“I will file that away,” he promised.
“.and then it became a kind of co-op for everyone in town. A central meeting place.”
Graf nodded, though he hadn’t been listening for some time. As they walked through the dark, he’d asked one innocent question about their destination—June’s Place—and had received a history lesson that had lasted at least a mile. His feet ached, his throat was dry, and his ears were his worst enemy.
“So, there’s going to be someone there willing to take me in, then?” He slapped a mosquito off his neck.
Jessa shrugged. “Maybe. Despite what Sheriff Stoke said, you might be able to get one of the rooms at the old high school, if enough people argue on my side. There aren’t classes anymore, because of It.”
Scanning the road behind them, then ahead of them, Graf took some comfort in the shotgun tucked under Jessa’s arm. He didn’t have a clue what “It” was, but he didn’t feel the burning need to run into the thing again to try to figure it out. “So, people are afraid of It, enough that they won’t send their kids to school anymore, but they’ll come out to this June’s Place in the middle of the night?”
She shook her head. “It’s different, when it’s kids you’re talking about. People know they’re taking a chance coming out, but they’re more comfortable taking that chance when it’s just them and not their babies likely to get killed. Anyway, the people who’ve already been attacked don’t have anything to worry about, in their minds.”
“How many people has this thing killed, then?” he asked. “Like, has it ever killed a kid, for these fears to be warranted?”
“It has. One.” Jessa’s face got the same bitter, far-off look she’d had in the kitchen when he’d mentioned the stupid chore chart on the fridge the night before. It was the kind of expression that was visible even in the dark.
“Ah,” he said in understanding. “So, I take it that’s what happened to your family?”
“No. Someone else.” she said, and then a brightness in her voice signaled that their conversation would not be heading down that particular road. “Really, it hasn’t killed that many people. And the ones who’ve died either got in It’s way, or they picked a fight with It. Protecting livestock or their kids, you know?”
Well, It probably had nothing on Graf. And he’d be adding to his body count by the end of the night, if he played his cards right. As she launched into a forced-cheerful description of the local waitress who’d been killed by the monster and exactly what extracurricular activities she’d been involved in back when they’d been in high school, Graf gave Jessa a good onceover. She looked a lot better when she hadn’t just been running for her life. Her thin cotton tank top clung to her body from the humidity, and the light sheen of sweat that made her bare arms sparkle in the low light wafted her scent to him. He breathed it in, and his mouth watered. Her nipples stood out against the ribbed cotton of her shirt, and her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, swished against her neck. He imagined gripping her by that hair, winding the length of it around his fist as he jerked her head back.
That was where the fantasy ran into a snag. He didn’t know if he wanted to pull on that ponytail while he was eating her, or fucking her.
They came to the junction of the gravel road and blacktop and took a right. It wasn’t the road he’d come in on, Graf realized, and added it to his mental map. Not that it would be accurate in any way. If he was good with directions, he wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.
A few more minutes of walking in tense silence brought them within view of a long, low building with a flickering neon OPEN in the window. A weathered wooden sign in the empty parking lot proclaimed it JUNE’S PLACE.
“Is anybody here?” Graf asked, frowning at the lack of cars. Then, he recalled Jessa’s reluctance when he’d suggested driving there. “Oh, I get it. No gas …”
Jessa nodded. “No cars. Right. And I thought you should keep your fuel for when you needed to barter for something. If you brought that car here, you’d come out to find all the useful parts stripped off it.”
“Like, someone might try to siphon the gas out of it while I was inside?” He enjoyed her guilty expression for a moment before he said, “I saw the hose and the gas tank on the lawn.”
“Right. Well, I do what I have to.” The proud set of her chin didn’t match the still-remorseful look in her eyes.
They entered June’s Place through a small mud-room, its walls little more than the clapboard siding that covered the rest of the building. Jessa pushed open the door to the interior, and the thick, heavy smell of alcohol and something else—sweet and smoky and skunky—assaulted Graf in a cloud.
“Is that … pot?” he asked, covering his mouth with his sleeve.
“We can’t grow tobacco here,” she answered with a shrug. “People need something to smoke.”
Graf made a face. He liked a cigarette, and even a joint, every now and then, but he preferred his humans keep the oxygen in their blood free from pollutants. He looked around the room, trying to find one acceptable meal to replace Jessa when he finished her off, but everyone in June’s Place looked rough and leathery, and they all puffed on pipes or joints, big jars of clear alcohol in front of them. If he ate one of them, he’d be buzzed for a whole night.
He noticed the hungry way he was surveying all of the people in the bar. And they were all looking back at him, he realized with a shock.
“Who’s your friend, Jessa?” someone asked, and Graf turned toward the bar, where a slender woman with hair in a long, sandy-brown braid stood wiping a glass with a rag.
Jessa nudged him forward, and they walked to the bar, Jessa’s back stiff under the stares of the rest of the patrons.
“June,” she said with a smile as she hopped onto one of the bar stools. “This is Graf. He’s looking for a place to stay.”
“He picked a hell of a place,” June said, her ruddy face breaking into a smile. She reached across the bar to shake Graf’s hand with surprising firmness. Her smile faded as she looked back to Jessa. “Where’d he come from? “
“I ran into him out on the road last night.” She lowered her voice. “Out at the service station.”
“What were you doing there?” June had a way of talking without moving her mouth, and the words came out as though they were tied together with string. Graf liked that. It made everything she said seem tense and important.
Jessa shrugged casually, but leaned in so as not to be overheard. “I was running from It. Chased me all the way out there.”
June looked up from the bar with a plastered-on smile and nodded to the rest of her patrons. Then, she leaned back down. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
“She’s fine,” Graf said, slapping Jessa on the back. “Aren’t you? I got there just in time.”
The door opened, and a group of five guys stumbled in. Their entrance was loud and rowdy, but they didn’t draw the rapt attention of the patrons away from Graf and Jessa. They all held mason jars, half-full of clear liquid, and they could barely stand up straight. One of the guys was Derek.
“Oh, here we go,” June said with a sigh.
“What are they drinking?” Graf asked, his eyes watering from the drunken stink that nearly overpowered the smell of the marijuana smoke in the bar.
“Shine.” June jerked her thumb at the wall behind her. “It’s all we got. For a while, we tried prohibition, but with our situation … well, people deserve to numb the pain whatever way they can.”
“I couldn’t