Chapter 14
fourteen
Bram is screaming something I cannot hear over the pounding of my own heart. It is like drums in the deep. I am nothing but prey. Nothing but a corpse along the roadside, waiting for carrion birds to come and tear my wilting flesh.
But I do not have to wait. For the vultures are right behind me—the shadow figures. Demons. They shriek and shout, rounding us up, pressing us forward—toward what, I do not know. Tears sting my eyes, choke me. I veer left when something dark presses into the corner of my eye.
My heart buckles in my chest.
But it’s only the hound. His paws beat the ground just behind me, eyes wild and wet.
Ransom is ahead, coat slung across his shoulders and flinging behind him like wisps of smoke.
Bram lifts his arm toward something. My lungs burn and my legs ache, and I am about to lie down, cover my head with my hands and hope for the best, when I catch sight of where Bram is pointing us toward.
The church.
It stands tall, unlike the rest of the shelters, its stone a testament to whatever rotten magic eats this place alive. Red ivy hangs down its sides, twisting vines cut away from the decaying wood door—so like the one I have watched my father walk through countless times and yet so very different.
My boot catches on a rock. I stumble forward, pain searing up my leg, and cry out, rolling onto my back. The sky overhead bleeds, and a shadow crosses over me.
I open my mouth to scream again, but no sound comes. Only hot breath. My fingers scramble in the earth, but I cannot get away. I am frozen to the ground.
A shrouded figure rears its ugly, pale head.
Lips spreading wide, tongue twisting over sharpened teeth.
The eyes bob in their sockets, as if they are barely holding on, might slip out any second and come rolling across the wet leaves to land at my feet.
Fear blooms bright in my chest, spreading cold, like so many reaching fingers.
I choke on it while the shadows close around me and the figure extends one of its long, white hands.
A smell turns sharp in the air. The emptied bowels of an animal, spoiled eggs. I gag.
This is how I will die. Devoured by minions of Erybrus, smelling of nothing but rotten meat. I lift my chin to the approaching monster, determined to not die a coward.
But then hands are on my shoulders, tugging at my arms. They lift me to my feet, and we are running. Bram and I, hand in hand, fleeing the serpentine creatures. It is only when we reach the safety behind the door of the church that I realize my heart has stayed calm the whole time.
“What the hell is going on?” It is Ransom’s voice, ragged with heavy breaths. “And who”—he points a finger at Bram—“the hell are you?”
Bram ignores him and, instead, hurries to my side while I heave back against the door.
I slip down the splintered wood until I am seated on the dusty stone of the floor.
The familiar scent of home still clings to my skirts.
Ink, stones, autumn wind. I take in deep breaths of it, try and push the dizziness from my mind, spread my knees, and hang my head.
My finger shakes to my neck and waits for the beats I am sure are all wrong. Erratic and out of sync.
A-live, a-live, a-live, they greet me. Steady, strong, and so curious my skin prickles.
What is happening? There is comfort in the pain, in the wrongness to my heart, and not having it there is like ripping off the blankets. Exposed.
Something wet swipes at my cheek. The hound, eyes wide with concern, tail limp and tucked. My every muscle tenses at the sight of the creature, my breath coming stiff.
“That’s Rascal,” Bram says. “He won’t hurt you.”
I look into the red eyes, lift a finger to his pink nose. He licks it, and I laugh. A strange sort of sound. “What is he?”
“A hellhound.”
My stomach drops, and I pull my hand away. Just another servant of Erybrus.
“He’s harmless,” Bram says between breaths.
Harmless is the last word I would use to describe a hellhound. I lave my tongue over my lips and gently lift a finger to the animal’s throat. His heartbeat greets me, steady as my own. I sink against the sweat-dampness of his fur. There is nothing more comforting than the heartbeat of a hound.
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
Ransom stands near the altar, hair mussed, clothes torn and stained. His eyes are shot through with red. True terror echoes in the hollows of his face. It is the kind that breeds deep in the bones and makes the mind think impossible thoughts.
I open my mouth to come up with something, but it is Bram who fills the space.
“They’re called Haunts.”
Ransom crosses the aisle, boots clacking on the floor. “Those things out there, you mean? The shrouded dead things?”
Bram nods, shoving himself away from the wall. “Haunts are what remains of souls who haven’t moved on for hundreds of years, never pushed forward into whichever path lays beyond. True death or the eternal life of Ithrandril. They are devoured by Erybrus.”
“Bloody hell.” Ransom’s face goes pale. He drags a hand down his cheekbones, widening his red-shot eyes. “Who the devil are you anyway? Thorn, we can’t just go trusting—”
“Quiet, Black,” Bram snaps.
Ransom’s mouth gapes like a fish, his face screwing up while he tries to place this dead man before us.
My gaze flicks between them, these two men of Rixton, warped by fathers who never loved them right. Where Ransom is all hard lines, white teeth, and smooth-shaven skin, Bram is a contrast. His brows are heavy and thick, and dark spools of hair tease the edges of his stubbled jaw.
Bram bends down beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. It is strange to feel him—really feel him—like a solid, living being. When I glance up, his eyes are forest pools reflecting all the green and gold.
“Can you stand?” he asks. “I think it best if you come away from the door.”
I nod and slowly get to my feet, leaning on his arm for support.
He leads me to one of the few pews left standing.
I take a deep breath when Rascal settles down beside me, turning in circles and laying his head in my lap.
The monsters—the Haunts—slam their wet fingers against the stone outside, but the church holds steadfast against the darkness.
I place a hand on Rascal. “What do they want with us?”
Bram shrugs, leaning against the side of the opposite pew. “Your soul.”
The way he says it is so casual, so simple, it nearly takes my breath away. Is this what he has been living? This life hiding away, here in this church? Are those the things he hid from the day in my bedroom?
I look around the church and see no signs of anything extraordinary. Just a tumble down of stones, leaves filtering in through cracks in the roof, broken tiles, and shattered glass.
“No, that can’t… This is madness. This is all—” Ransom starts pacing again, running fingers through his blond hair.
Bram and I share a look, and he crosses his arms.
“I’ve been here for nearly ten years, Black. Trust me when I say it’s very real.”
Ransom stops, stares at Bram. “Ten years…” Recognition dawns on his face when he pieces together my deceit. “You’re Bram Avery. Fuck, you’re supposed to be dead.”
A wry smile curves Bram’s lips. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“But you’re… How are you here?” Ransom’s voice is as thin as smoke.
“Because I still have a decision to make. But I’ve found a third option, and Adelaide is here to help me with it.” He angles his eyes to me, like he’s testing to ensure he is still a part of my plan.
My shoulders tense.
Ransom flicks his gaze to me and crosses his arms, a cocky snarl on his lips. “So, this your plan all along? To sneak in and save every dead person from Rixton?”
My head spins. Rascal nudges closer, nose wet through a tear in my sleeve.
“It was supposed to be just Bram and my mother, and then you came along and—”
“Yes, what part do you exactly play in all this, Black?” Bram narrows his eyes.
Ransom wrinkles his nose. “It’s Lord Black to you.”
“There are no lords in the land of the dead.”
It is a simple enough statement, and it shuts Ransom up as soon as it is spoken. My gaze flicks between them, their edges going hazy.
“Ransom has lost someone too.” I struggle to press the words from my mouth. “Isn’t that enough?” I grit my teeth while the room tilts, my body feeling light as a feather. What is wrong? I try to reach a finger to my throat, but my muscles are weak.
Neither of them says a word, but Bram drops away from the pew and holds out his hand. “That cut on your leg looks nasty.”
I blink in surprise, and only then do I notice the pain. My onyx blood stains a ripped shred of my skirt. My fingers hurry to pull up the fabric, and a gasp gets caught halfway to my throat.
A deep gash runs from ankle to mid-calf, raw and bleeding. Different from the cut on my heel. Jagged as broken glass. Sick suddenly swims in my belly, and at my side, Rascal whines.
“It must have happened when I fell.” My fingers shake toward the wound, coming away sticky and hot. My skin shimmers in pain, roiling off me in waves. I lean heavy against the back of the pew, watching the blood drip, drip, drip.
“She’s going to faint!” Ransom hurries to my side, but Bram brushes him out of the way.
“She’s not going to bloody faint.”
Bram’s hand curls around my knee—such an intimate touch it startles me from the blackness encroaching the edges of my vision.
“Adelaide, I need you to keep looking at me, all right? Look in my eyes.”
I try to do what I am told, leaning forward, but my stomach swills, and I heave. Bram’s hands are at my shoulders now. Shouldn’t he be panicking? Shouldn’t he be asking Ithrandril why my blood beads black as midnight?
“Well, what are we going to do?” Ransom reaches for the pouch on his belt. “Ithrandril, we can’t let her die.”