“Stay down,” she orders, as if they can hear her from this far away. “It’s Thomas. He’s there.”
“We have to leave.” He reaches for her, but she sits up, bracing her weight on her elbows.
“I want to see for myself,” she tells him, jerking away from his hold.
“Moira. Get the hell up and come with me before I drag you back home and lock you away, far from danger.”
She gives an exasperated sigh, glaring at him as she trudges toward the house. At some point, he’d reached down and grabbed her kill, carrying it all the way home for her.
The men at the edge of the trees stare at them but she pays them no mind, her anger far too righteous to spare a glance.
“I’m still upset with you,” she states as they cross the threshold, into the house.
When she reaches to take the pheasant from him, he storms off with it, heading toward the kitchen, its blood dripping with every step he takes.
Moira, with her sore feet and angry disposition, heads toward the bathroom upstairs.
If there is to be another massacre tonight, she hopes he gives her some answers. Until then, she desires nothing else from him.
23
Fiberglass isn’t meant to soothe. The sharp ends of arrow tips aren’t meant to be a reminder of the life that flows within veins.
But Moira tells herself that this is her life right now. With all of its ups and downs and mystery and misery.
Sol, beside her, is silent. But she can feel him as he stares over at her. She wishes she could find solace in his dark stare; feel his arms around her as the sun seeks shelter beneath the horizon. Because the darker it gets, the closer they get to killing Thomas.
“Girasol,” he whispers, but she can’t look at him.
So, she closes her eyes instead, her confidence waving in the wind.
Thomas is beyond the hill. He can likely sense trouble, like a hound sniffs game. He searches for it; she can feel it in her bones.
And the men she’s lived with in this deadly house will show up, with their guns and their killing ways.
Moira, with her bow and arrow, will stay behind with one of the men, and take aim at anyone who attempts to leave or enter what was once her home.
The sun has been sleeping for over an hour and Moira is cold, but she hides her shiver, tucking her face into her black sweater, pulling her weapon closer to her body.
The first few men have started making their way toward the hill.
They go in waves; some to watch and report, and some to attack.
Perhaps she has underestimated Sol. Still, better that they have a true understanding of their enemy than go into this certain it will be easy.
There’s chatter over the walkie the man beside her holds. She stares at him, recognizing the kindness in his eyes.
“What is your name?” she finally asks, happy to have been paired with the man who helped her from the shed.
“Louis,” he answers, eyes looking out into the night.
“What are they saying?” She can’t quite hear, the radio volume too low to make out what language they’re even speaking.
“They think more people…ah…show up.” He struggles over words that aren’t native to him, but she appreciates his attempt.
Sol approaches them and she looks at him, at the working of his chiseled jaw, at the way his eyes devour her.
“We’re going,” he announces. “Walk with me.”
“I’m with—”
He grabs her by the elbow and leads her away, only letting go once she yanks her arm away. “Let it go, please,” he pleads, his eyes searching hers, even in the dark. “I cannot do this if I’m solely focused on you.”
When she stops and stares at him, his hands reach toward her, landing on her jaw and cradling her face. Moira can’t fight the need to give in to his touch.
“I love you,” he whispers, his hands rougher, his grip tightening. “I…I will die if anything happens to you.”
She tries to shake her head, but his own hands tremble they hold onto her so tightly. Moira’s eyes spring with tears.
“I will see you when this is all over,” she assures him, fear lodging in her chest.
Behind them, Louis clears his throat. “Están listos, señor?”
Sol nods, still holding her in his hands. He nods again, presses a kiss to her lips, and walks off. The sound of his steps disappears, and Moira tries not to cry.
All through her silent tears, Louis walks beside her. When they’re beyond the trees and on the hill, it feels like they’re alone.
But the sky doesn’t speak of the goings on beneath it. And the breeze won’t warn of the death that’s coming.
Louis presses the walkie talkie against his ear and listens for a moment. “They inside,” he whispers. “Shoot anyone you see.”
It’s the cue Moira needs to notch an arrow as they walk slowly toward the MacQuarrie home. It’s hard to see in the dark but they stay on a slightly elevated level and when Moira sees someone try to run inside, she releases an arrow.
It stops him.
The next arrow kills him.
Time slows and stills as nothing else happens.
But, there, in the wing to the far right, Moira sees it. Smoke forming, billowing in clouds that disappear into the night. Against the flames causing them, they almost don’t look real.
“Louis,” she starts, pointing toward it. She doesn’t pay attention to what’s being said over the walkie as she notices more people trying to enter.
One arrow, two, three, and then four.
Yelling erupts and when Moira aims at the source, Louis places a hand on her shoulder.
“Our men,” he states, his eyes squinting to get a better look.
They get closer and Moira raises her bow again.
“They are not,” she tells him, letting an arrow fly. It hits one of the three men in the chest.
Louis pulls out his gun beside her and shoots at one of them, getting his arm before finally shooting him square in the head.
Moira has her arrow notched when someone comes up from behind her and yanks her back by her hair. She grunts at the pain and when Louis looks back at her, she hears a bang. The thud of his body hitting the ground makes her want to cry out.
Sol! she screams inside of herself and when hands fist in her hair, forcing her to stand, she goes into that room inside of her mind.
The one now filled with him.
And as she thinks back on every moment that’s captured and hung on these walls, she determines she doesn’t want to remain here.
She decides she wants to create more memories and hang so many pictures, they break through these walls and take up space in every part of her.
Moira reaches down and grabs one of her arrows, yelling as she drives it into one of the men’s eyes. He screams into the night and when the second man slaps her in the face hard enough for her to hit the ground, rage boils within her.
She isn’t anyone’s prisoner anymore.
Louis’s dead hand still holds onto his gun and she snatches it, aiming up and pressing the trigger, only stopping once she hears another thud of another dead body.
May the heavens rain down the blood of my enemies and the sound of their bodies hitting the ground lull me to sleep tonight.
She stands, wiping the blood away from her lip, and heads toward the burning house. Moira hardly thinks as she picks up her bow and arrows, slinging them over her arm as she holds the gun up.