Page 24 of What Rough Beast

The last word comes out as more of a scream as he shoves me backward. I go down hard, and he’s on his knees next to me in a second, pinning me to the ground by my throat. I kick, but his grip tightens, and my breath comes in a strangled gasp as he looms above me, the bee working its way through his stubble, finding the open, drooping lip. It crawls inside his mouth, back legs disappearing just as he begins to hum something, a deep chord that rumbles in his chest, the muscles in his throat flickering as he bends over me.

My flailing hand finds something warm and solid in the grass, and I clutch onto it. I slam the empty syrup jar into the side of his head, shards of glass and bright red drops of blood falling onto me. Pete screams and rolls off me, good hand going to his face as he tries to get to his feet. I crawl backward on all fours, driving a shard of glass into my palm.

“Grandpa?”

Hailey Wagner is standing at the edge of the woods, blond hair brightly illuminated by the dying sun. Her arms are crossed, her eyes like hot coals when they land on mine.

“What the fuck did you do?” she asks.

“What?” I scramble, sputtering. “I didn’t— Shit!” The shard of glass in my hand goes deeper as I brace myself against the ground to stand up. I stare dumbly at the middle of my hand when I gain my feet, mesmerized by the length of glass protruding from either side of it.

“He’s bleeding!” Hailey yells at me, from where she’s crouched next to her grandpa.

“So am I!” I shriek at her, raising my impaled palm. “He tried to—”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Hailey is on her feet in a second, advancing on me with the same intensity as her grandfather, but at twice the speed. “He didn’t do a goddamn thing. You dirty little liar.”

Her teeth are bared, canines showing. She drives a finger so hard into my chest that I step backward, spine pushing against a tree.

“Haaaaaa . . .” Pete has managed to get to his feet; he might be trying to say his granddaughter’s name. There’s a gash on the side of his face, blood running down his neck. But his eyes are clear when they lock with mine.

“Aaaaaaa,” he says, opening his mouth wide. I hear something crack, and his jaw drops, extending even lower. The bee that crawled inside is smashed on his tongue; shards of glass erupt from between his teeth. He reaches past them, past the bee, jamming his hand into his mouth, keeping his gaze tight on mine. He’s wrist-deep into his own throat when he chokes, sputters, spitting blood and glass.

“Hailey?” I ask hesitantly. “What is he—”

“Aaaaaaa,” he says, pointing at me, and cracking his jaw wide again, restarting the cycle.

And once again, I understand Pete Wagner perfectly—Now, you do it.

“Hailey?” Her name slips out of my mouth again, this time higher, tinged with panic. Her finger is still stabbing into my chest, and I grab her wrist, squeezing it. “What is—”

“Get out of here,” she says roughly, jerking out of my grasp.

“I can’t,” I tell her, raising my bloody palm. “I’m—”

She glances down, grabs one end of the glass and yanks it out. “You’re fine,” she says, throwing the bloodied shard into the woods. “Now go.”

Hailey grabs me by the shoulders, manually turns me, and then gives me a shove. I hear a deep gag, choking, and the sound of liquid hitting the ground. I take Hailey’s advice—I go. There’s barely enough light for me to see, but I run anyway, tripping over roots and sprawling face-first into the mud at one point. I scramble up and keep going, breaking out into the meadow, sprinting for the fork in the path, the spot where Panda usually managed to get before I passed him going back the other way.

“Widow!” I scream as soon as I can make out the house and outbuildings. Dirt grinds in my teeth as I suck wind, any adrenaline long spent. I’m clutching my hand to my chest, blood dripping off my elbow, hair hanging in a muddied mat on one side of my face when I burst into the office. Widow spins the chair toward me; her face bathed in the red light from the incubator.

“Oh,” she says. “You found your ring.”

Seventeen

Micah

I wouldn’t call myself a religious person, even though I go to church. However, the fact that I’m willing to be a passenger in a truck that Ethan Brimley is driving does show extreme faith. He is currently eating an ice-cream cone plus texting while driving, which means that he’s really, really trusting his tire alignment. I reach over and steer until Ethan drops his phone into the cup holder.

“Thanks, dude,” he says, taking the wheel back and popping what’s left of his cone into his mouth, then ripping an enormous belch, followed by a swallow. “Got a little more than air on that one.”

I grimace, and he looks over.

“What? You want me to spew it everywhere like Ava?”

Ava vomiting all over the art room is still a topic, the rumor mill doing its work and churning out every possible reason why a girl would puke and landing firmly on the most salacious one.

“She spent most of fifth period in the bathroom,” I tell Ethan. “Meredith thinks she might be pregnant.”