Chapter 16 Elle #2
When I crouch down, pushing drenched hair from the man’s forehead, I note the bruises and blood covering him and instantly withdraw. The entire underside of his jaw is blackened, his cheek swollen from some sort of abuse, while burn marks decorate him, visible through the torn clothing.
He’s unidentifiable with the debris and abrasions.
The crimson on his skin is smeared, somewhat diluted, and I realize after a beat that he’s soaked from head to toe. It’s as if he somehow dragged himself out of the lake.
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of what put him there. How hard he’d have had to try to get out. I wonder if my attacker was his too.
With shaky hands, I clench my jaw and avoid looking at the blood, laying my palms on his chest to begin compressions. I’m not sure how much time has passed since he resurfaced, but action is always better than nothing.
The eyes of my assailant flash in my mind, sending a raw shiver across my skin.
I lower my mouth to the stranger’s, desperate to get him breathing again.
I’m not sure why it matters, really. Death is as much a part of life as anything else in my family, so we were raised with a more calloused view of it. People die—or get killed—all the time.
But it’s never been my fault before.
Perhaps that’s what unsettles me. Or maybe it’s the way the forest seems to stare, watching as I breathe between an unknown man’s lips, judging silently as if the sole witness to the crimes committed here tonight.
As hushed voices carry through the forest now, I’m reminded of the immediate aftermath of that night—how I dove to the shadows the second the strange man began coughing up water, because I’d heard voices then too.
Crawling on my stomach as far from the site as I could get but not before glimpsing a crowd of cloaked figures swooping in and taking the man away. I’d stayed still, caught up in thorns and poison ivy, waiting for them to leave.
Hoping they didn’t notice me while those eyes painted themselves into my memory.
Calling my father and Uncle Kieran, who lives just one state over and has his own bloody history, to come find me once I got far enough away and had service. I told them about the person falling into the lake, and they came back later to scour the water together, never finding anything.
After that, everyone seemed to move on, though Quincy never really forgave me for wandering off on my own.
Everyone except me, and seeing those figures plunges me directly into the past, only now I know slightly more than I did back then. I know there’s a plot against my family and a host of death and violence lurking at this school.
I know the people who kidnapped Lucy and Foxe were wearing cloaks too.
Had that been their doing?
Did they know who I was back then, and that was their attempt at ridding Fury Hill of its curse?
Anxiety rushes through my veins, and I try to focus on the issue at hand.
They can’t see me, I don’t think. I can barely see them, although the sounds of their laughter grate against the hair on the back of my neck, making me tense.
My fingertips grow numb the longer I stand there trying to get a glimpse at what they’re doing—it doesn’t sound like anything violent.
In fact, I’m almost certain I see slivers of naked flesh and hear distinct moans of pleasure as they call out in Latin.
But still. I’ve seen this film before.
I’ve been here before.
And I need to get out.
Blood rushes between my ears as I spin on my heel and take off, huffing through the burn in my chest. The noise from the group starts to taper off, though I continually check over my shoulder, making sure I’m not being followed.
As I take a sharp turn, relying on muscle memory and ardent fear to get me back to campus, I trip. A strained grunt puffs past my lips as my foot gets caught on a lifted tree root, sending me sprawling onto the dirt. My face scuffs against the ground, a jolt of pain slicing against my flesh.
I touch my fingers to my mouth, feeling my teeth to make sure they didn’t crack.
“You probably wouldn’t trip if you wore more practical shoes.”
The scream that erupts from my chest at the male voice is otherworldly, making my ears crackle. I slip the flashlight from my hoodie, holding it up in defense even as I pinch my eyes closed.
“Jesus,” the voice continues, familiar irritation lacing his tone. “I didn’t even fucking touch you. Get ahold of yourself.”
Chest heaving, I peel open an eyelid. As I glance around, I notice I’m almost back to the abandoned building past the quarry.
I push onto my knees, brushing debris from my skirt. My hood falls back as I tilt my chin to face my inquisitor.
Sutton Dupont stands over me, his green eyes almost ablaze. As usual outside of class, his brown hair is a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours—or someone else has.
Swallowing, I scan the full length of him, ignoring how at ease his presence makes me. The green sweater vest he wears is familiar and comforting, but that warmth disappears when I let my focus fall to his long fingers—clasping a gold Bauta mask.