Free Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce Page A

to prowl. A row of picnic tables back behind the booths, far enough into the woods that they're darkened by the canopy of leaves above them and isolated enough that it would be easy to snatch a girl or lead her farther into the forest. When Silas and Rosie return, their hands full of candy that the high school cheerleaders were tossing out, I nod toward the tables.
    "What do you think?" I ask Silas. He nods and drops his candy into Rosie's bag.
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    "That looks perfect, actually. I'll circle around on the trail?" he says. Silas has this amazing ability to go from a guy catching candy to a serious hunter in a matter of heartbeats. I have to admit I'm a little jealous sometimes. My mind seems locked on hunting.
    "Yep," I answer. Rosie and I push through the crowd to the side of one of the apple-jam booths.
    We walk slowly toward the picnic tables. I sit down on a bench and pull my shoulders back, pushing my breasts out, and Rosie sits on the mossy table, leaning back on her hands.
    "Keep your head down," I remind her.
    "I know," Rosie mutters, swinging her legs back and forth. She sighs after a long pause. "We came here with Mom once."
    "How do you remember that?" Mom hung around--without the drugs--only really for the first five years of Rosie's life. She could never be chained down for much longer than that; Oma March used to call her a Ruhelose . Of course, Oma March also called her a whore when she was particularly angry. Both are pretty accurate.
    Rosie shrugs and leans forward. I scan the crowd and give her a meaningful look-- come on, we're supposed to be hunting --and she tosses her hair enticingly before answering me. Come on, wolves. Don't we look delightful?
    "I remember that the car we rode in was painted like Silas's," my sister says. "And I remember that Mom stapled paper apples all over my shirt."
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    "Wow," I answer. She's dead-on. I wouldn't let Mom staple apples to me but regretted it once I was at the festival and saw all the other kids were dressed just as ridiculously.
    A branch pops in the forest behind us. Rosie and I make brief eye contact.
    And then we laugh. Loudly. Bright, bubbly, ignorant-girl laughter. Rosie's wolf-lure laugh isn't all that different from her normal one, but I raise my voice, drop my usual snickering, and giggle. Yes, wolf, we are stupid, giggly little girls. Devour us. Another branch pops. I lower my head so my hair spills forward, then peer through the strands to catch a glimpse of Silas milling around in the parking lot. Casual, all casual.
    Rosie leans back on her hands again and swishes her legs through the air like some sort of pinup model. Steady footsteps begin to tromp through the woods, crushing leaves and twigs as they grow closer. We pretend not to hear it, pretend not to see the movement of the person approaching. I rise, head low, and let the wind pick up the edges of my cloak, casting my perfumed scent into the forest.
    "Finally, civilization!" a male voice cries out triumphantly. Rosie and I give each other a secretive smile.
    The man coming out of the forest looks like a college frat boy. His hair is sandy blond, his eyes deep and wide-set, and his frame thick, broad-shouldered. He springs toward us, a grin on his face. I try to sneak looks through my hair without revealing my eye patch or scars. Something is odd about this one--he smells like a Fenris, and I can somehow feel the wolves' presence nearby, yet this man's eyes are reddened, the

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    way someone's look after weeping. Wolves don't cry--the soulless have nothing to mourn.
    "Where did you come from?" I ask, laughing. At times like these, I often pretend to be Rosie, though I've never told her. I may be the better hunter, but there's no question that she's the better bait. I look at the man's nails--not claws, but then, bits of greasy Fenris fur cling to the leg of his pants.
    "I somehow lost the trail I was on," the man says, all grins and boyish charm. "Thought I'd be stuck out in the middle of the woods