Wayward Son

Chapter 17

Ruthie opened the old notebook and flipped through it, mostly to give her hands something to do. She idly tried translating some of the Greek writing—she'd taken one semester in college—but the words barely registered. Her eyes shifted forward more frequently as they got closer to Washington Mill and the remote road that would take them to her dad's cabin.

Not a mile went by without Sam's words echoing through her mind. She'd do what he wanted; if he thought it would save Dean and stop Monica, of course she'd do it. But was there any chance he was right?

She took the lumpy, brown paper package and tore it open. A rough-edged, gray stone knife fell into her lap. Thin strips of leather wrapped the grip. The weapon was a single carved piece of stone, from the handle to the tip of the eight inch long blade. She imagined shoving it into Monica, and shuddered.

"I'll do it." Sam was giving her a concerned look. "You don't have to be there."

She nodded, only because she didn't want to talk. She wouldn't wait in the car. Not this time.

Her hands tensed around the knife and notepad. The familiar glow of Washington Mill appeared in the darkness ahead, a cozy grouping of lights brightening the Idaho night. Sam rolled past the Four Feathers Inn and the pharmacy where she'd first laid eyes on him. He wore a similar expression now: anxious and haunted. Back then, she'd watched his whole face brighten when he learned his brother was alive and well. This time, she had no reassurance to offer.

The library and police station shrank in her mirror. The road narrowed and wound up into the mountains. Her breaths came faster as the trees grew thicker. What would they find in the cabin? What if they were too late? For an instant, she imagined finding Dean the way she'd found Mike just a couple hours ago. Her stomach convulsed; bile boiled up through her throat. She would have been sick if she hadn't already retched everything up in the guest bathroom at Mike's apartment. She pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window and breathed through her nose.

The dark miles up the mountain slipped past in a queasy blur. Sam slowed the truck and pulled off the side of the road just before they reached the gravel driveway. "Hopefully I can catch her by surprise."

Ruthie nodded and opened the glovebox. She dug around for napkins, and found a blue bandana. She grabbed it and the knife, then tucked the notebook into the back of her jeans before stepping out into the long grass. Sam came around to meet her as she held her left arm out. Before she could overthink it, she laid the sharp edge of the stone blade on her forearm, pressed down, and dragged it across her skin.

Her nerve endings fired off angry protestations as her skin opened. A red stream flowed from each end of the deep cut, forming a band around her arm and dripping down onto the ground. She clenched her teeth against the pain and wiped the flat of the blade across the band. That only smeared the rough stone, leaving gray spots showing through. She held the knife just under her arm, pouring blood directly onto the blade. She turned the handle, watched the liquid splash over the dry spots, wondering if she was the right person. If her blood could turn this piece of rock into a magical monster-killing weapon.

When the blade was covered and dripping, she held it out to Sam, grip-first. "Do you think that's enough?"

He set his jaw and nodded, but took the bandana from her rather than the knife. He wrapped it twice around her wound, then tied it tight. She thought of all the far worse injuries she'd treated for him, and ordered herself to ignore the stinging and throbbing.

They looked toward the cabin. The Impala sat out front beside her truck, and light glowed through the tiny window in the front door. Sam took the knife from her outstretched hand. "Okay. Why don't you wait here. I'll take care of this."