A clanging of pans captures my attention. I turn to see Bodhi shoving the cooking pots back into his bag. “We don’t have time to eat?” Carleon questions, absently rubbing his empty stomach.
I know he must be hungry. He’s been sneaking me extra portions along the way, knowing our rations are slim.
Eamon steps back from the fire and meets my gaze head on. “There’s no food left. Arlo had it in his pack when he fell. The climb is too steep and treacherous for us to make with the ice clinging to the rocks.”
“So what, we’re just going to starve?” Carleon snaps.
Eamon starts to speak, but I cut him off, knowing how much he would love to use this accident as a reason to turn right around and head back to Thalar. “No. I have a little bit of meat left in my pack.”
“And I have a few root vegetables in mine,” Eamon says. “We can make do for a couple of days.”
“But will we reach our destination before we run out of food?” Carleon protests. I can feel the concern in his gaze as he looks toward me.
“No,” Eamon says.
I step forward and place a hand on Eamon’s arm. He flinches but doesn’t pull back. “Then we hunt, just like we used to.”
I press my fingers against my coat, grimacing at the hunger pangs gnawing through my stomach. I haven’t eaten anything in two days. None of us have. Arlo’s death has left us with few supplies. Eamon considered turning back several times, most likely would have if I hadn’t been able to remind him that this is who we are.
Winter in the mountains brings snow and along with it wolves. These beasts used to be just as much of a threat to our existence as the Caldonians. One took over our planet; the other stole our food source. Starvation, disease, infection—those were our daily enemies before we moved to Thalar.
“Illyria.” Eamon’s whisper pulls me from my thoughts. His chin juts toward a clump of bushes less than ten feet away. A dirt-encrusted finger hovers over his lips, silencing me. I nod and wait, ignoring the needle pricks spreading along my calves.
I pull a tattered scarf over my mouth to hide the puff of moisture as the temperature continues to plummet. The day’s melted snow has already begun to freeze over. Our trek back to the camp will be a treacherous one.
Movement catches my eye. A swatch of brown shifts behind the brambles. A hoof paws nervously at the frozen earth. The young doe senses our presence. Come on. Just a little farther, I plead silently.
Eamon raises his hand-whittled spear, no bigger than the length of his arm, a remnant from our past. It was always his favorite, probably because I made it for him. I hadn’t realized he still had it.
A piece of glass, bound by fraying bits of twine, juts from the end. Flecks of dried blood remain from a previous kill. He rocks up onto the balls of his feet, biceps coiling as he prepares.
The doe skitters forward, nose to the ground in search of frozen blackberries among the densely arched stems. Its hide stretches taut over its emaciated frame. Tufts of hair have fallen away, giving it a mangy look. There is barely enough meat on it to feed our group, but it’ll have to do.
My stomach growls. I bite down on my lip to still its trembling.
I watch Eamon, stunned by his patience. His gaze is steady, riveted on his target. I blink and nearly miss his attack. The spear careens through the air, impaling an inch from the deer’s heart. It screams, legs buckling under. A dark stain spreads out into the snow around it. Eamon rises fluidly, without any hint of the agony that assaults my limbs. His lip curls with disgust as he yanks the spear free before landing the lethal blow.
“Well done.” I toss him a lopsided grin before staggering to my feet. I wasn’t really sure if he still remembered how to do this. City life has softened all of us in ways that I’m not entirely sure are to our benefit. “I’m impressed.”
With a scowl that distorts his handsome features, Eamon wrenches the lance from the fallen doe’s chest. “It suffered.”
My smile fades at the sight of his remorse. I reach out and pull his face away from the cooling carcass. It feels weird to touch him, even as innocently as this, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You can’t always be perfect.”
“If I’m not, we don’t eat,” he grinds out. The struggles of the past year have drawn away the mischievous glint that used to reside in his eyes. His smile is a rarity now, like far too many of us. With each day that passes, I watch the weight of Eamon’s burdens press upon his shoulders, and I know if I were able, I would still try to take it from him.
He pulls away from me as I hand him my knife and stoops low to remove the organs so the meat doesn’t spoil. Blood clings to his hands as he tosses them aside, shiny in the moonlight. Maybe that will keep the wolves off our trail for a while. Already I can hear their howls in the distance. It won’t take long before they catch our scent.