Page 22

“Things have changed a great deal.”

“Sometimes it feels like it hasn’t, but then I see how far we’ve come in a relatively short span, so yeah, things have changed a lot.” I rubbed a finger along Phil’s slack jaw.

“And the fact that you are a Chinaman—”

“Asian-American,” I corrected. His brow furrowed, but he did nod eventually.

“Asian-American. The fact that you are of mixed races is also acceptable?”

“Totally. We, meaning Phil and I, can even get legally married.”

Yeah, that one was a direct hit. His mouth fell open. KABOOM!

He made a sound of deep thought. I left him to ruminate on society and its mores while I returned to how to trap and/or unalive a hidebehind. Since we had no weapons for a melee attack—thank you, D&D, for that knowledge—we had to outwit the monster. I had no knowledge of just how smart a hidebehind was, so I just assumed it had the intelligence of a mountain lion or a bear with severe male pattern baldness. The fact that it hadn’t given up on trying to get to us spoke of some smarts for sure. Seems a large predator would have called it quits by now, but not this thing. Perhaps it was just so damn hungry it couldn’t think of letting such a juicy meal escape. Or, and this was not a thought I really wanted to entertain, it was plotting as it tested for weaknesses in our defenses.

Elspeth suggested a trap, baited with large chunks of venison. The hidebehind preferred human flesh—gross—but would feast on wildlife when no humans were available. Once the beast was in a fire ring that had been set up previously—and she was kind of lax on deets on how to set up a ritual hearth with a monster that hid then leaped out at you—the person would set the wicker effigies in the ring on fire, thereby trapping and incinerating the hidebehind.

This was where I was still having trouble. I’ve read this passage a dozen times. Killing the monster just seemed wrong. I’d been raised in a Buddhist house, which meant we never unalived anything because that mouse might be housing the karmic energy of an ancestor. Spirituality and reality were warring big time inside my fuzzy head. Hopefully I could get over myself. If I just kept repeating the mantra that this monstrosity was not a being that could be reasoned with, I might be able to put aside my upbringing and do what Elspeth had laid out. Seemed she had no issue dispatching monsters. Just set things on fire. A red-hot and easy, super-peasy witchcrafting solution.

Which was fine for a hedge witch that had wicker trinkets all over the place. We had zero wicker anything. But there was plenty of dry tinder in the woods. But we had no meat to offer up, so we’d have to use something that would draw the creature into the pyre ring. Something juicy, tender, and chock-full of tasty, meaty goodness. Something like a Kee with spirit sense and a shield. Of sorts…

I blinked to clear the fuzziness of sleep from my eyes then settled my gaze on the spirit sitting in an old wooden chair. I could see the engravings left by campers through his ethereal form. KP + VG. Camp SUX. Peter Frampton Forever. Eloise would get along with whoever carved that into the chair about one of her fave rockers.

“Henry, you say you wish to help put an end to this cryptid,” I said. He shook off his mental musings to look at me with ghostly eyes.

“If you mean the beast that lurks in our shadow, then yes,” he answered.

“Good. I need you to go to our truck and bring back the side-view mirrors.”

He gawked at me in complete loss. “I know of mirrors but not those that show a view of a person’s side.”

Right. Yep. Should have considered that. Lack of sleep and depleted Qi will do that to a person.

We had a short discussion about mirrors on vehicles, then Henry went on his way, leaving me to read more while I listened to a monster patrolling the perimeter like a Marine Security Guard. If my little plan worked, we could get our asses out of this cabin without losing any major body parts. I hoped…

***

A sharp crack of thunder woke me up.

Neck kinked off, I sat up with a groan, my back stiff. Elspeth’s book rested on Phil’s brow as he snored away without a care in the world. It took a moment for my head to realize where we were and what was going on. Camp Minnow Mingle. Senator Kestrel. Clearing the camp for money. Ugh. It still tasted bad, and I wasn’t talking about the moss on my teeth from last night’s dinner. Not that this camp didn’t need psychic help—it surely did—but I wasn’t sure I was the right man for clearing out a meat-loving cryptid. Rolling my head as I eased the book off Phil’s head, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. Rain began to fall, the soft pitter-patter on the roof increasing in intensity as the storm grew angrier. With a neck pop that made me wince, I sat straighter, rolled a shoulder, and listened. The wind was pretty raucous outside. Combined with the heavy rainfall, it made hearing the hidebehind much harder.

My bladder was full. My stomach was empty. Checking my phone for charge—fifty-two percent still—I took note of the time. Six-forty in the morning. The sun should be up, and was, but the storm was blotting out a lot of the brightness. My ass was beyond numb so I tried to ease out from under Phil’s head so I could work out the aches as well as the pins and needles to go piss…well, somewhere. There was no bathroom, and I was not sticking my dick through a knothole in a two-by-four to pee outside. Getting my prick torn off by a monster was not how I wished to meet my ancestors, thanks. I’d just piss in the fireplace if I could get my legs working properly.

“Mumpf,” Phil mumbled, stirring to consciousness and instantly moaning in agony. “Head,” he groaned, slapping his arm over his eyes. “Sun…burns…help…turn it off.”

Bright? The storm made it even darker inside. Plus, there were boards on the windows blotting out any natural light. Hangover head was brutal, poor guy.

“Sorry, babe, no can do. Can you sit up?” I slid a hand under his head to help lift him into an upright position. He moaned aloud, his upper half slumping forward as I rolled away, unable to feel my legs or backside. “Not that far. Sit up normal.”

“Can’t. Dying. Head is cramping. Let the monster eat me.” Phil coughed several times, groaning after each hack. “Ugh, I hate feeling like this. Why did I drink so much? Why? Why?! Ow. Oh God above, I’m going to die…”

“Let me get you some aspirin.” I got to my feet, listing to and fro as if I were on a ship sailing rough seas, and took a fast circle of the cabin. Once the blood started flowing, I stopped by the fireplace to check the tires. Bricks. Whatever. Urinating felt so wonderful. Highly recommended. There was no running water, but there was an old-as-hell bottle of hand sanitizer from the pandemic in our bag, probably stashed there by Monique, that I used to clean up before handling the travel tube of acetaminophen. Phil was still folded forward, his head nearly touching his knees. Athletes were really amazing specimens of masculinity.

“Archie, can you rub my back while I cry?”

Well, mostly amazing specimens. Not so much when they didn’t feel well.

Chapter Eight