The Serpent King(58)

Lydia tilted her head and smiled. “That sounds awesome. A tiny bohemian artists’ colony right here in Forrestville.”

Dill grew more animated. As if trying to persuade Lydia that it really was awesome, which was what he was doing. As if trying to persuade himself, which was what he was doing. “We’re planning on having Friday-night movie nights still. We thought maybe you could join us sometimes on video chat. Not every time, because obviously you’ll be busy.”

“I would sincerely be honored.” After a while she said, “Is this what you want, Dill?”

“It’s as close as I’m going to get,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you—that you be happy and live the life you want to live. I thought you’d need to leave here to do that, but maybe not.”

“Maybe not.”

And Dill realized that maybe he wasn’t so easy to read. If he were, Lydia would have asked him why he looked as though he felt like his heart was being pulled from his chest, fiber by fiber, cell by cell, molecule by molecule. And instead of killing him, it only hollowed him out.





Raynar Northbrook perched atop the isolated redoubt, keeping his lone vigil by the river. If any scouts of Rand Allastair’s came this way, they would meet a fiercer foe than they had anticipated. There were others who could and gladly would sit at this lonesome post in his place, but he did not ask of his men that which he was unwilling to do himself. And they loved him for it.

Travis sat on top of the remnants of his firewood. It didn’t seem like it would be a great spot—it was right by the river and not especially close to any houses or businesses. But Lamar recommended it, and he was right.

How’s the firewood selling? Amelia texted.

Pretty good night, especially after Doc B bought so much. Few more nights like this and I can afford a new laptop, Travis replied.

When do I get to read the story you wrote?

LOL once Lydia tells me what I need to fix. I want you to see the best version.

I bet it’s great already. You’re so smart.

Aw thank you. Hey I just got an idea.

TELL ME.

When Deathstorm comes out, we should meet in between where we live and read it together!!

I LOVE THAT IDEA!!!!!

Ok we’ll do it!! We can get blankets and lie in the back of my truck and read with flashlights.

PERFECT!! OMG CAN’T WAIT!!!

Travis shivered and thought about closing up shop, but he wasn’t sleepy yet, and sleeping was about all he could do when he sneaked into Dill’s house each night. Not a word had passed between him and his father at work. His father certainly hadn’t invited him home—not that he would have accepted such an invitation. He talked with his mom regularly when he went by to pick up food while his father was out. He didn’t tell her where he slept, but he assured her—on his honor—that it was in a safe, warm place.

The other reason Travis saw no reason to close up yet was that he was reading Nightwinds, the fifth book in the Bloodfall series, by flashlight. He’d managed to reread Bloodfall, Raventhrone, Swordfall, and Wolfrun in time to put away Nightwinds before Deathstorm came out in March. And that was even with starting his writing career.

His phone buzzed. A text from Lydia. Have big news. Tell you when I see you.

Hope it’s that you gave my story to G. M. Pennington’s agent and they want to publish it LOL, he texted back.

A set of headlights in the distance. An older model white Nissan Maxima slowed and pulled up behind Travis’s pickup. He set down his book, clicked off his flashlight, and hopped down. Two men got out of the Maxima. Travis didn’t recognize either of them; they were both wearing hoods that obscured their faces.

“Hey, gentlemen,” Travis said. “Get you some firewood on this chilly night?”

One of the men hung behind a little bit. The other stepped forward. “Yeah, man. How much?”

“Small bundle’s five dollars, big bundle’s ten. Cut you a deal on the whole rest of what I got if you’re interested.”

“Lemme think about it, bro.” Something about the man seemed strange. He had a nervous, jittery energy.

The man who hung back joined his compatriot. “We’ll take a large,” he said.

“Okay.” Travis rummaged in his pickup bed for a nice large bundle.

When he turned around, the man pointed a gun at him. “Gimme your money, bro. Hurry your ass up. All your cash.”

Travis’s heart began pounding. His mouth went dry. His legs felt rubbery beneath him. He raised his hands. “Okay, okay, okay. No problem. No problem. Just take whatever.” He handed over his wallet.

The man seemed even more nervous and jittery than the first man Travis had spoken to. “What you got in the truck?”

Travis opened the cab door. He reached for his zipper pouch on the floorboard, where he kept most of his firewood earnings for the night. It was wedged under his staff. He picked up his staff to move it out of the way.

He heard a deafening crack and simultaneously felt a sledgehammer blow to his ribs. It knocked him into the doorframe.

“Shit, dude! Why’d you shoot him?” the other man screamed. “Come on, we gotta move.”

The man who shot Travis yanked the zipper pouch from his hand. The two men dashed to the Maxima, jumped in, and screeched away. Travis watched their taillights disappear over the rise. His brain told him that he should have gotten the license plate number, but it was too late.