Then Peggy Sue appears, armed with nothing but a two-foot maglite and a purse that probably weighs as much as my spear. She skids to a halt, eyes bouncing between Olivia, the fire-scorched field, and me.
“Jesus titty-fucking Christ,” she breathes. “You guys weren’t kidding.”
Booger runs up behind her. “That was so metal.”
Olivia ignores them. She drops beside me, grabbing my wrist. “We have to get you out of here.”
“Agreed,” I rasp.
“Kursk—you’re bleeding bad.”
I meet her gaze. “Not enough to stop.”
“That was thesecondtime you’ve said that,” she snaps.
Peggy snorts. “You people fight like it’s prom night in Hell. Come on. My Jeep’s out back.”
Olivia hauls me up. Pain screams through my side, but I grit my teeth and move. The world blurs, tilts, but I stay upright. For her.
Behind us, the festival ground burns low, firelight casting strange shapes across the grass and booths. The music’s dead. The town is shattered.
The creature is free again.
Stronger now.
I don’t know if I can stop it next time.
CHAPTER 15
OLIVIA
By the time Peggy Sue’s Jeep crunches to a halt in front of my cabin, Kursk is slumped against me like a dying furnace—hot, heavy, and all sharp angles. His blood has soaked through the blanket Booger wrapped him in, thick and greenish-black where it isn't outright steaming.
My boots hit the gravel and I practically drag him out. He grunts, barely. His weight is like dragging a damn fridge wrapped in chainmail uphill.
“I’m fine,” he rasps.
“You arenotfine,” I snap. “You’re bleeding like a B-movie vampire and smell like roadkill soup.”
He laughs—more a rumble in his chest than anything—but there’s no strength behind it.
Inside, the cabin is chaos.
Books are stacked like barricades. Salt circles glitter on the floor, interrupted only by tripwires strung between doorknobs and windows. A rake with six kitchen knives duct-taped to it leans against the coat rack. The coffee table’s been turned into a magical landmine—sigils etched into the wood, a jar of ash at the center pulsing faintly. My grandma would call it a “cozy deathtrap.”
I lead him to the couch. “Sit. Or pass out. Pick one.”
“I will meditate in pain,” he growls, slumping.
“Great. You do that. I’ll go scream into a pillow real quick.”
He starts unbuckling his armor with fingers that tremble just enough to worry me. His wound—deep across the ribs—isn’t just bleeding. It’s… crawling. Veins around it have turned gray. The skin puckers and flexes like something is trying to push its way out.
I shove his hand away and lean close. “Let me see.”
“It is nothing,” he says.
“It isrotting,you stubborn bastard.”
