Chapter 18 Maeve
MAEVE
I woke with a start, my heart racing. The room was pitch black and it took me a minute to remember I was back in my room at the Butchers’ loft.
I wasn’t surprised it was already dark. It was late November. The sun rose late and set early on the march toward winter.
Was there anyone left in the tunnels? A girl who’d been smart enough and lucky enough to escape capture for almost twenty-four hours?
Disappointment washed over me. I’d been so sure I’d make it to the end this time, so sure I’d be exiting as a victor at midnight the following night. Instead I’d lost again, with the added trauma of being manhandled by the Ghosts.
I touched a finger to the gauze on my neck and winced. I was wondering if it would leave a scar when I heard a voice erupt from the other side of the wall I shared with Bram’s room.
I froze, wondering if I’d imagined it, but a few seconds later it came again and I got to my feet and crossed the room to the wall.
“What do you mean you can’t find them?” Poe asked.
“What do you think I mean?” Bram was clearly frustrated, annoyed. “I mean they’re not around. Not at the house, not in town.”
“Probably lying low because they know we’re going to kill them.”
I blinked in surprise at the fury in Remy’s voice. He was just as big as Poe and Bram but he was usually so easygoing.
“I’ll look again tomorrow,” Bram said. “They can’t hide forever.”
Were they talking about the Ghosts? The possibility did weird things to my mind and body. I didn’t need three knights in shining armor.
Well, I’d needed three knights in shining armor in the tunnels. Obviously.
But I didn’t need them going off half-cocked, throwing bodies around to avenge me or whatever. I needed to kill Ethan Todd, make him pay for what he’d done to Chris and what Chris had done to June.
I strained to make out the murmured words coming from the other side of the wall, but the Butchers must have been talking quietly because it was a couple minutes before I could make out anything else.
“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Bram said.
“Fuck how it’s supposed to work.” Poe’s voice was tight with restraint, with anger.
“You know it’s a bad idea,” Bram said.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m all out of good ones,” Remy said. “And the good ones didn’t get us anywhere anyway.”
“I agree,” Poe said.
Bram cursed and a thud echoed through the loft.
“Don’t fuck up the walls just because you’re freaked,” Poe said.
“Fuck you,” Bram said. “Why would I be freaked?”
“You know why,” Poe said.
Their voices lowered to murmurs again. After a couple minutes I gave up and took the tray of food Poe had brought me to my bed. The tea was cold, but the sandwich was fine, and I tore into it, suddenly ravenous.
I thought about the Hunt, about the Ghosts.
Something was bothering me, a loose thread I couldn’t quite get a hold of, an itch I couldn’t scratch.
I mean, there was a lot that bothered me: the way Meathead had taken me down hard, the violence with which they’d chained me to the wall and stripped my clothes, the glee in the Observer, his eyes glittering with hatred behind his mask.
I touched my neck. I could almost feel the point of his knife still digging into my skin.
I didn’t know if any of it was normal. I’d only ever been caught by the Butchers, and they’d been more interested in the Hunt itself than in subjecting me to any kind of violence.
But there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, like a word on the tip of my tongue, a thought that had suddenly vanished into thin air.
I tried to find it while I ate, but it was still out of reach when I finished the brownie, so I guzzled some water from the bottle Poe had brought with my food, took the tray back to the dresser, and crawled back into bed.
I wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of my new situation. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Three months, to be exact.