Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,17
and seemed to summon quiet. It was difficult not to hear, like something big was in pain.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Luke demanded, waving his han ds as though he was directing traffic. “You are Greg Glass’s daughter, and you don’t know what the Gigit is?”
“My father and I are not exactly close.” She sighed, ignoring the hackles along her spine. She spoke clearly and firm, setting straight a record too warped for her own comprehension.
“Noah would know all about parental issues,” Luke added. “A real ballbuster that one.”
“What’s the guy-geet?”
“The Gigit… like Omah-” Owen began.
“Bigfoot,” Noah chimed.
She laughed, cheered on by another round of howling coyotes. “Sasquatch, hmm?” They grinned, pleased with themselves. “I’m not really getting the Greg reference, but that’s priceless.” She applauded, forcing the discomfort of the noise away, out of her head.
“She’s joking, right?” Luke asked, turning to Owen and Noah for an explanation.
“My father’s a biologist.”
“Researcher,” Owen corrected, suspiciously.
“A biologist,” she repeated, adding, “Not exactly an anthropological-phenomena buff. He sent me a pamphlet about the area for Christmas when I was seven, but I think that’s the extent of his cultural interest. I can’t imagine he’s all that into legends. He pleads science like it’s an amendment.”
Noah bit his lip. Owen and Luke blinked, chuckling nervously, unsure how to gage her seriousness.
What am I missing here?
A thunderous crack sent Owen and Luke to their feet, alarmed. Noah tensed, gently placing a concerned hand on the small of her back.
“Like you said, it’s getting late.” Noah’s eyes moved between Aly, his friends, and the forest’s shifty profiles.
“We should leave,” Owen agreed, nodding emphatically with Luke who was silent for the first time since Aly met him.
She observed as Owen dumped water on the fire and stomped out the embers, bending his leg backward to inspect his sneakers for melted rubber. Flicking on flashlights and gathering their bags hurriedly, Owen and Luke scrambled, looking increasingly nervous.
Where Noah’s hand had rested on her back he began to trace small circles. She resisted the urge to let her eyes flutter shut; tingles sparked the skin beneath the clothes he touched.
When Noah stood, she was reluctant to move, as though her stillness would convince him to sit again. As the howls started again, she shivered. Accepting his offered hand, Aly followed as the others tore down the trail.
“Bizarre,” she murmured, waiting until Luke and Owen had disappeared around a corner. They ran ahead for the quads like a tsunami was about to lap at their ankles.
They say the waters come slow.
“Welcome to Ashland,” Noah laughed. Th e stress and fear of the situation immediately dissipated. She smiled, her shoulders relaxing as he continued, “So what's your theory?”
“My theory?” She was unsure how to answer. “Is that Luke suffers from Napoleon syndrome.”
“Evil,” he considered, “but justified.”
“You see it?” Aly teased, leaning against his arm. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. She felt herself mirroring his body language.
It occurred to her the posture wasn’t in her physical vocabulary, and suddenly felt unnatural. Aly eased her fingers out of the pockets of her boot cuts, locking her fists into her elbows, hugging herself.
“I do,” Noah agreed. “They're awful aren't they? Possibly the worst way to convince a pretty girl to stick around.”
She found herself holding her breath again, and slowly exhaled. He smiled to himself, watching her reaction as carefully as she searched his. She let her hair fall across her face, breaking eye contact. Shifting, she forced to shoulders slacken beneath the scrutiny.
I’m being such a freak.
“Not awful,” she corrected. Staring at her wringing fingers, she was unsure how to calm the flutter in her chest. Aly smiled, braving a glance at his eyes.
He squinted across the horizon as they walked, his grin fading in distant thought.
Her gaze traveled the hem along his shoulder, realizing his jacket would have been unseasonable in a Kingsley summer. Even if to escape the plague of black flies, he'd seem peculiar amongst crowds of bare skin and swim shorts. It was unheard of to avoid the lake beaches in June. The water was cherished until tourists invaded midJuly.
A dimple quirked, preceding his growing smile before twisting to an unreadable expression.
Pushing up his sleeve, he scratched at his wrist.
She caught a flash of ink. With her fingers outstretched, she traced the curling image of a snake, while pretending not to notice his shiver.
“Is this what Owen was talking about?” Aly asked, endlessly curious. She hoped that removed from the previous conversation, he wouldn’t