[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]
Phelan stood out on the wall, watching the storm roll in. He could feel it in his bones—something was askew, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It was one of those moments when he wished he had more clues, when he wished everything were clearer.
At the same time, he was silently grateful that they weren’t.
“You feel it, too, then?”
He glanced at his cousin, watched Seamus as he climbed up to the top of the concrete and brick structure from the inside. Phelan’s lips thinned for a moment, then his gaze flicked south and west again. He nodded, but didn’t say anything, not yet.
Seamus came to stand beside him, followed his gaze for a few moments. “The storm will come first.”
Phelan nodded. “But what comes inside of it? What comes after?”
“It could be nothing,” Seamus said.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I believe that any enemy in the cadre would send a storm to soften us up.” Seamus crossed his arms. The storm was nearer now. “But most of them wouldn’t want to fight in it.”
“Some would,” Phelan murmured. Wind stirred in the trees, then died. He took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. Something seemed to whisper in the back of his mind, a wordless warning—or one that he simply couldn’t quite make out, something that was perhaps a little too far away to hear, to understand.
“But most wouldn’t,” Seamus said. “Either way, the Hunt prepares.”
A chill crept down Phelan’s spine. “For what?”
“For anything that might need to be done to protect them,” Seamus said, crossing his arms. “For anything that needs to be done to protect our home, Phelan. What else would they do? This is home. Those kids—all of them here—those are their family now, too. Their people. They’ll die to protect them, and us.”