Edited.
I didn't recognise the dim back roads of Brookefield, nor did I like the uneasy feeling that settled around me like a cloud. In my haste to leave the house without waking Mum, I forgot to shrug on a jumper. Side eyeing the tiny note that lay perched against the spare seat next to me, I worried at my lip.
Tonight would decide everything.
I wished more than anything Aleena was here, chattering about meaningless gossip in the seat next to me. At least she could then distract me from the danger I was throwing myself into.
In the car ride, I had tied down the disappearances to several people. I knew Pincel had a huge part to play, and hopefully uncovering his weaponry and what it was used for tonight would solidify my predictions. Miss Anderson was another story. Her obsessions with folklore could wait until later. The only danger she posed was over me, and I would prefer to keep it that way. At least then she wouldn't hurt other innocent people.
And then there was Aaron. I hadn't seen him since the night he shot Isaac. I hadn't seen both of them.
I tasted blood in my mouth. Nobody could be trusted. From now, I had to be cautious even of the boy with the green and gold eyes.
The dirt road suddenly sheared off, the sandy path cutting into bushland. Slowing the car to a halt, I stared out the windscreen to pin point the steady fall of snowflakes. Hidden in the car, I was sheltered from the wind. I knew it would be a deadly night. Winter was only a few days away.
I hoisted my phone from my pocket, squinting against its harsh light in the darkness of the car. The map still assured me Point Road was in this general direction.
Feeling myself frown, I opened the car door to round the bonnet, searching for some sign of a road I could potentially take. Drawing my arms closer to my chest, I shivered. After inspecting the snow draped bushes around the end of the dirt road, I began to feel the hope drain out of me. Maybe Pincels address had been incorrect, or out dated.
Keep looking, I growled to myself. Children are dying.
If it hadn't been for the light cast from the car headlights, I wouldn't have been able to see it. A sly bit of reflector tape, wound around a singular blade of grass at the base of a tree.
Holding my breath, I leaned closer to examine it, stepping further into the undergrowth to investigate. As I bent down, I saw another flash of light and looked up to see another slice of reflection tape several metres up.
A path. A path that could only be accessed at night, relying on the the familiarity of light. This wasn't a path that was meant to be found by anyone. It was a path found by those who were willing to look for it.
Swallowing hard, I ventured back to the car to retrieve my backpack and halt the engine. I didn't dare lock it. If I had to leave in a hurry, I couldn't waste time finding my keys. Nobody would venture down this road anyway. It was a dead end.
The backpack was at least three kilos. I had packed the essentials, learning from my mistakes from the last time I encountered the wolves. I had lost Aleena's dagger that night, and now replaced it with a skinning knife my father had left behind. First aid, scissors, a flash light and spare batteries as well as water also remained wedged in the bag. I wouldn't risk anything.
As soon as the engine cut, I was drowned in silence and shadows. I felt the snowflakes trickle up my arms, a constant reminder of the prosperity of winter. I wondered, as I began to walk, if the children had been calm when their lives had been cut short. Did they scream into the numbing silence or was their death quick? A hasty cut to the throat, a bullet to the head. At least then they could've felt nothing.
Amber didn't look like she had felt nothing. I took a swig from my water, my throat suddenly dry. Replacing the half empty bottle with a flash light, I then slung the bag on my shoulder. The flashlight flooded a small proportion of my vision with light, illuminating the first piece of tape in the grass.
It was now or never. The time for shared discoveries was over. I had to do this alone.
....
My thoughts were beginning to get the better of me. I had grown isolated over the last few weeks. Even Aaron and Isaac were no longer attending school. My own mother paid more interest to news reporters than her daughter, and Aleena was trapped in what seemed like a never ending coma.
Unfortunately, the alienation had given me too much time to dwell on my feelings. I scrunched my nose at the thought. Whenever I look at Aaron, my heart seems to rise to my throat. His touch sends shivers up my spine, rearranging my nervous system until I was left to become frustrated with the effect he has over me. But with Isaac it feels different. When I'm with Aaron I feel safe, secure, protected. With Isaac it feels dangerous, exhilarating, terrifying. He's like a drug. I know he's bad for me, his presence is intoxicating, but I'll grow addicted and dependable until it's too late to stay sober. He's a whisper in the darkness, a slight touch at dusk, a promise begging to be broken.
But he was still Isaac.
I didn't know him. I knew parts of him, but only the parts he allowed me to see. I didn't know the cause of the scars on his face, or the reason why his tricoloured eyes were damp with trauma. I didn't know why his mouth twisted into a snarl or why he practically allowed himself to be killed.
Was his self-loathing the cause of what he did to his parents? It would make sense, I thought as I walked, why he never allowed anyone to care for him. Maybe he was afraid he would hurt the people close to him. Maybe he was afraid of himself.
And yet, when he held me in his arms those nights ago, I had felt everything but fear.
I knew I could never love a boy like him. He was too broken, too destroyed. You cannot piece together a broken sculpture no matter how many hours you spend gluing shattered parts. Once a perfect thing is broken, there's no going back.
Isaac was beautiful, no matter if his personality and traits didn't match that. His beauty is dangerous, untamed. His beauty was in his story. In the ghost of this truth, the words left unsaid.
The moment I shook his hand in Miss Andersons office, I knew there was something different about him. He had watched me with a steady gaze, but even upon our first meeting, it was like he had known me for a longer period of time. He brushed me off at school, ruffled my emotions with his careless smirk and sparked nerves in my chest with his confusing gaze. But he was always there. Watching me from the corner of the room, studying me from across the oval with his cat like eyes. Calculating my words, taking in my actions, evaluating my reactions. Even now, I wasn't sure what he was waiting for.
But still, after all this time, I still couldn't figure out what had came over him. In the locker rooms, his eyes had been red with anger. His face was twisted with it, his mouth angled into a vicious snarl.
He had wanted to kill me.
In thought, I shone the flashlight on the scar that remained slashed across my knuckles. What had he seen in my scar? The very wound that Miss Anderson had given me. What could he see despite the white jagged lines of poor stitching?
I dropped my hand, reaching to grip the flashlight tighter. I was sick of playing the outsider. I was watching the card game from afar, nothing but an onlooker as Isaac played my own cards. He had enough of a poker face to lie to me. Across from him Aaron would sit, cards in hand, a gun perched next to him.
I'd seen both of them change.
Aaron in all his politeness now had a darkener manner around him. A shadow had fallen over him, destroying the kind person I had grown to care for. I hadn't given up on him, I was far from it. But I could feel my trust for him slowly ebb away. He, among everyone else in Brookefield, was drowning in their own secrets.
I hadn't recognised him as he pulled the trigger. The look in his eyes. It was terrifying. His irises had been nothing but shadows, dulled to a mash of black, shading to a look of knowingness and anger. I didn't like the look behind his eyes, the steadiness of his hands. Had he held a weapon before?
Isaac was a lion; Aaron was a fox. Both competing for survival; trickery, slyness and sheer dominance seemed to lace around them. I saw the way they looked at each other. The pointed glares, the hidden sneers. The matching scars they gave each other.
They weren't playing games.
I swallowed, pushing away at the draping leaves that obscured my path. I was treading on shattered glass around the boys. Everywhere I stood I would bleed, until I knew if I kept stepping, I wouldn't be able to hold myself any longer. Isaac with his lifeless eyes and Aaron with his pointed frown.
I remembered the look in Isaacs eyes as he clutched at the bullet in his chest. It wasn't one of immediate surprise. It was almost expectant.
He had known it was coming.
I had never been more terrified in my life. When I saw his broken body, encased in snow, I couldn't think – couldn't breathe. It was like all the blood had seeped out of me and I had nothing left to live for. I loathed myself for being so vulnerable, so caught up with the boy I had cradled to my chest. I had told myself for countless nights I was simply looking out for him as he had done for me. But there was something more. When I couldn't feel his heartbeat, I felt something in me shatter. A piece of myself broke. It had felt like I was drowning.
Now, I denied everything. The feelings I felt were nothing but exaggerated emotions caused by adrenaline. I had cared so much at the time because someone had died. When I'd left him in my room nights ago I had promised myself one thing.
Don't fall for the boy who would break you in a heartbeat.
I stumbled just as the trees parted to show a large, square building, black against the starry sky. Several closed windows lined the outside of the building, however even from several metres back, I could see the dust perch against the sills. Machinery lined the outskirts, but all were unmoving, untouched and silent. Their tracks had been covered up by a thin layer of snow. Unlike most warehouses, there was only one doorway at the front, its doors left open carelessly. I felt my eyebrows draw together. If I didn't know any better, I would've guessed the warehouse used to be an old barn.
Hesitantly I turned off my flashlight to then creep forwards, ducking low to the undergrowth. Nothing moved. It was like the world was holding its breath. Not even the wind stirred.
The sound of my feet crunching on icy leaves filled the clearing. Every step I took sent a shiver up my spine, and yet nothing pounced. As I neared the warehouse, I noticed an oil leakage from one of the many cranes perimetering the building. So they had been in use recently, which signalled people had been here. Or still were.
Suddenly conscious of my vulnerability, I hid behind a large dozer, pressing up against the yellow painted metal. Silence was my given answer. Only the snowflakes dared to cross my path.
It's too easy. No locks secured the building. No cameras glinted from the doors. No guards stood their ground. I hoped the lack of security was due to the warehouse's location. Nobody knew it was here. In my seventeen years of living in this small town, I had never heard of Point Road before. Which meant if I went missing, no one would find my body.
I swallowed and turned my train of thought to the warehouses' main and only entrance. A broken chain was wound through the two open double doors. I could see the rust glint in the moonlight. It seemed like it hadn't been in use for years.
Gathering my thoughts, I shifted towards the entrance. Heart racing, I hid in the shadows, carefully making my way to the entrance. I paused behind one of the double doors, forcing my heart beat to lower. Sucking in a long breath, I listened.
Silence.
I listened harder.
More silence.
Still holding my breath, I rounded the door. A part of me almost expected to find a gun pointed at my head, but I was granted with something worse. Small lights from the ceiling cast shadows across the warehouse, lighting up rows and rows of cardboard boxes that were deposited in steel railings. The ground, dusty but sheltered from the snow, was indented with fresh human shoe prints.
I felt my mouth open in shock as I scanned my eyes around the area. Everywhere I looked there was boxes. Some discarded, some open, some wrapped. And then there was the guns. They were hanging from the far wall, suspended in an orderly manner. Shot guns, riffles, pistols, dart guns, snipers, even a twenty-two long riffle. Every gun my father had ever described to me was in this building, and yet, I couldn't even recognise half of them.
Regardless, the boxes outnumbered the dozens of guns. Hundreds of these boxed lined several rows of steel and metal, looking like an industrial shopping mall. Only this was a hidden warehouse, cast out in the shadows of BrookeFields back roads.
I silently walked forwards, shocked. Stalking towards the first row in front of me, I paused to examine a shut up box. With a quick glance around, I then lifted it from its place and put it gently on the ground. It was incredibly heavy, at least half my weight. Grunting, I opened my bag to retrieve my scissors, allowing a tiny shred of pride to tilt my lips.
At least I had done something right tonight.
As I cut, I couldn't help but think of how loud I was being. Every shuffle I made echoed around the empty warehouse. Every cut I made drilled itself in my head. Every breath I heaved rebounded against the tin walls.
The box finally gave way and I ripped open the top. Smaller, individual, rectangle boxes were stacked on top of each other in the box, with a singular logo printed against it.
'The Parade.'
I hadn't heard of the branding before, but then again, I had never questioned my father about his choice of bullets. With shaky hands, I opened one of the smaller boxes, the sound of clinking items muffled as I moved the box.
Turning it upside down, I poured the contents into my open palm. Bullets fell into my hand, cold against my sweaty skin. It took every ounce in me not to drop them on the ground as if they were acid.
A chill went through me. I knew the white colour of these bullets from anywhere. They were Pincels.
The white casing stood out in the dimly lit warehouse as I examined the individual bullets. I wondered what company would suggest embedding mercury and silver into deadly bullets was a good idea.
I rose from my spot, leaving the boxes and the bullets so I could inspect them further later. As I continued along the initial row, I noticed that every box would hold bullets. There would be at least ten thousand individual bullets in this section of the warehouse alone. But as I rounded the corner, I realised this row held something different.
The boxes were a different shape and size, more rectangular and longer in length. I gently took a random box and tore it open with my scissors. Plunging my hands in, my fingers brushed cool metal. With careful movements, I took the item out.
I felt my eyes widen in shock as I recognised the weapon. A cross bow remained weighted in my hands, unstrung but still as deadly as ever.
I carefully laid the crossbow down despite the fact it was unloaded. Another box next to the crossbow occupied small hand guns. The box adjacent had a machine gun encased in it. Every weapon bored the Parade logo.
As I traced my fingers on the weapons, I couldn't help a tiny slice of awe to strike me. The amount of weaponry in this warehouse would cost thousands of dollars.
My father would love this place. It was a strange thought to have, and I felt my lips tilt into a frown at the idea. My father grew to love objects that took the lives of others, he even made a job out of it. And yet, he had been the gentlest father I could ask for. With his soft fingers brushing my hair into a very loose, ponytail, his grip on me as he hoisted me from the ground, chuckling at my squeal of delight.
Despite the fond memory, my heart squeezed with longing. Sometimes I wished I didn't take him for granted. I often lay awake at night, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling like puppets. If I was granted any chance to see him, I wouldn't tell him everything he missed out on – no – I would look him in the eyes, study him, watch him. I would look at his face until I could carve every detail onto a canvas without a stimulus. Even now, my mind was foggy with remembrance. Time was a curse. It edged away at my memory of my father, distorting his appearance, erasing the memory of his touch, his laughter, his smile. Time took away the pieces I initially remembered of him.
By the time I held the hands of my own children, he would be nothing but a distant echo in my subconscious.
As I considered this prospect, something warm pressed against my mouth. I let out a muffled gasp, just as another hand wrapped around my arms, pinning them behind my back. My heart kicked my chest, just as I jolted forwards. Adrenaline seeped into my bones, narrowing my vision, hastening my heart beat. I tried to twist my neck to pin point the attacker, but their hands were too firm against my mouth.
Bite. As I prepared to taste thick blood in my mouth, a scent washed over me. A memory stirred deep within my mind at the familiar smell.
"Don't make a sound," a voice whispered against my ear. I knew the voice from anywhere.
Isaac.
A million questions arose in my mind, none of which I could argue. His fingers eased off my mouth hesitantly, as if unsure letting go would instantly mean I would shout. I internally growled at the thought. I was stubborn, but I knew when to obey orders.
It was at that moment when realisation hit me. I was being silent for a reason. Within seconds, voices drifted towards us, soft and jumbled.
I felt my body stiffen, my breaths freeing in terror. Someone was here. My nails dug into my open palms, and I allowed myself to glance down the first row of boxes I had investigated. My eyes fell on my discarded bag and the open box of bullets. Isaac seemed to notice my belongings too because he let out a hiss of annoyance.
It was a stupid mistake, one that could cost us dearly. I knew I would beat myself up about it later. Instead I leant into Isaacs back, pressing us against the metal railings occupying boxes. His skin radiated heat. I could feel his heartbeat thump against my spine.
He was afraid. The thought alone sent my own heart in a whirl.
Without a word, Isaac pulled me to the end of the aisle, his lips curling into a thin line. Just as he pressed me further against empty boxes, the voices came back, louder and more detailed.
"Did you get what I asked you for?" A male voice said from afar, however the sound of footsteps continued to strengthen in velocity.
"Yes, I've ordered the required amount." My heart stopped. I knew the voice immediately. A deep loathing surged through me. I could imagine him at that moment in time. His ugly scar, his browning hair, his pointed eyes.
I part of me wanting nothing more than to round the corner and interrogate Pincel, demanding for answers, however it would simply result in a bullet through my forehead. I was sure Isaac would face the same fate. So instead I clenched my teeth together and willed my heart to lower its rapid pace.
"Why do you think she asked for so much?" Another voice asked, a lighter one. A woman, I identified.
Despite a growl of warning from Isaac, I peered around a cardboard box to spot an older male and a young female enter the warehouse. Pincel walked between the two. He was dressed formally, a white dress shirt half hidden underneath a waist coat. The other two occupants dressed in similar fashion.
Pincel studied the woman, his brown eyes narrowing. I knew the look in his eyes. Henry had given me a similar one. "I do not question her; I only do as she asks of me," he replied. The woman ducked her head, a flush of embarrassment highlighting her cheeks.
The other man shook his head, and I only just established he was holding a check board, a pen clutched in his hand. "But we've never been asked to supply this much before," he stated nervously, licking his dry lips. "I can't even decipher what she's planning. It seems outrageous."
Pincel only regarded the man with a curious look. His lips were pulling into a sly smirk, but within it held uneasiness. I could sense his uncomfortableness through the shift in his pace. He paused two rows down from us, and his companies followed suit. "That's quite an opinion you have there Mr Guineas. However, I'm sure She would love to hear how outrageous her demands are."
The squat man – Mr Guineas – shook his head vigorously. "No, no, that's quite alright." His voice trailed off.
Pincel's lips quirked at his reaction.
The woman, however, rose her head to consider Pincel. "It's one matter to store the warehouse, but another to use our supplies," she said. "Most of these snippers haven't even been touched. Why order this prosperous amount of weaponry if we've been commanded not to use them?"
The Sheriffs expression turned sour. "Are you doubting our leader's intentions?" he snarled, his voice low.
At this, Mr Guineas spoke up. "It's not just us sir, other's also mentioned their worries. The Parade is having their misgivings; some are even considering a re-election."
Pincels eyes flashed suddenly. Whatever this meant clearly wasn't something he expected.
The woman, ignoring the heat in her cheeks, nodded. "Warriors are beginning to back out of their duties. They aren't going to fight for something that hasn't even begun. The Huntress is taking too long to formulate a plan. Children are continuing to die."
"I am well aware of the disappearances," Pincel growled.
"It seems as though she is not," Mr Guineas answered, his eyes narrowing. "I've given thousands of these bullets to warrior's sir, I've stacked hundreds of boxes and ordered double that amount in weapons. We're as prepared as we can be, and yet The Huntress hasn't given us the final command."
Pincel glanced at the two, a muscle in his jaw jumping. I could see his hands tighten into fists. "Haven't you two idiots considered she is waiting for the right time? If we don't attack in a specific window, our efforts will be meaningless."
"Pardon me sir," the woman cautiously interrupted, "but by the time The Huntress finally gives the cue, there will be no more children left to save."
I stared, hand to mouth. Confusion rolled through me, however I didn't have time to address my questions before Pincel spoke again.
"I have to say I'm disappointed in the both of you," he eyed the two off with a piercing glare. Both of them didn't return it. "You're questioning our leader even after she's ruled accordingly for decades. Where is your loyalty?"
Mr Guineas tapped at his check board. The noise rang around the warehouse. "Our loyalty is draining as a consequence of her hesitance," he answered, although I noticed he still wouldn't meet Pincels gaze. "While we wait, the Forsaken grow in numbers."
"You think I don't know that?" Pincel lashed. Fury was written across his face, darkening his irises and adding a dangerous undertone to his voice. "At least here you can complete your orders in solitude from prying eyes. I'm the one most involved in this world. I'm the first to hear about another missing child, and have to account for it as a pathetic tunid."
The woman glanced at her colleague. He met her gaze, his lips downcasting. There was a moment of silent communication before the woman spoke again. "Some members have," she paused, selecting an appropriate word, "questioned, your performance in the tunid world."
Now Pincels face twisted into rage. His cheeks flushed in anger. I saw Mr Guinneas tremble slightly.
"Questioned me?" Pincel echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The woman glanced at her colleague again but his eyes were downcast to his feet.
Without any reassurance, she met Pincels furious expression with a pale face. "It seems as though your attempts at redirecting the tunids from our procedures is lacking in effectiveness."
She bit her lip, clearly unsure as if to go on. "That tunid girl, the one The Huntress warned us about, her knowledge of us could be undoubtedly blamed on you." I felt Isaac stiffen against me, his long breaths halting entirely.
Immensely lost, I continued to listen.
Pincels face seemed to harden dramatically, his hands balling into fists at his side. "Renee Argent won't get in the way if she knows what's good for her."
Black pierced the edge of my vision. They were talking about me. These strangers, centred in the middle of an illegal warehouse, were speaking about me.
"You assure us that despite telling her our plans," Mr Guinneas finally piped up, although his voice was barely above a squeak.
Pincel, almost reluctantly, nodded, however his mouth was still twisted into a scowl. "She does know of our ways, but she is only a girl. Who could she tell? No one would believe her. She won't harm us."
The man shuffled uncomfortably in his spot, openly in disbelief. "But you gave her the warehouse address."
"I left her the address to this place ages ago but she hasn't ventured here," Pincel answered. "I had planned to dispose of her as soon as she entered the building, or at least order others to do so, however she didn't show. It seems, as I predicted, she is too afraid to do anything about what she knows or heard."
My heart rose to my throat, constricting it. I struggled to breathe.
The woman shook her head. "You of all people cannot rely on assumptions, she could easily return to this place, take evidence and deliver it to other officers."
Pincel's smirk reappeared. "You're forgetting I lead the tunid legal system. If she makes any legislations, I will quickly rid of her before a case is formed. And even if she did manage to find her way here, I have ordered guards to shoot her if she is spotted around this perimeter. If she comes to the warehouse, there is no way she'll leave with her heart intack."
I felt my legs dissolve into jelly. Swaying, Isaacs hands gripped harder on my back, grip steel-like against me, attempting to still my shivers.
The woman frowned, still looking doubtful. "The Huntress continues to speak of her as if she may be a threat."
Pincels eyes narrowed. "The girl isn't a threat. She's a tunid who's too nosy for her own good."
The man and woman exchanged glances again. In a low voice, the man spoke again. "It may be naïve to describe her as just a tunid."
Pincel snorted in rebuttal but did not argue the case. The three fell into silence. Pincel slitted his pupils on the two, looking anything but pleased. "Well, was that all you fools came to tell me? You've given up on your leader and fear that meaningless girl."
The woman spoke up. "That wasn't our inte—"
"I can almost smell the fear coming off you," Pincel sneered. "What are you so afraid of?"
The woman gnawed at her lip, straightening her suit coat nervously. "The girl could meddle with The Huntresses plans, she could ruin everything—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Pincel interrupted. "That girl couldn't possibly hurt us, let alone disrupt The Huntress."
Suddenly, Mr Guinneas seemed to reawaken, the colour returning to his cheeks. "Why didn't you kill her if she's nothing but a nuisance?"
A small rumble sounded from Isaac that seemed more like a growl. I was too concentrated on both the conversation and breathing oxygen into my lungs to address the noise.
Pincel considered this for a moment, his eyes diluting in thought.
"I could've, in fact, I nearly did," he answered simply. "If she was shot by the guards, I wouldn't necessarily be disappointed. But there's something about her. She knows information we do not. I saw it in her eyes in that office room, she knew about the bullets as soon as she saw them." He pressed his lips together. "She's gaining information about others, and not just the Parade. If I torture her enough, maybe she'll tell me what she knows before I kill her. Her information may be somewhat beneficial to The Huntress."
Both Pincel's colleagues looked weary. "You need to deal with her before she spreads the location of this place to others," the woman said finally.
Pincel made a low noise in the back of his throat. "Although a child, she is not stupid. She will not speak of this location to another one; who is there to tell? I've studied her, I've grown up with her father. Her mother is a broken mess, her friend is stuck in a coma and the two boys she surrounds herself with are oblivious to us."
"When the time comes, I will slaughter her myself. But for now, all we can do is provide our service to The Parade and do as The Huntress askes of us."
He eyed them off steadily, his own remained removed of emotion. "Do not worry about the girl, her time is coming to an end. As for the disappearances, The Huntress knows what she is doing, and the Forsaken will cease in existence." Pincel let out a deep breath, his words fogging into clouds of condensation in the cold weather. Finally, the man and woman seemed to believe him and nodded.
"Now finalise the latest order and lock this place up. I expect the guards to be on duty later tonight." He eyed them off.
They both murmured sounds of approval before the trio walked away from the warehouse entrance, disappearing around the corner. All three of them passed my discarded bag without so much as a second glance.
Isaac and I stood in silence, his arms still wrapped around my stomach. We didn't dare breathe for several seconds. It was only when my heart had finally reduced its rapid pace to normality when Isaac let go of me.
I spun on my heel. "What the hell was that?" I spat sharply, hoping – praying – Isaac had understood what they were implying.
Isaac regarded me, his eyes blazing. "I should be the one asking questions," he hissed. "Do you have an eye for death? Why the hell would you come here?"
I stared at him. Why was he angry? I was the confused one. Pincel had spoken of tunids, Forsaken, The Huntress, words I couldn't even begin to decipher.
"I came for answers," I lashed back. "Answers I was looking for alone."
Isaac's lips curled at my response but he didn't press the issue, instead he glanced towards the open entrance. "We need to go, they'll come back to lock up and check the place no doubt." His tricoloured gaze trailed back to mine. "And you better clean up the box of goodies you decided to unwrap in the middle of the aisle."
I gave him a sharp glare, ignoring his comment. "I'm not leaving until I get some answers, or at least some from you."
Isaac shook his head, his curls rubbing against his neck. "There's no time Renee."
I made a noise of rebuttal but Isaac stepped closer. I craned my neck up to meet his persistent gaze, consciously aware of the smell of pine that wrapped around me. "I can't protect you here." His words were sincere, genuine, almost considerate. I studied him, weary of his change of character, and then, reluctantly, obeyed.
"Fine," I said, pushing away from his nearness. "But you better start talking."