Blood of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 2)

Distraction. That’s what this was. Something to occupy our minds, something other than the three bodies we’d cremated and scattered to ash ten days ago and however many miles up the mountain. And maybe, just maybe, I’d shoot an accurate arrow before Shea and Darwin were strong enough to make the rest of the hike down.

“Wider,” Jesse breathed against my nape, his tone a darker shade of annoyed.

His fingers dug into my hips from behind as he kicked the insteps of my boots, knocking my feet farther apart in the stream.

Beside me, the water lapped against Shea’s knees as she adjusted her stance to mirror mine, her pretty face creased in concentration. When it came to archery, she and I were closely matched in skill, though she looked a helluva lot more comfortable holding the bow.

How was I supposed to angle my chest again? I copied her position, pointing my shoulders toward the target, only to have Jesse twist my hips where he wanted them.

Ugh. Would I ever master this? And why wasn’t he giving Shea the same hell he was giving me?

I pulled the arrow back, squinting at the wide base of the tree on the shore. I was going to hit the motherfucking target this time.

“Evie.” Jesse grabbed my hand and pushed the arrow forward, loosening the tension in the string. “Look at your fingers. You’re ten yards from the target.” He gritted his teeth, his face inches from mine, his full lips and strong jaw irritatingly attractive. “What have I said?”

“The closer I am,” I grumbled, adjusting my hand, “the lower my fingers should be on the string.”

Roark sat on the shore, stroking the top of Darwin’s head, his emerald gaze on the surrounding woods.

I nodded my chin at him. “Why isn’t that guy training?”

“His weapon isn’t out of ammo. Bend your elbow sideways.” Jesse smacked my outstretched arm and waded behind me to take more frustration out on my other arm. “Lift this one higher. See? Puts the proper back muscles in-line.”

To think, the archery lessons had been my idea. Jesse hadn’t been interested at first, despite the fact he’d told me months ago I needed to learn how to use the bow and arrow. I still wore my knives, and frankly, there might’ve been a part of him that liked me depending on his protection. But beyond that, he hadn’t shown interest in anything. He’d shut down that first week following the deaths of our friends, his grief running so deeply and inwardly, I thought I’d lost him.

He’d gone back to sleeping alone in the forest, giving me vacant glares every time I approached him. I didn’t have the energy or desire to be pissy about it. I was grieving, too.

My mind was plagued with memories of fishing with Badger, sleeping in the warmth of Naalish’s platonic arms, and listening to Akicita’s vivid stories while drinking his hickory coffee. Akicita had led me out of a very dark place after Joel died, his palliative humming and patient words saving me from myself, right here in these mountains. The scent of evergreen, the beady eyes of a rabbit, the gurgling of the stream, every breath of woodland life was a painful reminder of the men I’d lost, and those reminders threatened to crash down the wall I so carefully held my emotions behind.

The same wall that kept me from falling apart every time I thought of Annie and Aaron.

Strangely though, Jesse didn’t seem to have a problem sharing his grief with Roark. Over the last couple weeks, the two of them spent every daylight hour together, talking quietly, hunting for food, or simply sharing silence.

Even weirder, Roark touched him. A lot. A hand on his shoulder, a nudge of his knee, even a hug here and there. Such a foreign thing to witness. I felt as though I was standing outside of some inner bro circle, uninvited and warded off by the disgusted twist of Jesse’s lips whenever he looked at me.

As a priest, Roark was well-equipped to be an effective counselor. If Jesse was in need of a friend with faith, someone who could offer hope and prayers and wings, that person wasn’t me.

But I wanted those wings, the kind of strength that could be found in the blind belief that there was something greater than this sweltering, soulless hell. I wanted that faith so I could be there for Jesse as Roark had been.

Instead, the best thing I could offer was distraction.

I pulled the arrow back, moving to anchor position, and rested my top finger at the corner of my mouth. Looking down the shaft of the arrow, I aimed at the center of the tree trunk, released the shot, and held the stance.

The arrow flew past the target and wobbled through the woods. Well, shit.