This conversation is becoming increasingly surreal.
“Linton,” He says. “My name is Linton, and I haven’t eaten or drunk anything in a long time.”
KAITLYN
Linton gazes at me with unmistakable hunger in his eyes.
“So”—I swallow hard—“do you want to eat me?”
His throat bobs too. If anything, I think more colour has drained from his face.
“I’m not allowed to eat my marks,” he says eventually, averting his eyes. “Unless it’s part of the contract.”
I don’t know whether to be terrified or relieved.
“Is it part of your contract for me?”
He looks at me for a long time, then gets to his feet, pulling me up with him.
“We need to move,” he says without answering my question. “This is not a good place to stop.”
I look out over the moorland we’re passing through. Purple heather blooms, and the land undulates into the distance until it joins with a pale blue post dawn sky. It seems quite harmless.
“Why?” I ask as he frees me from my bonds and I rub at my wrists.
Linton lifts his fingers to his nose and inhales deeply, half closing his eyes. Yet again, emotions conflict within me. Is this creepy or is it cute?
“Why?” he echoes, as if he has the memory of a goldfish.
“Why is this not a good place to stop?”
“The spirits,” he says, as if this is something everyone should know.
“I doubt there are any spirits here.”
“Then what are those?” He nods over my shoulder, and I turn, expecting there to be nothing but moor and sky.
Instead, making their way steadily towards us is a spectral army. Flags with symbols I don’t recognise flutter in a non-existent breeze, and the skeletal forms move jerkily as the multiple columns march inexorably onwards.
My jaw goes slack. My legs instantly want to run, but I’m not sure I can outrun them. In the time it’s taken for me to see them, they’ve halved the gap between us.
“What do we do?” I turn to Linton.
“What do you want to do?” he asks, as if this is an everyday occurrence to him.
“Run.” My voice rises in a sort of shriek.
Linton shudders, his wings vibrating and dust rising from them in the early morning light.
“You would run?”
“Yes. But I don’t want you to think I’m running from you.”
The ghostly army is getting closer, marching in determined, terrifying silence.
“If you ran from me, I’d catch you,” Linton growls, his eyes a darker red than before.
“I’m sure you would. But what do we do about them?” I point at the corpses leading the marching columns, their armour hanging on their fleshless bodies, their faces a mass of rictus grins.
