Reckoning Read Online Free

Edison himself.
    The next step was priming the pump in the kitchen with a bottle of distilled water. When I worked the handle it made a gawdawful screeching, but I’d thought to bring some WD-40 and that made it just groan and shower rust flakes. After a few more pumps, though, things eased out. I worked it until a gush of rust-colored water came out, kept on until it turned clear and cold. Mineral-smelling well water, and plenty of it.
    “Thank you, sonny Jesus,” I muttered. It was just what Gran would’ve said. “God willing and the well ain’t dry.”
    Next thing—a fire in the potbellied iron stove. I worked the damper, hoped the chimney wasn’t blocked—fortunately there was a bit of a breeze, and I could feel the air moving past my fingertips. The stove was cleaned out, a neat fire laid among spiderwebs, so I just had to grab the matches and light her up. The draw was fine, and in a little bit I had a merry crackling blaze. Night would get cold around here even in spring, and all we had were sleeping bags. I wasn’t sure if moths would’ve gotten into Gran’s quilts too.
    I’d solve that problem when I hit it, but even moth-eaten quilts would be better than none.
    The boys had finished carrying everything in from the Subaru by then, and Ash let out a little cry of joy and wandered up to the stove, stretching his hands out like the fire was his personal friend.
    The plates and skillets were dusty, but I just rinsed them off. Gran would’ve had my hide, but by this time I was yawning and working through mental mud. I locked the front door, told the boys to arrange the sleeping bags upstairs, and put together something easy—bacon, pancakes from mix, eggs. I could’ve made this in my sleep, and I pretty much did. When the boys tromped downstairs I was already coaxing the balky old electric stovetop and thanking God that I didn’t have to cook on the potbelly. I can do it, sure, but it’s no fun.
    “More food?” Graves stretched, yawning hugely. Ash galumphed over to the stove and crouched, staring in through the grate at the fire’s orange and yellow crackle. His eyes ran with orange sparks, and his expression was such serene contentment it was hard to believe he was the same creature who’d been almost-eight feet of unstoppable Broken werwulf.
    Now there was a thought I didn’t want. Could he change into his wulf form now? And once he did, could he come back?
    Don’t borrow trouble, Dru
.
    “I’m not complaining,” Graves added hurriedly. “Can I help?”
    “You can check the icebox.” I pointed with one of Gran’s old wooden turners. “If it’s working, load the stuff from the cooler in there and put the cooler on the porch. And don’t bitch if you don’t like scrambled eggs; that’s all I’m making.”
    “Won’t bitch. Scout’s honor.” He gave me a fey grin, green eyes lighting up. “Well, I was never a scout. Couldn’t afford it. But still.”
    Well, ain’t we cozy
. I was beginning to get whiplash, he was going back and forth so fast between hating me and actually seeming to think I was okay. “I kind of wanted to be one too, but they don’t take girls.”
    “What about Girl Scouts?” He opened up the ancient, tiny fridge and stuck his hand in. “Looks like it’s working. This is really cool.”
    “Girl Scouts have great cookies. But too many girls. I don’t get along with girls.”
Except Nat, and she probably hates me now
. I poured pancake batter, heard a satisfying sizzle, and poked at the bacon. Considered cracking some eggs, decided to leave them for last. “I guess I never will.”
    “There’s time. I don’t get along with chicks either. Well, except you. You’re, like, the only girl I’ve ever met who isn’t . . .”
    Maddeningly, he stopped. I was too tired to even wonder what I wasn’t. There was a long list of things I wasn’t, starting with
cute
and probably finishing up somewhere near
lovable
.
    I brushed my hair back, wishing my ponytail would