Chapter Five Shea
It never fails to astound Shea just how perfectly Oliver Lysander holds the whole of Mercy Ridge in the palm of his hand.
The exact moment he gives the order, the hard clot of bodies begins to break apart.
Mercy Boys and their guests disperse as though released from a thrall. No one grumbles. No one dissents.
With the venom of Lys’s bite slowly metabolizing, Shea’s head has begun to clear. With it comes pain. A headache builds behind her eyes. There’s a sharpness to the pain at her wrist. Her veins feel as though they’ve been packed with sand.
Lys’s eyes remain fixed to Shea’s as the room empties out. As her own euphoria fades, so does his. Already, the color has begun to bleed out of him. Shadows gather in the hollows of his cheeks, turning him gaunt.
“You stay,” he says.
A terrible anticipation zippers up her spine as the last few stragglers trickle out. Only Cyrus remains. He stands beside her, his hands in his pockets and his eyes bright with elation. It’s going to get ugly, and he knows it.
“You too, Cy,” says Lys. “Out.”
Cyrus’s shoulders drop. “But I—”
“Case the grounds. Take Sully and Boyce. Make sure this one didn’t bring any friends.”
“There’s no one else,” says Asher. “I’m on my own.”
“All the same.” Lys sinks into a wide leather chair beside the hearth. Even with shoulders slouched and limbs splayed wide, he still looks like a king. Haughty. Untouchable. The slightest trickle of red darkens one corner of his frown. Her blood, staining his mouth like rouge.
“This is why you were so desperate for me to feed,” he accuses her, the moment Cyrus is gone. “You wanted me amenable.”
She balks. “That’s not why.”
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t have the patience for it tonight.” There’s a terrible energy in him—it twitches just beneath his skin. “Do you like him?”
The sudden pivot hits her like a slap. “What?”
“You heard me.”
On his knees, Asher grits his jaw and says nothing.
“Tell me what you like about him,” goads Lys.
Shea blinks and sees Asher in the failing light of Fletcher’s field. Asher in her doorway, his helmet under his elbow. Asher in deep summer, the sun in his eyes: We get out of here together—that hasn’t changed.
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Come on.” Lys’s eyes are bright and clear. She has never resented his humanity more than in this moment. “There must be something. He’s pretty. He’s strong. He’s human .”
“Lys, stop .”
His smile fades and Shea has the horrible sense she’s done the exact wrong thing. Usually, he likes it when she’s pushy. It amuses him when she’s bold. Tonight, his stare is flinted. He turns to Asher, as full of disdain as she’s ever seen him.
“On your feet, puppy.”
Asher obliges, his balance thrown off by the coarse rope binding his hands. The weal around his eye has begun to purple and his eyelid has swollen all the way shut. He doesn’t look at Shea. Not once. He asked for this , she reminds herself. He insisted.
It doesn’t make her feel any better.
“Let’s start with your name,” says Lys.
“Asher Thorley.”
“Thorley.” Lys studies Asher across the lamplit dark. “Here’s how we run things at Mercy Ridge, Thorley—either you have something to offer or you are the offering. If you want to live to see the sunrise, I’d make yourself important.”
Asher doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve spent the last two months stationed at a watchtower out by the New York garrison. Last week, one of our rangers picked up some of Keeling’s guys outside Black River. They were pretty chatty.”
“I’ll bet they were,” says Lys.
“According to them, you and Paris Keeling are on the outs.”
Lys’s mouth twitches. “That’s not news.”
“I’m not talking about a small territory dispute,” says Asher. “They told us you want him dead.”
Paris Keeling. The name is familiar, but only just. Shea’s heard it before, whispered like a curse in the halls of Mercy Ridge. Whoever he is, it’s clear that the mention has struck a nerve. Lys scowls down at Asher, a deep groove pinched between his brows.
“You have my attention.”
“I can kill him,” says Asher.
His declaration is followed by a single stroke of quiet. And then Lys laughs.
And laughs.
“It’s a compelling offer. You’ll never get close enough.”
“I don’t need to be close,” says Asher. “I’m a sure shot.”
“Confident,” notes Lys. “Unfortunately, I can’t stake my legacy on arrogance.”
Asher doesn’t back down. “It’s not arrogance if it’s true.”
“Maybe. I’d rather not take your word on it.” Lys casts a glance toward the wide bay windows. The glass is ferned in moonlit whorls of ice. “It’s cold out tonight. Frost like that will lock up a scent, make you harder to track. If you’re quick, you might survive a hunt.”
Shea’s stomach drops. “Lys, you can’t—”
“Can’t I?” His voice knifes through the hall, silencing her. Some of the darkness has bled back into his eyes. His pupils dilate, thinning the iris to a single thread of gray. Eventually, even the white of his sclera will be gone. He’ll be a terror again, with a demon’s eyes.
“Put your fists away,” he says. “You’re not in this fight.”
“The hell I’m not.”
“The guys in my garrison have a name for me,” says Asher, rushing to speak before Shea can dig them both deeper. “They call me Sunshine.”
Shea half expects Lys to laugh in his face a second time. Instead, he goes still, fixing Asher in a flat, circumspect stare. “Bullshit.”
“I promise you, it’s not.”
“The sunshine sniper has a confirmed kill count of over a hundred.”
“I use wooden slugs,” says Asher with a shrug.
“Handmade?”
“It’s old-school but efficient.”
The words ring hollow in Shea’s ears. Confirmed kill count. Over a hundred. She is struck, once again, by how severe this new Asher seems—how formidable, even bound.
He’s nothing like the boy from down the road, who liked her mother’s shortbread and who made her promises by the woods and who once helped his sister and her friends make a splint for an injured rabbit.
That boy has been scraped away and replaced with someone new.
It dawns on her that she doesn’t know this Asher at all.
But then, he doesn’t know her anymore, either.
“I don’t buy it.” Lys’s voice is just a touch too loud, and Shea realizes he’s been watching her. “It takes stealth and precision to be a marksman. You look like you’d trip over your own two feet.”
“I can take out Keeling,” insists Asher. “He’ll never see it coming.”
Lys sniffs. “If I wanted Keeling dead, I’d have already done it myself.”
“I don’t think so. You’re smarter than that.”
Amusement crosses Lys’s face. “Am I?”
“You are. Keeling controls the southern Flatwood—that’s a significant territory. Most of your kind are loyal to him, and no one wants to fall in line behind an insurrectionist. You kill him, you make yourself the enemy. It has to be someone else.”
“I don’t need you to explain the stakes to me,” says Lys, but he looks intrigued. “I’m assuming there’s something you want in return.”
“My sister,” says Asher. “Camellia Thorley.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It should. She disappeared into the Gravewood two weeks ago.”
“The Gravewood spans over four thousand acres,” says Lys dryly.
“Four thousand acres that are under your control.”
Lys’s smile is thin. “While I appreciate the insinuation that I’m some sort of all-seeing god, I don’t actually possess the omnipresence to be everywhere at once. Your sister isn’t here at Mercy Ridge, which means that wherever else she is, she’s dead.”
“Lys,” hisses Shea.
“Well, it’s true.”
“It doesn’t matter if she is or isn’t,” says Asher. “I promised my mom I’d find her.”
“That’s quite the sacrifice,” says Lys. “I’m curious to hear what it is you plan to do with her, once you’re successful.
You can’t carry her bones back home, it’s a breach of quarantine.
Not to mention, you’re a fugitive. If the watch doesn’t kill you, the woods will.
You’re a part of the Gravewood now, same as your sister. ”
Shea flinches, but Asher looks unfazed. “It’s what you do for family.”
“Noble.” Lys ticks the superlatives off on his fingers. “Loyal. Brave. Selfless. You’re a veritable fount of good qualities.”
“So, you’ll help me find her?”
“I’m still undecided.” Lys sinks deeper into his chair, kicking out his feet. “How does Shea factor into this?”
“Shea is going home,” says Shea. “She has a math test today.”
There’s a short pause. Then, “You’re not going back.”
He says it like it’s an undisputed fact. The sky is blue. The ocean is wet. You’re never going home again.
Her voice tight, she says, “I think I must have misheard you.”
“Hornbeam is a dead end.” He doesn’t bother repeating himself. “I’m getting tired of waiting for you to realize it.”
“I have to go home. I— We have a deal .”
“We had a deal.” Lys sits forward, rippling with energy. “Bringing a watchdog here tonight was a breach of contract, which means our agreement is null. I’m negotiating a new one.”
“It’s not her fault,” cuts in Asher. “I’m the one who pushed her into coming.”
“Protective.” Lys looks less than impressed. “Another worthy attribute. No wonder she likes you so much; I’m halfway in love with you already.”
Heat flames Shea’s cheeks. “You’re being unreasonable. I can’t just never go home again. I have family that depends on me.”
Lys’s gaze snaps to hers. “You said there was no one else.”
She backpedals as best she can. “Did I say that? I don’t remember.”
“You told me you were alone.” Lys rises from his chair, his shadow tapering to a point beneath the rapidly diminishing dark. “You said your parents were dead.”
“I am alone, I’m—”
“She’s keeping her mother in the cellar,” says Asher, and Shea whips around to face him, horrified. He doesn’t spare her so much as a glance. “It looks like she ingested something from the Gravewood.”
“Looks like,” echoes Lys.
“The change didn’t take.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t talk about my personal business like I’m not in the room,” she snaps.
“Don’t keep things from me,” says Lys, “and I won’t have to.”