Page 40 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Skunk!”

Logan drives into me from behind as the animal launches its tail toward the rafters.

A noxious odor slams against us both, like we’re driving headlong into a putrid cloud of burning rubber.

We stagger, backs slamming against the upright bin. It topples, freeing the only rabbit we managed to catch. Tiny paws patter over our limbs as we hit the ground.

I can’t worry about that, though, because the rotting-egg smell is so intense it’s like my lungs have caught fire. It coats my skin in a sticky film. Clogs my throat until it’s hard to inhale.

I stagger to my feet and start plowing toward the exit, but find Logan is still on his knees, blinking like he’s underwater. Coughing and spluttering, I backtrack to tug at his forearm, trying to haul him upright. He’s so solid and big, it’s like trying to wrestle with a piece of wall. Still, I manage to yank him hard enough that he stumbles with me toward the doors and then outside.

The sun washes us in bright light. Hands on our knees, we both rack out spluttering coughs. I suck in air, desperately willing seconds to tick away and the stench to abate.

We’re outside. In fresh air. It should get better.

Instead, my lungs splutter on the thick smell, and I convulse with another hacking cough. Even from a few feet away, I can see Logan’s eyes have started to water.

“What the hell?” I manage with my next sip of air. “Why isn’t it going away?”

Chapter Nine

Nothing helps.

In the upstairs bathroom, I plunge myself into a stream of piping hot water and viciously scrub my skin with lava soap and a bleach-stained washcloth. My arms and legs turn a scraped pink, but the smell doesn’t dampen. If anything, it intensifies, like water is bringing it more life.

Logan’s outdoor shower is still running when I get out of mine.

“How are you doing?” I call through the shutters.

No response. Maybe he didn’t hear me. But then he says, “I think it’s worse.”

He sounds miserable.

“Yeah, me too,” I say. “Regroup in the living room?”

Two hours later, Logan and I have changed our clothes four times and tried three different at-home remedies—including soaking our hands and forearms in the cans of tomato juice I found in the basement. We still smell as acrid as burning batteries.

Back in the living room, we plug search terms into our phones with increasingly nonsensical and alarming undertones. I’ve managed to sit down, but Logan is still pacing the carpet like he’s trying to run out of his own skin.

“There has to be a better idea out there somewhere,” I say, rubbing at my forehead. “Surely someone on Reddit has dealt with skunks this unholy.”

Logan’s face snaps up. His eyes are still bloodshot. “Unholy.”

“What?”

“Why did you call them that?”

“I—I don’t know. Something my uncle used to say?”

He closes his eyes and sways slightly, like he’s having trouble forming coherent thoughts. Probably, he is. As miserable as I am, Logan dove in front of me. He got the brunt of the spray.

Finally, he says, “There’s something about skunks in the journals. Martin called them that. Unholy.”

We blink at each other for another beat before hurtling into the dining room.

“It was spring,” Logan says, flipping through pages. “I started skimming these passages when I saw they barely mentioned pears, but I remember the skunks.”

“What year?”