When I pull my claw back, the wound is fresh and bright.
A real exile mark.
Froggy collapses onto his side, sobbing, clutching his shoulder.
“You…” he gasps, “you think you’re better than me.”
“No,” I whisper. “I never did.”
He sucks in a shaking breath, tears streaking through dirt. “Does this make you a hero now?”
“No.”
“You think Violet made you good?”
“No,” I repeat softly. “She made me honest.”
His pupils shrink into pinpoints.
I stand slowly.
“I didn’t mark you to punish you,” I say. “I marked you because you refused to take responsibility. Because you refused to stop running. Because you won’t see.”
He snarls, scrambling up to his knees. “I hope you rot! I hope you—you…”
I turn away.
He screams after me, a broken, wounded-animal scream that tears something open in my chest.
I let myself cry until the shaking stops, but I don’t turn back.
I walk. And walk. And walk. Until a familiar scent hits my senses: tear-salt, fear, pine, and cheap deodorant.
Beau.
He sits on a rock at the edge of the trees, knees pulled to his chest, Fiona draped around him in wolf form, trying her best to soothe him. She licks his cheek once, but he only sobs once.
His head snaps up when he hears me.
“Jason?” His voice is smaller than I’ve ever heard it. “Is… is it done?”
I nod.
He actually collapses forward, arms open, desperate and shaking. I catch him, hauling him into a hug. He clings like he might drown without the contact.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper fiercely. “It’s okay. You did the right thing by telling me. You’re here. You’re with me.”
Fiona shifts back into human form and pats his back. “It wasn’t your fault, Beau.”
Beau sniffles. “Is… is it time to go home now?”
Not yet.
“One more thing,” I say.
He stiffens. “What?”
