Chapter 9 The Present
It’s honestly surprising how many clothes hospital patients just leave behind. Cassian walks down the corridor carrying a large box filled with them, the magical scythe-dagger clutched awkwardly between his teeth like some kind of feral delivery man.
“You know,” I say, as we push open another door and step into the next dim, crumbling room, “you could just give me the dagger.”
Right away, I spot a pair of dusty sneakers half-hidden under one of the beds.
“Have a little faith that I could fight the wraith off if she shows up,” I add.
His only answer is a muffled grunt. We’ve already argued about this. He made it clear earlier, if the wraith appears, he can drop the box and get the dagger from his teeth to his hand faster than I could even move in this still-clumsy body.
And now that we’ve stepped past the protection wards, we’re officially in no-man’s-land.
Last night, the guys only had enough time and energy to ward the main room and one bathroom of the hospital.
Everything else, these halls, these rooms, is exposed.
Unprotected. Right now, we’re in the kill zone.
Still, I handled the wraith once, and I’m positive I could do it again.
Somehow.
Cassian kneels beside the bed, nudging the sneakers with his knee before setting the box down. He finally pulls the dagger from his mouth and sets it gently on the ground beside him.
“Just keep your eyes open,” he says, voice low but sharp. “We’re almost done.”
I glance inside the box. Every item we’ve found is old, worn, and either smelled like mildew or was clearly used and not washed.
Some pieces look like they’ve been sitting out long enough to be considered vintage, and not in that good way.
No, they’re crusted with dust, spiderwebs tangled through sleeves and laces.
“This isn’t even close to done,” I say. “There’s nothing here I can wear. Nothing that fits. Nothing that isn’t falling apart or doesn’t feel like it’s soaked in someone else’s death.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s counting backward from ten. His eyes flick down to the neon orange disaster I’m currently wearing, then to the box. His mouth tightens into a thin, frustrated line.
“I don’t know what you were expecting, Skye,” he says at last, every word edged with restraint. “This isn’t some curated thrift shop. There’s no backroom with racks sorted by color and size. No tag that says ‘like new.’ We’re in a rotting hospital. Half this crap should be crawling with something.”
“Well, that’s even more reason for me not to wear it,” I mutter, arms folded tight across my chest.
He shoots me a sharp look; sharp enough to nick. Then, another sigh. Longer. Quieter. The kind of sigh that says, If I say what I’m really thinking right now, I’ll regret it, and so will you.
We’ve spent the last thirty minutes rummaging through rooms, picking through abandoned belongings like scavengers. And yeah, I’ll admit it, maybe I should’ve figured out after the first few tries that I wouldn’t be able to stomach the idea of wearing clothes left behind by the dead.
It’s stupid, I know. Hypocritical, even. Not so long ago, I was one of those dead people. But that’s exactly why it stings. I know what it feels like to be erased.
I remember what Mark did to my house. The repainting. The redecorating. The way he tossed out my things without a second thought, telling Jessica it was fine. Like none of it meant anything.
Like I didn’t mean anything.
He had no right to wipe me away like I was a stain.
So no, I don’t want to wear someone else’s clothes. Not ones that were worn, loved, or lived in. Not ones that still hold the shape of someone else’s shoulders or the faint scent of their life.
What I’d been hoping for, naively maybe, was something untouched. Something left behind by accident, maybe. A brand-new pair of pants a husband bought for his wife while she was recovering. Something that didn’t fit, so she left them behind.
Clearly, that was wishful thinking.
I bite my lip.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask Cassian quietly. “Just… have a little sympathy, okay?”
Cassian freezes.
Then he stares at me like I’m crossing the line here.
“Why do you think I agreed to this fucking errand in the first place?” he mutters, bitterly. “Sympathy’s all I’ve got.”
Before I can respond, he jams the dagger back between his teeth, grabs the box, and jerks his head toward the hallway. His mute version of we’re done here.
I follow, senses sharp, scanning the dark corridors for any sign of the wraith. A shadow. A whisper. A shift in the air. Nothing, thank god, but it still feels like we’re tiptoeing across a minefield.
I figure we’re heading for another room, maybe the nurses’ station or one of the locked cabinets we passed earlier, but then we reach the main staircase.
Cassian doesn’t stop. He starts climbing.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “We left at least a dozen rooms behind.”
No answer. Of course not, he’s got a dagger clenched between his teeth like some deranged pirate. But I shut up and follow anyway.
Eventually, we reach the psych ward. There’s the full package. The familiar steel doors, the muted lighting, the heaviness in the air.
Cassian sets the box down, punches a code into the padlock, and kicks the door open with the flat of his boot. The heavy metal creaks inward. He picks the box back up and steps aside, waiting for me to enter first.
Just like the first time I was here, I’m struck again by how different his room feels compared to the rest of the hospital.
Most of the upper floors are corroded, walls and windows cracked, ceilings caved in, moisture leaking through every gap.
Mold and rust cling to everything. But in here, it’s all gone.
The room is strangely clean. No decay. No dark spots anywhere.
No stink. It’s minimalist, just the essentials, yet it still smells like him.
Musky and a little sweet, with a sharp undercurrent of metal and soap.
Cassian follows me in, closes the door, and drops the box with a thud. Finally, he pulls the dagger from his mouth and tosses it onto the bed.
“You’d rather the dagger lie on the bed than be in my hand?” I ask, raising a brow.
His jaw flexes as he stretches it, then he raises an eyebrow of his own.
“The room’s warded,” he says. “Nothing should be able to get in.”
Oh. That shuts me up.
He watches me for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching before he rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off.
“Check the closet,” he says.
I blink.
“Huh?”
“My clothes,” he explains. “Check them out.”
“You’re offering me your clothes?”
“They’re clean,” he says flatly, already sounding like he regrets it. “Too big, probably, but I’ve got a belt. If you want them, take them.”
I can’t help but be confused.
“Are you sure?” I mutter, but I head to the closet anyway.
“Yeah.”
The moment I slide the door open, I’m hit by a stronger wave of that Cassian smell, sharper now. Less soap and sweetness. More musk and something metallic.
Inside, everything’s neatly folded and color-coded. Blacks, greys, deep greens. Military-issue shirts, worn hoodies, cargo pants.
I run my fingers over one of the hoodies, soft from years of wear, and glance back at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, watching me with that intense gaze of his.
“Can I—?”
He cuts me off. “Take whatever fits. I don’t care.”
I pull out a dark green shirt and a pair of drawstring pants. The second I do, he looks away fast, like the idea of me changing in front of him just overloaded his system.
To be fair, I could change downstairs, but…
“You’re not even curious what I picked?” I ask, already toying with the hem of my top. I’m not trying to tease, but the scrubs cling to me in that irritating, plasticky way and—
I don’t even know.
I think I’ve got a little bit of a sadist in me.
“I said I don’t care,” he repeats. I can’t help thinking he’s lying.
When I glance back, I catch the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles have gone white from gripping his thighs. His eyes are locked on the floor, that permanent scowl carved into his face.
Except for the occasional smirk, I’ve never seen him smile. I’ve never heard him laugh.
And after what he said about his sister earlier today... I can’t help but see him in a different light.
“Alright. I’m changing,” I say.
He hums in response, and I turn around, pulling the top over my head and letting it fall to the floor.
I slip the shirt on. It’s too big, just like he said. It falls to mid-thigh, the collar wide and a little stretched. I skip the pants for now and turn back around.
“You can look now,” I murmur.
He looks up cautiously, but the moment his gaze lands on me, something changes. His mouth parts, just a little.
“I told you it’d be too big,” he says after a moment, voice low and hoarse, a little frayed at the edges.
“Yeah, but it’s comfy,” I say. “I like it.”
He rises to his feet. Takes one step forward, then another. And the closer he gets, the more unreadable his expression becomes.
It’s that look again.
The one he reserves for murdering people or moments when I have no idea what’s passing through his mind. The kind of blankness that makes me want to run. At least, lately.
I consider stepping back, just a little. Just enough to breathe.
But when he gets close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes, I stay rooted.
I don’t move.
Then, without warning, he bends down and picks up the top I discarded.
“I can throw the clothes we picked up in with my next laundry,” he says. His voice is quieter this time, almost gentle. “I doubt we’ll have time to go shopping anytime soon.”
It’s such a practical thing to say. So normal. So… mundane, it knocks the breath out of me. I didn’t think Cassian had that in him. I thought he was all blood and violence.
Well. Would you look at that.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be… nice. Even though I’m still not sure I want them.”
His jaw tightens.