Page 142 of Hunted By Fae

By the time I’m clambering into fleece-lined tights and a thermal long-sleeve, my teeth are chattering in the still air.

I layer up with baseball socks, jeans, a lumpy knitted sweater, a Kathmandu parka… until I’m shoeless.

The boots are the only shoes I have.

Too bulky to fit another pair into my backpack. So now I’m left with the soaked pair I side-eye, toppled over next to my backpack.

Before I can reach for them, Bee mutters “here” and pushes another pair towards me.

Not snowboots.

Just plain leather boots, soft soles, thin, moveable, quiet… but not made for the snow.

Still, they are better than a wet pair.

I tug on the leather ones, then repack my bag.

Before I tug the zipper shut, I put a fresh inhaler in my jacket pocket.

This jacket is my absolute favourite. Thin and slender enough to keep small in my bag, but insulated and soft and cosy, hooded and high-necked. It’s an embrace, cosy arms wrapped around me.

My lashes shut as I let the warmth knead into my prickled skin.

“Is that the last of it?” Bee is crouched opposite me, zipping her own backpack before slinging the straps over her shoulders.

At my blank look, she nods her head to the pocket of my Kathmandu. “The inhaler.”

My mouth thins into a slanted line.

The one I had in the tunnels, I drained that dry by the time we got here. I swear I had another one, but maybe I left it behind in the hospital, or lost it somewhere along the way.

“You don’t have more?” she presses, then turns to Emily. “What about you?”

Emily shoves hers into her trouser pocket, then zips it shut. “I picked up a few from the hospital.”

I pull my backpack on. “How many?”

“Two—and the one I already had on me.”

Bee presses her mouth together into a tight line. Her doubt can’t be for the inhalers. We have enough. So her doubt is placed elsewhere.

I shift my gaze to the rifle planted on the icy floor—and realise she has no weapon.

I snatch it up and offer it to her.

Bee frowns at the rifle, then brings that questioning look upwards.

“Take it.”

Bee shakes her head. “What about you?”

I pat the belt looped around my waist. The CB radio bobs with the gesture, and beside it, a plain black pistol is tucked into a holster.

It’s a bit damp from the wading through the waters—and I’m not sure if the gunpowder got soaked or not, or if that’s even anything I need to worry about.

“Here.” Emily hands over the shotgun to Bee. “You’re better with this—and I’m better with the rifle.”

True, Emily is a better aim.