Chapter 21
twenty-one
They rise from the river, dripping shadow, their faces filled with gnashing teeth. In a frenzy, Bram pulls me behind his body, and I do not stop him. Rascal inches out ahead, his lips pulled back in a vicious snarl.
The Haunts move toward us, their arms dragging along, eyes white like the moon. My heart pulses in my fingertips. But it is steady, and I hold my ground, even when the air around us turns sick. I bury my nose against Bram’s shoulder, and his hand slips reassuringly into mine.
One of the Haunts breaks away, traces lines in the mud when it comes toward us. The air grows cold, and I shudder, spine cracking like a twig. The shadow woman—full, gray lips; a prim nose; a face with bones like diamond edges—stops and smiles down at Rascal as if he is a toy. He growls.
“Quiet.” The word drips from her slackened mouth like water.
Rascal obeys. He snaps his jaw shut and runs behind me, tail tucked. My eyes flash to the creature.
“What do you want from us?” Each word feels feral in my mouth. An uncontrolled beast of fear and fright.
She cocks her neck to look at me, bones peeking from dry flesh. One eye warbles in its socket, as though trying to focus on me.
“Little Reaper wants to know. Little Reaper wants to see.” The voice is a singsong of slurred words that rattle in my ears.
I set my jaw. “What do I want to see?”
The shrouded creature on the left of the woman hovers closer. It smells of rot, even more than its companions. Wet soil turned up to cure in sunlight. It slides its lipless mouth open—nothing but a fleshy, pink gash.
“Little Reaper has a deal to make.”
I cannot move my body for fear. Every muscle tense, every tendon a line of shrill ice.
“I am done making deals here,” I say.
After a moment, the creature to the right sidles closer. This one almost appears like a child. Its skin is more intact than the others, smoother. Its eyes are milky, a line of film over what once might have been blue. When it opens its mouth to speak, a tongue flops out, pink as a newborn baby.
“Ask us a question, Little Reaper. Ask us a question, and we might set you free.”
The voice is a child’s lilt, the echo of tin bells. It sends my stomach swimming, and my fingers tighten against Bram’s.
I open my mouth, trying to think of something to ask. Anything really. What does it matter? But it is Bram’s voice that fills the space.
“Adelaide, don’t. It’s a trap.”
The childlike creature frowns, lines deepening in its decaying flesh. “The dead man knows. The dead man will not let us play our games.”
“Hush,” says the one in the middle. “There is no time for games.” Her listless gaze pierces me. “We must bring her to the Lady.”
My eyes flash to Bram, whose own fill with recognition at the name. Lady Black. Hope begins to ease within the spaces inside me that the fear will not. Perhaps Ransom’s mother will know where my own is.
The Haunts smile. In tandem. No lips, full lips, young lips cutting across their blank faces, like a finger in soil, ready to sow.
The center one reaches out one hand to me, the fingers limp like worms. “You will fly with us, Little Reaper. You will fly with us, as will the dead man and the hellhound. We must bring you to the Lady. We must do as she commands.”
“We must do as she commands,” the others echo, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
But this is how we will locate Ransom, how we will hopefully find my mother. And a flight on the shadow of the Haunts is surely a quicker way to travel than our own two feet.
I glance at Bram, who seems like he would rather spend an eternity here than ride a Haunt, but I grab his hand. “We can do this. It’s going to be fine.”
The look on his face proves his thoughts do not match mine. He pulls me close, his lips hot on my ear. “I have not heard of Haunts acting this way, serving someone outside Erybrus. Whatever this is, it can’t be good.”
Anger cuts through me. “You promised to help me find my mother, and I promised Ransom to help him find his. I’m going with them. You’re welcome to stay.”
I turn back to the Haunts. The one in the middle widens her smile.
“Will the Little Reaper come?”
I swallow the lump at the back of my throat and lift my hand. “I will.”
Her fingers slosh against mine, each one a wriggling, writhing thing. I weave my hand into hers. The breath whooshes from my body when I am sucked into the shadow. It swirls around me, midnight black. No light. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
When I pound against the shadows, they only mold around my fist. There is a storm of noise, a crashing of cold wind in my ears.
I crouch down—on what, I have no idea—but the shadows beneath me feel solid.
There is a tearing sound, the scent of iron, and then nothing but the gentle shushing of wind in my ears.
I curl up against the shadow, shivering in the blackness and gloom. Even here—wherever here is—the light of the red sky and the sallow moon do not penetrate. Black, red, white. The only real colors I have known for days.
I miss the River Thine, the pink of Clara’s smile, the honey brown of Liza’s eyes. And I roll over onto my back, whispering a silent prayer that they boarded the coach to Lysdin. Escaped. Together and in love.
Love is a funny word. One I don’t quite understand. It is what I thought I felt for Ransom, but that was something else. An insatiable hunger that dwelled somewhere too deep in my bones. It hurt to pull it out. And then there’s Bram—
Before I can finish my thought, I slam against something cold. The air is forced from my lungs, and my throat goes raw from coughing. I blink. The darkness swirls, and from somewhere in the blackness comes rustling.
“Bram?”
“Adelaide?”
I could almost cry from the sound of his voice. On the other side of me, Rascal whimpers.
“You came.”
Bram groans. “Of course we did. You think we’d just abandon you that easily?” His boots scuff the ground. “Shit, I can’t see anything. Where are you?”
I reach out my hand, blink again. The shadows begin to move and weaken. There is bleary light coming from somewhere. It is not natural, but the white glow of candles. I stretch my hand farther, and it brushes against something soft.
“Is that you?” I ask.
“That’s not my hand, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I go red, thankful for the shadows, and rip my hand away. Bram chuckles and slips his hand into mine.
“Here, let me pull you up. I think whatever is below is solid.”
The light grows stronger. Bram moves beside me. Rascal too. I reach down and pet the velvet of his nose. Then the shadows part.
We are surrounded by black stone walls. Above me is nothing but shadow, the ceiling so far overhead it is nearly invisible. I blink, unable to tell if my eyes are truly open for a moment, and focus on the light. Three candlesticks stuck into an iron candelabra.
The scene is eerily familiar. I grip Bram’s hand tighter. The smell of dark and damp things ekes out from between the stones, and for half a moment, I wonder if I am back at Blackbourne Castle. The real one.
Though here, standing amongst all the rotting bones of the rowan wood, it does not seem much different. Rascal whines. I should be afraid, and yet, somehow none of this frightens me. Instead, I drop Bram’s hand and move toward the light.
“Adelaide, where are you going?” His footfalls chase after me.
“There should be a door here, somewhere.”
“How do you know that?”
I stop, turn around, and watch the shadows dance on his face. “Have you ever stood in the great hall of Blackbourne Castle?”
He shakes his head.
“Trust me, there should be a door.”
The light grows dim while I move around the room, hands groping idly in the darkness. I have half a mind to give up, when my fingers brush against something rough and dry.
“It’s here, Bram.”
He comes up behind me, his breath on my neck. I search for a knob, a handle, anything to throw it open. But as soon as my hand presses against the surface, it gives way.
The door swings open, welcoming in so much light I blink in near blindness. Noise greets my ears, the chatter of voices, the slice of knives in wet meat. The smells too: cooking grease, wine, and…bitterbloom. I reach for Bram’s hand. Feel him shudder behind me.
My eyes adjust. I lean against the doorframe, lungs suddenly weak in my chest. Ahead of us sits a great table. There are a handful of people, seated, forks half raised to mouths, lips slack and sloughing. These I do not recognize. Have no wish to know.
I tear my gaze away from them and up, up, up, toward the other end of the table.
For the first time since we entered this unholy place, my heart rebels. A sparrow caught in a cage. I gasp for breath, squeezing Bram’s hand with all the strength I can muster.
At the head of the table, a lady sits, swathed in a gown so purple it might be black. Her brilliant gold hair is scooped at the nape of her neck, curls like spools of the finest thread. Her ruby lips part when she sees me. And then—
“Adelaide.”
I fall to my knees at the sound of that voice.
Mother.