Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) by Seanan McGuire
Authors: Seanan McGuire
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might have done the same, if our positions had been reversed and I’d had the option. But that didn’t mean I was ever going to forget the history behind the words “fairy-tale crazy,” and that didn’t mean they were ever going to stop hurting me, deep down, in the place where I wasn’t an agent or a princess, but just a frazzled, frightened little girl.
Gerry sighed, looking at my suddenly tight jaw and the lines that had appeared below my eyes. “Sorry, Henry. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You never do, Gerry,” I said, and kept walking.
Sloane was ranging about six feet ahead of the group—far enough that if anything decided to attack us, it would go for her first, and close enough that we’d be able to step in and help whoever was attacking her before she ripped their heads from their bodies. Traveling with Sloane sometimes meant adjusting our idea of whose side we were supposed to be on. Yes, we’d come to her aid before we helped anyone who had happened to trigger her ire, but for the most part, we wanted to keep her from killing anyone. The paperwork when she did was a nightmare .
The smell of gingerbread grew stronger the closer we got to the trees. Sloane reached the tree line and stopped there, rigid, her hands balled into fists by her sides. I exchanged a glance with Jeff and sped up, leaving Demi and Gerry to trail behind us. Demi wasn’t a physical combatant. Gerry was thin, but he was out of shape; he’d never needed to learn how to outrun an onrushing story. That was something I had that he didn’t.
I wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
When we reached Sloane, we both stopped, Jeff so fast that he nearly overbalanced and crossed into the wood. I grabbed his arm before he could fall, pulling him to a halt sharp enough that it was probably going to leave bruises. He cast me a thankful glance all the same. The consequences of falling would have been far worse than a few bruises.
The sound of children laughing drifted out of the trees, distant, ghostly, and thin. It was impossible to tell whether the gingerbread house had managed to attract supplicants already, or whether the laughter was a special effect generated by the story to lend veracity to its claims of joy and peace within the dark, dark woods. It didn’t matter. The laughter, whatever its source might have been, was less important than the glimmering barrier that kept us from pursuing it. Had the sun been a little lower in the sky, or had Sloane not been so attuned to the presence of stories in the process of unfolding, we might have missed it. It was a subtle thing, after all, and we’d all been so busy moving toward the sound of laughter that we hadn’t been looking down.
Glass shards glittered amongst the grass, rammed into the ground to form an unbroken line. I glanced to Sloane for confirmation. She nodded, her jaw set in a hard line. I could almost hear her teeth grinding.
“Elise was here,” she said.
“Who’s Elise?” asked Gerry, panting a little as he stopped. He squinted at the ground. “Is that broken glass? God, have those kids already started drinking out here? I swear, they think everything is an excuse to throw a kegger.”
“So did we, when we were their age,” I said. “Jeff?”
“On it,” he said, and crouched, careful not to get any closer to the shards. After a moment of study, he said, “They’re not actually touching anything but the grass.”
“Grass has its own narrative weight,” I said. “Demi, can you do that trick you pulled back at Childe? Pipe the glass out of here?”
“Step back,” she said, trying to sound confident. I did as I was told. So did Jeff and Sloane, who grabbed Gerry’s sleeve and dragged him with her as she moved.
Demi waited long enough for all four of us to be out of her potential line of fire before she lifted her flute and began to play. It was the song she’d used before, but sweeter somehow, like all the rough edges had been sanded off
Gerry sighed, looking at my suddenly tight jaw and the lines that had appeared below my eyes. “Sorry, Henry. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You never do, Gerry,” I said, and kept walking.
Sloane was ranging about six feet ahead of the group—far enough that if anything decided to attack us, it would go for her first, and close enough that we’d be able to step in and help whoever was attacking her before she ripped their heads from their bodies. Traveling with Sloane sometimes meant adjusting our idea of whose side we were supposed to be on. Yes, we’d come to her aid before we helped anyone who had happened to trigger her ire, but for the most part, we wanted to keep her from killing anyone. The paperwork when she did was a nightmare .
The smell of gingerbread grew stronger the closer we got to the trees. Sloane reached the tree line and stopped there, rigid, her hands balled into fists by her sides. I exchanged a glance with Jeff and sped up, leaving Demi and Gerry to trail behind us. Demi wasn’t a physical combatant. Gerry was thin, but he was out of shape; he’d never needed to learn how to outrun an onrushing story. That was something I had that he didn’t.
I wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
When we reached Sloane, we both stopped, Jeff so fast that he nearly overbalanced and crossed into the wood. I grabbed his arm before he could fall, pulling him to a halt sharp enough that it was probably going to leave bruises. He cast me a thankful glance all the same. The consequences of falling would have been far worse than a few bruises.
The sound of children laughing drifted out of the trees, distant, ghostly, and thin. It was impossible to tell whether the gingerbread house had managed to attract supplicants already, or whether the laughter was a special effect generated by the story to lend veracity to its claims of joy and peace within the dark, dark woods. It didn’t matter. The laughter, whatever its source might have been, was less important than the glimmering barrier that kept us from pursuing it. Had the sun been a little lower in the sky, or had Sloane not been so attuned to the presence of stories in the process of unfolding, we might have missed it. It was a subtle thing, after all, and we’d all been so busy moving toward the sound of laughter that we hadn’t been looking down.
Glass shards glittered amongst the grass, rammed into the ground to form an unbroken line. I glanced to Sloane for confirmation. She nodded, her jaw set in a hard line. I could almost hear her teeth grinding.
“Elise was here,” she said.
“Who’s Elise?” asked Gerry, panting a little as he stopped. He squinted at the ground. “Is that broken glass? God, have those kids already started drinking out here? I swear, they think everything is an excuse to throw a kegger.”
“So did we, when we were their age,” I said. “Jeff?”
“On it,” he said, and crouched, careful not to get any closer to the shards. After a moment of study, he said, “They’re not actually touching anything but the grass.”
“Grass has its own narrative weight,” I said. “Demi, can you do that trick you pulled back at Childe? Pipe the glass out of here?”
“Step back,” she said, trying to sound confident. I did as I was told. So did Jeff and Sloane, who grabbed Gerry’s sleeve and dragged him with her as she moved.
Demi waited long enough for all four of us to be out of her potential line of fire before she lifted her flute and began to play. It was the song she’d used before, but sweeter somehow, like all the rough edges had been sanded off
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