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“We’ll talk later.”
Cleo practically spat the words, struggling to steady her hands. She didn’t want to talk to Scott, didn’t want to accept what had just happened - the consequences she had not foreseen, the scraping of Pyro’s teeth against her arm. They had changed, undoubtedly - the nature of the hunger curled in her gut seemed deeper, more sinister. And yet, they didn’t feel different. Weren’t they still the same person who had arrived at Oakhurst, and built a home there? Who hated the creatures of darkness that threatened her peace?
Home held things she could not yet bear to confront - Cleo knew she couldn’t return there yet. Instead they stumbled further into the forest, heavy breathing out of place among the hushed canopy. They hit their arm on a leering branch and suddenly recoiled, the pain of their wound hitting them all at once. Shit. She cradled it to her chest, pausing to take in the sight of it - practically shredded, covered much like the rest of her in soot and blood. At least there was no discernable bite, she reasoned, the absurdity of the idea so jarring it took her a second to remember why it mattered. They would hate her, now. Her home and her people and her Pearl. How were they supposed to explain to their roommate that they could never enjoy the seeds they had toiled away sowing? That grain and vegetables were as good to her now as dirt? It seemed strangely ironic that the job she had sunk so much time and effort into now served only to feed those she had left behind.
She took a deep breath, changing the course of her footsteps. It was all well to reminisce, but Cleo would not allow herself to cry. She had things to do, plans to make. But first — it was time to do something about that hunger.