Free Between the Spark and the Burn by April Genevieve Tucholke Page B

caught him. Maybe he over-sparked himself and went weak from it. Maybe they have their own magic here. I don’t know.” His hands were twitching. I could see them. “But we’ll go to the church. We’ll see what they plan to do.”
    Neely was right. Brodie was caught, captured, tied up. River wasn’t here, he was safe somewhere, laying low, as he’d promised. It was just Brodie. Had been all along. Everything led up to this. Everything since Brodie cut my wrists and kissed me, everything since I’d stabbed him in the chest and passed out. One step after another, all leading to this.
    Finding Brodie.
    Getting vengeance.
    Watching him die.
    The bat, and Sunshine bleeding, and strips of red across Jack’s skin, River, blood on his neck, and the waiting, and the dark corners and shadows and hearing laughter that wasn’t there, and it will never ever end, ever. Ever. Unless.
    I was fidgeting too now, all fear gone, nothing but courage beating in my blood. I shoved my feet into my winter boots, quick, quick, and the tune popped back into my head, the one from the beach, the one that went
A-hunting I will go, a-hunting I will go . . .
    â€œNo.”
    I turned. Luke. His hand shot out and gripped my arm again.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I won’t let you. Let’s just leave, Vi, okay? Let’s just get out of here, leave the sleeping bags, leave everything, and just get to the car. Now.”
    I put my hand on his, and then gently, gently, pulled his fingers away. “I have to go, Luke. I have to. This is it. If they kill Brodie, I need to be there. I need to be sure it’s him. And I’ll need to be sure he’s . . .” I paused. “I’ll need to be sure he’s dead.”
    Luke met my eyes. And nodded. Once.
    â€œYou should pack up while we’re gone,” I said to him, in a louder voice. “Sunshine, you stay and help him. When this is done, we’ll meet you at the car and then we’ll leave Inn’s End and never look back, all right?”
    And I was out the door before my brother could say another word, Neely right behind me.
    I expected the hard stares but I wasn’t prepared for them. The looks from the Inn’s End residents as we walked up the church steps . . . they cut sharper than the winter wind that blew right through me.
    No one stopped us, though.
    The church was already almost full. The only light came from the fat candles that sat on the windowsills lining the wall. Shadows crept and crawled across the stark, stark room, nothing to see but a stained-glass window depicting a pink beast, lying on its back, legs raised in the air, neck spilling blood. The stiff wooden pews were packed with families huddled and bundled up in the great, white, unheated room. It smelled like apples and snow and candles and wet wool. Neely and I squeezed into the last bench on the left, deep in the shadows, next to an elderly couple who refused to look us in the eye. Neely’s elbow brushed by the woman, and she cringed against her husband.
    The boy was by the pulpit, half hidden by the group of men. He just stood there, alone, his chin on his chest. Tangled red hair covered his face, hiding his features, and his arms were twisted behind him and tied. He wore black wool slacks and a hand-knit sweater like Pine’s. His clothes were torn in places, his pale, bare skin showing through. Dead leaves and twigs and dirt clung to every inch of him, as if he’d been living in the wild for years, running with wolves and sleeping in trees.
    I felt bad for him. I did. Even if it was Brodie. Even knowing it was probably Brodie. I still flinched at the sight of him, alone and tied up and waiting for whatever horrible thing was going to happen next.
    The candlelight rippled over his body in flickering bursts. I strained forward.
    â€œIs it him?” I whispered to Neely. I pressed on my wrists. They had started