Chapter 23
Somewhere, a girl is screaming.
It’s a high-pitched, wolfish sound. More animal than human, feral and untamed. An instinctive, primal reaction of anticipatory grief.
Mallory doesn’t realize it’s her own voice until she’s on her knees, wrenching the pocketknife out of Saskia’s fists and flinging it across the room.
“Saskia, oh my god—”
Her hands shake as she frantically surveys the damage.
Saskia’s white tank top is streaked with red, and her fingers are wet.
But the blood isn’t flowing fast, and the longer Mallory stares, the more she realizes Saskia’s wounds are shallow.
Like the blade was scraping her skin, rather than plunging straight through it.
Relief momentarily cocoons her, but it’s quickly punctured by that unwanted surge of hunger. Mallory’s stomach churns, sweat dampening her blouse. She buries the feeling, turning her attention to Saskia’s face—
And freezes.
Saskia’s amber eyes have a milky film over them, as though a cobweb is draped across her corneas. She’s staring into the distance, unblinking, triggering another nightmarish moment of déjà vu.
It’s the exact way Mallory’s mother looked after she died.
“Saskia,” Mallory says, grabbing her shoulders. “Can you hear me? Saskia—”
She swings her gaze, landing on Saskia’s water bottle before snatching it and splashing the cold liquid straight into Saskia’s face.
Saskia startles with a hoarse gasp. She blinks rapidly, spitting water; color creeps back into her eyes with every flutter of her lashes.
“What the hell?” she cries, wiping her face.
“You’re okay,” Mallory says, relief returning. “You’re okay.”
“No—no, I’m not, I was just…” Saskia lowers her bloodstained hands, fingers trembling. She looks at her tank top. “What did I do? Mal, what did I do?”
“I got here in time,” Mallory says, trying to ignore Saskia’s reddened fingers. “You didn’t—you’re not hurt.”
Saskia’s breath heaves in terrified gulps, as if she barely heard her.
“I couldn’t move. I heard a—a voice. A growling voice. It didn’t…sound human. It told me what to do. And I felt like I had to listen. Like I was outside my body. I saw myself get the knife from my bag. I saw myself start cutting. Like I was trying to carve open my chest, straight through to—to—”
Saskia’s voice catches on a sob and her face crumples, nose tipping into Mallory’s neck. For a moment, Mallory just holds her, the curve of her throat growing slick with Saskia’s tears as she fights against breathing in her sweet floral scent.
“This makes no sense,” Mallory murmurs, cheek pressed to the top of Saskia’s head. “This is how my mom died. How I’m supposed to die. Because my family is cursed. But you’re not part of my family, so why would you—”
She slams to a halt. Thinks back on Lily’s words in the hospital.
It’s not meant for her.
“The curse,” she says. “That’s what Lily was talking about.
The curse that’s made every woman in my family cut out their own heart.
It’s not meant for you. But it’s affecting you.
” She narrows her eyes, remembering the obituaries she swiped from Victor’s office.
Six obituaries. “You’re not the right one. I am. I’m the seventh one.”
“What?” Saskia asks, eyes round in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I just figured something out,” Mallory says. “I’ll explain in a minute. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She crosses to Saskia’s desk, scanning for a first aid kit when a different object catches her eye.
It’s the size of a necklace box but made of heavy, textured wood.
Four letters are etched into the top—ICOE—and the sides are covered in rainbow stickers.
A strange-looking lock secures the lid: a black ring with a single ball in the center.
“What is this?” Mallory asks. “What does ICOE stand for?”
Saskia waves dismissively. “It’s just something my mom gave me before she died. The first aid kit is in the top drawer.”
Mallory fetches it and returns to the floor. She glances at the streaks of blood across Saskia’s tank top, swallowing.
“Can you…?” Mallory gestures to the shirt.
Saskia nods and pulls the garment over her head.
She’s wearing a thin black bra, cut like triangles with a front clasp.
Ordinarily, Mallory would be fighting not to stare at the curve of Saskia’s breasts, the outline of her nipples, but she’s too distracted by the dozens of slash marks, her shameful, relentless hunger.
Her mouth waters. She wonders if she’ll ever feel normal again.
“You said that Lily spoke to you once, right?” Mallory dips a cotton ball in saline, desperate to quell that ravenous need. “To say that something wasn’t meant for you?”
Saskia nods.
“Okay, so. Lily is my ancestor,” Mallory continues, trying to ignore how her hand is shaking. “Every woman in her bloodline after her has likely died the same way: self-inflicted stabbing to the chest. It’s the way I’m supposed to die, too. That’s what we’ve been saying, right?”
Saskia nods again, this time studying her. As if registering the way Mallory is biting her lip to keep it from trembling.
“But something just compelled you to do this to yourself.” Mallory’s lashes flutter as she presses the cotton to Saskia’s chest. She cleans gently, fighting against the thirst that floods her. “The curse that should be in my body? Somehow, it’s in yours.”
In the silence that follows, there’s no escaping the esurient torment in her stomach, the way her traitorous eyes keep lingering on the slashes in Saskia’s skin. Mallory dabs again at the cuts, her hand noticeably shaking now.
“What’s wrong?” Saskia asks, and Mallory squeezes her eyes shut. The room seems to tip on its side.
“I can’t say.”
“Mal.” Saskia cocks her head. “Mal, you’re crying.”
Is she? She can’t even tell. Her body is a mutated thing she no longer recognizes.
She won’t do it, she tells herself again, teeth rattling between locked jaws.
She’s not a monster, she’s a girl. Her name is Mallory Webb.
She’s nineteen years old. She has brown hair that looks red in the sun, she pets every stray cat she sees, she’s here, and she’s alive.
Her name is Mallory Webb, she’s nineteen y—
“Mallory,” Saskia says more firmly, and Mallory wonders if she’s spoken aloud. “What is it?” Her hands curl around Mallory’s shoulders, and the touch breaks something inside her. Dismantling her resolve and pulling the truth loose. “Mal—”
“I want—I need blood.” Mallory’s voice cracks around the admission. “Oh god.” She presses a fluttering hand to her mouth, humiliation festering at the way Saskia is staring. Like she’s suddenly afraid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
But Saskia remains silent, narrowed eyes dropping to Mallory’s choker. As if connecting the dots between the swollen marks on her neck and what she’s saying now.
“Shit,” Saskia murmurs. “That bite must have infected you somehow.”
Mallory chews her lip. “I don’t know. All I know is I’ve been sick for days, and your smell, it—” Her stomach lurches. “I’m sorry—I won’t hurt you, Saskia, I can leave, I’ll—”
Saskia quiets her with a gentle touch on her cheek. “I don’t want you to go.” She scans Mallory’s face, taking in her pale skin, the sweat dampening her bangs. “Maybe…I can help.”
Mallory freezes at the implication. At the possibility that Saskia might actually be offering her blood. “No, Saskia.”
Saskia gestures. “I mean, I’m already bleeding.”
Mallory shakes her head decidedly. “I can’t—I won’t do that to you.”
“Mal. You just saved me.” Saskia’s eyes burn into hers. “Let me do the same.”
A heavy pause gathers between them. Mallory’s thoughts race, debating what it means to give into this malevolent hunger, of where it will take her.
Of what else she could be capable of. Somewhere, she thinks of her mother, pushing away a man who loved her out of fear of hurting him. Maybe she had it right all along.
But then Saskia whispers her name again. “Mal,” she says. “Take what you need.”
Desire floods her, the back of her throat alive with electric thirst that splits every nerve, at war with the hypocrisy of what she’s about to do. She doesn’t have a choice. Perhaps she never did.
Perhaps Ezra never did.
She bends her head to Saskia’s chest.
And runs her tongue along one of the shallow wounds.
The walls seem to shatter around her, claiming every thought.
Saskia tastes like summer, like rainfall, like a place that’s familiar and simultaneously new.
Honey, sugar, lavender. Mallory swallows.
Leans in for more. It’s so easy to forget she’s drinking blood, easy to forget she’s doing something obscene. It feels natural. Medicinal. Healing.
Mallory licks another bead of blood, this one directly between Saskia’s breasts, drawing a sharp breath from her. She raises her gaze. “Am I hurting you?”
Saskia shakes her head, cheeks flushed. “Not even close.”
Emboldened, Mallory returns her mouth to Saskia’s soft skin. She gently laps from Saskia’s sternum to the ribbon trim of her bra, fleetingly registering the curve of cleavage in her path.
Finding the deepest gash on Saskia’s left breast, Mallory arranges her mouth over it and sucks gently, unable to halt both the satisfied groan and the awareness that surely she’ll be chasing this wild, reckless high for the rest of her life.
Saskia holds Mallory’s hair the whole time, coaxing. Take what you need.
When Mallory finally pulls back, her stomach feels bright and warm. Full. Like strength has been replenished to her body, like it’s hers once again. She looks at Saskia, whose lashes are lowered, breath labored. And she’s staring down at Mallory as though she just gave her something, too.
“Thank you,” Mallory manages to say.
Saskia blinks, as if debating how to respond. “Do you…feel better?”
Mallory nods. A sobering embarrassment creeps back in. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she confesses. “I’m sorry—”
“No more apologies, Nancy Drew.” Saskia’s eyes darken. She smiles almost mischievously. “I think you missed a spot.”