19. Cricket

“If you had let her leave, she probably would not have felt the need to run away!” Ramble shouted from the other room, their voice carrying through the thin woven wall. They had been arguing for hours now, ever since Cricket mentioned going back to the camp in a few days when Ramble left. Her mother, Thistle, had cried out, and her father, Bosk, burst to his hooves, antlers scraping the thatched roof as he bellowed.

It hadn’t taken long for Cricket to throw up her hands and storm away, but what was the point? She’d been making the same arguments her entire life—that they should integrate, if not with the entire world, then at least with Green Bank. That they didn’t have to live in huts, that they could get jobs, buy clothes, and go to school.

She tried to tell them about the wolven and the sasquatch marching in a band together. Tried to get them to imagine a naga and a gnome sitting at a table, eating side by side instead of tearing through the woods as predator and prey.She had even told them about the assessor hiking through their woods with his surveyor”s maps, but they didn’t listen. They wouldn’t listen, not even when Ramble confirmed everything she said.

In their minds, Cricket was still their youngest daughter, the only child who had fallen with them into this new world. They refused to see that she was grown and that she wanted a life beyond the woods of Green Bank. They were going to keep her here and Avery was going to leave in a few weeks, and that would be it. The end of her adventure and attempts to escape the tiny life her parents had planned for her.

So she stormed to her room, flopped down in the nest of blanket-covered pine straw, and that’s when she saw it—the parcels and bundles stacked against the door. Her belongings. Her life packed and ready to go.

And that was when the real yelling began.

“So you’re just giving up and moving? Again?” She stormed into the main room, not caring if she startled her parents and Ramble.

“Only deeper in the woods, honeybee,” Thistle said. “Near the hollow, at Deer Creek.”

“Only deeper.” She scoffed and stomped in an angry, limping circle. “Only deeper? They’re pushing us out, why can’t you see it? They’re going to keep buying up land; they’re going to keep bribing or bullying the people of Green Bank until we have nowhere left to go. Is that what you want? To force all of us to live the way you want?”

“Crick …” Bosk warned.

“Don’t Crick me, dad. I don’t want this! I want to go back to the camp; I want to be part of this world we live in.”

“We have a responsibility to—”

“To who, dad? To what?” She stormed up to her father, craning her neck to glare him in the eye. “Are you going to tell me? Or claim I’m too young? Too rash? Too emotional?”

“Uncle Bosk,” Ramble condemned, “you did not.”

“I would not expect you to understand, Bramblethorn,” he replied. They stiffened at their full name, nostrils flaring, but before they could retort, Bosk continued, “And yes, Cricket, you are too rash to be brought into the family’s reasons for staying where we do.”

“But we aren’t staying, are we?” she sniffed, her eyes stinging. “We’re moving—again and again and again, deeper into the woods—and you won’t do anything about it!”

“Cricket, dear, this cannot continue forever,” Thistle cut in, approaching Cricket the way a mouse approaches a seeping lynx. “There is only so much privately owned land the Georgia Men can purchase; after that, they will have to buy it from the government, which, I am told, is a far more difficult process.”

“It’s not the Georgia Men.” Cricket swiped the back of her hand across her nose. Ramble twitched their gaze her way, eyes widening as Cricket’s words landed. “It’s not the Georgia Men at all.”

She limped from the dwelling, trying not to cry when no one followed her. There were more important things than crying—like getting to Marlinton and the County Assessor’s Office. Getting copies of the records bearing Avery’s name, if they even existed, and getting someone, anyone in the family, to listen to her. Ramble would help. That’s why they hadn’t followed her out the door, because in that look, she knew Ramble had understood what Cricket did—once the government got involved, there would be no stopping the purchase of land. Because the Georgia Men represented Payne Properties, which was run by Nathan Payne, a man with enough political clout and connections to get Mackenzie Murray to interview his daughter.

There couldn’t be two more diametrically opposed people than Nathan Payne, the anti-inhuman trashbag, and Mackenize Murray, the wife of a faun and director of the first fully integrated camp in the nation.

The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached Marlinton. One upside of living in Green Bank—there was always someone looking to escape the pressure that clamped around their skulls if they spent too much time near the telescopes at the heart of the NRQZ. Always someone willing to give you a ride out of the National Radio Quiet Zone and enjoy amenities like a microwave. Today, it came in the form of a trio of teens headed to Lewisburg for a movie. Normally, Cricket would have covered the distance on hoof, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs at full speed. But her ankle still pinched, her hoof ached, and a car would be faster than she was now.

The teens dropped her in the heart of Marlinton, waving out the window as she limped into the assessor’s office. To her surprise, the county assessor, a sallow-faced older man named Charlie, was all too willing to help out a curious inhuman taking an interest in his job.

He set her up at a small table tucked in a narrow hallway, the chair facing the door and front desk, adding file after file to her pile. “The bulk of ‘em are from this last year,” he explained. “Oldest dates about four years back. You one of them faun out of Green Bank?”

Cricket nodded, her tongue fat and heavy in her mouth. She’d known a lot of the land had been sold. She’d known the problem was only growing, but seeing it all laid out before her, each folder representing the piecemeal destruction of her home … it was almost too much to bear.

“Aint’t seen one of y’all in a few years. Good you’re still around, thought I might stumble upon ya when I was up that way.”

“I saw you,” she mumbled.

He smiled softly and nodded. “Suppose that’s why you’re here. Say hello next time. You know what you’re lookin’ for?”

“Um,” she swallowed. “Not really. Signatures?”

Charlie nodded and grabbed the topmost folder from the stack, setting it on the table and flipping it open.

“Registered agent’s signatures are here.” He pointed to a scrawled name she didn’t recognize and flipped the page. “Looks like they signed on behalf of Lunar Asset Management, and the buyer’s signatures are here, here, and here.” In quick succession, he tapped Avery’s signature down the page. One-two-three. “Looks like they signed as the personal representative of an estate. It’ll be the same in most of these; not many lawyers round here to manage the contracts, so ‘less that city boy took them down to Charleston to be notarized, the paperwork’s all the same.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him, and Charlie nodded back, patting the stack.

“Shame what’s happenin’ up there,” he said, wandering back behind his desk. “The whole place is goin’ to the dogs.”

That said, Charlie tucked into his book, and Cricket got to work. Digging through the files, she began to notice discrepancies in the signature. Not those of the registered agent but Avery’s. There was a stilted, careful quality to the handwriting even in the cursive humans were so fond of. The letters in Elizabeth and Avery didn’t connect in the seamless manner they should, whereas Payne was always scrawled with an easy stroke. Cricket pulled aside the most obvious ones, creating a stack of what, in her mind, was evidence.

The signatures became smoother over time, almost as if the signer had gotten more comfortable with the name and the flow. But it never changed. Always the same curve to the A and looped tail on the Y. For four years, the signature remained the same, and something about that stood out as odd. If someone were signing this many contracts, wouldn’t their hand get lazy? The signature less legible? But these never did. Each was as crisp and clear as the very first Elizabeth Avery, and then that sloppy Payne.

The front door slammed shut. Cricket jumped in her seat, hooves slipping on the sage and tan vinyl flooring. She shifted in the plastic chair, ears twitching at the sound of shoes slapping across the floor. A muscle in her back pinched, and she winced. How long had she been sitting here?

“Charlie, my man!” A broad-shouldered figure entered, leaning against the front counter with their back to her tiny table. A leather briefcase slapped on the formica, and the man shifted, his profile coming into view. Cricket straightened, bringing a hand up to smooth down her ears, which had perked in interest at the sight of the Georgia Man.

The one from Mac’s office.

“Got a few more for you,” he drawled, pulling a manila folder from his brief.

“The Johnsons sold?” Charlie sidled over, hands flying up the catch the folder as the man tossed it across the counter.

“That they did!” He flicked the front lapel of his coat aside to slide his hand into a pocket. The move sent a waft of cologne across the room, tickling Cricket’s nose with lavender and wintergreen. She clapped a hand over her nose and mouth, stifling a sneeze. The man glanced her way at the sound, eyes flicking over Cricket and her stack of folders. His brows rose, nostrils flaring, and he sent her the same wolfish grin he had from the parking lot at the camp. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard the rumors out of Green Bank, Chucko?” He faced Charlie, releasing Cricket to sag in her seat. “About that Wen—”

“We don’t use names round these parts, Mr. Wilkolak,” Charlie interrupted. “Best not to call attention to the things you don’t see in the woods.”

“Aw, c’mon, Chuck. You’ve never seen anything lurking in the pine?”

“No sir, I have not.” He shook his head and ducked beneath the counter, returning with a large self-inking stamp and punching it down far harder than necessary. Collecting the paperwork, Charlie wandered out of sight. The hum of a copy machine filled the silence, and the Georgia Man, Wilkolak, again looked in Cricket’s direction.

She jerked her face down, eyes burning from the stench of his cologne, strong enough to make her want to gag but not enough to hide the musk flowing from the man. His gaze was heavy, burning into the top of her head and making it hard to concentrate. She idly turned pages, her fingers beginning to tremble when Charlie returned.

“Here’re your copies, Mr. Wilkolak. We’ll have these filed in seven to ten days.”

Wilkolak faced Charlie, releasing Cricket from the weight of his direct gaze. She kept her head down as far as she could while still being able to watch him.“Pocahontas County is at the forefront of industry thanks to your hard work, Chuck.” He tore a check free from a leather folio, sliding it across the counter. “I expect you’ll see me again in a few days.”

“You so sure?” Charlie pressed back from the counter, eyes twitching to Cricket. She jerked up the folder in her hands, hiding her face. “The folks up in Green Bank don’t seem to be playin’ ball the way you’d like.”

“Oh, they will, Chuckles.” Wilkolak let out a barking, breathy sound that reminded Cricket of wolven laughter. “Give it a day, and they’ll come around. Keep that stamp of yours warmed up.”

“Will do, Mr. Wilkolak.”

“Always a pleasure.” Wilkolak snapped the clasps on his briefcase closed. “Say, how long does it take to drive to Elkwater from here? I’ve got a dinner to get to, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Less than an hour.”

“Excellent, excellent.” The soles of his shoes slapped against the vinyl flooring; he opened the door and—

Cricket peered over the folder when the slam never came. Wilkolak stood in the doorway, staring directly at her. Papers trembled in her grip, and his attention dropped to her hands before he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

A slow, tight-lipped smile stretched his mouth, taunting Cricket as it crinkled his cheeks. He opened his eyes, pinning her to the chair with an amber-hued gleam. “Found you.”

“Pick up, Aves. Come on, come onnnnn.” Cricket danced hoof to hoof, wincing whenever the weight came down on her still sore injury. It had healed enough to not need a crutch, but oak and ivy, if it didn’t ache like a son of a gun. The line rang and rang, the sun hovered over the hills, and Cricket was about to truly start freaking out. The moment Wilkolak drove away, she had sprinted from the Assessor’s Office in search of a payphone, wanting to warn Avery before the investor’s dinner, but what good was a warning when she wouldn’t pick up? “Pick up, pick up, please.”

“To continue your call, please deposit twenty-five cents.”

“Shit.” She dug in her beltbag, pulling out a handful of coins and dropping a few on the ground. Earpiece pinched between her cheek and shoulder, she crouched, fumbling at the ground to pick them up. Her nail-less fingers slipped against the thin edges. She cursed again, this time at herself, for leaving the remainder of her caps on the small birch table in her bedroom. Finally, she managed to pluck dimes and a nickel from the ground, slamming them into the payphone as the automated voice started up again.

The robotic woman stopped, the ringing began again, and Cricket thought she was well and truly going to lose it in a phone booth in the middle of Marlinton, West Virginia. She needed to warn Avery and Mac, tell them what she found, and warn them about the Georgia Man. About Wilkolak.

“Please, please, please.” She pounded a fist against the payphone, praying to the Gods that they pick up. Avery, Mac, a camper, anyone, but the phone rang and rang and—

“Elkwater Music Camp, Assistant Director Payne speaking.”

“Aves!” Relief flooded her veins with adrenaline. Oh, Gods, she could warn her, tell her everything, but she needed to speak quickly. How long would twenty-five cents last? How much time did she have before the robotic voice cut her off? “Avery, I found him. He found me, it’s the man from the camp, the Georgia Man. He was here, and he had these papers at the assessor’s office, and he was filing more with Charlie. Avery, your signature is on everything going back four years. You’ve got to call the cops, or, or, the tax man or something; I don’t—”

“Cricket, geez, take a breath.”

“I am breathing!”

“No, you’re freaking out,” said Avery. “Slow down and tell me what happened.”

“I was at the County Assessor’s Office,” she panted, “looking over the property tax filings.”

“Okay.”

“Your name is on everything.”

Avery sighed, and Cricket could easily envision the human girl pinching the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that what your cousin said?”

“Yes, but I got copies and your signature—there”s something weird about it. Like, it stays the same.”

“Signatures tend to do that.”

“No, but you have to see it, okay? It’s like whoever did this was careful at first, then got better at your hand, but it never got sloppy. You have to see it; I got copies.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay, so that’s something, right?”

“It’s more than something!” Cricket hollered. “And then the Georgia Man walked in—”

“While you were there?”

“No, while I was taking a nap. Of course, while I was there, and he saw me, I think he recognized me from the camp.”

“When did he see you at the camp?”

“The day you went to lunch with your dad, they had a meeting with Mac. It was something about funding or investments, I don’t know, but he saw me.”

“In the meeting?” Avery asked, her voice muffled. “Hang on a second.”

Cricket wanted to scream. How was this so hard to follow? The Georgia Man, Wilkolak, had the paperwork with her signature. He was at the camp; he worked with her dad. Why couldn’t she just pay attention?

“Avery.”

“One sec,” she answered. A shuffling static muted her end of the line. “It’s Cricket.” A pause. “No, I know, I’ll make this quick.” The static again, and then Avery’s voice came clearly over the line. “Crick, I’ve got to go. The investors from Lunar are due any minute, and Mac needs to me to—”

“He saw me, Avery. He smelled the air and got all weird and said he found me.”

“I thought you said you weren’t in the meeting. Are you sure he saw you?”

“No, I wasn’t in the meeting, and yes, I’m sure!”

“Okay, fine, calm down.”

“Avery …” Cricket clenched her eyes, seething through her teeth. “He saw me through the upstairs window when they left to go to lunch with you. He smiled at me.”

“Smiled at you.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” She dropped her head back, rubbing her temples with two fingers. “It was a creepy smile … a predator’s smile.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched a little too long before Avery sighed in a way that Cricket could see her shudder. “No, I think I understand. It felt like that whenever he looked at me during lunch.”

That anyone would ever make Avery feel less than the amazing person she was, that anyone could make her feel as small and vulnerable as a faun did when sighted by prey … if Cricket hadn’t already been panicked and angry, that alone would have made her furious.

“The guy is a major douchebag.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Avery sighed again.

“There’s something else,” Cricket added. “A scent on the papers.”

“We’re back on the paperwork?”

“It’s super faint; I don’t know if a human could smell it, but when he walked in, the smell smacked me in the face, like it was his scent.”

“It makes sense if he’s the one that’s been filing the papers.”

“Aves,” she lowered her voice to a whisper. Why? No idea. Marlinton was abandoned this close to dinnertime, all the humans and inhumans safely in their homes. Still, she whispered. Who knew what was listening from the trees? “It was the same scent I caught on the monster. Musk and lavender and—”

“Wintergreen,” she finished. It wasn’t a question, more a confirmation. Like Avery had already known. “Crick, are you suggesting that Troy, the Georgia Man, is the monster? The one that chased you over the ridge and has been stalking the camp?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but scents are unique to the inhuman. It was the exact same scent from the papers and the monster, I swear.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy,” Avery stated in a flat voice. “My cabin was destroyed. All my clothes, my mattress … that’s why Mac was such a mess. I forgot to clean up the rags and cotton balls you used on my leg, and I must have bled on the floor. The monster smelled me, and, ugh, Crick, the whole cabin stunk of Obsession for Men. If Sanoya were in the cabin, he would have—”

“Please insert twenty-five cents to continue your call,” the robotic voice chirped.

“Shit.” Cricket dug in her pocket and scanned the ground for coins. “Avery, I don’t have any more coins.”

“—it doesn’t come back tonight. The last thing Mac needs is a monster running around while the investors are here. It took us all day to—”

“Aves, I don’t have much time. The man, Troy, he said Green Bank wouldn’t be a problem in another day. That everyone would fall in line. Like he had a plan and—”

“Please insert twenty-five cents to continue your call.”

“Cricket, you’re cutting out.”

“You need to leave,” she rushed out. Her pulse was pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingers, worry and fear warring for dominance as little dots connected.

“I can’t leave; the dinner.”

“I know!” she shouted, slamming her hand against the payphone. The dinner. The Georgia Man, the way he had smiled at Cricket, making sure she heard him ask about the drive to Elkwater. “I know, Avery; you need to leave or hide or something. Don’t go to that dinner.”

“What! Why not?”

“Lunar Asset Management! It’s the Georgia Men, whatever is happening, it’s happening—”

“Your call has been disconnected.”

“Tonight.” Cricket slammed the receiver down, again and again, until the plastic cracked, and she was panting heavily, caught somewhere between wanting to cry and needing to scream. So she did both. “Fuck.”