Chapter 18
eighteen
We set out when the Haunts are least active, though the air kissing the nape of my neck tells me we are not alone. But how can one truly be alone in a wood of dead souls?
The moon shines so white it nearly blinds me. Around it, the sky swims red as blood, and the trees glisten, like the heart did in my hands. It is foolishness to think it was beating when I left it. In a land of dead things, life cannot just return, can it? And yet—
Ransom nudges me in the shoulder, and I look up. His hair is almost pink in the light. I still taste his bitter-gin lips on mine, though we have not spoken of the kiss since. Bram stalks the ground in front of us, Rascal at his heels.
What a strange party we are. A hellhound, a dead man, a high lord, and the daughter of a vicar, whose heart sometimes feels as though it is not her own.
Yet, the odd thing is, I have not had a fit since the moment my foot touched down in this realm in between.
No rush of untethered movement, no rapid pounding of my heart, no pain blossoming at the base of my skull.
I lift fingers up to the soft flesh of my throat and wait for the steady beats. It is almost a comfort, but in some ways, it is like waiting for the shoe to drop. For the rug to be pulled out from underneath me. For my heart to go skittering and my end to come.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ransom asks.
“Father used to tell me my thoughts were wicked,” I respond. Our feet crunch on the crimson leaves.
Ransom grins. “Wicked thoughts tend to be my favorite.”
I whisper a silent thank you that the sky floods us with such scarlet light, or else I fear Ransom would see the blush washing down my cheeks.
“I’m simply thinking of the bell, I suppose.” I turn my eyes back to the path ahead. “I have no idea where it went. I’m half terrified I won’t be able to save any of us without it and half grateful I don’t have it anymore. It was too powerful sometimes. Like a weight around my neck.”
Ransom stops and grabs my arm. “Hold out your hand.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your hand, give it to me.”
When I do as he says, something cold presses against my skin. I peel back my fingers.
The bell lies there, just as it has always been. Brass shining in the moonlight, wooden handle, the ridged dome edge. I should be relieved, grateful even at Ransom for finding it. But I feel none of these things. Suspicion winds through my gut.
I stare up at him, mouth pinched. “Did you take it from me?”
A flash of something crosses his eyes, hot like flame. “Do you really think so low of me, Thorn?” He turns and starts walking away, the sight of his back filling my stomach with guilt.
I pocket the bell in its wrappings to keep it from ringing and run after him.
“No, I’m sorry. I just…Ransom, look at me.” I spin him around.
“What?” His heartbeat flutters in the notch above his collarbone.
I take a deep breath, keeping my voice low while Bram walks on ahead of us. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, but where did you find it?”
He fingers the pouch at his hip. “In the confessional, just before we left. I thought it might have fallen out while we were in there. We must have overlooked it. I didn’t give it to you right away because I didn’t want Bram to accuse me of stealing it.
” He grins a roguish smile. “Consider it an early wedding present.”
Relief and unease flood my mind. For a moment, both feelings tingle along my skin, like the brush of insect legs. When we return home, if we return, I will not be returning as Adelaide Thorn, the vicar’s daughter, but as Lady Adelaide Black, the woman with secrets pulsing beneath her skin.
I try on a smile, but it only pulls at my skin painfully. Of course, he didn’t steal it. There is no reason for it. I fold my hand around the bulge in my skirt.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. Thank you for finding it.”
He nods, a sharp and short thing, dropping his roguish smile.
“Are you two coming?”
“Oh, would you just ease off, Avery?” Ransom snaps.
Bram is turned to us, Rascal running circles around his heels. I would almost laugh if not for the look on Bram’s face.
He is not to be trusted. I steal a glance at Ransom. The scars on his wrists mirror images of mine. But pain makes monsters of us all.
Bram hurries before us, the moonlight spilling on his back. Something catches there, pale where shadow should be. And if he knows of pain, who is to say he is not a monster? I picture the scars at his wrists and bite my lip.
“Yes, we’re coming.” I rush to catch up, the bell heavy in my pocket.
Bram only stops when we reach the outskirts of a village. The stone walls are in disarray, ruins of some place forgotten. The smell that permeates the air reminds me of Blackbourne Castle, all humidity and iron. I lift the cuff of one sleeve over my nose. The scent does not seem to bother Bram.
“The alehouse is just on the other side of that hill.” He points through the darkness toward a small mound of dirt and charred trees. Beyond that is an echo of light, like the sun reflecting in a muddy pool.
“And remind me again what the purpose of our visit is, Avery?” Ransom hangs back, arms crossed in front of his chest.
Bram turns, eyes flashing. “Maybe you forget, Black, but the whole purpose of your visit to the wood is to get Adelaide’s mother back.”
Ransom grins and holds up his hands. “A man can ask questions. Just don’t see how going to an alehouse full of dead folk is going to help us find Thorn’s mother.”
I sink my fingers into Rascal’s fur, letting the warmth ground me. “Will you two please stop bickering like old ladies after church?”
They both look to me, faces downcast. Ransom smirks. One step, that’s all it would take to close the space between us and smack him.
“We’re here for your mother as well,” I say.
Ransom flinches and pulls at his hair. “Right, that too. Though she was never one for the alehouse.”
Bram grumbles something about Ransom’s mother not being one for anyplace and starts back for the hill. Rascal bounds after him. I lock eyes with Ransom when I pass.
“Behave,” I hiss.
He smiles and shrugs. “I’ll try.”
I have never seen so many dead people in my entire life.
Even when the bodies piled high in Rixton, all the murdered girls, nothing could prepare me for this.
Scattered amongst a lane of ruined buildings and red-leafed trees, the alehouse sticks out like a fungus on bark.
The air smells sickly sweet, of slurried earth and decaying fruit.
But also like roasting meat and golden, buttery potatoes.
“Bloody hell.” Ransom sighs, his eyes feasting on the scene before us. “Is there food here?”
All we have had in the last few days are bottles of communion wine and the rotting apples we found in the church, our teeth careful not to ingest any of the ruined flesh. The notion of hot food and drink sloshing around in my belly makes me forget all thoughts of the dead women.
Bram winces. “It depends on what you call food. Nothing really grows here, and if it does, it grows wrong. The dead don’t need to eat, but there are those who like the remembrance of taste.
Even if that taste is poison. Just be careful.
We’re here for information more than anything else.
Don’t take anything you’re offered, only what I say is okay to eat or drink. ”
“I don’t care if it’s made from old chicken liver and brambles. If it’s hot, I’ll eat it.” Ransom huddles down deeper in his coat.
That word again, liver.
I look to Bram, but his eyes are on the alehouse. The moon scatters coins of silver light over us when we push through the doors and stumble inside. Before I can look around, Bram’s hand is at my wrist, and he hisses in my ear.
“Don’t go making deals with these people.”
I nod, almost feeling as though I am back in Rixton. But our village never had an alehouse. The closest one was—
“This is Kinnington?” I whisper to Bram.
He nods. “Of a sort.”
The ceiling slings low, like the hull of a ship, and cobwebs flutter like lace in every corner. A fire blazes merrily in the stone hearth, and there is a scent of cooking pots and yeast on the air. But beneath it all, I sense the rot. The decay.
Ransom, who does not seem to notice, sidles up to the bar and places down a silver coin.
“An ale, please. Strongest you got.”
Silence sifts into the alehouse, and every eye turns to us. By my side, Rascal whimpers.
The bartender, a man in a black cap pulled low over sallow hair, turns slowly and flings a stained cloth over one shoulder. My breath catches in my throat when he makes eye contact with Ransom.
Half his left cheek is missing, flesh like a gourd chewed away by hungry mice.
“Your coin is no use here, boy.” His words come out funny, the sound of them slurring through the space between blackened teeth and missing skin.
Ransom curls his lip. “Then what would you have in exchange?”
The bartender leans closer, and my skin prickles with unease. “How about your soul, lad?”
The silence sticks in my ears like knife points, and I struggle to swallow. Behind me, Bram stiffens, his hand coming to find mine.
And then the alehouse erupts in laughter.
For a moment, shock washes over me like cold water, and all I can do is stare. But then Ransom’s face breaks with that wicked grin.
“You almost had me there, good sir.”
Almost, I want to scream. Almost? I could strangle Ransom, who does seem to be the type to barter his mortal soul for a tankard of bitter ale.
The bartender produces three chipped glasses and fills each one with a frothy, golden brine I want nothing to do with.
He pushes them across the bar to Ransom.
“On the house, lad. Been a while since we had any live ones.”
The way he says the last two words makes my skin crawl. I steal a glance at Bram, but his eyes are fixed on the bartender, that look of distrust in his eyes. As if he wants to slit the man from neck to navel and spill his guts on the floor to read his intentions.