapid slam of Jesse’s heartbeat until it threatened to lull him
into sleep. Not yet; he couldn’t fall asleep yet. Jesse was already halfway there, and

he barely protested when Ethan slid out from beneath him.

He fumbled his way into the bathroom to flush the condom. He used a washcloth

to clean up, then brought another back into the bedroom to do the same for Jesse.
Jesse watched him from under half-mast lids, a warm, content smile on his face.

Ethan dropped the cloth on the floor, then slid back into bed. Jesse curled around
him, resting his head on Ethan’s shoulder, their legs tangling together as if they could

climb inside each other and become a single person.

Ethan didn’t know what would happen in the woods tomorrow morning. All he

knew was that, just like when he was nine, he’d face the danger with the man he
loved by his side. As he had and as he always would—forever.

Even if forever ended tomorrow.

Chapter Eight

Sharp, shooting pains in his left arm woke Ethan several seconds before the

raucous barking began. He tried to sit up, but found himself trapped beneath the

warm, sweaty weight of Jesse’s body, their legs still tangled. He squirmed. Jesse
came awake with a shout and a start, and the top of his head cracked off Ethan’s

chin.

“Shit, that hurts,” Jesse said as he tumbled right off the edge of the bed.

Ethan didn’t know if he meant his tattoo, or his head’s connection with Ethan’s

now-smarting chin. He checked the alarm clock—just after midnight. They’d slept a

long time.

“Brutus never barks like that.” Jesse snagged his jeans off the floor and tugged

them on. “Get dressed.”

The simple command had Ethan scrambling out of bed and for his own clothes. He

didn’t know where his boxers had ended up, so he chose commando for expediency.
Jesse was already in his shoes and out the bedroom door by the time Ethan zipped up.

Heart racing and still not quite awake, he followed Jesse down the narrow hallway,
out into the living room.

Shadows danced around the interior of the trailer. They hadn’t left any lights on,

and Jesse moved around without them, at ease in his home. He dashed to the door on

light feet and peeked through the curtain. Brutus hadn’t stopped kicking up a fuss,
and sounded like he was in the front yard.

“What do you see?” Ethan whispered.
Jesse held up a silencing hand, while his other reached for something leaning

against the door jam. Ethan hadn’t noticed it before and was surprised when Jesse
hefted a wooden baseball bat.

He keeps a bat by his front door, and his dog is the size of a mountain lion.
Anger burned deep in Ethan’s chest—anger at the fear and isolation surrounding

Jesse’s existence in Kingston. So many details added up to a truly awful whole. And
he made a decision.

I’m taking him out of here.
Brutus stopped barking, and the ensuing silence was deafening. Ethan swore he

could hear Jesse’s heartbeat; he definitely heard his sharp, ragged breaths.

“Stay inside,” Jesse whispered and reached for the knob.

“Fuck you,” Ethan replied. “You are not—”
He whipped around. “Stay. In. Side.”

Struck dumb by the violence in Jesse’s voice and the way he wielded that bat, all

Ethan could manage was a sharp nod.

Jesse twisted the storm door’s knob, then pulled it open just wide enough to slip

out. The screen door squealed softly, and then he was gone. Ethan darted to the

window next to the door and peered out.

Brutus stood on the edge of the patio, hackles raised, staring at the woods

opposite the road. The dog didn’t twitch when Jesse drew up behind him, bat clasped

in his right hand, the tip dangling down near the ground. Animal and master surveyed

the yard together. Ethan glanced around, unable to see much in the dim, half-moon
light. The night was perfectly silent—no crickets, no owls, not a sound.

And then the air conditioning unit sputtered to life, scaring the shit out of him.
Ethan jumped, heart slamming in his chest, and glared at the offending machine.

He hadn’t realized it was set to energy saver mode. He rubbed absently at his tattoo,
unnerved that it still tingled, like an extremity that had fallen asleep. Usually the

pain was sharp and fast and over quickly. This had been constant since he woke up.

He checked the window again, then froze. Actually stopped breathing.

Brutus and Jesse were gone.
“No,” he whispered.

They were supposed to watch each other’s backs, not let one wander off in the

middle of the night. He’d let Jesse out of sight for ten damned seconds and he’d

disappeared. Ethan slammed through the door and onto the porch, shirtless and
without shoes, and was struck by the chill in the air. Goose bumps rippled across his

bare shoulders and neck.

An odd scent tickled his nose, at once familiar and utterly wrong. Like spoiled

meat, only less sweet and more peppery. He’d smelled it before.

“Jesse!” He didn’t care who might be listening or watching. He was almost

certain someone else was out there, and so was Jesse. His voice bounced off the
trees, trapped in the small clearing. He really wanted a flashlight. “Jess!”

From his right, opposite the driveway, he heard a scuffling sound. He got two

steps toward it and froze at the sound of Jesse’s voice.

“I’m fine,” he said from the darkness beyond the trailer. “Stay there.”
“Jesse?”

“Really, stay there.”
It took more self-control than he knew he possessed for Ethan to stay put, feet

apart, practically mid-step. He squinted into the gloom and wished for a flashlight.
Movement in the shadows sent his heart rate into overdrive. He held his breath.

Jesse stumbled onto the patio and, at first, Ethan was too relieved that Jesse was

there, on his feet and bathed in murky shadows. Then he saw the dark streak on

Jesse’s right arm, going elbow to wrist—too red and in the wrong place to be the
swirls of the tattoo. He reached out, and Jesse turned away.

“Are you bleeding?” Ethan asked.
“It’s fine, just go back inside.”

“But—”
“Now.”

Ethan yanked open the screen door, then held it. Jesse slipped in first, careful to

not touch him. Ethan shut and locked the storm door. He made sure the curtains were

drawn and the blinds down before flipping on the light switch. A floor lamp blazed to
life, and Jesse flinched away from the sudden yellow glare.

“Shit, Jess, you are bleeding.”
Jesse’s right forearm was streaked with blood, its source impossible to see. Ethan

took him by the left elbow and led him into the kitchen. Jesse went without
resistance. The wound wasn’t gushing, so Ethan turned on the sink faucet and angled

Jesse’s right side toward it. Jesse understood what was expected; he put his arm

under the stream of warming water and hissed.

Ethan swallowed a litany of questions, afraid of what might come out of his

mouth while he watched Jesse’s blood swirl down the sink drain. Four distinct
punctures marked his upper forearm, just below the elbow, deep enough to bleed

without being life threatening. Punctures that looked suspiciously like—

“Damn it, Jess, are those dog bites?”

Jesse angled his head away, and Ethan had his answer.
“Has Brutus bitten you before?”

“It isn’t what you think.”
That was as good as a yes. “Why do you keep a dog that bites you? Are you

crazy?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Ethan resisted the urge to give Jesse a firm shake. He snagged a towel off the

oven door, turned off the water, then wrapped the towel around Jesse’s wounds.

Maybe tighter than necessary. Jesse’s dog went crazy barking at the moon, then
turned and bit him hard enough to draw blood, and Jesse didn’t think it was a big

deal.

“Do you have bandages anywhere?” Ethan asked, amazed at the control in his

voice when he wanted to shout.

“Bathroom, but—”

“No. Come.”
Ethan forcefully turned and marched Jesse into the trailer’s small bathroom. The

medicine cabinet had a bottle of generic aspirin, a pair of tweezers, and a bag of
disposable razors. Ethan found a basket of first aid supplies in the closet, beneath a

small stack of neatly folded towels. Most of the items in there were yellowed and
several years old, but the tape was still sticky and the gauze pads hadn’t been

opened.

Jesse remained a silent observer during Ethan’s tear through the bathroom. He’d

resigned himself to being patched up, if his bland expression was any indication. After
Ethan arranged the items, including a bottle of peroxide, on the closed toilet seat lid,

he held his hand out. Jesse presented his arm.

The towel hadn’t soaked through as much as Ethan expected. He unwrapped it,

then tossed it into the sink. He squinted at the puncture wounds, curious and a little
confused. He swore the holes were smaller than they’d been—no, it had to be a trick

of the lighting. And they’d stopped bleeding.

Ethan unscrewed the peroxide cap. Jesse held his arm over the sink, barely

flinching when Ethan poured and the liquid bubbled up around the wounds. The
silence between them was heavy and filled with potential disaster. It seemed

impossible that they’d made love only a few hours before—been connected in every
imaginable way. Ethan had never felt so isolated.

The peroxide stopped bubbling, and Ethan poured a bit more. It washed away the

old foam like water, revealing pink, partially healed skin. Ethan’s hand jerked, and he

almost dropped the peroxide in the sink. He managed to put it back down on the
toilet seat, working by touch, unable to look away from Jesse’s arm. He was

imagining it. Had to be. Only he really wasn’t, and he let go of Jesse’s wrist.

Jesse turned on the faucet and rinsed away the rest of the peroxide, then dried

his arm on the towel hanging by the mirror. Four pink circles dotted his arm, like
weeks-old scars. He moved slowly and methodically, not upset but rather resigned.

And tired. For the first time, Ethan noticed how pale he was, ghostly skin offset by
dark smudges beneath his eyes.

They stood there, under the harsh florescent of the bathroom lights, neither

speaking a word. Ethan couldn’t think straight, much less string a few letters together

into proper sounds. His chest hurt, and the ragged sound of air being sucked back into
his lungs shocked his brain out of its extended pause.

He shouldered past Jesse and went into the bedroom. Found his t-shirt, socks and

sneakers, and went about putting them on. He didn’t bother hunting for his lost

boxers; he could buy more underwear. The light in the bathroom was off when he
strode past. Jesse waited for him in the living room, arms at his sides, a passive look

on his face.

Ethan stopped by one of the faded chairs, uncertain of his next move. He’d

intended to storm out of the trailer, but how could he really leave? Where would he
go? Getting pissed off wasn’t going to solve this.

“Are you going to tell me what just happened?” Ethan asked.
“You won’t want to believe me.”

“Try me.”
“Something was watching us from the woods. Brutus needed my blood so he could

change shapes and track it.”

As explanations went, it wasn’t the most insane thing Ethan had expected to

hear, but it also wasn’t anywhere close to rational. Or believable. He replayed the
words in his mind—still unbelievable. “Let’s pretend I accept that,” he said slowly.

“Why did your arm heal so fast?”

“Always does when it happens. It’s a gift, I guess, for the blood.”

“Uh huh. So your dog changes into what? Bloodhound? Bald eagle? What?”
Jesse shook his head, eyes stuck on a spot on the wall beyond Ethan’s shoulder.

“No, she changes back to her original shape.”

“She?”

“Yeah.”
“Brutus is a she?”

“Brutus isn’t really a dog, and yes, he’s a she.”
“And what is she really? This original shape?”

“Well…a little bit like a woman.”
Ethan took a step back and collapsed into the chair behind him. He wanted to

believe Jesse, because not believing meant Jesse had gone crazy, and Ethan didn’t
think that to be true. And he’d seen some pretty strange things in his life, all of them

having to do with Kingston and its inhabitants, so why was this so difficult?

Because dogs don’t change into women. They just don’t.

“She’ll be back soon,” Jesse said. A pleading tone bled into his voice, begging

Ethan not to flee. Not to write him off as a whack job who’d finally gone around the

proverbial bend. “You’ll understand when you see her.”

“Why? Do I know her?”

“Kind of. Trust me?”

Ethan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I want to, Jess. I really do,

but…”

“It’s a lot.”

“No, insane is what it is.”
“Am I insane?”

He dropped his hands and blinked away dark spots. Jesse watched him from

across the room. Some of his color was back, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest

—firm without being defiant. He didn’t look insane. He looked frustrated and
exhausted, and a little sad.

“You tell me,” Ethan replied. “Because I feel pretty damned insane right now.”
“You’re not. This doesn’t make sense, but it’s real.”

“Just so we’re clear, your dog bit you, drank your blood so it could shift into a

woman, then magically healed your wounds to say thanks?”

Jesse blinked. “Sounds really crazy when you say it like that.”
“It is crazy!” Ethan stood too fast and his vision blurred. He shook his head—not

the smartest thing to do when he was already dizzy—and stumbled. Jesse caught him
and held him steady until the whirling stopped, then was back across the room again.

“Yeah, it’s crazy, fine,” Jessie said. “But it’s also real. This is happening, Ethan. I

wish to hell it wasn’t. I wish our lives were normal, and that we could just pack it all

into your car and drive away from here to a new life. I’ve wished that for a long, long
time. But I can’t wish this away. Crazy or not, we have to finish this.”

Ethan’s anger deflated, leaving only confusion and a constant underlying layer of

fear he’d felt since driving into town. “Finish how?”

“By killing what’s kept the rest of us stranded here for so long. What we failed to

truly kill in the woods twenty years ago.”

“And what was that?”
He didn’t truly expect Jesse to answer. He barely remembered the flight, the

fight, or the hours afterward. No one ever explained why Mr. Jensen did what he did,
and they hadn’t come up with an explanation for how, twenty years later, he’d come

back to murder both Jackie and Cathy. Things happened in Kingston without rhyme or
reason, and it had always been that way.

Always.
So Ethan was shocked when Jesse met his gaze with steady confidence, swallowed

hard, then replied, “A demon.”

* * * *

It’s dark in the woods, and Ethan isn’t familiar with the area. He knows the

woods behind his house and most of the mountains around Kingston. Just not this

one. The ground is rocky and uneven, worse than anything he’s used to, and it’s hard
to run. Harder because he’s dragging Jesse behind him. Jesse’s always been the

smart one, the brave one, the one who picks their next adventure. So why is Ethan
leading?

To the right, the ground slopes down into a little valley and it looks like easier

going. On the left, the mountain rises up, with more trees and harder rocks to climb.

It’ll slow them down. They’re too short to climb very well. Ethan turns them toward

the valley, all too aware of crashing sounds behind them, drawing closer.

Mr. Jensen is chasing them.

His foot lands funny, twists, and Ethan lets go of Jesse’s wrist so he can brace

himself when he falls. His palms scrape on the rough ground, and his ankle throbs.

Somehow he doesn’t cry out, just swallows down the pained sob. It hurts, and it
stuns him.

Jesse tugs the back of his shirt, urging him up. Ethan surges to his feet and runs,

moving side by side with Jesse now, his ankle screaming. Tears sting his eyes, and

soon he’s breathing hard. Too hard. His hands are wet, bleeding. They’re simply
running with no direction, no idea if they’ll find help around the next tree trunk.

The valley floor flattens out a bit, and the trees thin, and then suddenly they

see a small fire. It’s in a pit, in a circle of trees, and they’re both drawn toward it.

It could be someone’s camp, someone who could save them.

It isn’t.

Ethan knows as soon as he spots Cathy, flat on her back, arms by her sides, toes

pointed toward the fire. There’s blood on her dress and on her throat, and her eyes

are closed. He stops abruptly, and Jesse crashes into him. They hold each other,
shaking and panting. Patrick, Gene and Jackie are there, too. They look like they’re

sleeping, but Ethan sees blood on them, too, so he isn’t sure. And he’s too scared to
get close enough to check.

“We went the wrong way,” Jesse whispers.
In the trees behind them, something snarls. Ethan’s insides go watery. He tries

to tug Jesse away from the circle, but his sore ankle gives out and he tumbles to the
ground again. Dirt sticks to his wet cheeks.

“Jesse Rowe!”
He’s found them. A damp spot spreads down the leg of Jesse’s pants.

“Jesse Rowe!”
Ethan sees the fear melt from Jesse’s face as whatever power Mr. Jensen

possesses takes hold. Jesse relaxes, his expression blank. Ethan scrambles away,
finger digging through the bed of last fall’s leaves for something to use as a weapon

—a rock, a thick branch, he doesn’t care.

Mr. Jensen bursts into the circle, face blazing with fury, less human than before.

Fangs now protrude from his upper teeth, too, and his mouth sticks out more. Kind
of like a snout, only with a man’s nose. His glowing eyes fix on Jesse, and Jesse turns

to face him.

No, no, no. You can’t have him.

The animal-man raises his right hand, which has sharp, creature claws instead of

fingernails, and points at the fire. Jesse walks toward it, and Mr. Jensen follows.

The spring is still stuck in his back, and this gives Ethan hope. He just has to get
close enough to get it, then stab again. And again and again, until Mr. Jensen stops

coming after them.

Jesse stops in front of the fire. Mr. Jensen draws up behind him.

Blood on their throats. Oh God.
Ethan rolls into his knees, then surges to his feet. Every step sends bolts of pain

up his right ankle. Mr. Jensen angles those clawed fingers, like he’s going to use

them to rip into something. Rip into Jesse’s throat. On a burst of fear, Ethan tackles

Jesse to the ground, barely missing the flames. Ethan shrieks as icy fire tears down
the middle of his back. Blinded by tears, he rolls and kicks with his left foot.

He connects with something—a knee, maybe?—and Mr. Jensen howls. Really

howls. Then he reaches down and grabs a fist-full of Ethan’s shirt and lifts him up.

His feet are dangling, and it’s hard to breathe, and his back really, really hurts.

Yellow eyes glare at him, hateful and furious, and Ethan swears those fangs have

all gotten longer. “You’re mine, boy. Always been mine, and I’ll have you.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but it terrifies him beyond reason and

sensibility. Ethan tries something he read in a book once—he slaps his open palms
against Mr. Jensen’s ears. Mr. Jensen screams and drops him. Hitting the ground

should hurt more, but Ethan’s body is starting to go numb.

Jesse’s shaking Gene, who’s closest to them, but Gene isn’t waking up. Gene

doesn’t look alive. Jesse chokes, then sways to his feet. His little body charges past
Ethan, right at Mr. Jensen. Instead of trying to knock him down, Jesse ducks between

the man’s parted legs and comes up behind.

He must grab the coil, because there are weird, squishing sounds and Mr. Jensen

is screaming, torso jerking. Mr. Jensen whirls around. The back of his hand slaps
Jesse across the face, and Jesse hits the dirt. His right hand falls into the fire, and

he jerks it out, screeching. The sound tears at Ethan’s heart, but he doesn’t have the
energy to get up and go to him. There’s something metallic in his mouth, and he

spits it out.

Mr. Jensen raises his horrific face to the sky and howls again. Ethan’s bladder

lets go. Jesse curls into a ball, his burned hand tight to his chest.

We’re going to die.

Ethan’s vision blurs, so he isn’t sure he’s really seeing Mr. Jensen’s mouth

opening wider and wider. So wide that those teeth are coming out. So wide his nose

and eyebrows and hair are falling over backward, like a sweatshirt hood. Just like a
discarded shirt, it all falls away, and what’s left of Mr. Jensen tumbles to the

ground by Ethan’s feet.

The creature still standing, staring into the fire with glowing yellow eyes and

teeth as long as Ethan’s fingers, isn’t Mr. Jensen. And it isn’t real. The thing can’t
be real. Things like that don’t exist, except in storybooks and nightmares. The body

isn’t hairy, and it isn’t scaly either—he can’t really see, and it’s getting harder to
keep his eyes open.

The ground below him is squishy and he knows he’s bleeding a lot, and that’s a

really bad thing. Ethan turns his head, and through the fire he meets Jesse’s eyes.

Eyes that plead for something Ethan can’t give him. He can’t do anything to save his
best friend, because he’s dying on the ground in smelly, bloody leaves, and this can’t

possibly be happening.

The monster reaches a clawed hand out and slashes Jesse’s throat. Jesse’s eyes

go wide. Blood bubbles from his neck and mouth.

Ethan’s heart yells for him, because his voice is gone. Now the monster aims

those deadly claws at Ethan’s face. Ethan closes his eyes.

A slap and thud meet a whoosh of air, and then something screams. Ethan tries

to open his eyes again, then slams them shut as cinders sting his cheeks. He thinks

someone is hitting someone else, can hear sounds of a struggle. More screaming. The

stink of charred meat makes him want to sneeze.

Snarling. Snapping. Another thud. Footsteps tearing through the brush, away.

Heavy breathing.
Ethan drifts.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” The unfamiliar female voice pulls him back.

He struggles to open his eyes.

“I failed you, little lambs.”
Warmth surrounds him, and he’s in someone’s arms. He blinks up, but can’t

focus. He thinks it’s a woman, but her teeth look funny and her face is oddly shaped.
All he really sees are her intense blue eyes. A magical blue, like a brand-new

marker. Then that blue is all he sees.

“Accept my gift. I won’t fail you again.”

He doesn’t know what she means, and it’s easier just to sleep.

Chapter Nine

Ethan watched tendrils of steam rise off his mug of instant coffee. No way he was

sleeping any more tonight, not after the rush of memories sent him huddling over the

toilet bowl for a good five minutes. Coffee might not be the best thing for his sore
stomach, but he’d rather face the nausea than bad dreams.

Jesse hovered in a manner he found both adorable and frustrating—offering a wet

washcloth, helping him limp into the kitchen, boiling water for the coffee. They spoke

three words at a time, forgoing real conversation for now. Jesse seemed to
understand that a long talk wasn’t going to help, so they sat opposite each other at

the table and sipped coffee.

His father’s words made more sense, even if Ethan loathed to admit their validity.

They had died in the woods that night, all six of them, murdered by a…thing wearing
the body of their bus driver. And a woman with blue eyes—another creature just like

the thing that had killed them—brought them back. Gave them the gift of life. He had
no doubt that gift had come at some great cost to herself.

Only Ethan wasn’t convinced he’d actually died.
Their parents had blamed Mr. Jensen, said he’d lost it and tried to murder the

children. Ethan recalled nightmares, screaming about a man with fangs trying to eat
him, for several weeks. None of them went back to school that year; they finished

their lessons over the summer. Ethan had stopped feeling safe in a town he used to
love. And two years later, Jackie’s baby sister was born—the first child born to

someone in Kingston since Jesse.

“Shit,” Ethan said, his palm slapping the table top. Jesse jumped, nearly sloshing

his coffee. “Sorry. I just hadn’t really connected the thought that we were the only
kids in Kingston for years. None of us had older siblings.”

“Yeah. The next youngest person in town back then was Lori Myers, and she was

nineteen.”

“Ten years of no kids isn’t normal, even in a town this small.”
“And then six kids are born within a six months of each other.”

Ethan ran his finger around the rim of his mug. “And all six of us are stolen and

killed by a…a de—”

“Demon.” Jesse said the word with ease, like he was saying cat or bear. “You can

openly admit we all died that morning, but you can’t say demon?”

No, he couldn’t. And he wasn’t entirely sure he’d died before being healed. He’d

been dying, yes, but not dead. His throat wasn’t slashed in the same ritualistic way as

the others. Was that why he’d been the only one of the six able to leave Kingston?
Maybe.

“Is that really what we saw?”
“Yes.”

“How do you know?” He glanced at the trailer door. “Brutus?”
“Yes. Ethan, she saved us that day.”

“She—” A chill danced down his spine. “Your shape-shifting dog is the woman with

the blue eyes?”

Jesse ducked his head, and the action was as good as an affirmative reply. Ethan

leaned back in his chair and tried to make sense of that, but it was useless. His no-
bullshit life in Denver had left him without the faculties to connect those dots on his

own.

“You want to tell me about it?” Ethan asked.

“Maybe we should wait.”
“For what? Another of us to drop dead?”

He looked up, but not at Ethan. Past him. An instant later, someone knocked on

the trailer door. Ethan glanced at the baseball bat that had been put back in its spot

by the door. Jesse didn’t seem alarmed. He stood and walked with perfect calm.
Ethan remained in the kitchen, sure he knew who was there, and a little scared to be

right.

Jesse unlocked the door, then pulled it open. A woman both foreign and familiar

stepped into the trailer, moving aside to allow Jesse to close the door behind her. She
was short and oddly-proportioned—arms too long, legs too short, pear-shaped body.

Her face was elongated, mouth and nose tapered. And those eyes—cobalt blue and
shining like flashlights—were unmistakable.

We’ve all got our mama’s eyes.
In a way, Patrick was right. She’d saved them, given them life and a part of

herself to make it happen.

“I lost him,” she said. Her voice was grating and harsh, almost guttural. Not

human. “He is stronger than he should be.”

“Shit,” Jesse said.

“He was moving south.”
“Toward Patrick’s place?”

“Likely.”
“Double shit.”

She turned her inhuman gaze onto Ethan, and his stomach quivered under the

intensity of it. He felt a wash of warmth as though it might be affection. “You were

missed in your absence, little lamb.”

He swallowed, mouth dry. “Who are you?” Ethan asked.

“I am called Bruthea. I am tasked to kill the creature Golath for his crimes against

your town.”

“Golath?”
“The thing that killed us,” Jesse said. “Another of her kind.”

“Why didn’t you kill him years ago?”
Bruthea tilted her head, considering him. “Because five innocent children were

dead and a sixth was dying in my arms. Your deaths were my failure. I corrected that
failure. Afterward, I was too weak to continue my pursuit of Golath.”

“So you hung around town for the last twenty years, waiting for Golath to show up

and finish what he started?”

“Correct.”
“As a dog?”

“The form allowed me to move freely within town and amongst its people.”

Ethan filed the information away, then turned his attention to Jesse. “How long

have you known?”

“Bruthea came to me the summer before our senior year,” Jesse replied. “It took

her eight years to recover from giving us our lives back.”

“Why you?”

He shrugged his right shoulder—the tattoo. “This. Because I’d seen Golath’s true

form. It’s why you and I were marked, Ethan. So she’d always know us.”

Ethan looked his own tattoo. He blinked at it, shocked to see the normally black

shapes had turned a deep blue, complimenting the shade of Bruthea’s eyes. He

brushed a finger over it and the design rippled beneath his skin like water. “Okay,
fine,” he said. “Why didn’t she come to me, too? Why just you?”

Jesse cringed. He scrubbed his hands over his face, through his beard, down his

throat. Stalling. Bruthea remained silent, apparently content to let Jesse field this

question. And as he watched Jesse’s mounting discomfort, the answer became clear.
It was the only answer, really.

“You asked her not to,” Ethan said.
His hand jerked, and Jesse blinked at him. He nodded. “You’d forgotten most of

what happened,” Jesse said. “Everyone had. Hell, so did I until Bruthea appeared,
and then it all came back. I understood that Golath had to be stopped, but there was

no way to know when he’d be strong enough to return. And you—all you talked about
that summer was college. Leaving. Having a real life. You were the only one of us who

considered leaving, and you needed that dream.”

Ethan had wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Kingston, to attend

college and find a place where he and Jesse could live openly as a couple. To find a
place they both belonged. He’d been shattered when Jesse stayed behind, and only

now did he truly understand the sacrifice Jesse had made for him. And the desperate
choice he’d made for them both.

“I made a deal with Bruthea,” Jesse continued, a soft tremor in his voice. “Loyal

service in exchange for helping you to get out of here. To get far, far away where

Golath couldn’t hurt you. She said Golath’s ties to you were the weakest and your
escape was possible, but if you ever came back you’d be his again.”

And Ethan had walked right back into town like a fucking moron. Had Golath,

then, found a way to send that email about Jackie? Pretty damned likely.

“His influence permeates this place,” Bruthea said. “The town was built on his

blood, and his blood traps you here. Our law is such that we only deal with those who

summon us, as your ancestors did many centuries ago. And until he took you six
children, his crimes never necessitated execution. He broke our laws, and I will

punish him.”

Ethan dropped his head into his hands, mind swirling with the new information.

He couldn’t dwell on it long—if he did, he’d probably break down. Better to just
accept it all as truth and move on. The disparate pieces of his life were coming

together, creating a clear picture of love and loss and everything in between.

“Golath gets off on fear,” Jesse said. “Six nine-year-olds are easy to terrify.

Adults are harder. That’s why Jackie and Cathy died the way they did. He’ll find our
deepest fear and use it against us. And he’s out there.”

“Heading toward Patrick’s place,” Ethan said as he sat up. He jerked to his feet

so fast his chair crashed into the wall. “Shit, we need to go.” To Bruthea, he asked,
“How do we kill Golath?”

“He is vulnerable in the face of bravery and love,” she replied. “That’s why he

was so wounded when you were a child. And why I chose to mark you both. Your love

will weaken him.” She held up an impressively clawed hand, and he shuddered. “Then
I will kill him.”

* * * *

As expected, Ethan’s cell phone had no trouble making in-town calls. He tried

Gene’s home number first, in the uninspired hope that the pair had actually remained
at the trash shack. The line rang ten times without a machine picking up. He dialed

Patrick’s number, recited to him by Jesse, who’d taken over driving duties. Bruthea
sat in the back, silent and watchful.

On the third ring, someone picked up.
“Yeah?”

“It’s Ethan,” he said, almost smiling at the suspicion in Patrick’s voice. And the

sleepiness. “Is Gene there?”

“He’s here. The hell, Wilde? It’s almost one in the morning.”
“Find a weapon and get away from any doors or windows. He’s heading your

way.”

Patrick’s harsh breathing was the only sound for several long seconds. “You’re

sure?”

“Yes. I think we know how to stop him, but you guys need to hide until we get

there.”

“I don’t like hiding, man.” Rustling sounds, like he was climbing out of bed. “Are

we—Gene? Hey, we need to—fuck!”

Ethan’s stomach plummeted. “Patrick?”

“Fuck, man, I can’t—”
The line went dead.

“Goddamnit.” Ethan hit redial. Busy signal. “Drive faster.”
Jesse didn’t ask; he didn’t need to. He just mashed his foot on the gas pedal,

taking mountain roads at unsafe speeds. It was the middle of the night, and they
zoomed through downtown Kingston at nearly fifty miles an hour.

A terrible knowledge settled deep in Ethan’s guts—Gene was dead. He wasn’t sure

how he knew, but he did. Patrick was going to be next, if they didn’t get there soon.

The closer they got, the more his tattoo throbbed. It still glowed a faint blue, likely
due to his proximity to Bruthea. Jesse’s glowed, as well, complimenting Ethan’s in an

odd show of unity.

We might just have a shot at this.

As if sensing his thoughts, Jesse gave him a quick glance, smile and wink. Very

quick, because his attention snapped back to the road as he negotiated another sharp

turn. But it was enough.

“There,” Jesse said, pointing. The house in the distance was two stories, boxy,

with the simplicity of something built for living in, rather than show—a small front

porch, a few trees in front, and an expansive backyard of forestry. Patrick’s Chevy

POS was parked in a dirt driveway, and Jesse slammed the Outlander to a halt behind
it.

“Do you smell that?” Ethan asked as he climbed out. The odor stung his nose,

faint but there.

“Smoke.”
They bolted to the back of the house, Bruthea at their heels, to see an upstairs

window spewing orange flames.

“He is here,” Bruthea said.

Beneath the acrid smell of smoke, Ethan caught the faint odor of rotting meat—

the same as at the trailer. He held out his left hand, and Jesse grabbed it with his

right. Something rippled through his arm, from shoulder to fingers, a connection of
power unlike anything he’d ever felt. Before he could decide what to do, the back

door burst open.

Patrick stumbled outside, blood all over his shirt. He lost his balance and fell

down the back steps, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop, facedown, breathing
hard.

“Patrick!” Jesse started for him. Ethan kept his feet planted firmly and pulled

Jesse back in the same instant that Bruthea said, “Stay back.”

Jesse allowed Ethan to yank him away from Patrick’s writhing form. Patrick

flailed in the dirt as if caught in an electrical surge, and a high-pitched keening

began. Upstairs the fire raged.

“Damn it, I need to check on Gene,” Jesse said. He pulled away too fast for Ethan

to grab him again. Jesse gave Patrick a wide berth as he ran toward the house and
disappeared through the back door.

“Jesse!” Ethan didn’t move, too horrified by the sounds coming from Patrick.
And then it happened, just like he remembered—Patrick’s head fell back,

exposing a face quickly being swallowed by a backward-collapsing mouth. A new,
blood-smeared face emerged below as the skin fell away. Just like Mr. Jensen all

those years ago, Golath had been hiding inside of Patrick Willard. Ethan couldn’t
summon up any emotion at the revelation; everything he had left in him was focused

on Jesse.

Gene was dead. And Jesse was running blindly toward a dead man and a fire.

“Jesse!”
Bruthea stepped forward, the claws on both of her hands hooked, deadly, and at

least three inches long. She wore a set of fangs that protruded over her upper and
lower lips, and her eyes flashed like blue strobes. She was a predator in every sense

of the word, and Ethan shrank away from her.

Golath shed Patrick’s body quickly, and in the glow of the upstairs fire and the

Outlander’s headlights, Ethan saw his enemy clearly for the first time in twenty years.
Hunched, disproportionate, face too long and arms too short, wrinkled skin a horrid

shade of puce. He turned his head and urine-yellow eyes latched onto Ethan’s.

“Ethan Wilde,” Golath snarled.

Oh shit.
Ethan’s body went numb. His thoughts fuzzed as everything he knew connected to

Golath’s control. Darkness settled over his mind like a drunken fog, only he was

perfectly alert. Alert to the fire and the people around him and to the idea that he

should fight, he just wasn’t sure how. His muscles pulled tight, as though an invisible
puppeteer had yanked his strings, preparing him to dance. To do something he

shouldn’t do. Something he didn’t want to do. Something he’d fought against once, so
many years ago. He wanted—

Golath snarled.
It didn’t matter what he wanted. The puppeteer pulled and he danced, and all

Ethan understood was the silent, firm command to go inside and kill Jesse Rowe.

Bruthea screeched and hurtled herself at Golath. Ethan left them to their fight.

They no longer mattered. Only his mission mattered. His feet moved toward the
house of their own accord. Killing Jesse was wrong, and yet it had to be done. He

understood that now. There was no other way to find peace. They all had to die for
peace. He and Jesse were all that were left.

The inside of the house carried the same rank, rotting odor he’d come to

associate with Golath. Comforting now, familiar. The kitchen led out into a long

hallway, and past that was the staircase. Jesse was upstairs, so Ethan ascended,
taking care to not trip on the scuffed, warped boards. The house wasn’t in very good

shape. Golath wasn’t much of a housekeeper.

The absurd thought made him smile. Of course demons weren’t housekeepers,

and Jesse had to die. Soon. A swift death for swift peace.

He heard Jesse’s voice upstairs, swearing loudly. Saying Gene’s name. He

shouldn’t mourn Gene. Gene was at peace, finally. They’d all be at peace soon, as his
puppeteer promised.

At the top of the stairs, the hall curved around to the left and displayed four

doors. The furthest away belched smoke and fire, and Jesse was squatting near the

open door, hands over his mouth. The darkness shifted as he examined his target and
contemplated the swiftest way to kill him. Ethan took a step forward; the floorboard

creaked. Jesse jerked back and fell over onto his ass, eyes wide.

“Gene’s burning,” Jesse said. “He’s—Ethan?”

He needed Jesse to come closer. To trust him. “Patrick’s dead.”
“Fuck. What about—?”

“Fighting Bruthea.” Didn’t matter who won. He and Jesse would be at peace

soon. “Let’s go before the fire spreads.”

Jesse nodded, his sweat-streaked face pinched. He started toward him, but

halfway there, froze. “Ethan?”

He blinked. Almost close enough to grab him.
“Ethan? Oh God.” Jesse backpedaled.

Ethan lunged. Jesse twisted away. He was fast, but Ethan was bigger and he had a

job to do. He gave Jesse a mighty shove, and Jesse slammed against the wall by the

stairs. His head cracked off the wood, and he slid to the floor.

“Ethan, please,” he said.

“It’ll be over soon,” Ethan said. “Don’t fight me.”
“Golath is using you, Ethan, this isn’t you!”

“I have to kill you.”
An animal sound tore from Jesse’s throat, and it sliced into Ethan’s heart. The

pain also distracted the puppeteer. Ethan paused, and Jesse took the opening—he

launched himself at Ethan, and his shoulder caught his midsection. They tumbled to

the floor, and the air whooshed from Ethan’s lungs.

“No,” Jesse said from above, taking a dominant position while Ethan struggled to

breathe. “No, this is what he wants, Ethan. This is my worst nightmare, don’t you see
that? Him getting you is my worst nightmare, and he’s using you to kill me.”

The words wanted to stick, but something kept them from staying in his mind and

their logic slipped away. Peace mocked him from a distance, and Ethan wanted it.

Needed it. He slammed his head forward and connected with Jesse’s chin. Jesse
yelped and fell over sideways, and Ethan shoved him all the way off. Ethan lurched to

his feet. His left arm ached and he wasn’t sure why. Seeing Jesse on his side, blood
pouring from his chin and coating his beard, made Ethan’s heart ache, too. Jesse in

pain like this was wrong, but Jesse had to die so they could find their elusive peace.

Ethan bent at the waist, reaching for Jesse’s throat. Jesse twisted and kicked.

Both feet connected squarely with Ethan’s chest, and he stumbled backward. He hit
the rail around the stairs. Wood snapped, and he kept going. Couldn’t stop. Tumbled

head over heels, wood slapping and bruising, and his entire world became movement
and pain.

“Ethan!”
Jesse’s voice followed him down, down, until movement ceased.

He wasn’t sure which way was up. Every part of his body ached. Somewhere

nearby, an inhuman screech tore through his mind, blindingly loud, scorching hot. The

puppeteer’s strings shattered. Colors burst in his brain, shading everything in a
rainbow of light that melted into a murky blue, then black.

Awareness stole back as quickly as it left him, and he groaned. Feet thundered on

wood, moving closer.

“No, no, no, please.”
Ethan forced his eyes open. Jesse dropped to his knees next to him, his face

bloody, his eyes glimmering with tears. His beautiful, coffee-brown eyes. Ethan
blinked hard, sure he was hallucinating. No. The brown didn’t disappear.

Jesse touched his cheek. “Ethan?”
He only managed a pained groan in response.

“Ethan, your eyes.”
He smiled. Their eyes were normal. Ethan didn’t know what had happened

outside, not exactly. And he didn’t know how he’d ever ask Jesse’s forgiveness for
what happened upstairs. He didn’t even know if he could move anything except his

eyelids.

But the fog had lifted, and Ethan knew one simple truth above all other things—it

was finally over.

Chapter Ten

Chief Baxter didn’t bat an eyelash at their story: the four of them—Patrick, Gene,

Jesse and Ethan—got together for a night to remember their departed friends. They

all drank too much. Gene went upstairs to sleep it off. A fire started in the old house.
Gene and Patrick didn’t get out.

It was so easy to make them believe.
Bruthea and Golath were gone—no bodies, no blood, no sign they’d fought. If

anyone ever asked, Jesse said he’d tell them Brutus ran away.

No one commented on their changes in eye color.

The sun was rising by the time they returned to Jesse’s trailer. Jesse gazed at the

empty dog house for a while, shoulders hunched. Together they lugged the dog house

behind the trailer, near a shed Ethan hadn’t noticed before, and coiled the chain
inside. Ethan had bruises on his bruises, and he was limping like an old lady, but he

didn’t complain. Brutus had never really been a dog, but Jesse was still mourning the
loss of his companion of more than twelve years.

They stumbled into Jesse’s bedroom, kicked off their shoes, and tumbled into

bed. Ethan flopped onto his stomach, sure he was too exhausted to sleep. Until Jesse

curled up beside him and threw one arm across his back. He relaxed into Jesse’s
warmth and the gentle hum off his heartbeat.

He woke later to darkness inside and out, so he fell back asleep. At some point,

fatigue and the intense need to pee woke him again and urged him out of bed. The

sun was up; a full day had passed. On his way out of the bathroom, the enticing
scents of coffee and bacon drew him into the kitchen.

Jesse stood over the stove with a turner in his hand. He looked up and grinned.

“How do you feel?”

“Pretty sore,” Ethan replied. “But better. I’m so sorry, Jess.”
“Don’t be. We lived. Again.”

“We did.”
Jesse turned away from the sizzling pans on the stove. He hooked a finger in the

waist of Ethan’s jeans and drew him closer. They pressed against each other. Ethan
nosed Jesse’s temple and inhaled, memorizing a scent he wanted with him always.

Jesse rested his forehead against Ethan’s shoulder, their arms draped around each
other’s waist.

“My greatest fear came true,” Jesse said quietly. “So what was yours?”
Jesse’s greatest fear had been seeing Ethan owned by Golath. It happened, and

Ethan had tried to kill Jesse. In some ways, that had been a brilliant move on Golath’s
part. “Watching you die in front of me,” Ethan replied. “And being helpless to save

you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If I’d killed you—” He couldn’t finish the painful thought.
“But you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you, Ethan. Besides, this kind of makes up for me breaking your heart

all those years ago.”

Ethan laughed and buried his face in Jesse’s neck. “I hated you for that,” he said,

lips tickling over Jesse’s skin. “Hated you for so long, but now I get it. Thank you for
protecting me.”

“You’re welcome.”
“But you don’t have to protect me anymore. You did your job for Bruthea.”

“I know, and I’m glad.”
He pulled back far enough to hold Jesse’s gaze, and decided he’d never get tired

of that wonderful shade of brown in his eyes. His face was puffy with fatigue and
grief, but he had never looked more content. Relieved. “So how about answering that

question I asked?” Ethan said.

Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed. “What question?”

“Will you come to Denver with me when I go, and leave Kingston behind?” Not the

exact phrasing he’d used twelve years ago, but damned close.

“Will I—?” Jesse’s mouth opened as understanding dawned. Then a wide smile lit

up his face. “Yes. Yes, I will go with you this time.”

Ethan blinked hard, convinced he’d misheard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes. You know why I couldn’t leave before, but there’s nothing keeping

me here now. Not a dirty old trailer and a part-time busboy gig at Mama’s.”

He sealed the deal with a kiss, and everything about it felt right. Jesse was in his

arms where he belonged, lips moving, opening, drawing him inside.

Ethan would probably never know for sure who sent the email that had enticed

him back to Kingston. Logic told him it came from Golath himself, after he possessed
Patrick. Just one more unsolved mystery to add to Kingston’s collection. He and Jesse

would also have to come up with a better story than “a demon kept us apart, then put
us back together” to tell his friends in Colorado, but they had time to iron out the

details. In many ways, they had died two nights ago in Patrick’s house. The part that
had been tethered to Bruthea’s gift was gone, and they had been reborn better,

stronger. Together.

They had a lot of plans to make, right after they sat down and had—Ethan sniffed

the air.

“Shit, my bacon,” Jesse said.

After a few minutes negotiating with the charred bits, they gave up and sat down

with plates of scrambled eggs and toast. They’d have bacon for breakfast tomorrow—

at Ethan’s favorite diner in downtown Denver.

About the Author

No stranger to the writing world, A.M. Arthur has been creating stories in her

head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long. She credits an

early fascination with male friendships and “bromance” (and “The Young Riders”)
with her later discovery of and subsequent affair with m/m romance stories. When

not writing, she can be found in her kitchen, pretending she’s an amateur chef and
trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.

A.M. lives on the east coast and is multi-published under another name.