Ignis Fatuus (The Memento Trilogy #3)

Chapter 1

DELILAH

The waves softly lap at my raw feet, stinging the cuts and scrapes I’ve collected. A pained groan from deep in my stomach works through me as I try to lift my head from the mud, rocks, and branches I landed on. It takes four attempts to be able to open my eyes to the sun glaring at me.

There’s so much fallen earth, Kane could be buried beneath it without any sign. I force myself to sit up on my knees. “Ka-Kane?”

No answer.

I put my burning limbs through more stress as I lift the debris.

It’s not until I’ve cleared a small patch I realize there’s five feet of clay, mud, trees, and rocks all burying Kane as the waves retreat, pulling back like a blanket to reveal a limp body sticking out from under the collapsed ravine.

The stones and twigs scrape my battered body as I slide down to drop on the shoreline.

My wet dress gets caught on something, exposing my side, but I don’t care because the body is dressed in all black—like Kane was.

“Kane? Baby?” Dropping down to my knees, I try to dig out the compacted mud above him as I cry, “Please don’t leave me.”

As soon as I manage to uncover his hand, I grab it, hysterically searching every inch of his skin for a sign it’s not him.

The mud has caked in layers—some dry, some wet—so it’s difficult to feel for the scar or determine if he has tattoos.

The waves come back, helping me wash some of it away to see bruising has already formed.

But there’s no ink. No scar. It’s not Kane.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, dropping the stranger’s hand. Sitting back on my haunches, I slowly turn my head to find anything, just one little thing to prove Kane is alive as the sun glitters over the surface of the water, the shoreline clear other than the mess I’m sitting in. So where is he?

A sharp, high-pitched whistle carries through the air, quickly followed by the sound of violent barking and paws slamming against the wet mud, echoing above me.

Kane left me. Now Helene has literally sent her dogs after me.

He fucking left me.

Fuck him.

I run, remaining bent in half, as the barking gets louder. The sand is still saturated from the rain, the excess water pooling in my steps, making it easier to run but the stupid fucking dress sticks to me, the drying mud pulling my skin taut.

Another sharp whistle echoes as I reach the rocky edge meeting the sand to stay out of sight. Every inch of my body burns, inside and out. That motherfucker left me. He left me to die for a second fucking time.

Unless his body washed away.

I keep a tight hold on my anger, because being angry he’s abandoned me is better than being inconsolable at his death. If he’s alive, I can fight him, I can hate him—I can tell him everything.

The barking gets louder.

I stupidly look at the pack of six dogs standing at the edge of the collapsed ravine, alerting their handler to where I just was. The whistle is longer this time, drawing them back as I hold the bottom of the dress so it can’t trip me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been running for when I turn to check no one’s following me. The rocks, mud, and branches don’t appear violent as the waves smooth over the edges.

No boats though.

No people going about their lives or checking on their island to clean up after the storm.

Nothing other than me, my aching body and heart.

There’s no escape from the harsh sun at the highest point in the sky as I hold the stone wall to drag myself up the steep steps leading to the tree-topped cliff.

All of them are different sizes, shapes, and inclines, which makes me stumble.

I pause on a step bigger than the others, my eyes closing as I breathe through the burning in my lungs until it’s manageable enough to continue walking.

Kane wouldn’t have been able to walk with an injury, but there’s no bloody trail to follow. Did someone find him? Take him to get help?

If they did, why did they leave me?

Why did he leave me?

Fuck that. Why the fuck do I care?

I keep doing this, expecting people to give a fuck about me.

My parents were first, then my sisters, then Asher, then Kane.

They don’t care about anyone other than themselves.

I’m the fool for thinking maybe, just fucking maybe, they’d see me as one of them.

One day, they’d change. If I just kept being there, they’d notice me.

Any attention was worth it. Whether it was Kane fucking me to get back at his brother, Asher slapping me because he didn’t like when I spoke a certain way, my parents screaming in my face—whatever happened it was worth it because I existed.

I soaked up all their negative qualities—their violence—and made myself believe it meant they felt something for me. Even anger.

Now, I’m going to be different. I remember everything and I don’t fucking need them. I need to get the fuck off this island though, so I’ll use them like they used me.

I freeze when I reach the top of the cliff, staring at the trees that stare back at me.

The thick trunks have dolls strapped to them at varying heights, some missing limbs, writing on their face, even some without eyes.

The rain is still clinging to the plastic surface of their skin, like they’re weeping out of their empty sockets.

Tremors work through my limbs as I carefully walk through the trees. They’re not sentient, yet the feeling of being watched ramps up. My eyes move over each doll part I pass, noticing the weathered wooden boards hidden below the large branches stretching above me.

Deep red paint, blood-like, and erratic lettering as though they’ve been painted with the fingertips of the forest’s last victims.

Leave.

Run.

Turn back.

Do not enter The Dollhouse.

One of the dolls is covered in the same red paint, little bits flaking off around its nose, but the excess rain dripping from the leaves makes it look like it’s bleeding out.

The humidity of the wet ground, trees breathing after the heavy downpour make it harder to move as I walk deeper into the forest. I become discombobulated, slowly turning in a circle to determine which direction will get me to safety.

One doll hanging from a higher branch with bubbled skin gets my attention. My skin crawls at the thought of all the insects who have attached themselves to it as I stare at the golden hair attaching it to the branch, the Victorian-style dress with a lace-frilled collar—

The fucking socks.

Frilly socks that were once white with soft pink lace around the trim.

I was forced to pose with it when I would visit my grandparents, while dressed the same as it.

Ruby and Scarlet had their own when they were younger too.

The photos were never displayed, yet every single visit to their godforsaken house I would be made to stand in front of the piano in their foyer with my shoulders straight and that doll in my arms.

A doll now hanging from a tree on an island I had no knowledge of.

There’s no confusion though. Not now. I remember everything, including why they needed me to think I was crazy.