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364 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 5, 2017
I said, “John pretty much took what he wanted. He wasn’t mean. He jist— just— wasn’t kind or gentle.”
“Hell, Nell.” Occam’s eyes darkened. “You never been romanced?”
”…I don’t want you to be anything other than what you want to be, Nell. Question is, do you want to go back to what’s old and safe or try what’s new and adventurous? You want the easy way or the hard way? The easy way is to keep being a churchwoman. I’m new. I’m different. I’ll be hard to date. And I’m not your church.”
My own experience had similar captivity overtones, and I too had gotten away the first moment I could, yet not all my sisters wanted freedom. I said, “They might want to stay, like a caged bird not wanting to fly into the wild. Maybe they feel safer there. Maybe to them it isn’t a prison after all.” I took a sip of tea, feeling all sorts of unnamed things flowing through me. [...] Or maybe it’s just something that makes the weres believe they have to or want to stay.” Like my sister Priss. Like Esther. But not like Mud.
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[....] Programming can be hardwired into a body,” I said, not looking up. “It’s something that has to be fought, day in and day out, forever. Like an addiction one hates, has defeated, yet still has to battle.”
The big cat took off like its tail was on fire and was gone.
“Dayum, Trace. That thing was big. That was a jaguar fer sure.” Wayman sounded spooked.
Trace said nothing. His senses were frozen, his ears deadened from Wayman’s ear-piercing scream, his breathing fast from fear.
“Come on, Trace. Let’s get back to the tent afore it finds us again.”
They clattered down the hillock to the wash below, Trace wondering how the tent would protect them from a jaguar—if that’s what it was, and not a devil-cat. His daddy’s sermons about demons who take up the form of predators and hunt humans, banged around in his skull. The Nephilim and demons with huge teeth and claws. Like the spotted thing caught in his flashlight.
As they moved along the wash, Wayman’s flash picked out their path. Trace kept his moving around the hillocks to either side and along the path behind them. Once, he caught a hint of movement, but when he backtracked with the light, the thing was gone. Just like his interest in the meteor shower overhead.
Though he kept seeing bloody bodies on the sandy wash bottom, images put there by the demon that was hunting them, they made it back to the small tent near 82—the main road through Dickens—and made a small fire from dried wood they found in the wash. Then they zipped themselves inside. It was stupid, but the thick layer of tent fabric made Trace feel safer.