#those last two bullets about Davey are a direct look into me and my friend group

[livesincerely]

ooh i’m very much in an “accidental co-parents of the found family group to lovers” mood, got any ideas for that?

oH DO I??? (You get some modern era, high school au head canons, just for fun 😊)

I’m gonna make Jack, Race, and Crutchie foster brothers because I love that set up and I love the three of them together (in my mind this is distantly related to the letterman jacket au, but that’s not important)

Jack’s the one with a car. Well, technically the three of them are supposed to share it but Crutchie’s not big on driving and Racer’s failed his test twice now, so it’s basically Jack’s car. So Jack’s the one that ends up chauffeuring everyone around, and he complains a lot about how he “ain’t a taxi service, Christ, Racer, get your feet off the dash” but he doesn’t really mind

Jack’s the friend that will come and pick you up at 2am because your parents are fighting and you need to get out of the house, or will drive twenty minutes out of his way to come get you because you missed the bus and need a ride to school. Davey’s the one that reminds the rest of their friends to chip in on gas money every now and then because Jack never asks for it because he’s annoying and selfless like that

When it’s just the three of them, Race and Crutchie have vicious ‘who-gets-shotgun’ competitions. When Davey’s with them, Davey usually gets shotgun because A) Jack’s whipped and B) the only thing worse than listening to mom and dad flirt/bicker when they’re sitting next to each other is listening to them flirt/bicker from opposite sides of the car, because god knows the distance won’t stop them

Jack is extremely over-protective. They don’t deal with too much in the way of bullying but there are assholes everywhere—he’s especially protective of Crutchie, Davey, Specs, and Romeo, because they tend to get harassed the most often. Most of the idiots at their school don’t make the mistake of messing with them more than once — Spot and Albert are excellent backup and Racer is a scrappy fucker that’s always ready to throw down.

Except, one time Oscar DeLancey gets mad that he failed his history partner-project because Buttons refused to do all the work for him and corners him with a bunch of his dickhead friends after school. Davey, who’s coming off a stressful week of papers and tutoring and college prep and ‘what do you want to do with your life?’ meetings with the school advisors, takes one look at the scene and loses his goddamn mind. He’s still kicking and screaming insults and hurling threats at them as Jack drags him away — Jack has to get both arms around his waist and bodily carry him out because Davey is 140 pounds of righteous fury — and he’s pretty sure DeLancey pisses himself a little in fear.

Race and Albert refer to this as Davey’s ‘berserker mode’ and none of them ever let him live it down. Davey always blushes a little when he thinks of how totally unhinged he became, but he’s absolutely not sorry. And none of them ever go near Buttons again.

Davey’s the type that keeps up with everyone else’s stuff because otherwise no one’s homework/permission slips/doctors notes/etc. would ever get turned in. (Except Katherine, thank god for Katherine.) He’s got one of those file folders with all the different tabs — each one is labeled for each of his children friends and has copies of all their stuff. He’s also the one that reminds everyone about due dates.

Davey carries basically an entire first-aid kit in his backpack. He’s got motrin, peptol bismol, saline, bandaids, tampons, icy hot, granola bars, Romeo’s spare inhaler, etc.

Not sure when they get to the lovers part of ‘accidental co-parents of our friend group to lovers’. I could see myself using the ‘The One With the Art Project’ bits & bobs as an inciting incident — maybe Jack’s so tired that his inhibitions are lowered and we get another accidental kiss?

Or maybe someone hits on one of them and one of their children friends is like, ‘excuse you, he’s taken.’ And Jack’s like, what? And Davey’s like, what?? And then they just look at each other like, oh shit are we dating??? We’re totally dating aren’t we?

Gonna stop this here because otherwise I’ll continue into infinity.

Side note, these are for a modern au but there’s absolutely a canon-era “accidental co-parents of our friend group / didn’t know they were dating” fic floating unassembled in the back of my mind that opens with:

It’s hard for Davey to know exactly when it started because sometimes it feels like they’ve been like this forever, but he first becomes aware of it because Racetrack and Albert have terrible decision making skills and Davey literally can’t take his eyes off of them for one fucking second.

00000

@61-flaming-sour-cherry-scones

[smallsies]

bitter tragedy

ship(s): ralbert?

word count: 2.0k

trigger warning(s): mentions of guns, death, & injury

description: albert and race meet again while the world is ending.

—

a/n: apocalypse au. title is from "this will end" by the oh hellos. thanks to my wonderful friend morgan (@santa-fe-maniac) for beta reading!

—

Albert DaSilva never expected to see Racetrack Higgins ever again in his life.

Which, considering the way things had been going, was due to end shortly anyways.

Yet there he was, standing on the doorstep. Out of breath, hollow-eyed, and covered in blood, but he was alive.

The pair regarded each other for a long moment, a thousand words passing between them in the silence.

“Brooklyn?”

“Gone,” Race replied, and the look on his face told Albert not to ask anything further.

He stepped back, inclining his head by way of invitation, and Race gratefully came inside. “Well, Albie, how have things been here?” he proffered, instinctively reverting to the old nickname he’d used for the redhead.

“So-so. Charlie got bit, but Davey managed to amputate his leg before he was infected. Goes by Crutchie now.”

The blond drew in a hissed breath between his teeth. His way of showing sympathy. “Any casualties?”

“Just one. Henry, the stupid kid—” Albert paused, drawing in a breath before continuing. “A few weeks ago, Smalls requested backup, so Tommy Boy and Blink went up to assist. He snuck out after them, but, uh, he didn't make it to the Bronx,”

Race cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry,”

Albert shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. He’d have to ask Sarah about getting a haircut.

“He knew better.”

A silence blanketed them for a moment, and then Race jammed a hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

“Want a smoke?”

Albert couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped him as he tilted his head to one side, studying his friend.

��The world is ending and you’ve still got cigarettes?”

“I’m just keeping my priorities straight, Albie,”

In truth, when you live every moment thinking that it could be your last, you stop caring about a lot of things.

For Albert, it was other people. They could be the death of you, if you weren't careful. And Albert DaSilva hadn't ever been anything if not careful.

For Race, it was himself, though he’d clearly never stopped caring for cigarettes. Even now, he had one dangling unlit between his lips.

It was a way to cling onto what made them human. Amidst the ruins of civilization, that was an easy thing to forget.

———

“You wanna go say hello to the others?”

Race nodded in confirmation, so Albert bounded up the stairs, with Race right on his heels.

They stepped out onto the roof as several pairs of eyes turned to regard their entrance.

Jack, Davey, Kid Blink, Crutchie, and Katherine were all crowded around a table. One of its legs was broken, so someone—probably Davey—had propped it up with a book.

“Racetrack?” Davey stood to greet them, shooting Albert a confused look. “Is everything—”

“Brooklyn’s taken,” Albert interrupted swiftly as he felt Race tense at his shoulder.

Condolences were muttered, along with the Manhattaners exchanging looks of shock. It was clear they tried to be subtle, for Race’s sake, but it was unsuccessful at best.

Then Jack was there, pulling Race into a fierce hug.

Crutchie took longer, tucking his makeshift crutch underneath his arm before stiffly crossing the roof.

“Hey, Racer,” Crutchie murmured softly as Race hugged him in turn.

Jack touched his younger brother’s shoulder. “Welcome home, kid,”

That night brought Race curled up under a blanket borrowed from Elmer, on a bed borrowed from Henry, who’d been the previous owner.

Race whimpered in his sleep, thrashing about for what must’ve been the seventh time since he’d finally drifted off to sleep, and Albert sighed, just once, before shifting to lean over the railing, down at the boy on the bunk beneath him.

“Racer,” he hissed, and Race jolted awake, eyes immediately alight with a wild, animalistic panic as he caught sight of Albert. “Hey— ‘s just me. Nightmares?”

Race blinked and nodded slowly, tears welling up in his eyes, and Albert frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Cut it out, will ya? ‘M tryin’ to sleep,”

“I can't—”

“Figure it out, a’right?”

With that, Albert rolled back over, burying his face in his blankets.

Not twenty seconds later, there was a quiet shuffling beneath him and then Race appeared, resting his chin on the bedrail.

“Can I stay with you? It helps, a-and we used to share a bed, so—”

Albert sat halfway up, tufts of ginger hair flattened to the side of his head due to the way he’d been laying. “No.”

“Al—”

“Go back to bed, Racer.”

———

Several weeks after Race’s return to Manhattan, he appeared in the kitchen early one morning with a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Hey, Al, I’m goin’ out on a supply run. You wanna come with?”

“Sure. What ‘re we after?” Albert slid past Race to grab his hunting jacket off of a hook in the hallway. He’d looted it right after the start of the apocalypse, and rarely went anywhere without it now.

“Davey's runnin’ low on first-aid supplies, so we’ll go uptown to check out that corner store. Hopefully we can scrounge up some stuff,”

“Got your gun?”

Race made a show of patting the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants before nodding. “Yep. Good to go,”

“A’right,” Albert grunted, double-checking that he had his own.

The pair headed outside, making for the middle of the street, their way lit by stars still clinging to life, defying the sun just starting to rise.

“Lead the way,” Albert nodded to the west, falling into step beside Race as they set out.

Fifteen minutes of weaving through streets littered with miniscule fragments of glass, abandoned vehicles, and the occasional rotten corpse, they reached the corner store.

It was in one of the nicer parts of town, with the windows still clinging onto life, though the door was long gone. “C’mon,” Race jerked his head in the direction of the building and stepped inside, pausing uncertainly in the doorway as he caught sight of the shelves, set perpendicular to the entrance.

Goods had been more or less thrown around, scattered across the floor and piled on the shelves in a way far less than organized.

“Guess we weren't the first ones to find this place,” Albert had slid past Race and was investigating a display of candles. He picked one up and sniffed it, before scrunching up his nose. “Pumpkin. Gross.”

Race rolled his eyes, starting down an aisle at random. After another minute or so of aimless wandering, he triumphantly returned to Albert’s side, holding a plastic box emblazoned with a red cross.

The redhead seemed to be on a mission to smell every candle in the store, but he lifted his head, studying the kit that appeared in front of his face. “You think that’ll be good enough?”

“If Dave doesn't like it, he can hunt down a different one on his own,” Race shrugged, an easy smile crossing his face. Evidently, he wasn't serious, though he rarely was.

“Winter Fir, or Blueberry Waffle?”

“What?”

Albert pointed at the shelf. “The candles,”

The corners of Race’s mouth twitched up as he shook his head in exasperation. “I haven't had a waffle in a long time,” he finally said, so Albert picked up the blue-and-white candle, stuffing it into his pocket.

———

After leaving the store, the pair set off in the direction of the lodging house.

They didn't make it any more than three minutes down the road before running into their first zombie.

Albert remembered Davey saying they were diurnal— only active during the day, if his memory served him right.

Race frowned as Albert felled the creature. “I didn't know “sun’s out, guns out,” was meant to be taken literally,”

“Nine o’clock, Racer,” Albert warned.

The blond spun, cocking his gun and firing it in the same fluid motion.

More zombies were stumbling toward them, but for every one that went down, two more seemed to take its place.

The pair fought like they were fighting for their lives, like one wrong move meant an untimely end. Fought with the pent-up anger of those wronged by the world. Fought desperate and tired and scared.

Albert and Race were losing ground, and they fought like they knew it.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes and the zombie nearest to Race dropped, but Albert wasn't having the same luck.

His gun had jammed, or run out of bullets—whatever it was, he flicked it over his shoulder, then kicked fiercely out at one of the zombies, sending it stumbling back into the others.

When he abandoned his gun, Albert abandoned his last chance of survival.

At the time, he had no idea, but it soon became evident as the distance between him and Race increased, and the number of zombies between them did too.

Race realized it first. Got this frantic look in his eye, started shooting wildly to pave a way to his friend.

The redhead’s location was obvious amidst the drab sea of greens and grays, but Race could do nothing more than watch on in horror as one of the zombies opened a long cut on Albert’s side.

An inhuman scream tore from Albert’s throat, and he disappeared under a wave of undead.

“Al!”

There was no reply, but Race’s focus was redirected as his own enemies were getting too close for comfort, though a new fire had lit in Race’s chest and he battled the zombies without mercy.

———

Eventually, the last zombie collapsed with a bullet embedded in it’s chest, and Race was left alone, standing on a street littered with bodies.

Movement caught his eye, and Race turned his head toward the source as it keened quietly.

His heart lurched in his throat and he began to pick his way over to Albert, who lay sprawled across the pavement.

Blood was matted in his hair and he was as white as a sheet. He’d managed to stem the flow of blood from the gash in his side, at the very least, fingers splayed over a ragged strip of cloth torn from his shirt.

“Al—”

“Get away, Racer,”

“No, Al, ‘s okay— i-it's just a little blood,” Race kneeled beside the boy, who was shaking his head.

Foolishly, Race tugged the box of first-aid supplies out of his pocket, flicking open the lid.

“We’ll put some gauze on it, just until we can get you back home,” he said, but knew the idea was impossible once he met Albert’s gaze.

Time was running out.

Race’s hands shook as he dropped the kit, but Albert must've noticed the terror on his face because he stopped him from reaching for it again.

He’d grabbed his hand and laced their fingers together. Strangely cold against Race’s sweat-slick palm.

Albert gritted his teeth, removing the hand that had been clamped over the cloth that was covering the wound in his ribcage.

Before Race could question what he was doing, the redhead had jammed a hand into his pocket and pulled out the blue-and-white candle.

“Here. Until you have waffles again,”

“Don't talk like you aren't gonna be there to eat ‘em with me,”

“And you don't be a fool, Racer,”

Three words was all they needed. Three words they’d both been too scared to commit to reality for years, even if they knew them to be true, in one way or another.

Albert gritted his teeth. “I’m dyin’, okay? Let me die human,”

“You aren't gonna die,”

Albert didn't reply, remaining quiet until Race found his voice and spoke again.

“I need you.”

Just three words, but time was running out. They’d left so much unsaid, and now it was too late.

“I could say the same,”

“You don't get it, Al,”

“Maybe I do.”

Three words that were the reason Race ran away to Brooklyn. The reason Albert shut everyone out.

Silence settled over them again, carrying on as Albert's skin chilled and his eyes darkened, a peculiar growl building in his throat.

Three words they couldn't quite say, seemingly fated to remain unsaid.

Race’s hands shook as he pulled out his gun, miles and miles of silver glinting coldly in the half-light.

And, if it was even possible, Race thought he saw Albert’s eyes soften a moment before he pulled the trigger.

—

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[shyeehaw]

Children of this Land: Ashes to Bone

Supernatural AU - Chapter I

I would like to thank @shethenightwolf , @famderlinde , @kaziklubaby  and @crabby-abby for bearing with me and helping me with my first long fic, hope yall like it <3

This is the story of your birth, my son. It’s an adventurous one, filled with love, but also great sadness and loss. It speaks to us as well, children of this land. We know no home, and neither do you. The same land that created us now is doing the hunt.

The wooden wheels were rolling, and that hellish sound kept screeching on their ears, a sound so cruel that reminds them why they are moving in the first place. A feud as old as time, ignited by the most primordial motive: food. Then, finally, a dead man lying on the road.

When on the run, there’s no time to feed, as fugitives don’t get any rest. Time unfolded as a yarn, and Hosea’s eyes were kept glued to the small portrait in his hands. They had infuriated too many people, both gangs and law. Still, the strong scent of the corpse got them jumping out of the wagon, facing its empty eyes. Dutch approached the dead man, assaying the state of his own skin over the new one. Fresher, better. A grip around his wrist and a screech of the harpy’s throat; That’s how they knew it was an illusion, a trick. There weren’t enough roads to put distance between the Driscoll's and the Van Der Linde gang. And now, as the evening shadows and he sits on his ragged tent, Dutch watches his sons as they heal, with growing hunger.

The flames licked Abigail’s legs, and still, she wouldn’t wish to be anywhere but there. It was a flesh-eating blaze consuming her feet, her core. Yet, the only hurtful sting was their piercing gaze. Her agonized figure was a reason to cheer, to chant, around her, hearts full of hate gleamed like burning coal. Their indifference allowed her to once more, feel the depths of cruelty. What they couldn't wrap their minds around was judged, and tonight, Abigail was the defendant.

She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, raising her chin up, Abigail breathed the smoke two or three times, the crescent moon as her single witness.

“We are gathered here tonight to send this whore back to her Master’s arms”, said the Cleric, holding a cross against her direction, “Begone, foul creature! Leave us, good people, free of your bewitched venomous words.”

The crowd cheered, oblivious to the ferocity of the fire, as she was reminded, once again, of how she was used, tricked. It was a savage world, and still, Abigail was no more inhuman than those who smiled upon her burning body.

“See! She won’t even deny it! Promiscuous! Sorcerer!”, those were the words used by simple-minded men to describe women who owned themselves, who dared to be free, only to have their freedom sworded by their hypocrisy. Speaking softly to the flames, she asked them to be done, to consume her. Ash and bones. Rolling her head back, and her eyes even further, Abigail chanted a last time, the old forgotten words folding her tongue in a familiar way, praying to whichever God birthed her to claim her soul. She embraced her fiery fate.

Red, carmine -  the vivid colors flashed through their collective mind. John was the first, howling at his packmate to stop, something wrong in those woods.

“What are you fools stopping for?”, Bill stomped his hoof, “Dutch is waiting on us!”

With a growling sound, Arthur followed John, his bent legs opening way between the dense forest.

“Ahh shit!”, Bill turned around, chasing the two immense shadows by the night. A smoke scent filling their lungs.

It was a sorry scene, indeed. Those creatures, those humans, once again burning what they couldn’t understand. Out of sight, out of mind.  How long until is us burning, John? the thought invaded his mind as if was his own. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, spreading quickly, bristling his fur. John jumped at the nearest peasant, munching on his torso, breaking bones.

“You goddamn idiot!”, Bill was furious, his horns now glazed on dripping blood, making his way through the crowd. And how they screamed, running in circles only to meet Arthur’s massive open jaw. Marston, you idiot! Dutch will geld us, those intrusive thoughts were buried under his primal goal, an instinct hard to refuse.

Fire shook his claw-hand as an agreement, John Marston slashed the ropes, freeing the witch’s body from the stake. She was alive, breathing. Barely.

Retreating to the camp, John was the one carrying the sorceress’s burnt body, his nose flaring to the smell. We should hurry, those Driscoll demons are still after us, he looked at his brother -  blood on his fur from the confront, humans and their damned guns, their own way to feel powerful. The night was as silent as death, just the sound of crickets guiding the weird party home.

“Absolutely not!”, Dutch said taking a single look at the wounded girl, “As far as we know humans are burning their own under the accusation of witchcraft. No!”. He left the tent in a hurry, only to stumble upon Hosea, who seemed very much concerned.

“What’s going on here, Dutch?”, He peeked through the open tent flaps, where Ms. Grimshaw avidly worked, the girl seemed like a rag doll compared to how big and feathery Ms. Grimshaw was.

“Is she a witch?”, Hosea asked.

“We reckon”, said Arthur, his beastly shape now a bit more under control.

“Dutch, we can’t just send her away! Are you so caught up with Colm and his demon hierarchy that you missed the news?”, Hosea looked at Ms. Grimshaw, as asking for her to back up his stories, “Night folk are gone!”

“They had it coming for them, going around attacking people.”

“And how do we feed again? We need to eat, and soon! Or we ain’t healing.”, Hosea crouched beside the girl, placing his hand with a cautious gesture on her forehead, “Saint Denis is just about the same, vampires being hunted down. Towns are being watched day and night, Dutch!”

“That’s exactly why I say to take no more folk, we have bad as it is!”

The gang was already used to seeing the pair arguing like this, Strauss was barely lifting his milky white eyes from his newspaper, watching their discussion with a detached interest.

“Alright Hosea! we’ll have her if she pulls her weight! And if she’s not some human mistook for one of us.”, he said putting a saddle on The Count, “Now, we need to tend to the urgent matters, these wounds! Strawberry?”

The face of his partner turned blank by the absurd proposition.

“Jenny, Mac, Davey… I miss them too, you know? They were fine people. But we can’t go looking for revenge, Dutch, Colm’s army is growing as we speak, I thought we was going to lie low”, Hosea said, placing his hand on Dutch’s shoulder, “I would rather we go to Valentine.”

His dark eyebrows furrowed, that livestock town was like going back to his origins, feeding on farmers and travelers. Still vexed, he nodded just to humor his partner, like he did so many times.

An eternal life granted them a non-verbal communication, much like John’s and Arthur. More than that, they merged into one. Hosea became more ambitious and lively, Dutch learned to consider risks, put others needs along his own. What one did the other was there to complement, like a synchronized dance, opposites, but working together. And how far they came, finding friends along the way, watching them turn into family.

As Ms. Grimshaw and Strauss helped them packing things to get to town, John stood still beside the girl, wondering what was her name, and if it was possible from the top of her slumber, to have cast a spell on him. People would soon start wondering why he wasn’t back to his original form, since there was no longer danger around. But the fear that was haunting him had nothing to do with something that could be fought using his teeth.

“Mister? What is you called?”, a crooked lady asked Dutch.

She was the only one still wandering through those muddy streets, stopping right on her tracks when she saw the man’s face. A frightful sight, they must have been. In a group of four, they walked in pairs, the wolves behind, as shadows enlarging the danger on the careless steps of the first two, who walked sure that nothing there could kill them. Except for each other.

“Aiden O'Malley is the name, my lady”, he said with a flourish, old ways never really died. Hosea glared, doubtful, at his partner.

“I’ve seen you before… but no, not with that name, I would recall.”, said the crone, her white tuft of hair escaping from the scarf. She looked so old her memory was doing a favor by still working.

“You must have mistaken me for someone else ‘mam, excuse me.”, a collective sigh and the group left, entering the dim-lighted alley on the right.

With a single gloved hand, Dutch raised the glass window, leaving enough space for him and Hosea to slither in the warm home. Gesturing for the boys to stay behind, they began their millenary ritual, plucking breaths as fruits from a tree. Glowing yellow eyes and fluid movements would never be seen by those who quietly slept. And if they were… their skin would become his.

But Hosea never liked that, the ugly crawling feeling he got when harvesting an innocent skin, no. He and then, Dutch pledged to only take the skin of those who had not done it right.

Still insatiable, drinking the slumbered breath, they heard footsteps. It was not unusual to find a restless human walking around their houses, but sharing a concerned look, the pair hid, mixing their silhouettes with the shadows.

“Who's there? Face me, ya cowards!”, the high-pitched voice floated across the room - disembodied.

With caution, Dutch draw his gun, human or not, a bullet would always slow it down. And the trigger was almost pulled when an almost toothless smile greeted him. And then headbutted him to the floor.

Gliding across the room, Hosea placed his barrel against the thing’s head.

“Easy boy! We are the same as you.”, he spoke slowly, trying to hold the creature still.

“Oh no, that’s my way of saying hello! Hello there!”, he pushed Hosea. And in a blink of an eye, the trickster vanished, leaving both men looking around, in a neurotic state. “Now ya see me!”, he resurged sitting on a chair, “Now ya don’t!”

“Alright! We are leaving!”, Hosea declared, having his sentence finished by Dutch, “We didn’t know this house was guarded…”

“Guarded? eh, not really. Folk here give me only musty bread and milk, that’s nothing if they want to count on me mighty protection.”, the red-head swung his legs from the bed, getting up on a jump, “ Give me beer, whiskey, would’ya? Back in Ireland, I was a fucking king! Know what? Eat them, I don’t care”, he spoke too fast, leaving Hosea’s ears buzzing.

“Ireland? So what are you? Leprechaun…?”, he asked, making his way to the door.

“Pff, ya american creatures! I’m irish so I can only be those fools? Nah, I’m a Clurichaun! Related to those famous bastards, yeah, but way better.”, he said, stuffing his chest as he followed them around.

“Alright, nice to meet you, mister. Goodbye now.”, Dutch said, meeting the inquisitive eyes of John and Arthur.

“I’m Sean!”, he said shaking their furry hands, unbothered, “Say, can I join ya fine fellers? It’s awful boring in that old house.”

Dutch was about to protest, but it took just Hosea dismissive gesture for him to not be bothered, for what he saw of Sean, he had the attention span of a puppy, and would be soon off their hair.

“Great, so as I was saying…”

With their ears filled by the heavy accent, in the length of one street, the gang learned all fae hierarchy, their taste for music and booze. When Arthur could swear his arms were going through the transition just to grab the boy’s neck, they stopped.

“Alright boys, keep your eyes open. Dutch and I are coming in.”

It’s hard to draw a clear distinction between good and bad, with that thought in mind, Hosea signaled to his sons to get working on the jail’s door. Arthur slashed the fragile doorknob, his paws kicking it open, their jaws clenching to the sound. The wolves and Clurichaun kept their guard outside the door, as the couple entered, greeted by moldy walls that held a quiet interior, where all prisoners snored just as much as the deputy on charge. All but one.

“Ay! What’s going on”, a whisper was heard, “Mary-Beth! Wake up!”

Dutch quickly found the source of it. The murmuring pair was sitting at the cold tile floor, ash crosses draw on their foreheads. His eyes lingered a bit on the man’s tied burnt hands. Sharing a look, Hosea and Dutch understood what that meant.

“If I were you, I would look away.”, Dutch said, much to Hosea’s displease.

“No need, sir. We both seen things that would shock you.”

“That I doubt very much.”

Squeezing through the bars, Dutch crouched on the asleep prisoner's chest, his long fingernail slicing the flesh, separating muscle from skin. He did that with precision, with a bored look of who committed this atrocity thousands of times, like he needed it to survive.

“Sir, you seem kind enough. Would you help us getting out of here?”, the soft voice of the girl pleaded to Hosea, “They… burned my tent, and I might be next.”

Ignoring the conversation, Dutch kept slicing.

“I…Of course, my dear”, he glanced at his partner whose frown was getting worse by the moment, “John, Arthur get over here and open this cell would you?”

Struggling but a moment with the lock, the two were free, rubbing the crosses off their heads.

“And then what Hosea? Are we keeping two more mouths to feed? We don’t even know if they are like us!”, Dutch was no longer keeping his voice low, which made Sean fidget with anticipation of that deputy’s sleep being interrupted.

“They clearly are! Look at their markings!”, his voice was firm, “We can’t leave them behi-”

The words were concealed under a freezing scream, one so excruciating and cold that sent shivers down their spines. Dutch’s sloppy movements as he argued caused the man to keep screaming, his skin being ripped off. It was like watching a stagecoach crash, in slow motion but yet unable to stop it.

An iron net, and guns. Hosea’s liquid fear, filling his eyes like never before, unable to move. Among the warning bell sound of the town, he searched for the portrait that he could swear it was on his pocket. He had but a moment to undo that, and failing to find it there was nothing left but to say goodbye.

But not Dutch, his nails went through the throat of the closest policeman, as his sons fought against the others. The girl, Mary-Beth, was unlocking a chest, weirdly enough grabbing a guitar and untying the hands of the man with her.

“There’s no point, my dear…”, Hosea talked above the confusion, “Take them and go, please. Do this, for me.”

With a second chime from the bell, Valentine was filled with it’s citizens. An angry mob following them, There wasn’t enough time for goodbyes. Fugitives don’t get to say “I love you” back. Their furious steps cracked the glass of the picture, Dutch’s smile immortalized beside a beautiful lady.

“I told you I knew you, mister.”, the crone said, accompanied by his old friend. His red mustache and unmistakable black hat. On top of that, the fiery sword embroidery stitched on his cassock.

“Hello, Dutch.”

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: Dress Codes for Small Towns by Courtney Stevens!

As the tomboy daughter of the town's preacher, Billie McCaffrey has always struggled with fitting the mold of what everyone says she should be. She'd rather wear sweats, build furniture, and get into trouble with her solid group of friends: Woods, Mash, Davey, Fifty, and Janie Lee. But when Janie Lee confesses to Billie that she's in love with Woods, Billie's filled with a nagging sadness as she realizes that she is also in love with Woods...and maybe with Janie Lee, too. Always considered "one of the guys," Billie doesn't want anyone slapping a label on her sexuality before she can understand it herself. For Billie—a box-defying dynamo—it's not that simple.  

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  THE SHORT PART before PART ONE

  That’s the way things come clear. All of a sudden. And then you realize how obvious they’ve been all along. — MADELEINE L’ENGLE , The Arm of the Starfish

  NINE YEARS EARLIER

Three-hundred-year-old oaks were good for two things: hiding from playground fights and kingdom-watching. Billie McCaffrey climbed skyward and settled into a sprawling fork to observe her classmates. Over by the four square concrete slab, Janie Lee Miller sat cross-legged with her nose in a library copy of A Wrinkle in Time. Across the field, Woods Carrington was campaigning for a kickball game. Just below, two third-grade boys, Mash and Fifty, fought over a fourth-grade girl in blue bows and light-pink sunglasses. Other boys swung from the monkey bars while a herd of girls huddled, giggling and happy, around the adults. Their teacher, the center of the girls’ commotion, was dressed in a plain denim jumper and wore a bouquet of smiles. She produced from an ugly black handbag her newly awarded Corn Dolly. “Ooooh,” said the little girls. “Ahhhh,” said other teachers, who asked if they could hold the doll. They treated that decorated corn husk like Billie’s daddy treated a Bible.

Billie oooohed and ahhhhed like everyone else, her voice barely above a whisper. No one even glanced up.

Before the end of that school year, Billie had learned from her daddy that if she wanted friends, she couldn’t stay in tree forks. So she stopped climbing up, up and away, and befriended every boy in her grade by either brute force or voodoo charm. Woods, Billie’s new best friend, claimed it was her kickball skills. By God, that girl could kick a ball farther into Mr. Vilmer’s cornfield than anyone in the class. Even the most competitive boys loved her for it. The girls were a different story. They didn’t quite know what to do with her. And Billie didn’t know what to do with them.

Late summer brought water-gun fights, fishing at the quarry, and biking to and from the dam to skip rocks along the mirrored surface of Kentucky Lake. All this good fortune sparked a happy question from Woods.

“Hey, B, will you come to mine and Janie Lee’s wedding tomorrow?”

Billie chomped on an apple they’d smuggled from Tawny Jacobs’s orchard. Juice ringed her lips. “Do I have to wear a dress? ”

“Nah,” Woods said. “You’re my best man.”

After passing the last bite to Woods and wiping her mouth with her shirtsleeve, she considered his request. Seemed fair. Seemed important. “Sounds good to me,” she said, even though it sounded worse than awful.

“Promise? ” He looked concerned that she might go back to her tree-climbing, avoiding-everyone ways.

“Promise.”

She made the mistake of spit shaking. That night she asked her dad, “Will I go to hell if I break a promise? ” He’d assured her that hell did not work that way. But she didn’t know which way hell worked yet, so she tore up all the notes she’d written asking Woods not to marry Janie Lee.

The next day, Woods Carrington stood behind one of those sprawling playground oaks and wed Janie Lee Miller with a grape Ring Pop and a peck on the lips.

Billie wore her cleanest jeans and stood by Woods’s side.

She looked up to her old perch and thought this friend thing was very hard.

  PART ONE HEXAGONS ARE TRIANGLES

First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. — EPICTETUS

  1

  I’m waffling on my tombstone inscription today. Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? R.I.P.: She found trouble. Or. Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? IN LOVING MEMORY: Trouble found her.

“This is a bad idea,” Janie Lee tells me. Which is her way of saying we’re going to get caught.

“We will not be contained by a grubby youth room and pointless rules,” I reply.

Janie Lee peers down the hallway. There’s no sign of my dad, but her expression indicates she’s voting for retreat. The dingy carpet beneath her feet is patterned with repeating arrows that all point the way back to our assigned sleeping room.

I tickle-poke her in the ribs. She giggles and leans into the tickle instead of away. “I’ll protect you,” I tell her.

That’s enough prompting for her to skitter down the hall with me—two handsome thieves on a wayward mission.

We stand in front of a door labeled Youth Suite 201. It’s 3:12a.m. Janie Lee is wearing a sweet pink sweatshirt, flannel pants, and UGGs, which always make me ugh. I am wearing a camo T-shirt, jeans I stole from Mash last weekend, and combat boots that I found at a local army surplus. Clothes I can sleep in. And, well, clothes I can live in.

Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? IN LOVING MEMORY: She died in her boots.

I perform the prearranged triple knock.

Davey props open the door, and behind him the rest of our boys offer various greetings. He’s the newest of the gang and we’re all still learning him. There’s an awkward pause while we work out whether we’re supposed to fist-bump or shoulder punch or hug. I up-nod, and that seems to be acceptable enough for him to duplicate.

I turn my attention to the rest of the room. I’ve just noticed that Einstein the Whiteboard is leaning against the mini fridge when something hits me. It’s Woods, tackling me to the decades-old carpet.

“Hello to you, too,” I say from beneath him.

He licks my face like a Saint Bernard and then pretends to do an elaborate wrestling move that I don’t evade. (Even though I could.) Without warning, a two-person dog pile becomes a six-person dog pile. Davey hesitates, then lands near the top. He must be learning us a little. Boys really are such affectionate assholes. I am crushed at the bottom and Janie Lee is half-balanced on top of Davey’s back.

“Love sandwich,” she mouths at me.

It is. It’s not. It’s more. Labeling and limiting something as big as us feels somewhat impossible, but usually we call ourselves the Hexagon. On the account that sixsome sounds kinky and stupid.

“Up! We’re crushing Billie,” Woods says, because he’s always directing traffic.

Fifty farts in Davey’s face in a momentous fashion, and just like that, the jokes begin and the dog pile ends, boys sprawling onto the two couches as if it never happened. I digest the scene as I slouch against the door. Boys. My boys. I’ve been collecting them like baseball cards since third grade.

Woods. He’s not pretty, but he’s stark and golden and green like a cornfield under noon sunlight. Tennis shoes; low-cut, grass-stained socks; ropey calf muscles; blond leg hair; khaki shorts; aqua polo; and an unmatching St. Louis Cardinals hat tamping down floofy blondish-brown curls: he is these things. He is so much more. I know exactly what he’ll look like in thirty years when he’s sitting on our porch drinking peppermint tea.

Davey, elfin and punkish in smeared eyeliner, sits next to his cousin Mash, who looks nothing much like him. Fifty always appears a bit smarmy, and tonight is no exception. His dark hair is oily and he hasn’t shaved in a week. Janie Lee sits slightly apart, cross-legged and petite in a papasan chair. She takes up about as much room as a ghost. Then me. Knees up. Chin up. Happy. Taking their mischief like the gift that it is.

Some lock-ins are for staying up all night and playing shit-tastic games. This one is for parental convenience. The youth group is cleaning up Vilmer’s Barn tomorrow—early prep for the upcoming Harvest Festival—and Dad didn’t want to run a shuttle at six a.m. Tyson Vilmer, barn owner, patriarch of Otters Holt, grandfather of Mash and Davey, will be there waiting with his enormous smile and incredible enthusiasm. Despite the fact that we were supposed to be in separate rooms and asleep by two a.m., I am pretty damn excited to help. Two a.m. bedtime was wishful thinking on my father’s part. We are not true hellcats, but the Hexagon is particularly bad at supposed to when we’re all under one roof.

The other four can’t decide who will open the meeting: Woods or me.

I copy Dad’s southern drawl and say, “Let’s start with glads, sads, and sorries and then say a prayer.” They all laugh, except for Davey, who hasn’t been to enough Wednesday night Bible studies to get the joke. I gesture to the writing on Einstein the Whiteboard. “Dudes and Dudette, I predict this lock-in ends poorly.”

Woods will hear nothing of my prophecy. Einstein is among Woods’s favorite things on the planet—a medium-sized board that technically belongs to the youth group but practically belongs to him. Woods developed leadership skills in utero, and he thinks in dry-erase bullet points. Currently, Einstein says: THINGS TO DO WITH A CHURCH MICROWAVE. Five bullets follow, and most of them look like a one-way trip to a stark-raving Brother Scott McCaffrey, my father.

In the bottom corner, someone has drawn a sketch of a Corn Dolly being lifted on high by a stick figure. They’ve labeled the stick figure Billie McCaffrey, which makes me label them all idiots. The joke is so old it has wrinkles.

A Corn Dolly is only a corn husk that has been folded and tucked and tied into the shape of a doll. In the town of Otters Holt, the mayor handpicks this husk on the morning of the Harvest Festival, which is an annual event the town treats like Christmas-meets-the-Resurrection. The dolly is then assembled and bestowed during the middle of the Sadie Hawkins dance to the most deserving woman of the year.

Hence, the joke.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I say, slow clapping.

Woods is positive THINGS TO DO WITH A CHURCH MICROWAVE is suitable 3:15 a.m. material. “You say ends badly. I say ends brilliantly,” he says.

Fifty has an opinion on the matter. “The only thing farfetched is Billie actually winning a Corn Dolly.” He laughs at himself. Too hard. We are often forced to forgive this failing since his facial hair allows him a fake ID, which allows us the beer that comes along with that privilege.

I’m eye-rolling. “You asshole.” Just because it’s true doesn’t mean he needs to say it.

Fifty stands up as if to challenge me while Janie Lee buries her face in the nearest pillow and reminds us that teenagers don’t, won’t ever win the Corn Dolly—Gloria Nix, twenty-three, was the youngest.

I wave Fifty forward with both hands, ready to wrestle him down.

“Back to Einstein,” Woods announces before Fifty and I go for a real row. This may have happened a time or two in the past.

“Back to Einstein,” everyone, including Fifty, choruses. The merriment rises to previous levels.

“This microwave thing.” I point to the first bullet point: Cook Pineapple Bob. “I do like it.”

Woods is beaming proudly. “He’s had a good life.”

I agree. Pineapple Bob is, well, a pineapple. Frozen these three years in the youth fridge. Named by yours truly.

“We’ll burn down the youth room,” Davey replies. He doesn’t say it in a distressed way. It’s more of an FYI. Like he’s maybe done something like this before. I’ll light fire to that backstory eventually and smoke out some truth, but right now, it’s all Bob, all the time.

The youth room microwave is from the eighties, black as coal, and built like a tank. No doubt donated by some senior church member who moved to assisted living. Its smell is a mix of baked beans, ramen noodles, and burnt popcorn (with the door closed). So if we properly execute bullet point number three (Melt 50 Starlight Mints), its condition will drastically improve.

Janie Lee laughs nervously, her UGGs bouncing against the wicker of the papasan. She’s sipping hard on some vodka–wine cooler concoction Fifty has made. I give her a little fist-bump love for showing initiative. On both the rebellious drinking and the microwave. She doesn’t offer me a drink. I don’t need alcohol; I get drunk on schemes.

We begin.

The first three steps are disappointing. Pineapple Bob pops pretty loudly, as does the handful of Monopoly houses and hotels we’ve stolen from the game closet. The Starlight Mints have to be scraped off the microwave walls. It’s more eventful when Mash pukes up wine cooler on a half-eaten bag of Twizzlers.

“Come on, man,” Fifty says. “I wasn’t done with those.”

“You okay?” Janie Lee comforts Mash, which is pointless. Every group has a hurler: he is our hurler. He is used to puking. She is used to babying him. They are a very good team.

“Shhhhh with the upchucking,” Woods orders.

Woods and I turn our attention to step four, which is seeing How Many Peeps Is Too Many Peeps? The answer: more than forty. It’s messy and delightful.

Woods and I clean, reload, and move on to bullet five. Fifty moves on to more vodka. Typical. Step five involves boiling a used sock—Woods’s, because he has the worst-smelling feet—in Dad’s newly purchased World’s Best Preacher mug. Two minutes in, we’ve got gym smell and no action. It’s a little anticlimactic to be bullet five.

As we watch the mug-and-sock do its nothing, Woods says, “In basically three hours we have to be in the barn.”

Fifty lifts his head from a plank position on the floor and says, “In three hours, we could be walking Vilmer’s Beam.” This makes Mash throw a blanket over his own head. Everyone is tired of hearing Fifty bellow about walking the loft beam in Vilmer’s Barn. It was a dumb dare in fifth grade. We’re seniors. We’re over it.

I say, “I hate mornin—” and the sock catches on fire.

“Heck, yeah!” Mash says, too loud, and then laughs.

Janie Lee says, “The other room!”  Because there is a group of our fellow youth snoozing in Youth Suite 202.

The fire is small—barely more than a magnifying-glass-on-grass sort of spark—and entirely worth the four steps that came before it.

“Hot cup of sock, good sir?” I ask in a British accent.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Woods says, reaching for the microwave door.

Davey sits bolt upright. “Do not—!”

The moment Woods opens the door, the small fire becomes a larger one. The mug rockets out of the microwave and explodes on the carpet. The fire—well, most of the fire— lands on a fuzzy blanket. The flames poof. Woods snatches the other sock—the one whose mate is now ablaze—and beats at the fire. He only fans the flames.

We are all screaming. There is more fire. More sparks. Both shoot out of the microwave; the antique appliance dismounts the counter and lands on the carpet with an explosive bang.

I imagine my father sitting up down the hall, scratching his head, lifting his nose toward the ceiling, sniffing. A yell gathers in his throat.

“Give me something to beat it out!” I shout, and Mash laughs so hard that he vomits again.

“Puke on the fire, man,” Fifty says.

Davey shucks his jacket; Janie runs into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel. The jacket is working but not fast enough. Janie Lee throws the towel over the whole mess in a big Ta-da-I-will-fix-this fashion.

The fire is suddenly enormous.

“Was that the towel off the floor?” demands Woods as Davey rolls his eyes and says, “I’m calling 911.”

Janie Lee shrinks from Woods’s tone, nodding furiously. There’s commotion in the hallway. The counter, where the microwave previously sat, is also on fire. The alarm begins a high-pitched wail and the sprinklers descend from the ceiling as if they are Jesus in the second coming. We are all getting soaked as Woods yells, “We used that towel to mop up vodka!”

It’s hard to tell what is fire and what is smoke and what is microwave, but incredibly, I see the toe of the sock that started it all. Dad is going to kill me.

“Time to peace out,” Davey says, gesturing toward the exit.

The fire alarm continues to pierce our eardrums. Woods throws open the door to the hallway. “Abandon ship!” he shouts gallantly. Always directing traffic. He’s glistening with sweat. We all are, but he’s glorying in it.

Mash throws last week’s bulletin onto the fire before heading to the hallway. Fifty gives the wall a pound and yells, “Wakey, wakey. Church’s on fire.” Davey issues me a long look. He’s got some I told you so in those eyes. I’ve got some I know, I know in mine.

I grab Janie Lee in her sweet pink sweatshirt and UGGs and drag her behind me into the hall. She’s as soaked as the rest of us and not wearing a bra, and that’s gonna be a problem when we hit cool autumn air.

I think: I didn’t mean for all this to happen. I also think: I effing love Einstein the Whiteboard adventures. I have a moment of true fear when Woods plunges back inside the youth room. Before I even have time to process this, he reappears, coughing, and says, “Help me, Billie.” He darts into the smoky room again.

In I go to rescue Woods, who wants to save his precious whiteboard. Einstein is too near the fire. The edge is already melted, and I assume too hot to touch. “I’ll get you another one,” I promise him.

Not what he wants to hear. I drag Woods away and shove him toward the back stairs.

Around us, kids are evacuating. They’re carrying phones and sleeping bags and pillow pets. Two sixth graders are getting on the elevators while Fifty screams at them, “Take the stairs! Didn’t you learn anything in kindergarten?” A very familiar form is swimming upstream against the evacuees: Brother Scott McCaffrey. My tired and scared and angry father frantically counts everyone he sees. He flings opens doors, yells, moves to the next room. Precise words are impossible to hear over the fire alarm. But as I watch him check Youth Suite 201, I see he’s putting two and two together.

Likely conclusion: where there’s smoke, there’s Billie.

Janie Lee and I quick-walk toward the exit. She pulls me against her and says right in my ear, so I hear it over the noise, “Billie, I think maybe I’m in love with Woods!”

“Jesus,” I say, and hope it counts as a multipurpose prayer.

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