Page 6 of A Mastery of Monsters

I glance at Virgil’s pocket, where the knife is hidden.

The first time Mom put a knife in my hand, I stared at her in wonder.

Jules already had his, something that I spent months being jealous of.

And here was mine, finally. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and turned me toward a tree in our yard.

She’d painted a series of circles on it for a makeshift target.

“The trick to this is a sharp knife and accuracy.” I nodded like I understood what she meant.

I thought I had. I let it fly for the first time.

It hit the tree and fell to the ground. But it hit within the smallest circle.

Mom beamed at me, an unrestrained sort of pride.

The kind that said I was the daughter she’d wished for.

I would have done anything to make her look at me like that again.

I still felt that way, even on the night when I’d had enough.

She’d gotten so intense about drills suddenly.

Wanting me to keep going through them past dinner.

I was exhausted, and all I wanted was to escape to Rachel’s place and hang out with my friends.

It was the last party of the year. Once December hit, I would be busy studying for exams. This was my one chance to relax before the pressure of acing all my midterms hit.

Mom wasn’t having it. She kept pushing for more.

You grind a knife too hard past the point of sharpening, and you ruin the blade.

I’d let her go too far for years. I was already dull and worn.

I insisted that I was going to go out. That was when she gave me that look.

Jules got on Mom for getting on me, and I left while they were still arguing, walking the forty minutes to Rachel’s place on foot. I did everything Mom asked of me, and the one time I wanted something for myself, it was unacceptable.

So that night when she called, I didn’t answer the phone. And come morning, she was gone.

The last and only time I had disappointed her. Nothing I’d done before mattered. All the times I had met her expectations and been that good girl were washed away in a single moment.

I narrow my eyes at Virgil. “Why does it matter to you if I can throw a knife? You want to start a darts league?”

“I’m looking for someone capable with a certain set of skills.”

I laugh. He doesn’t.

“I’m not the one.” I don’t care what this guy wants from me.

I’m here to make money and spend it drinking and dancing until I physically can’t anymore.

Soon, Dad will stop trying to call. Bailey will wear out at some point.

Jules will be here, but school will start, and he’ll get busy.

He’ll have less time to be worried, and barriers to my lifestyle will drop to none.

The ferry docks, and I say, “Maybe don’t make a habit of following girls home.”

“Oh, I’m not done yet.”

“Really? Because I am. Give me my knife.” I hold out my hand as people walk past us to exit the ferry.

Virgil stands and follows them, forcing me to trail after him, gritting my teeth the whole time.

The dock at Wolfe Island lets you out into Marysville, a quaint section of the island with a general store, a few restaurants, and a museum.

Some of the houses and businesses are painted in bright pastel colors, adding to the sweet small-town charm.

It’s easy for tourists to get out on foot and explore the instant they step off the ferry.

Or to rent bikes and spend the day cycling along the island trails.

As me and Virgil exit, there is, as usual, a line of new cars waiting to get onto the ferry as the old ones go past.

I can always spot Bailey’s car waiting for me. It isn’t hard because it’s an offensively bright yellow Honda Civic. This woman paid money to get that wrap on it. But it isn’t there when we walk out.

Instead, a red Ford F-150 truck comes around the corner with Bailey in the passenger seat and Izzy behind the wheel.

Izzy’s long dark hair is tied up in a ponytail while Bailey rocks her usual fro.

I can see dandelions peeking out from it.

Jesus, she’s cheesy. Mia, Izzy’s fifteen-year-old daughter, is in the back, eyes glued to her phone screen.

“Your mom?” Virgil asks, nodding toward them.

I scowl. “Aunt. She’s like thirty; how would she be my mom?”

“Some people have kids young, and I don’t know how old she is.”

“Here’s a tip,” I say, looking at him sideways. “Does your mom look like that?”

“My mom’s dead.”

Great. Awesome.

He continues, “Both my parents died when I was little. I don’t know what they would have looked like older.”

I turn away because I don’t want to apologize.

I walk toward the truck, and Bailey says, “We’re gonna do a barbecue at Big Sandy Bay.” She looks over my shoulder at Virgil. “Does your friend want to come?”

“We could use the help carrying everything,” Izzy adds.

I don’t know much about the woman except that in 2020, she started the tiny house village on the island where Bailey lives, and she’s Mohawk.

Which is positive, at least. If it were run by a white guy, it would 100 percent be a cult, and Bailey honestly seems susceptible.

Technically, Izzy’s husband, Jacques, is white, but he pretty much defers to her for everything, plus he collects comic books and plays the harmonica.

Nothing about that screams cult leader material.

The Levesques overall seem like decent people.

I motion at Virgil with my hand. There’s no way he wants to get looped into a barbecue. I try to keep my wrist low because I don’t want Bailey to see the knife exchange.

Virgil says, “I would love to help! I haven’t had barbecue in forever.”

“Really?” I shove the words out of my clenched teeth.

Virgil grins. “ Really .”

And so I get in the back seat with the boy who’s extorting me.