There are snow flurries the next night. Just so we can warm ourselves by a fire and not attract the attention of every flying or forest-dwelling monster in a ten-mile radius, going into town was the right choice.

Late this afternoon, we crossed into Luray, Virginia. According to Jael, we're about twenty-five miles from where we started, "as the crow flies." We've probably traveled much more than that, considering the uneven terrain, the turns in the river, and what we had to do to elude Ivy.

The town is quaint in some sections and seedy in others. So we don't stand out in our vagrant-looking attire, the seedier side is where we find ourselves.

We step below an overpass and flock toward the only source of light.

"Mind if we squeeze in?" Jael has a voice and a presence that humans don't tend to argue with.

I have no real-life experience with addiction, but it's clear the lady standing guard is high or strung out. She's twitching and her black eyes just don't land right. 

She seems to weigh our strength and worth with her gaze, and purses her lips, not sure what to make of us. Our clothes aren't pristinely clean. They may be the cheapest you can buy, but they're also fairly new. In her drug-addled mind, who knows what sense she can make of that, if any?

Her assessment ends with a shrug of one shoulder and a glance behind her. "Enzo and Skewer will be right back."

They sound charming. And where might they be?

I've seen one man trudge by us on the sidewalk, swearing at no one in particular. Two passing cars slowed to a crawl, maybe looking for trouble. A black Escalade seemed to rub Jael the wrong way, but they moved on without incident. I guess we weren't the kind of trouble they sought.

Two sleeping bags sit on the ramp across the road. They appear to contain bodies. Alive, I'd like to assume. And there are a few men in hoods loitering by the woods, too far away to see or hear clearly. Their discussion is loud, but not unfriendly.  

"Can we stay until they get back?" I ask her gently.

I have my way of getting what I want, too. Jay and I have different problem-solving tactics, and I suppose it helps to pick and choose. It's a big world, and the more miles we gain and environments we master as a team, the better off we'll be.

She nods but then barks, "five dollars," as soon as we step close.

Jael pulls a folded, five-dollar bill from his pocket, the change from a convenience store earlier. When the lady reaches for it, he makes a point to lift it out of her reach. "Five dollars, and you tell your friends to screw off for an hour."

The lady snickers to herself. They're no friends of hers, or she knows something we don't.

Jael lets her snatch the money out of his hand this time. "Deal," she says dubiously.

I find some comfort knowing that Jael always has an ace up his sleeve. I've seen him scare off Ted, recover from two bullet wounds with just the help of me, needle-nose pliers, cold water, and about an hour of time. And he basically beheaded a vampire who didn't show the slightest fear of him.

Jael encourages me to get right up to the barrel with a firm hand on my back.

The homeless lady takes note of that and smirks at us. "You two together?" she asks, lifting her gloved hands, stringy and tattered, over the fire.  

I follow her lead, wriggling my fingertips, hoping to return some of the dexterity to them. Jael and I don't have gloves. I know everything costs money, and it's not something we have in any excess. But, with the weather being what it is, they've become a bit of a necessity, and we haven't had an opportunity to acquire any. 

Jael and I exchange glances, consider the question, the advantage of the truth versus a lie, and the possible favor we'd gain by playing nice.

Pocketing one hand, he slides the other around my back, and it lands protectively on my hip. He wouldn't likely answer her at all, but he lifts an eyebrow at me, at least curious to see what I would say.

"Depends on the day, I guess," I reply, my eyes on his. They flutter back toward the homeless lady, who isn't much bigger than I am. Along with my half-hearted attention, I give her a slight smile.

His way versus my way. Why make an enemy if you don't have to?

"She's still mad at me," Jael adds, bobbing the side of his head at me. 

"What'd you do?" The lady's tone is an intrusive clap back, more accusatory than either of us are prepared for.

"That, we can't tell you." I swat at Jael playfully, hopefully assuring her that it's nothing serious.

"You running from the cops?" she grills us further.

"Something like that." All good humor has left Jael's demeanor. "What's it to you?"

She's an entrepreneur and offers him a sleazy smile. "Spot me a 20, for my silence?"

Ten," he bargains. "It's all I got. Fifteen if you take change."

That's twenty bucks in all, and as soon as she gets it, keeping warm is no longer her priority. Even with a limp and a frail frame, she makes it over to the gang in the distance at an impressive gait.  

"Worth it, to get rid of her," Jael comments, going into his satchel for two protein bars, and handing me one. He certainly didn't intend to share those.

We eat our dinner-snack in silence. As famished as we are, they still taste terrible. It takes all my concentration just to get a bite in my stomach.

Jael isn't as picky. He eats the whole thing in seconds and lifts a concerned eyebrow at my lack of appetite. Knowing him, he'll follow it up with a dozen, mother-hen questions, like, are you feeling all right? Do you need to rest? How are your . . . he always pauses . . . thighs, he inquires, because he doesn't want to say butt or ass. Or do you need to relieve yourself?

He once said bathroom and I laughed myself silly and then started crying. He never said the word again. And let me tell you, "relieving yourself," is a process. If we don't go in the river, he insists that we take the time to bury our waste. Needless to say, I find myself holding on to it for a lot longer than I should, and he's worse about it than I am. Or he's better at taking care of it outside of my awareness.    

What Jael really wants to know (but never asks), are you still mad at me? And what could I be doing better to make it go away?

With too many questions of my own, I don't have an answer for him. We've made progress in the days we've been running, and he's not as cagey about it as he once was. With no job or ties to Ivy anymore, he's got nothing to lose. It would still take him years to explain the nuances of the underworld that, three weeks ago, I didn't even know existed. And there are microcosms within, each with their own codes of conduct, all of which would be wise to avoid. Sometimes these groups answer to some higher authority—like the Maleceks in the witch/warlock realm—but often, it's not that simple. It depends on where you are in the world, what group is where, how strong they are, and who hates who more.

I should be patient and the master of subtly for the sake of morale and the fragile peace and harmony we've rebuilt together. But right now, I'm coming up short.

"I have a question," I make known once I decide I'm not hungry anymore. I fold the wrapper over the last third of the protein bar and stash it in my jacket pocket.

"Is it a tough question?" Jael throws his empty wrapper in the burn barrel, and I can tell he's pleased about that.

Like him, some of these beings have extraordinary senses of smell. If he finds an easy way to destroy some evidence of our existence, he'll definitely latch on and act like he won something.

"Hmm..." I say, thinking out loud. "Eight out of ten," I warn him.

"That sounds pretty bad, actually." He grimaces, lightheartedly, but I can tell, in his eyes, he's dreading the words that are about to come out of my mouth. "All right. Just like pulling off a band-aid, let's just get it done in one clean..." He demonstrates yank with his fist and too much enthusiasm.

He's in a weird mood tonight. For example, he's giving money to strangers just to be alone with me when we've been exclusive, non-stop, since the Ivy incident. 

I hope it means the worst is over. Anything can still happen, of course. We never know who we'll run into, even with our hoods up or hats on, and appearances that aren't typical for either of us. For anyone who even remotely knows what they're looking for, we stand out, nonetheless. Because every experience is a new experience. To this degree, he's never had someone to look after, and I've never done any of this before, not even the constant male-companion thing. 

"Do you think I'm possessed by the devil?" I just put it all out there in less than one breath.

He pulls his head back, and eyes me, comically wide. "That's a bit heavy for a burn barrel conversation."     

"Come on. Don't joke." Gazing into the fire, losing most of its oomph already, I attempt to rub some extra warmth into my hands while I still can. "You know more about this than I do, and I want your supernatural opinion."

"I'm not sure I'm the right one to ask."

I can tell he knows more than he's letting on, and I pretend he didn't say that. "When I'm angry lately, something comes over me. I feel stronger. I say things I don't mean..."

"It's called a temper," he tries to convince me, placing a casual arm around my shoulder. "Everyone has one. You just finally found yours."

"Don't give me that!" I give him a nudge in the stomach with my elbow. "I saw your expression during our tiff with Bryony. You were startled. Scared, even. Ishmael seems to think this phenomenon is interesting, so..."

"Does he now?" he jumps in the instant I pause.

"You can try to use jealousy as a distraction—which is completely unnecessary, by the way. He said that when he was trying to bend me to his vampire will. I was literally writhing around on the ground, pushing through pain I could see and taste in just an attempt to resist him."

"Interesting," he repeats, more pleased than outraged, and it's so infuriating.

"Forget I asked," I blow out amid a loud sigh.

I slip out of his light embrace and move to the other side of the barrel.

"I wish I could," he mumbles back.

The pathetic fire is the only thing interesting about this conversation. It gives us an excuse not to look at each other.

I'm the first one to glance up and I realize that he looks, not angry—like me—but contrite and dejected.

I truly don't know where we stand. We haven't had that conversation or made any move to render it unnecessary. There has been a little nudity—can't really avoid it—and some very light petting, but he hasn't kissed me or let his hands wander outside of the friendzone since the shower-scene-gone-wrong. And that feels like a lifetime ago.

Moments like these call everything into question again. He doesn't like it when I'm mad at him and he knows he deserves it. He's hiding something, but it's not out of spite. Outside of us, he has no one left to protect. If love is the reason, he doesn't know how to express it or use it properly. The truth is what's best for me, and yet he believes otherwise.   

Other than maybe the mechanics of a relationship, I don't think he knows what he's doing any more than I do, and because of that, I throw him a bone. "You've been fairly honest with me over the last couple of days. I don't know why you're suddenly deciding to gaslight me."

"I'm not trying to," he replies.

"You don't seem to understand why I'm asking. If I'm possessed, I can't go home."

Jael takes a shallow gulp, and his gaze flicks to the right, avoiding my scrutiny or heightening his own, to assess the extent of danger nearby. "Possessed is a strong word," is his eventual reply. There is another delay, and a slight grunt accompanying the downward quirk of his mouth, but his attention does return to me. "You're clearly you, and for the most part, you have full control of yourself. I can't promise that will always be the case, but . . . it, whatever it is, only seems to surface when you're in danger. And if it wants you to survive, it can't be all bad. Maybe you're able to call it to you, and it won't come unless it's invited. I think Ivy used the term bridging. And if—"

"You heard her say that?" I interrupt.

He pinches his eyes shut and massages the bridge of his nose. "They made me watch," he reluctantly admits.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this? Don't you think I have a right to know?"

He surprisingly doesn't hesitate. In fact, he spits it right out: "I relive it every time I close my eyes. I can't even avoid it when they're open and I'm insanely busy. It's always there, on a loop. And I wouldn't wish that upon anyone, least of all, you. Trust me, ignorance is bliss, and this is..."

Hell.

He doesn't have to finish. I can just infer.

And I don't know how to respond. Or even how to feel.

It's true, like he said, it could be worse. As of now, the damage is just a brand on my side and an explosive temper, when retaliation is warranted. It may never surface again. Or, it could grow, like an invasive weed and completely take over, everything I like about myself or what others like about me. It really is too soon to tell.

Part of me—maybe the good part I'm in danger of losing—wants to go over and comfort him. Apologize for asking. Let him know that it's okay. I understand. You've been through a lot. This is hard for you, too. But then another part of me—a dark oily drip that may accumulate, spill over, and then spread, the more I learn about this ordeal and suffer through as a result—releases me from any obligation. We've all made mistakes, but his mistake cost a girl, maybe not her life, but her identity, her family and future, the sanctity of her own body, and her freedom to make her own choices.

Granted, things weren't going that well to begin with—Ted, barely a penny to my name, friends who've probably forgotten me already, grades that were mediocre at best, parents who weren't supportive—but I was only a freshman and there was at least a chance to turn things around. All things considered, it wasn't likely, but, then again, this burn-barrel lifestyle doesn't seem like a fair alternative for the sins I've committed. 

I have to consider this as well: things change once you get to know someone. It may not be right, sacrificing an innocent stranger for a "greater" cause, but I suppose it's human and it's certainly been done before. Every war, for example. And, well, if Jael didn't grow attached to me, if he could somehow resist this human tendency because of his animal nature or whatever. Or if he cared about Ivy, his job, and own safety more, he'd probably still be living in our old apartment, his life relatively in order.

And I'd be dead.

Of course, I'm grateful. And sometimes that looks like love and feels like love, but is it spawned from necessity and lack of any alternative?

In the end, I just stay silent, and try to absorb what's left of the heat on the other side of the barrel.