Chapter Twenty-Four Shea
Camellia Thorley knew they were coming.
She’d been there, in that strange little house with the wall full of writing, and somehow—impossibly—she’d known Shea would pass through, too.
“But how did she know?” she demands, circling back around for the umpteenth time. “ I didn’t even know I’d be there.”
“Maybe it wasn’t her,” says Asher, giving her the same answer he’d given her the last six times she asked. Just like the last six times, he adds, “Or maybe the note was left for anyone who might stumble on it. It’s not like it was addressed to you.”
It’s been this way for the past hour—her questioning, and him maintaining his stance. We don’t know for sure. We don’t have any answers. We keep going as planned. If she was in possession of a sword, she’d run it clean through him.
“It’s a code Ellie and I made up,” she snaps, irate. “In fourth grade. Who else would she have left it for?”
They’re just outside St. Augustine—their penultimate pit stop before the revel.
It’s the sunniest it’s been in days: hot and bright, no shade for miles.
They hunker down for the day in an empty bungalow on the bounds of the Flatwood.
The house is boxed in by several narrow columns of towering longleaf, surrounded in every direction by swaths of glossy gallberry and stunted slash pine.
It was built for summers, with cool tile flooring and a sun-splashed facade.
Lys is forced to shelter in the windowless half bath for the duration of the day.
It’s a relief, being out of his crosshairs.
She’s been tied up in knots since their fight, too angry to forgive him, too hurt to try.
Too terrified that he might sense it on her—the fact that she’s planning to leave.
Come to the revel. Alone. The woman’s advice is at odds with the warning Camellia left.
She isn’t quite sure how to reconcile them.
And just like that, she’s circled back around again.
“Ellie must be traveling with someone,” she insists. “Someone who knew where that cabin was, and how to get there without running into trouble.”
The atlas sits on the kitchen table between them, the route to the revel traced in black. Asher stands over it, his jaw wired tight. She can practically hear him running out of patience.
“What if she’s with one of Keeling’s people?” asks Poppy. “What if Paris took her?”
“That would mean she’s here, in the Flatwood.” Shea tips back in her seat, tucking her legs up under her. “It’s not impossible. He got to Tristan. He convinced him to Turn just so he’d be in position when Paris needed someone on the inside.”
“Tristan Choi Turned because he was sick,” says Asher.
“He was a pawn,” Shea counters. “Paris uses people, we know that. He used Tristan. He took someone who was scared and looking for a way out and he turned that fear into leverage.”
Poppy hums. “What if Paris took Ellie to try and lure Lysander away from Mercy Ridge?”
Asher presses his fists to the table, his shoulders tense. “You’re both taking massive leaps of logic. My sister has never even met Lys.”
“But she’s important to Shea,” says Poppy. “And Paris has been using Shea to manipulate Lysander at every turn. The evidence is right in front of us. It’s not a leap of logic to work with what we know.”
Asher pushes off the table, pacing away to the window, where the screened-in pool sits empty of all but a shallow layer of standing water, furred in algae.
Lacing his hands over the top of his cap, he turns to face them.
“Fine. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that Ellie is here in the Flatwood.
Let’s say she’s with Paris. We still have to find our way into the revel. ”
“Unless it’s a trap,” says Poppy.
Asher’s eyes tighten. “We’re not changing the plan, Poppy.”
She doesn’t back down. “Ellie left that note as a warning. And if Paris knows everything about Shea, you have to assume he knows everything about you, too.”
“I’m not a part of it.”
“Except you are, Asher,” says Poppy. “This is bigger than you and your uncomfortable feelings. It’s about Ellie. What if we do something wrong, and it gets her killed? What if he’s playing all three of you? What if, by going to the revel, we’re giving Paris exactly what he wants?”
“Then we give it to him.”
Lys looms in the open door, his hood up and his hands in his pockets. His horns carve out from beneath his hair in violent points. His cheeks are sunken, eyes bruised, and Shea wonders just how long he’s been standing there, listening.
“We go to the revel,” he says, “and we beat him at his own game.”
···
An hour later, they still haven’t agreed on the best way in.
“We cut around south,” says Asher, jabbing a finger at the map. “Approach from the flank.”
Lys brushes his finger away. “There’s no point in trying to surprise him if he knows we’re coming.”
They’re in the upstairs bathroom, a pillow shoved into the egress window. The sun finds its way in anyway, turning the tiled space a funny blue color. Lys soldiers it in silence, teeth gritted and hoodie zipped, sweating through his things.
“If we go straight in, we have to take the coastal road along the old beachfront resorts,” says Asher. The map is laid out in the bottom of the Jacuzzi tub, and they’re perched on its edge, bumping into one another in the cramped space. “I don’t like that plan, either.”
“What’s wrong with it?” asks Shea.
“Keeling and crew nest in the resorts,” says Lys, without meeting her eyes. “Hotels like that are full of blackout curtains. It’s easy to keep out of the sun. And it won’t be a concern, because they’ll be shut away during the day. No one will notice us driving through.”
Asher makes a face. “In a giant camper?”
“It’s not exactly inconspicuous,” agrees Poppy.
“It’s falling apart,” tacks on Asher. “I say we keep away from the coast. Stick to the Flatwood. It’s served us well the whole drive so far.”
“Brilliant idea,” says Lys dryly, dragging an inked finger along the narrow artery of a road. He stops over a patch of green terrain, finger hovering. “That brings us right past Gridley’s.”
Shea’s knees buckle. One word, and she’s seven years old again, watching her parents stack loose change at the kitchen table. Watching them argue. Watching them break.
“We’re near the sanatorium?”
“It’s just a detour,” says Asher, casting a knowing look in her direction. “We won’t get close.”
Lys’s jaw ticks. “I’d prefer to stay as far away as possible, actually.”
“Why?” asks Poppy. “What’s the risk?”
Asher snatches the map out of the tub. “There is no risk,” he says, as Lys says, “Contagion.”
A sick sort of understanding swims into Shea’s stomach. “Gridley’s is full of hollows.”
Asher tosses a murderous look toward Lys. “What are you doing?”
“Telling her the truth,” says Lys. “She doesn’t need you to coddle her.
And you and I both know that if you’re not leaking Rot at intake, you’re sure as hell full of it by the time you leave.
Gridley’s is a death sentence. It’s run by botanists, not doctors.
There’s no oversight, no quarantine protocols.
Nothing. They’re not trying to control the spread; they’re trying to study it. ”
“The more variables they have for their research, the better the data,” says Poppy.
Shea’s blood turns to lead. “They’re experimenting on sick people?”
“They’re not sick,” says Asher. “They’re gone.”
“My mom isn’t gone.”
And just like that, they’ve circled back around again. This time, they’ve gone all the way back to the start. Caution creeps into Asher’s eyes. “I don’t want to have this fight with you right now.”
“It’s not a fight, Asher, it’s a fact. My mom’s heart is still beating, which means she isn’t gone. And neither are any of those people.”
“Those people would rip your throat out without a second thought. Why do you think they exterminate entire towns if one of them gets loose? Why do you think we go in and wipe the whole place? How do you think the Rot spreads, Parker? Huh?”
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“Your dad never told you, did he?” Asher rolls up the map, his expression grim. “He never explained what exactly happened in Highbush. Do you even know how it started?”
“It started with a woman named Rose Darnell,” says Poppy quietly.
“She ingested untreated water from a pump by her house. The neighbors found her in the kitchen, eating her husband’s intestines.
They put her down and thought that was the end of it.
But once it mutates, it spreads through the bite.
It’s almost impossible to contain an outbreak.
The only effective way has been mass quarantine. ”
“Or death,” adds Lys. “It’s cheaper.”
Shea’s stomach pits. “I didn’t know that.”
“Because you live in a bubble,” says Asher. “Your parents cushioned you from everything. You don’t have the first idea what things are really like out here. If you did, you’d never have gone into the Gravewood in the first place.”
“That’s not fair,” whispers Shea, but Asher isn’t done.
“You want to feel bad for the hollows? Fine. But watch them rip someone apart in front of you first and then tell me how you feel.”
The quiet shuts up around them. She has never felt smaller than this, caught in Asher’s crosshairs, her naivete on full display.
“And that’s why it’s too risky,” says Lys, pulling Asher’s focus. “If we go in close, we risk tangling with faulty wiring or a downed fence. I don’t trust the camper to outpace a horde.”
Asher unrolls the map. “Then we keep to the east—”
Shea doesn’t hear any more. She slips out from the bathroom and into the hall beyond, the tile cool under her bare feet.
No one notices when she goes. She is quiet and unobtrusive as a mouse.
Little Shea Parker, no relevant skills. No helpful knowledge.
No understanding of the way the world works outside her door.
Don’t coddle her, Lys said. But that’s what she is.
Coddled. Clueless. Back in Mercy Ridge, Asher tried to talk Shea out of agreeing to Lys’s terms. She’d thought, in that moment, that his insistence was born out of a lingering desire to protect her—leftovers from a childhood spent stepping in whenever there was trouble.
She knows better now. He didn’t want her because he knew how little she’d contribute.
At the end of the day, Shea Parker is nothing more than a liability. Trouble, down to her bones.
Her knapsack is in the camper, tucked away in a shallow cabinet above the bed. She pries it loose, rifling through the contents until she finds what she’s looking for. The dress from Paris, red silk beneath black lace overlay.
Come to the revel. Alone.
The dress fits her like a glove, as if it’s been tailored to her exact measurements.
She slips it on in a hurry, keeping an eye on the house through the gaps in the blinds.
No one has come after her. No one will. She is nonessential to the plan.
They have everything they need to finish the job.
Asher, the soldier. Lys, the prince. Poppy, the genius.
And then there’s Shea Parker, the blood bag.
All she’s good for is opening up a vein.
The silk clings to her curves, lace spilling down her figure like water.
She’s never worn anything so pretty in all her life.
She doubts she ever will again. She’s midway through stuffing Bugs back into her bag when the door swings shut.
She turns, an excuse already building in her throat, and finds Poppy standing there, Kit in her arms. Several moments of silence unfold as Poppy looks her over.
“Shea,” she says softly. “You can’t.”
“I’m just trying it on.”
“Don’t lie.”
“He’s the one who lied.” Her eyes are hot with tears. “He promised me. He told me if I came with him, he’d get me a cure. He lied , Poppy. He lied about everything.”
“He did,” Poppy agrees. “He panicked, and he made a huge mistake—”
“Are you seriously defending him?”
“No.” Poppy looks appalled. “ No , I’m not defending him. I’m just saying that if you want to make him regret it, Shea, there are better ways.”
“This isn’t about Lys at all,” she says, with more vehemence than she meant. “It’s about my mom. It’s about Ellie. You heard Asher in there—he doesn’t even believe us. He won’t listen, and I don’t know why. Ellie is here. You know she’s here. You feel it.”
Poppy is quiet. “You really think Paris is going to help you?”
“I think he’d be willing to negotiate.” She doesn’t explain how, or why.
She doesn’t tell Poppy about the woman in the woods, or the promises she’d made.
Paris is a kingmaker. A dealbroker. “The man at Van Haut’s called me Keeling’s ‘singular obsession.’ Do you remember?
I can use that. I can work it to my advantage. ”
Poppy frowns. “I don’t know, Shea. It feels like a bad idea.”
“It’s not. I’ll go to the party. I’ll introduce myself. I’ll—I’ll flirt.”
Poppy makes a face. “Flirt?”
“Yes,” insists Shea. “I can flirt.”
“Shea, I’ve seen you flirt.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have, too,” Poppy counters. “I’ve watched you around Asher our whole lives. You panic. A-and your hands get sweaty. And, if I’m honest, you’re a little bit rude.”
“I don’t have to be good at it, I just have to be there.
” She pushes her hands through her hair, casting another glance through the blinds.
The house is still, the door shut. If she wants to leave without notice, it needs to be now.
“Look, I’ll wear the dress. I’ll get close.
I’ll make a deal with Paris, whatever it is.
I don’t care about Lys’s stupid little need for retribution.
I don’t care if Paris lives or dies. I care about my mom. I care about Ellie.”
Poppy sinks onto the edge of the bed, frowning up at her. “Are you doing this because you think it’s a good idea, or because Asher said you live in a bubble?”
The question jabs at her like a needle. “It’s a good idea.”
“You don’t have to prove anything, Shea. It’s not a condemnation of your character to have had people in your life who wanted to protect you as long as they could.”
Shea thinks of her father, stacking spare change in the dead of night.
Her mother, making broth out of nothing.
Lying to her and lying to her to carve out a tiny little pocket of safety in the shadow of something sinister.
What good had it done? She never knew things could be different until she woke up and found reality standing over her with fangs. This is her chance to set things right.
Come to the revel. Alone.
“I’m going,” she says. “And I love you, Poppy, but nothing you say is going to change my mind. So, either help me get ready, or get out of my way.”