Perigee [bxb] | Bad Moon Book II

31: {Tisper}; black coffee

The witches had been tucked away with Leo and Imani and the Alpha from Perigee night that reminded Tisper all too much of a robust female viking—or maybe a pirate without a parrot and a peg-leg. Acadia, they'd called her. She'd arrived some time after dinner, of course a few cases of beer hauled in from her trunk.

The Watch had grown increasingly crowded and unbearably stuffy and the rooms had to be shuffled to make space for the witches and the fifth alpha. So Tisper and Sadie joined Matt and Alex's room, more bedding than floor to walk on. Quentin had been given a second blood transfusion, which, according to Imani, would at least provide a temporary defense against infection and slow the deterioration around his wounds. It bought them time, but it would never be enough.

Eventually, Imani and the others would come to an agreement on their next course of action. For now, Tisper wasn't willing to sit in wait. For eight hours that day, she fired her arrows—stopping only to eat and escape the sun, which had returned with a grueling vengeance. That night, when she returned to practice again, she couldn't feel the arrows beneath her fingers.

It was a struggle to nock them in place, and her first shot faltered and struck the base of the tree. The next three hardly made it across the lawn.

"Doing a fine job of shooting the dirt."

She screamed at the voice—a short, shameless wail into he night. He hadn't been there a moment ago, but Felix sat on that boulder he'd lounged on before—his clothing rugged and worn, caked in dirt and sprinkled with foliage. He held a mug of black coffee in his hands and filth on his face. Tisper's heart still slammed in her chest and she clutched at it while she narrowed on him.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Three days, Felix had been missing. She'd noticed at the dinner Lisa made, the day after when the witches arrived, and now today—while they were all agonizing over the silence, Felix had been the only one not around.

"Why?" he asked, tapping a spare arrow to that cocksure grin of his. "Miss me?"

Tisper nocked her next arrow onto her bow and drew back. This one hit the tree steadily—but no where near the target. "What do you want?"

He gave his mug a glance and gestured with it. "How'd ye make that coffee." As were all of Felix's questions, this one sounded more like a statement. An entitled demand.

"What coffee?" Tisper stomped her way to the tree, ripping the arrow fiercely from the flesh.

"That cup ye' made the other night." Felix said, dumping his mug into the grass. "This doesn't taste as good."

She glanced to him over her shoulder with a deep scoff, backing up until her toes touched the twig she'd use to mark her range. Then Tisper set her arrow in place again. This time, she couldn't feel the string of her bow beneath her fingers. She couldn't feel its pull. She couldn't feel anything.

The arrow dropped dead from her bow and she hurled out a frustrated sound. From the corner of her eye, she saw Felix rise.

"Don't," she hissed, swiping her arrow from the ground. "I don't want any of your lessons or your snickers or your condensation. Not tonight."

"My condensation?" asked Felix.

"Condescension!" Tisper cried, pointing her arrow to his chest. "I'm tired. And not in the mood for games."

Felix moved forward, brazenly disregarding her pointy stick. "What games?"

She felt her face flaring. The last time she'd seen Felix, she'd had a hand on all the warm, hard hills of his abs. And for a moment, she'd considered allowing herself the fantasies of feeling them again—but then she remembered the blonde from the crowning ceremony. The gemstone resting at the center of her womanly bust. Her small shoulders and her heart-shaped face and her long, silken hair.