Chapter Eight Shea #2
“Busted,” she says, striving for levity. “How long have you been following me?”
He doesn’t answer. The rain has slowed, and the moon slips out from beneath the clouds. Its light catches in the red curl of the boy’s hair. Sullivan.
“You’re bleeding.” His voice is garbled, muted by the river.
Instinctively, Shea tugs her hands into her sleeves. “It’s just a scrape.” She edges past him, heading for the path as quickly as she can. “You can go. I don’t need help.”
“Do you know what I’ve just realized?” He does a hard about-face and falls into step alongside her, his gait heavy. “I haven’t fed tonight. I’ve been too busy running errands.”
“Take it up with Lys,” she says. “I didn’t ask you to do anything for me.”
“Not so fast, Princess.” His hand snaps out, closing tight around her elbow. She’s veered sideways into the railing, the wild river frothing just below. The icy spray kisses her cheek.
Horrified, she coughs out, “Princess?”
“That’s what they’re calling you.” He leans in close, his smile sharp. “The Gravewood Princess. That makes me your knight. And do you know what princesses do to show knights their appreciation? They bestow a favor on them.”
“I’ll scream,” she says, tugging at his grip.
The tip of his nose runs along her carotid artery. “I’m depending on it.”
When his teeth sink into her throat, the pain is punishing.
Her scream comes out throttled, cut off by the appearance of a shadowy figure standing in the dark just over Sullivan’s shoulder.
A bipedal creature, the lines of it disfigured by the trees.
With liquid grace, the shadow brings a finger to its lips.
Quiet. She obeys as if compelled, her breath sawing against her ear.
She feels the pull of a swallow, the rush of blood—the first surge of liquid venom into her veins.
The world goes gray at the edges, the pain dulling with morphine quickness. She blinks, and the creature is gone.
A half second later, so is Sullivan.
He’s ripped away with a shout—a garbled scream that cuts off in a yelp.
Over the rush of water, she hears the wet tear of flesh.
The brutal sever of bone snapping in two.
She staggers away, one hand pressed to her throat to staunch the bleeding.
Blood ribbons, hot and sticking, through her fingers as she peers into the covered dark of the bridge.
Sullivan lies unmoving on the ground, his chest gorged open.
The shadowed figure hunches over him, his still-beating heart clutched in its hand.
More beast than boy, the creature hunches oddly, the seams of its shirt strained to breaking along the protrusive ridge of its spine.
Moonlight gleams through the curve of two fluted horns.
The bloodied tips of its talons puncture the organ in its grasp.
She scrabbles backward, intending to run. A twig snaps beneath the heel of her boot, and the creature’s head kicks up. She’s met with a familiar face. A thin, bowed mouth. A thin, straight nose. A dark fall of hair, rainwater dripping into eyes as black as brimstone.
A startled breath shudders out of her. “Lys?”
The heart drops to the ground with a wet squelch.
The creature takes a single step toward her.
A second. Blood falls from its fingertips in blue-black drips.
A shout in the distance draws its focus.
Light streams through the trees, splicing the dark into strips of silver.
Shea is momentarily blinded as the beam of a flashlight sweeps over her face.
When it moves on, the creature is gone.
“Over here!” someone shouts.
Several Mercy Boys appear one after the other, wedging themselves hurriedly through the trees. They shove and jostle, their shadows tapering along the mirror-slick path. One by one, they catch sight of Sullivan lying there beneath the covered bridge.
“There’s a body,” someone calls out.
“I can’t see,” gripes another. “Move your big block head.”
“Hey, dickwad, you’re on my toes.”
“Shit, is that Sully—”
“It’s Sully!”
An uneasy silence crawls over them as they notice Shea standing nearby.
They keep their distance, drawn like sharks by the scent of blood.
A familiar face elbows his way to the front.
It’s Tristan, the wide beam of his flashlight sweeping over Sullivan’s heart.
The organ sits, steaming, atop the ice. Rotted through and ruined.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
“Out of the way!”
The group parts and Cyrus appears, his hair matted flat by the rain. He takes quick stock of the scene, his eyes lifting toward Shea. Disgust curdles his mouth into a sneer.
“He attacked me.” The cold has set in, or else the shock. Her teeth won’t stop chattering. “I didn’t— I was— I fell. My hands were bleeding. Lys—”
“Stop talking,” orders Cyrus, and she does. “The rest of you, go back to the lodge.”
No one moves. A ripple of unease moves through their ranks.
“You’re not in charge,” someone mutters.
Cyrus’s scowl deepens and he rounds on the rest of them. “Unless you want to spend the next few hours digging a grave in this rain, I’d suggest you do what I say.”
This time, they listen. They disperse one by grumbling one, dissipating like shadows between the trees.
“You too, Choi,” says Cyrus.
“Me?” Tristan’s gaze lifts toward Shea. “But I thought—”
“I’ll handle Parker. Go.”
Shea watches the broad beam of Tristan’s light diminish until it disappears. And then it’s only her and Cyrus. And the body. The rain has picked up, turning to ice. It ricochets off the roof.
“If you care about Lysander at all,” says Cyrus, “you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Who would I tell?”
As if in answer to her question, a final figure emerges from between the trees.
Not a Mercy Boy, but Asher, a drawstring bag over one shoulder.
Her bag, a single velveteen ear flopping out from the cinched enclosure.
He looks as stoic as she’s ever seen him, shotgun in hand and a bandolier strapped across his chest. The slots have been fitted with wooden bullets, whittled sharp.
He surveys Sullivan warily as he steps onto the bridge, prying loose a set of earplugs.
“What the hell is this?”
“An accident,” says Cyrus, before Shea can answer.
“Doesn’t look like an accident.” Asher ventures nearer to the body, prodding its shoulder with the butt of his shotgun. “He’s one of yours?”
“Not anymore,” says Cyrus wryly. “He’s been demoted.”
“Interesting choice of words,” notes Asher.
“Would you call it something else?”
“I would. This was a slaughter, plain and simple. From the way the wounds run parallel to the skin, I’d say it was an animal that did it.”
Cyrus’s eyes glimmer. “You’re the expert.”
A sudden scream rends the night in two. The sound is bestial. An eerie, tortured howl that unspools through the forest. Asher jolts to attention, readying his gun with unrecognizable speed.
“What the hell was that?”
“One of the Gravewood’s great mysteries,” says Cyrus with a shrug. Hunger has begun to crawl into his throat in spider-thin bruises. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you to escort Parker back. She’s a little too bloody for my liking. Don’t be long.”
He’s gone before either Shea or Asher can protest, abandoning them beneath the covered bridge. On the ground, the freezing rain begins to build into a wet slush. It reflects the light of the moon, turning the forest a polished gray.
“Are you okay?” asks Asher, shouldering his gun.
She swipes at her throat with her sleeve. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see it.”
“I said I’m fine .”
She tries to duck away from him, but he’s faster. He takes hold of her chin, angling her face to the side. The night air kisses the wound, drawing out a wince. Her head is full of Asher at sixteen, his voice cracked in laughter: You’re trouble to your bones.
“Shit.” He’s not laughing now. “That looks deep.”
“It’ll heal.” She wriggles out of his hold. “We should get back. Are you coming?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s staring down at Sullivan, his expression darkly contemplative. “Did you see what attacked him?”
“No.”
Asher’s eyes flick up to hers. “What do you mean, no? You were standing right here.”
“It was dark.”
“Not that dark. You saw something .”
“I didn’t—” She falters, blinking away the image of Lys, a heart in his fist. “I don’t know what I saw. I would tell you if I did.”
His brows pinch together. He searches her face for far too long. “You’re lying,” he finally says. “And I don’t know why you’re lying, but I’ll figure it out. Until then, we have a bigger problem.”
“What is it?”
“The intruder Nkosi found at your house? She’s been brought to Mercy Ridge.”
Shea’s heart gives a horrible crack. “She?”
“It’s Zahar,” says Asher. “Poppy is here in the Gravewood.”