“Helping me is the least you can do,” I said, watching Kit take the cheese and tuck it in his sack. “Surely you have some remorse for taking part in such heinous crimes.Having damned so many souls and ruined so many lives. Perhaps doing right by my father will earn you some much-needed absolution.”
Kit hadn’t acknowledged me at first, but the longer I spoke, the more focused his attention became. By the time I finished, his nostrils were flared, and his dark eyes had gone cold. His burlap bag slid gently to the ground, and his empty hand curled into a fist at his side.
I watched it, first swallowing, then bracing for the blow that never came. I must have squeezed my eyes shut because when I looked out again, Kit had retrieved his sack and relaxed his hand.
“Well,” he growled, “since you’re such an intrepid adventurer, surely you can manage with a point in the right direction.” He stabbed a finger toward the cloud-shrouded sun. “Go that way. Walk or ride, and don’t stop until you’ve gotten this absurd notion out of your head.”
Having said his piece, Kit turned away.
My empty stomach gurgled again, and I pressed my palm against it as though I could will the gnawing pain away. But Kit’s continued rejection hurt worse and came with more lasting consequences.
Time was running out. I was already facing a wet, uncomfortable night on the streets and a long walk home with nothing but bad news at the end of it. I imagined my mother’s cries when she discovered the truth of it all. She was a superstitious woman and raised my sister and me on cautionary tales about the dark god Eeus. He manifested suffering and scarcity, the scourge of families like mine who relied on bountiful crops and successful harvests for our livelihood.
Eeus himself was bad enough, but his followers were worse, and taking part in his worship—even as anunwilling sacrifice—was enough to put a dark stain on an entire bloodline.
I didn’t believe in the curse that was said to befall the family lines of those whose bodies had been stolen. But Mother and Sayla did, and it was Sayla’s urging that sent me to Forstford to try to find a way to break the curse before it could take hold. It was their peace of mind I sought to preserve, and I was failing.
Kit made it a few retreating steps before I lunged after him and caught his elbow. He turned around, his eyes piercing with a scorn that almost silenced me, but I forced the words out on the cusp of a sob.
“Please, Kit…” I swallowed but failed to clear the lump clogging my throat. “This frightens me, too. But it doesn’t need to involve you any further if you’ll just show me the way.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a heaved breath. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly, but all that waits at the end of this road is death, and I’ve been party to enough of that already. I won’t point you down that path, too.”
My heart sank as he rummaged in his sack and pulled out one of the apples, polishing it on his pant leg before tossing it to me. “For the journey home. You won’t make itsome mileson an empty stomach.” His pity grated on me, but I couldn’t find the voice to protest. He moved away again.
My feeble reach after him drew the notice of the cheese monger, who clicked his tongue. “Don’t you know when’s enough?” he asked. “We don’t want strangers bringing trouble, and Kit don’t deserve it.”
The sob stuck in my throat, letting only a few words eke out. “I didn’t mean any harm…”
“Take your snooping and your beggar eyes and get.” The man shooed me with his hands. “Go on.”
With a final glance at Kit’s retreating form, I nodded and went the other direction.
4
Kit
Iknew no peace.
Everything I once loved about my life had been ruined, or at least tainted, by the buzzing fly of a man known as Penny Oliver.
Our encounter in front of the cheese monger left me equal parts angry and wracked with guilt. Thirteen years of avoidance had put distance between me and thoughts of the suffering so many families had endured because of my involvement with the Bone Men. If I didn’t think about how many bodies I’d delivered or how many unwitting souls I’d led into the abyss, and if I reminded myself that I never killed anyone personally, I couldn’t be held accountable for that pain.
But how many Penny Olivers had there been that I didn’t know about? How many children grew up without a grave at which to mourn? I could only deny culpability for so long.
I cut my shopping short; I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.
The walk out of town and up the hill toward homegave me time to collect myself, but Penny’s words echoed in my head, and I couldn’t silence them no matter how hard I tried.
Clearly, my sobriety was an obstacle to mental peace.
Back home, I locked myself inside, put away my groceries, and snagged the open bottle of whiskey off the counter on my way to the den.
Halfway there, my gaze caught on the narrow ladder that led to the attic. I hadn’t ventured up there in years, but I was haunted by what lay above. Tucked away in the dark, a chest held a handful of my father’s old journals, what few escaped the bonfire I’d had four years back after receiving word that he’d been arrested and executed for his crimes.
He kept meticulous notes for years, detailing his descent into madness and the hellish rites he’d undertaken to rise through the ranks of the Bone Men. I had no desire to read any of it. I’d lived those horrors, and seeing them on the page in his precise, flowing script made it feel all the more obscene.
I’d planned to destroy them all, but the first few made mention of my mother, and I couldn’t bring myself to burn away that bit of her, too. Now, I found myself wishing I had. But a part of me knew I’d need them again someday, just like I knew I’d need to go back to the Bone Men eventually because my work there wasn’t really over. I’d pushed those thoughts aside for years, but it was becoming clear that I couldn’t keep that up for much longer.
