Chapter 3
Don't Look Down
IRIS
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Long enough that my butt is wet from the dew-slicked moss, and my heels are caked in mud. Long enough that the moon has changed her position in the sky. And definitely, long enough to know that I should get up.
I know I should be worried about his blood soaking into the grass and the smell of his rotting body reaching the house.
I know I should be concerned that someone might find me here, looming over him like a wraith.
And yet, here I am, still staring, even as footsteps draw nearer and a voice calls my name.
“Ashbourne?” he calls from over my shoulder.
I don’t answer.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers. “Holy, shit….”
His steps grow louder as he hurries through the clearing.
“Ashbourne, are you alright? What happened? Oh my gods…”
I can feel his hands resting on my shoulders, but I’m only faintly aware of him crouching down in front of me.
I can’t look at him.
I want to, I want to look away, but I can’t.
“Tell me you’re okay,” he demands, hands moving over my face and arms.
He surveys my injuries, cursing as he finds the gash at the back of my head.
“Fucking Blackclaw piece of shit,” he mutters. “Alright…okay…I need you to put this on.”
He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is trembling and frantic, and his hands are moving too fast. Too rough. He’s never this rough with me.
“Princess, I need you to snap out of it. Can you hear me?”
Why does he keep calling me that?
I am not a princess. That much should be clear by now.
“We gotta move,” he urges. “We can’t stay here. Someone’s gonna smell this.”
I peer past him, staring at the bloodstain near my feet.
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “I’ll handle it. You just—”
I can’t hear what he says next. My ears are still ringing, and my head feels like it’s about to explode.
“Ashbourne, are you listening to me?”
He holds my face in his hands, trying to redirect my attention, but I can’t bring myself to look away. If I do, it will confirm what I’ve suspected all along—that I am, after all, a monster.
“Iris!” he snaps as he shakes my shoulders.
Somewhere between his gentle prodding and the deafening thump of my own heartbeat, I seem to have stopped breathing. But the force of his voice knocks the air back into me, and I sputter to life as I inhale sharply, taking in the face before me.
“Elliot?”
His name feels foreign on my tongue, even more so when it mixes with the copper tinge of Grey’s blood, sitting dormant in my mouth.
I’m going to throw up again.
“There she is. Hey…”
Elliot nods, eyes wide with recognition, as he takes my hands and wipes them clean with his shirt.
“You alright?” he asks, stretching the fabric to wipe my mouth, chin, and neck.
I manage a shaky nod.
“Good. That’s good. I need you to listen to me, okay?
We can’t stay here. Someone is going to smell this, and I’ve got to clean it up before they do.
I need you to go inside. Use the side entrance, take the back stairs, the ones that lead up from the prep kitchen.
It’ll be empty, but don’t touch anything.
And don’t let anyone see you. Go straight to my room and do.
not. move. until I come get you. Do you understand? ”
He pulls me to my feet in one swift motion, then waits as I find my balance. It takes me a moment to right myself, too busy trying to piece together what’s happening.
“Hey!” he shouts, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Snap out of it. I know you can do this. Tell me you understand.”
I nod, my mouth dry as I struggle to get the words out.
“I understand.”
“Good.” He pulls the jacket tight around my neck and tugs the hood over my face. “And remember—”
“Do not move,” I recite.
A whisper of a smile returns to his lips, but it isn’t the one I’m used to. Not the sloppy, carefree grin he puts on to make me feel better. This one is heavy, weighed down by the look in his eyes.
“Go.” He dismisses me, urging me in the direction of Crescent House.“Now!”
Elliot ignores my haggard steps as he pulls out his phone.
“Dred?” he barks into the speaker. “It’s Cross. How soon can you get here?”
I don’t linger to hear what else he says. I think I’m starting to get dizzy. Either that or the sight of Grey’s vacant body is turning my mind. Because as I creep back through the darkened forest, I swear I can see the shadows moving.
* * *
The prep kitchen is empty, as promised. Nothing but a few cases of brew sitting unopened on the counter and a spare speaker lying on its side in the corner.
Still, I take off my shoes at the door, too cautious to risk the click of my heels on the old stone tile.
And somehow, for once in my life, I go unnoticed.
The staircase is vacant, and the resident floor is quiet as I slip through the hallway and hurry down the last corridor.
Elliot’s room sits at the very end of the East wing, directly across from Dame’s and two doors away from Kitty’s.
Kitty snuck Elsie and me up here during our second year to see her new room. But she swore that if Dame found out, he’d bite her head off. So we kept it to ourselves. Although since Elliot didn’t feel the need to give me directions, I get the sense he already knew.
I find the golden nameplate that reads “CROSS” and test the handle. Strangely, there is no lock on the door, but I taste the distinct flavor of magic as I step over the threshold.
When the door clicks shut, I run my hand along the wall, flipping every switch until a light comes on overhead, and I stiffen at the sight it illuminates.
Elliot’s room is clean.
Too clean.
There are no unfolded clothes or scattered shoes. There is no half-finished homework or memorabilia. There isn’t even a photo on the walls. It is utterly devoid of his presence, except for a large pile of books by the bed and a suffocating smell that makes me want to sneeze.
It’s the same minty fragrance I’ve come to associate with Elliot, only stronger, nearly antiseptic. It permeates every corner of the room, like smoke.
I dare not sit.
I’m sure Elliot would bury me alongside Grey if I marred the pristine surface of his bedroom.
And I’m not sure I could sit, even if I wanted to.
Every time I stop moving, my head spins.
So instead, I walk the length of the room, over and over, for who knows how long, until the door creaks open and Elliot slips in soundlessly.
“What are you doing?” he asks, idling just inside the doorway.
I could ask him the same thing.
He’s standing in front of me, shirtless and slick with sweat.
“I-I…”
His patience falters as I fail to speak, replaced by a general disbelief as he gestures wildly with his arms.
“Get in the shower,” he snaps, as if it were obvious.
“What?”
He pauses, tugging at the leather choker around his neck.
“Ashbourne, I know this is difficult, but you need to catch up. You’re covered in the blood of a Blackclaw wolf in the Crescent pack house on Fright Night. We have maybe thirty minutes before someone finds him, and an inquiry is called. Probably less. And we can’t be here when that happens. So…”
He takes me by the hand and guides me toward the little washroom that smells strongly of the minty antiseptic. I take a few steps forward, but my feet stick the moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look crazed.
My face is covered in blood and dirt, and my teeth still look like razor blades, crowded in my mouth and stained scarlet. The gash on my head looks angry, and my eyes are red and swollen.
Had I cried? I don’t remember crying.
Elliot’s voice jerks me out of my daze.
“Baby…” He speaks gently this time, hands resting on my shoulders. “We gotta go.”
I nod, barely perceptible, and he pulls the coat from around my shoulders, guiding me into the shower.
I sober myself with a deep breath and proceed to do as he directs.
I scrub in all the places he lists.
Behind my ears.
Between my fingers.
Under my nails.
I blow my nose, and I rinse out my mouth.
Twice to get rid of the smell. Then once more to get rid of the taste.
I scrub the blood from my hair and try not to think of all Elsie’s hard work going to waste, and I let Elliot clean the wound in my head until the rag comes away spotless.
When I’m finished, and my shift has subsided, I stand in the center of his room, draped in a towel, waiting impatiently as he sniffs me from head to toe.
“You’re good,” he says. “Get in the bed.”
“What?”
Elliot pinches the space between his eyes.
“Please stop saying ‘what’ and just get under the covers. And leave the towel.”
“Ughhh.” I groan as I drop the towel to the floor.
He doesn’t bother to look away, but I don’t particularly care. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.
“Roll around a bit,” he directs, once I’m settled under the blankets.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I spread my bare body across the sheets, taking up as much space as I can. But it’s a big bed designed for a werewolf almost twice my size, so I eventually resign myself to rolling back and forth like a log.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“Oh, shut up.”
When he’s satisfied I’ve done enough, he chucks a wad of clothes at me.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask, even as I pull his oversized band tee over my head.
It’s a Dead Head’s tee featuring an enchanted head-banging skull graphic. I have a matching one at home from the concert we went to last summer.
“Burned it,” he says, straightening the hem around my thighs.
The shirt is so big that you can barely see my skirt underneath. But it doesn’t matter because Elliot drowns it in another of his heavy leather jackets anyway.
I wait while he rifles through his drawers for a shirt of his own.
He settles on a simple black shirt with the words “Dirty Dog” plastered on the front in bold red letters, and I can’t help but laugh.
“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”
“No,” he answers. “It’s ironic.”
“I think you mean idiotic.”
His eyes roll.
“You ready?” he asks, hand poised over the doorknob.