It was two a.m. and Brantley's phone was on silent mode, but then the phone switched to the emergency alarm. It was Cheryl, but he couldn't imagine why she would be calling.
The tears and slobbering obscured her words, but she finally choked out, "Rowan's dead."
"No—how?"
"They didn't paint over the red pitchfork or move or, or, anything. The house was burned down. The police have only just now come. The fire department didn't do anything. They just kept spectators back."
"Cheryl, that's—"
"I live a block away! I saw everything!"
Evie slipped in.
Brantley said, "Evie, it's all right. Go back to bed."
Cheryl shouted, "It's not all right! They want to kill all of us!"
Brantley lied to himself when he said, "The world is changing. The adults need to accept that."
"It's not even Halloween," she shrieked. "They're going to kill us."
Evie took the phone, wandered out of the room. She went out of the house, onto her own porch. When she sat on the stoop, one of the cats climbed onto her lap and she pet every furry head that pressed into her. Brantley lingered a few feet away, wary of upsetting her.
Evie said, "If you're scared, if you're really scared, move to USW. Their migration laws are lax, especially with PC refugees."
Cheryl whispered, "We shouldn't be talking about this."
"No, we shouldn't," Evie said, stroking her hand down the back of a calico. "Do you want me to send Taffy? She can talk to you. It would be safe."
Brantley got closer, whispered, "Evie, I don't like this."
The eyes that flashed burned him and were ancient.
"Go back to bed, Brantley."
YOU ARE READING
The Lamb and the Gray Battle
FantasíaEvie has spent the last 575 years on the North American continent, now called America, the Pure and Clean. She smiles, volunteers and makes cakes and pastries for her neighbors, hiding away her demon blood. She wants nothing to do with her estranged...
