The man in the gray thermal shirt had a piece of tape stuck to his shoe.
It didn’t bother me at first. Wasn’t any more noteworthy than the chocolate smears on the outside of the doughnut box, the wind that riffled the too-long grass and bent the trees, or the brown-and-white pup’s lopsided ears—like one had ripped and been sewn back on crooked. But the man kept moving closer to me, and I could hear the tape crinkle as he approached.
It was on the outer sole of his left sneaker—yellowed and folded onto itself, a small piece of birthday wrapping paper clinging to it. Teddy bears.
“Hello.” The man had silver hair and a shaving nick on his chin. “We haven’t met.”
“Drix.” I held out my hand.
“Drix. I’m Peter.” He tilted his head back. “You’re very tall.”
“So I’m told.”
He laughed. “Are you a Riddle member?”
I shook my head. “An occasional guest.”
“Shame I haven’t seen you around.” Flirting? Hmm. Peter was almost certainly gay, but he had the innocuous manner of someone who’d come to chill and have fun, rather than treat the event as a singles mixer. “Have you—”
There was a piercing screech to our right, and he turned sharply toward the sound, panic flashing across his face. Miles had started doing that, after he’d adopted Zac—anytime he heard a high-pitched cry, he whipped toward it, eyes full of terror. Even if Zac was nowhere in the vicinity. Even if—as was the case now—the cry turned out to be an adult’s whoop of laughter.
Peter turned to me again, his relief unmistakable.
I smiled. “You have kids?”
“Yeah. How did y—”
“Sorry. That must seem really random. You have a piece of birthday paper stuck to your shoe.”
“Oh.” He reached down and removed the tape. Stuck it in his pocket. “Yeah. My granddaughter turned seven on Thursday.”
“Happy birthday to her.”
“Thanks.”
I opened my mouth to say I had a seven-year-old. Hesitated. I wasn’t Zac’s legal guardian, and it always felt weird to claim Zac was mine, even though I would have done anything for that kid. Even though Miles called me part of the family.
Peter put his hands on his hips. “I’m gonna mingle. Nice meeting you, Drix.”
“You too.” I watched him walk away, then focused on the other hunters. D lumbered around the outer edge of the group, holding a package of his homemade deer jerky, speaking to no one and staring into the trees. Every now and then he’d tear off hunks of jerky with his teeth, blue eyes intensely focused. One side of his waterproof jacket collar was sticking up.
You’re in your element, aren’t you? This is what you were born to do.
D was likely going to be my main competition for the gift card. The best strategy might be to pick hunting ground far from him. Stay out of his way.
“Hendrix Seger,” boomed a low, guttural voice.
I winced. Unflappable, Miles called me. But I was often flapped by the sound of my full name—a curse from my otherwise lovely parents. I turned.
Bowser stood behind me.
I grinned. “Well, hey.” I clapped my hand into his, pulling him in for a chest bump. My height made it less of a chest bump and more of a head-chest collision.
He stepped back. “I wasn’t sure you and Miles would be here. Doesn’t seem like Miles’s bag.” He glanced at the slave group.
At Miles.
“It’s not.”
He laughed—the deep, video-game-villain laugh that had given him his nickname. He was dressed almost elegantly: uncreased leather hiking boots, ironed khakis, an emerald sweater that fit his broad body well. His red beard had been gathered in a brand-new black hair tie, and was neatly combed—though a single crumb was stuck just under the left corner of his mouth.
“You look good,” I said. “Aren’t you worried about getting paint on those clothes?”
He looked down and held his arms out slightly. “I never wear these. Besides, no one should be shooting at me.” He watched Miles again.
Miles claimed he’d always liked playing with Bowser because Bowser was so chill—independent without being detached, intense without being overbearing. And I agreed. Bowser had taught me a lot of what I knew about topping, and he was incredibly easy to get along with. And I had never once, during the time he’d mentored me, felt that he was trying to encroach on my relationship with Miles.
But I did think Miles was a bit oblivious to the special attention Bowser paid him. To the way Bowser sometimes gazed at him with resigned admiration, like he was perusing photos from a vacation he hadn’t been able to afford.
It wasn’t that I felt jealous or threatened. It was just that when I attended events like this and saw people like Bowser—folks who knew Miles very well, who’d shared experiences with him—I found myself trying to piece together those experiences based on observation. And it hit me hard—the persistent re-realization that I could never give someone all they needed. That around every individual was a community comprised of people who influenced, and challenged, and cared for that individual. As someone who loved connectivity, kinship, I was so grateful for those communities, and all the brilliant ways they intersected. Like solar systems, or highways.
With someone I loved as much as I loved Miles, there was such a pleasure in seeing what sort of universe he was the center of.
But it did make me feel small, at times. Made me focus on what I lacked.
I worked my way closer to the slave group, where Miles and his friends were talking and eating doughnuts. Kamen was trying subtly—for Kamen—to scrape something out of his nose with his thumbnail. Maya was tugging the zipper of her jumpsuit down a little, then up, then down. When she got it where she wanted it, she hiked up her breasts and frowned at her cleavage. Dave was giving Miles grief about wearing a cardigan to the hunt. I dug the sweaters, personally.
“It is chilly,” Miles said tersely to Dave. “And so I’m wearing a sweater.”
Dave patted his shoulder. “It’s fine. I look forward to today’s Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood/Lord of the Flies crossover event.”
“And I look forward,” said a cold voice, “to this hunt.”
A woman with red hair and long legs approached the group.
The guys all fell silent. Maya rolled her eyes. “Hey, Cinnamon.”
Cinnamon was lithe and confident in her movements—good posture, an obvious awareness of the space her body occupied. But she led with her hips, almost slunk in a way that suggested insecurity. Learned mannerisms that gave the illusion of confidence or sensuality. I’d never really interacted with her, though I knew she was unpopular—not just with Miles and his friends, but in the general community.
I kept an eye out in case things got ugly, but after a stiff exchange of greetings, Cinnamon began to hang around Kamen, chatting to him like they were old friends. Kamen half flinched away whenever she got too close.
“Jesus,” Dave finally snapped at her. “He’s taken. Don’t you already have someone to ride you?”
She glared over her shoulder at him. “Jealous, David?”
“No. But are you cold?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “What?”
“You don’t have a jacket. You must be Friesian your ass off.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re reaching, hot pants.”
“Yeah, I guess I am a bit.”
“Dave . . .” Miles sounded tired.
“She came into our space. She can deal with a few horse puns.”
Cinnamon stuck her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You got any more?”
Dave’s expression grew exaggeratedly pensive. “I hate to stall, but the answer is neigh.”
“Okay.” Miles put a hand on Dave’s arm. “That’s definitely enough.”
He shrugged. “When it reins, it pours.”
I joined them, and Cinnamon turned toward me. I could feel her energy go up like a wall. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Drix. Miles’s partner.”
She shook my hand, looking me up and down. She’d gotten a haircut recently—the bright red-gold layers had perfect edges. Her makeup was light and neat. But her nails were bitten down, the skin around them pink and ragged. And her eyes were slightly swollen. She’d swiped the back of her hand under her nose at least three times since I’d been watching. “Cinnamon.”
Her life force was a bit dark, but not foreboding. It was like walking through a wrecked house after a party, or through a vegetable patch in winter—a sense of absence, like something in her had been wounded by carelessness or cold, and then left unattended.
“He’s not gonna mount you either, National Velvet,” Dave told Cinnamon.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miles step on Dave’s foot.
For a second, Cinnamon’s face registered genuine hurt. I felt the flicker in her energy, the way the wall sort of collapsed, leaving her open, vulnerable. Then it was back up. “Velvet is a girl, not a horse.”
“Exactly.” Dave had many good qualities, but knowing when to quit was not one of them.
“And I wouldn’t touch any of you with a ten-foot pole, but it’s nice that you flatter yourselves.”
Dave muttered something I didn’t catch.
I pulled a pack of travel tissues from my pocket and pulled one out. “Allergies,” I said ruefully, catching her eye.
Cinnamon glanced up at me again, wary. “Me too.”
“Are you allergic to yourself?” Dave asked her. “Pony dander?”
Neither of us looked at him. For a second, there was a connection, a sort of latching of her prana to mine. Not in a creepy way—it was like she’d taken my hand, tentatively, and then immediately let it go. I offered her the pack of tissues. She took one.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “At least someone here’s a gentleman.” She blew, then tucked the tissue in her pocket and nodded toward the hunter group. “I’m gonna go rejoin my people.”
“Happy trails,” Dave singsonged.
“Wait,” Maya called to Cinnamon. “‘Your people’? So you’re helping the hunters?”
Cinnamon turned and beamed smugly, like she’d been waiting for this moment. “Oh no. No, no. I’m going to hunt.”
“Hunt?” Dave repeated. “You mean—”
“With a gun, David.” Her grin broadened. “And believe me, I so look forward to meeting you in the woods.” She spun and continued walking.
“Well, crap,” Kamen said when she was gone.
Dave turned to me. “You gave her a tissue. You gave her a tissue, and she’s such a bitch.”
I smiled gently. “I gave her a tissue because she needed a tissue.”
He shook his head. “I feel like that means something deep in your vampyre Buddha world. But to me, she’s just a bitch.”