for the horizon next,” she spat. “This body needs burying. Earth, sea, or sky—you’ll decide with Chelsea.” She turned on Kent. “And have respect for our dead. You face the same fate come the new year, and I doubt you’ll be laughing then.”
“My lip!” Kent said, touching it and looking at his bloody fingers. “She split my damn lip.”
“You deserved it. Go cry to Sparrow if you need a bandage.” Keeva wheeled on the rest of the crowd. “Well? There’s work to be done!”
Bree watched them disperse. Ness was sobbing into her hands, and Bree hated that the tears seemed genuine. Lock sometimes felt like Bree’s whole world, like the sun and the moon and the star-pocked night sky, and now that he was gone all those things seemed to burn less adamantly. How was it possible he could have the same effect on someone else? He was hers. Bree’s. They were each other’s.
She grabbed Lock at the wrists and hauled him out of the surf. Heath would have to see this—Lock’s body, blue and bloated. The bastard. The selfish bastard, forcing this upon his brother.
Bree broke down again, a brilliant sunrise her only audience.
They sent Lock back to the sky.
Chelsea stood before the pyre, stoic. Heath sobbed, but from the comfort of his bed. He couldn’t sit up, let alone stand to walk into town. Bree watched the flames slowly devour the water-logged corpse. The smell was awful. The sun was angry. It was another hot day, and it unfolded even when Bree’s world had stopped.
She fished, and brought in a decent haul.
She ate with the town that evening, but tasted nothing.
As dusk fell, Bree found herself on the jetty, a bottle of Honeyrush clutched in her hand. Its flavor was nothing like honey now—not after fermenting in the sun for weeks on end—but after draining the majority of the bottle in under an hour, the Rush had certainly hit. Bree’s head buzzed. Her limbs felt distant.
Distant was good, though. Distraction was key.
She couldn’t be back at the hut. Not since the weight of Lock’s death had finally settled on Chelsea, rendering her a blubbering mess. Heath was hysterical, too, mostly on account of his leg. He was delirious—shouting about things he saw materializing in the room, only to collapse a moment later and lie unconscious until the next outburst.
Stupid herons. Stupid myths and magic and elusive hope.
Bree took another long drink, letting the Rush scorch her throat. Somewhere on the water, a loon wailed.
“Shut up!”
It didn’t. It called until another joined, and then the cries became a duet.
Bree drained the bottle, then threw it in the direction of the birds, wishing every last one of them dead. Loons, herons, gulls, it didn’t matter. She hated them all. Birds flew places she could not go. They reminded her of her father she’d never again see. They promised to save injured boys only to hoard away hope and deliver nothing but heartache.
Lying back on the jetty, Bree let the sky blanket her. The Rush raged in her core and behind her temples. She was a fish, swimming among the stars. She was an anchor, plunging. Her stomach coiled, and Bree rolled to her side, retching, emptying herself of the drink and even her dinner. Emptying herself of everything, it seemed, but the hurt.
ELEVEN
BREE HAD A FIERCE HEADACHE the following morning, rivaled only by an even fiercer desire to never cry again. She was done being weak. She’d managed when her mother began drifting away, and even after she was gone, Bree had gotten by. She’d been strong on her own—lonely, upset, angry, but strong. There are people who drain you and people who raise you up. People who take and people who give. People who make you feel dressed in armor and people who actually provide it. Unless she was dealing with one of the latter, Bree decided she would never again expend her energies.
She climbed from bed, limbs arguing and headache a roar.
Heath’s skin was burning. Of course Mad Mia’s work
“My lip!” Kent said, touching it and looking at his bloody fingers. “She split my damn lip.”
“You deserved it. Go cry to Sparrow if you need a bandage.” Keeva wheeled on the rest of the crowd. “Well? There’s work to be done!”
Bree watched them disperse. Ness was sobbing into her hands, and Bree hated that the tears seemed genuine. Lock sometimes felt like Bree’s whole world, like the sun and the moon and the star-pocked night sky, and now that he was gone all those things seemed to burn less adamantly. How was it possible he could have the same effect on someone else? He was hers. Bree’s. They were each other’s.
She grabbed Lock at the wrists and hauled him out of the surf. Heath would have to see this—Lock’s body, blue and bloated. The bastard. The selfish bastard, forcing this upon his brother.
Bree broke down again, a brilliant sunrise her only audience.
They sent Lock back to the sky.
Chelsea stood before the pyre, stoic. Heath sobbed, but from the comfort of his bed. He couldn’t sit up, let alone stand to walk into town. Bree watched the flames slowly devour the water-logged corpse. The smell was awful. The sun was angry. It was another hot day, and it unfolded even when Bree’s world had stopped.
She fished, and brought in a decent haul.
She ate with the town that evening, but tasted nothing.
As dusk fell, Bree found herself on the jetty, a bottle of Honeyrush clutched in her hand. Its flavor was nothing like honey now—not after fermenting in the sun for weeks on end—but after draining the majority of the bottle in under an hour, the Rush had certainly hit. Bree’s head buzzed. Her limbs felt distant.
Distant was good, though. Distraction was key.
She couldn’t be back at the hut. Not since the weight of Lock’s death had finally settled on Chelsea, rendering her a blubbering mess. Heath was hysterical, too, mostly on account of his leg. He was delirious—shouting about things he saw materializing in the room, only to collapse a moment later and lie unconscious until the next outburst.
Stupid herons. Stupid myths and magic and elusive hope.
Bree took another long drink, letting the Rush scorch her throat. Somewhere on the water, a loon wailed.
“Shut up!”
It didn’t. It called until another joined, and then the cries became a duet.
Bree drained the bottle, then threw it in the direction of the birds, wishing every last one of them dead. Loons, herons, gulls, it didn’t matter. She hated them all. Birds flew places she could not go. They reminded her of her father she’d never again see. They promised to save injured boys only to hoard away hope and deliver nothing but heartache.
Lying back on the jetty, Bree let the sky blanket her. The Rush raged in her core and behind her temples. She was a fish, swimming among the stars. She was an anchor, plunging. Her stomach coiled, and Bree rolled to her side, retching, emptying herself of the drink and even her dinner. Emptying herself of everything, it seemed, but the hurt.
ELEVEN
BREE HAD A FIERCE HEADACHE the following morning, rivaled only by an even fiercer desire to never cry again. She was done being weak. She’d managed when her mother began drifting away, and even after she was gone, Bree had gotten by. She’d been strong on her own—lonely, upset, angry, but strong. There are people who drain you and people who raise you up. People who take and people who give. People who make you feel dressed in armor and people who actually provide it. Unless she was dealing with one of the latter, Bree decided she would never again expend her energies.
She climbed from bed, limbs arguing and headache a roar.
Heath’s skin was burning. Of course Mad Mia’s work
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