Savage Saints (Monsters of Saint Mark's)

Pell pulls the Jeep out onto the highway that leads to town and I decide that leaving the sanctuary behind will never get old for as long as I live. I suck in the fresh air, and tilt my head into the sun as we drive, and enjoy every moment of my newfound freedom.

I daydream as we roll along, thinking about a future so different to the one I never much bothered picturing before Pie appeared.

I do not want to waste this new opportunity so I must have a plan of action.

Driving. That is my number one priority.

But number two shall be… Hmm. I don’t actually think I have a number two.

What does one do after one learns to drive? I’m not sure. I will have to think about this.

Pell is quiet as we make our way into town. He slows down when he sees the front end of a sheriff’s car sticking out from a side street, and we both side-eye the driver as we pass.

“Not him,” Pell growls, meaning that pesky Russ Roth.

We’ve seen him a couple times when we’ve been in town, but he doesn’t acknowledge us. And he never came back to Saint Mark’s, so we are all assuming that whatever banishing spell Pie threw at him also wiped his memory.

Pell checks the little mirror in the middle of the windshield as we continue to crawl down Main Street. Then, satisfied that the local authorities aren’t going to bother us, he flicks a turn signal and pulls into the feed store.

“OK,” Pell says, turning off the Jeep. “We’re here to buy hay and grain and that’s it. I don’t want to add any more to Pie’s debt than we need to.”

“Got it.”

“Do you know what kind we need?”

“What kind of what?”

“What kind of hay and grain, you idiot. What do these monsters eat?”

“Isn’t hay… just… grass?”

“I don’t know. I have never bought hay in my life.”

I pat Pell on the shoulder. “Don’t overthink it.”

The girl across the counter is young, strawberry-haired, and freckle-faced. She’s wearing jeans, a canvas coat, and a black winter beanie that says, ‘I Have Issues’ in white letters.

Her grin grows as she looks Pell and me up and down and I immediately love her. She is quite the adorable human specimen.

“We need hay,” Pell growls.

Issue Girl leans her elbows on the counter and bats her eyelashes up at us. They are long and fair and she is cute, in a fairytale kind of way. “Well. What kind of hay do you boys need?”

Pell side-eyes me. And I can practically hear his thoughts. Don’t overthink it, he says. But I rise to the occasion and proclaim, “We need… grass hay.”

“OK.” Issue Girl pulls out a dirty binder filled with pages in plastic covers and starts flipping through it. “I have brome, I have timothy, I have rye, I have half-and-half, and I have fescue, Bermuda, orchard… what’s your fancy, boys?”

“What’s the difference?” Pell asks. “I mean, isn’t it all just grass?”

“Oh, no,” Issue Girl says. “It’s all very different in digestibility, and sugars, and proteins. What kind of animals are you feeding? Let’s start there.”

Pell side-eyes me again.

“Bulls,” I say.

“Bulls. OK. Well. Are you going straight to auction, sending them to the feed lot or—”

“What’s your cheapest hay?” Pell interjects.