Between the Spark and the Burn by April Genevieve Tucholke Read Free Book Online

flap and let myself in.
    â€œHey, Violet,” he said, and laughed his low, chuckling laugh. “Was it the cold or the howling?”
    â€œBoth,” I said back.
    â€œDon’t worry. Wolves don’t attack people.”
    I shrugged. “Have you ever read that part in
My Antonia
about Russia, and the bridal party, and the wolves? Maybe we should go sleep in the car.”
    But Neely just laughed again. He patted the sleeping bag next to him. “Climb in. I wasn’t using it anyway. Can’t sleep.”
    He didn’t have to offer twice. I slipped off my winter boots and slid into the red bag. Neely had a book beside him, unopened—a wintry book full of orphans and family secrets and misadventures and lies and epic misfortune.
    â€œRead to me?” I asked him.
    And he did. Neely had a great voice for reading and soon the wailing of the wild dogs outside bled into the wild winter setting of the book and suddenly I was content and sleepy and doing all right again.
    Later he offered me a sip of cognac from a flask to heat me up from the inside, and took one himself too. Then he climbed into the sleeping bag with me. Because it was big enough. And because I wasn’t going back to my tent all by myself, no way in hell.
    Neely’s breath warmed the hollow of my throat, right where the jade-green necklace met my skin, and it felt good.
    â€œDo you think the devil-boy story could be true?” I asked him, because suddenly I felt I had to get the question off my chest, or die trying. “Could it be Brodie up there in the mountains, doing those things? Or River?”
    I could feel Neely shrug next to me in the dark. “I don’t know. Devil-boy stealing girls’ dreams . . . could be them. Both of them. Either. Could be nothing. I guess we’ll find out.”
    I looked up straight into his face, my blue eyes on his. “So you think it could be the both of them, working together?”
    River, you wouldn’t, would you? Even if you killed the entire town of Rattlesnake Albee, even if you made my uncle slit his own throat, even if you made that kid throw himself in front of a train, you’re not evil. Not evil like Brodie. Not deep down. You hated him, just as much as we did.
    Didn’t you?
    â€œYes,” Neely said, after a minute, in answer to my question.
    And then he flipped over to face the other wall of the tent, as if he didn’t want me to keep looking into his eyes.
    â€œThen you think River’s gone mad,” I said. Statement. Not a question. “You think he went crazy from the glow and teamed up with Brodie, just like Brodie wanted all along.”
    â€œYes. No. I don’t know. He’s just been gone a long time, is all.” And Neely didn’t laugh when he said this. He didn’t shrug. He was just . . . quiet.
    I put my hand on his side, on the soft part between his ribs and his hip. He reached back, grabbed my fingers, and pulled me up next to him, tight.
    And if I wished he was River, and if he wished I didn’t wish he was River, well, neither of us said anything because he was still warm, and I was still cold, and both of us needed the comfort. Neely-warmth started warming me up, finally, finally, and we both fell asleep wrapped up together with the wolves still lullaby-ing us in the background.

Chapter 6
    T HE A PPALACHIAN M OUNTAINS had an air of Echo about them, lots of trees and small towns. There was less snow, only an inch in some places, fluffy and new and unfrozen with brown grass still poking through. And we were grateful because it was steep gravel roads much of the time, and Neely’s car was a smooth black luxury thing meant for the city, not circumnavigating mysterious mountain paths on the way to hunting down a stranger-hating village plagued by a devil-boy.
    The landscape had stayed roughly the same since we turned away from the sea . . . winter, winter, winter, with