Feral Read Online Free PDF Page B

go of the hope that he would come looking for her. Some day.
    She had followed his fame for several years. But eventually, other people's interest in him waned and references to him online became harder and harder to unearth. As he became tamer, people began to doubt his tale. Some asshole even wrote an article alleging he was a hoax, a fraud perpetrated on gullible academics and purveyors of pop culture. He had become Bigfoot.
    She recalled being furious at the time. Angry on his behalf. Angry that the people who had taken him away from her no longer wanted him. She had always wanted him—and her daughter was living proof that he was no hoax.
    Now here they were, standing just yards apart. She had imagined this moment hundreds of times—thousands, more likely—over the past fifteen years. She had imagined every possible combination of emotions. But now, in the very moment she had imagined and reimagined, all she felt was the slow deflating of her heart, a heavy collapse in her chest. Was it the loss of hope, the loss of love, the loss of all those better scenarios she had imagined for them?
    By the time her daughter reappeared, emptyhanded from fruitless shopping, Julianne was nearly catatonic, her mind as blank as the expression on his face.
    "Mom," she whispered, grabbing Julianne's arms just as the shopping bags fell from her fingers, spilling their contents across the gleaming tiled floor.
    Her daughter leaned into Julianne's shoulder, nestled her chin into the dip of her collarbone. The feel of her daughter's riotous blonde hair against her cheek comforted her, as always. No matter what, she had her daughter. They stood there, light and dark, wild and tamed.
    Then came the low guttural growl across the artificial mall air, a sound that vibrated with anger and sadness, comprehension. He shoved away from the woman at his side and broke into a run toward them.
    Her daughter pulled back on Julianne, wrapping her arms protectively around her, fear in her eyes, the crowd of shoppers moving away like a retreating wave.
    "S'okay," Julianne breathed. "He's here. He's here."

 
    An excerpt from the forthcoming novella, Drawing Lessons, by Julia Gabriel
    It was an old Virginia farmhouse, Colonial-era, with weathered gray stone and meticulously-restored windows. Gracious old maples shaded the front lawn, their canopies ablaze with the red and orange leaves of autumn.
    One good thunderstorm and they'd all be gone, blown off toward the low mountain ridge in the distance, Marie thought sadly as she pulled her car into the curving driveway.
    She had no idea what to expect here. The home belonged to Luc Marchand, an artist. Her best friends—bless their well-intentioned hearts—had thrown her a divorce party and showered her with gifts. Wine, expensive chocolates, gift certificates for manicures and massages and waxing. Gifts designed to make a newly-divorced woman feel attractive after years of feeling ignored.
    Or failing that, to feel drunk and fat. Not that Marie had ever had trouble making herself feel drunk and fat before. That was no hard trick.
    She pressed the ignition button on the car and stepped out into the warm October air. She took a deep breath. Amazing how much cleaner the air was out here than just thirty miles back, in the DC suburbs. Out here, you could almost forget that Washington, DC, even existed. Behind the farmhouse—which was larger than it looked, she could see now—miles of yellowing fields dropped away beneath a pale blue sky.
    Who had lived here over the centuries? A gentleman farmer? Had this been part of a larger plantation at one point? Had there been slaves? Most likely, she thought. Had George Washington slept here? Thomas Jefferson? Doubtful, probably.
    The property was in French hands now. That was about all Marie knew about Luc Marchand. He was French. He was an artist. And her friends had arranged for her to take drawing lessons from him, another divorce present.
    "You were so good at art