A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [95]
“So what now?”
“Clean the guns.” Always an appropriate response. “Visit Bernie. I’ll take care of the weapons, if you’ll card the merino.”
“You get the weapons, I get the wool. Reesa, there’s something seriously fucked about our division of labor.”
I lead the way through the woods. The midday air hangs still and close, my forearms damp with sweat under the sheaths of the VisiBlades. My Sweet’s Harvester rests heavy against my shoulder, the extra clips of iron, copper, and silver dragging at my belt. Since moving to Vermont I gave up arming during daylight, especially since Integration. Feels odd.
Dean tugs the heavy braid hanging down my back. “You sure we shouldn’t take the truck?”
“Why waste gas? Enjoy the spring! You bitched enough about the snow in March. Appreciate the exercise. You know how much I love exercise.”
“Another good reason to drive.”
“I may not love it, but I could always use it.” I slap the full curve of my ass with my free hand.
“You don’t either—” he protests, obviously ready to leap into an ode to zaftig women.
“Relax,” I laugh. “I’m perfectly happy to be full-figured. The ladies like me voluptuous. As do the gentlemen, when I bother with them. The heart still needs exercise. You could do with some, yourself. Too much sitting around knitting and you’ll lose muscle tone.” I poke his stomach. “Nothing will attack in full daylight.”
“You don’t know what this is. Maybe it’s a day-hunter.”
“Dude. Chill.”
“I’m just getting a weird feeling.”
I choose not to mention that I am, too. My eyes sweep the area but nothing moves. Just an odd sensation of presence . . . watching.
He grumbles. “I signed on to make yarn, not hunt monsters. That’s why I came here. You said Vermont had less than its fair share.”
“We do! And our Uncannies get along with humans. Mostly. We’ve still got them, and not all signed the Policies. You want monster-free, hop a plane to Switzerland.” I freeze, head tilting. Off to the left, sticks crackle underfoot. I whip my head around but nothing moves. Nothing . . . tangible. What did I see?
Branches snap to our right, followed by a heavy thud and a crash. A low hoot echoes from the left then a shrill shriek from the right. Dean’s head swivels to follow the noises.
When nothing else stirs, I head off to the left without warning. Dean grabs the back of my shirt. “What are you doing?”
“Stay close.” Something shifts like smoke filtering through the air, disappearing even as it materializes.
“What the—”
“You see it?” Swinging the Harvester off my shoulder, I thumb the iron bolt into place, twisting the lock open with a practiced twitch and sighting at . . . absolutely nothing.
The air doesn’t shimmer again. I reach the spot I first saw movement. Lowering my Harvester, I crouch beside a snarl of brush. “Keep watch.” Scanning the ground turns up no tracks. But something . . . sun catches the smallest sparkle among tangled branches. I reach, but it’s gone. No, there again. And gone. Used to finding dropped bits of fiber, I pluck at where it was and pull back a tuft of hair.
As I stare, it winks out of sight, only the texture against my skin telling me I haven’t dropped it. Then it’s back. Silverwhite, it glitters in sunlight like the plentiful red in my brown hair. “Check this.” I nudge Dean with my foot.
He tears his attention from the woods. “What is that, hair?”
“Watch.” On cue, it disappears. His breath catches when it reappears.
“Bizarre.”
“Indeed.” I tuck it in my pocket. No noise reaches me beyond the drone of spring insects gearing up to become the bane of my existence for the next few months. Twisting the lock on the Harvester, I disengage the bolt. “Let’s go.” I move faster.
“Have you seen or heard anything like that?”
“No.”
He falls silent and I don’t waste further breath reassuring him. We make it to Bernie’s in record time. Once out of the woods and crossing his yard I breathe easier, seeing the humor in my brief panic. I still glance over my shoulder as I knock. The bright day gives no indication of anything lurking in the trees.
“Trouble,