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glances at his arched brows and bow-shaped lips whenever he's looking away. Trying to avoid the awkwardness mostly diverts me from feeling jealous--Silas got to see other cities, travel across the country, do things, while I sat here in Ellison.
    "You can stay here tonight if you want," Scarlett offers as she sets her empty plate by the sink. "I mean, I imagine your house is coated in dust."
    Silas laughs, deep and honey-toned. "I slept in a car for two weeks on the drive back here. And before that, on Jacob's
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    couch. Trust me, dust is fine." He stands and pushes his chair in. "Thanks for the offer, but I do need to go."
    "Hunting tomorrow, then?" Scarlett asks.
    "Maybe. I think I'll be taking care of house stuff all day tomorrow, to tell the truth. Inheriting a giant house sounds like a great idea until you realize you have to replace shingles and everything. I have a sinking feeling that Pa Reynolds is laughing it up in that nursing home, if he remembers it."
    Scarlett and I grin simultaneously. Pa Reynolds--the man who took care of us, who gave Scarlett the information she needed to begin to hunt, the man who raised us when our mother wasn't around after the attack--now has Alzheimer's and, as best as I can tell, scarcely remembers anyone who comes to visit him. It's painful to think that Pa Reynolds, who was a veritable encyclopedia of information about the Fenris and the forest, has no memory of who he is. But we smile, as does Silas, because it's the sort of thing that you'll cry about if you don't treat it lightly.
    Silas turns to me, exhaling. "Thanks for dinner, Rosie."
    "Anytime," I reply. Silas waves and leaves; a few moments later I hear the rumble of his car pulling out of the drive. Scarlett sits down beside me and doesn't speak for a moment. I avoid her eye. Just because I'm sort of dazzled by Silas doesn't mean I've forgotten how mad I am at her.
    "Rosie? Come on. Don't be mad."
    I don't answer. Screwtape leaps into my lap; I scratch under his chin until he erupts into purrs.
    "I couldn't help it," Scarlett says sincerely, folding her
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    arms. Her voice is softer than normal. I sigh, set Screwtape on the ground, and turn to go to my bedroom. My sister knows I'll forgive her. I'll always forgive her. I have to. It's one of those things that's just necessary when someone has saved your life.
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    CHAPTER THREE
    SCARLETT
    I WAKE UP AT DAWN, EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T FALL INTO bed till close to four. I lie in bed staring at the faded flower wallpaper, tracing the little line of bluebells from floor to ceiling with my eye. I didn't pick it out--this was our mother's room and is far too country and girly for my tastes. I sigh and try to fall back asleep, but there's no use. I've always been able to function just fine on three hours of sleep. If I sleep any longer, I have nightmares. Not nightmares, I suppose. Flashbacks: The Fenris breaking down our door. My grandmother screaming in German. The feeling of his teeth on my arms, my legs, my face.
    It's enough to make anyone an insomniac.
    I roll over and crinkle my nose. I should shower again. I can still smell the Fenris on me. I think. It's hard to tell,
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    at times, if the scent is really there or if it just somehow haunts me.
    The Fenris. I sigh. The only thing worse than making Rosie angry is knowing I have to make up for making Rosie angry. Otherwise, something is wrong. It's hard to explain, but when she's angry, it feels as though someone has put me together incorrectly, like a bookshelf with a row of upside-down books. I can't help being protective, though--I can never shake the mental image of Rosie making one little mistake. One slipup, and it's all over. What kind of hunter would I be if I couldn't keep the one surviving member of my own family safe?
    That's why I hunt: to kill the monsters that destroy lives and ruin families. I don't know when it will end, exactly--there's not really a finish line, unless I somehow kill every Fenris in existence. That