Free Firewalker by Josephine Angelini Page B

wearing mismatched flannel pajamas. The top half was decorated with clouds, but the bottoms had cows jumping over the moon. She was so disheveled and adorable that Lily smiled.
    No, Rowan. I think I want my sister tonight.
    Okay. Whatever you need.
    â€œI had a nightmare. Will you stay with me, Jules?” Lily asked, ignoring the hurt look on Rowan’s face. She couldn’t spend the night with him. What if she shared another one of Lillian’s memories and he picked up on it?
    â€œSure,” Juliet replied, already crossing the room. Rowan lifted up the covers for Juliet and tucked the sisters in together.
    â€œI’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he said before leaving them.
    Lily settled in and put her head on her sister’s slim shoulder. Did I wake Mom, Juliet?
    She’s out like a light, Lily.
    Drugged again.
    No. Rowan gave her tart cherry juice, a bite of turkey, and then he put lavender under her pillow. No drugs. He said she didn’t need them anymore.
    Rowan’s treating Mom?
    Yeah. And she’s doing really well, Lily. She’s more aware now. Damn, I love mindspeak.
    It makes some things easier.
    And some things harder, I’m guessing.
    Lily didn’t need to answer.
    *   *   *
    Carrick killed the spider very slowly, pulling off one leg at a time. He knew, if no one else did, that the moments just before death were the only pure moments in life. That’s why when he killed he tried to make it last. Dying was the most important thing a body could do besides being born, and in a way Carrick saw himself as a mother—a mother who pulled her babies back into her warm self rather than pushing them out into the cold world. The only difference between dying and being born was that babies don’t remember their births. But if souls live on, Carrick was sure that any one of them would remember their deaths, especially if he had been their death-mother.
    Carrick was good at making death memorable. It was the one skill he’d been trained for since he was a small boy. He’d learned how to hurt things from his father, Anoki, who was the bait man for their small tribe. It was Anoki’s job to lay trails of wounded animals away from the group. The blood and the cries of distress from the wounded animals led the Woven away from the tribe, and kept people safe.
    Anoki was very good at his job. The best. He could make one sheep squeal until dawn, as it dragged itself, walleyed with pain, in any direction Anoki chose. He knew just how to break a dove’s wing so that it fluttered helplessly for hours inside the scrub, or hamstring a wolf so it howled for help, until the whole pack came to share in its death by the Woven. Anoki was a feared man—the tribe could hear the echoes of his handiwork all night long as one tortured animal after another screamed its way to death. He was an important man—he kept his tribe safe. He was a loathed man—because everyone knew he liked it.
    Carrick’s mother, Mary, couldn’t have been more different. She was a gentle soul, full of laughs and flashing smiles. Fair skin, light red hair, and blue eyes, like a city woman’s. She was the bride that Anoki demanded for his services to the tribe, but she was too valuable for him to ever keep. Everyone said Mary could have been a witch if she’d been raised in one of the cities.
    Mary’s freedom from Anoki was helped along by River Fall. Some say because River had grown heartsick from mending her broken bones and stitching together that smooth white skin of hers. He pleaded with the elders to release Mary from her bond with Anoki. If they did not, he warned, Anoki would eventually kill her. The elders agreed, and freed Mary. But Carrick was not part of the deal. If the tribe wanted to keep their bait man, Anoki had to be allowed to keep his son. And in tribal law, sons belong to the fathers, while daughters belong to the mothers.
    Mary left