Would Ella be there?
“It won’t matter how good, or pure, or godly you are. You’ll know what Hell truly feels like.”
An ominous shiver rolls down my spine, and for a second, I hear that familiartick, tick, tick. “I already know what that feels like.”
“Then pray you never feel it again,” he says with enough vindication to make me feel sick. “I’ve been checking the property every day for signs of them. Sometimes they leave a scent behind, or black char that boils into bloodred. I’ve seen nothing yet.”
This sounds infinitely worse than a hellhound. “What do we do if we see it?”
“Run.”
Great. More fucking cardio.
Lynx slows to a stop, crouching beside a tree to shift a pile of leaves away. I move to get a better view of what he’s doing. It’s hard to make out details given the rapidly fading light, but there’s no mistaking the severed forearm that comes into view and the ouroboros tattooed to the spot beneath the inner elbow.
Without missing a beat, he places my limb into his makeshift bag and keeps walking, searching the surroundings again.
I feel too heavy to follow. Stuck in place as if the earth has swallowed me and left me to stare at the sack that sags far too low to be weighed down by just part of a limb.
Lynx is out here to piece me back together and… protect us.
My throat tightens until it becomes hard to breathe. Then he stops again, subtly angling his head in a silent request for me to follow. Gritting my jaw to keep the emotions from coming out, I force my legs to move until I fall into step quietly at his side.
This time, as we walk, I know what I’m looking for. The darkness from the setting sun makes it more difficult to see our surroundings. I have half a mind to suggest resuming in the morning, but it’s not like we have anything better to do tonight.
Or tomorrow, or the day after.
When the silence begins to grow teeth, and the loneliness sinks its claws in, I say what I’ve wanted to since the moment he opened up to me. “Tell me about your brother.”
“He hated porridge.”
The lack of hesitation and disdain in his answer catches me off guard. I can’t help but chuckle, feeling my face twitch into a half-smile as I look up at him, frowning at my lips like he can’t work it out.
“Your brother and I have something in common.”
He huffs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “There was a pine tree at the edge of the city he always wanted to play at because there was a family of raccoons that lived around there. When our mother was alive, he once got right up close to a baby one to feed it crumbs of stale bread.”
My smile drops. Something similar happened with Ella when myah mawas visiting. She was frightened of the raccoon that dared to come near our back patio, screaming like it was going to kill her. But the creature was unperturbed and happily accepted Ella’s offered treat. Dad found it hilarious. Mom rolled her eyes.
A couple of days later, all hell broke loose because I left out chicken for a stray cat that used to run around our property. Mom locked me in my room for the rest of the week, and I never saw that cat again.
My parents must never find out I died. They need to rot in their cells for the rest of their lives—they can’t win their appeal.
“I broke my promise to him.”
I blink hard, snapping my attention up to Lynx. “What?” Did I miss something?
He doesn’t answer. The seconds stretch until I don’t think he’ll ever answer. So when he does speak, I hang on his every word. “It had been weeks since we’d gone because I always had to work. The day I was killed, I promised to take him there if he agreed to go to school.”
My gaze drops to the ground as we trudge blindly through the forest. “And you never even got to say goodbye to him.”
He shakes his head. “I guess it’s somethingwehave in common.”
A sense of understanding washes over me. The kind that feels like companionship and breaks me out of isolation. I don’t pity Lynx, but I feel his pain like it’s my own, and I realize that I see it. The lines of grief that shape his silhouette. The hard edges of his features that never seem to soften unless they look empty.
I want to touch him: hold his hand or grasp his arm so he knows I understand, but I know it won’t be received well. He’d be knocked out of this vulnerable space he’s in, and those walls would build back up. So I settle for words instead.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lynx.”
