“We’re home. In Rixton. Just another version.” I splay my fingers against the stone. “In the Rending, Erybrus was thrown down by Ithrandril, creating this place. An unholy realm where souls could remain trapped until their decision was made. For the shadow or for the light. The rowan wood—it’s an upside-reflection of our own world.”
And then we hear two things that strike hope and fear in my gut alike.
The first is a voice, warm like cinnamon and familiar.
Bram.
The second is more like a flock of ravens. And when I turn, I see why.
Bram is running toward us, his eyes wide, body firm and whole andreal. He is flailing his arms wildly, screaming my name, terror streaking his eyes with shots of red. Beside him, a hound, jet-black with eyes like blood moons.
Behind Bram, I spot the cause of such terror.
Up from a bubbling, stinking version of the River Thine rise six of the shrouded shadow women. Though, here, I cannot tell if they are women at all. Their bodies are thick with darkness, hands dragging long and white behind them. Pale faces are broken with crooked smiles, tongues lolling like earthworms.
And I do the only thing I can think of.
I run.
fourteen
Bram is screaming something I cannot hear over the pounding of my own heart. It is like drums in the deep. I am nothing but prey. Nothing but a corpse along the roadside, waiting for carrion birds to come and tear my wilting flesh.
But I do not have to wait. For the vultures are right behind me—the shadow figures. Demons. They shriek and shout, rounding us up, pressing us forward—toward what, I do not know. Tears sting my eyes, choke me. I veer left when something dark presses into the corner of my eye.
My heart buckles in my chest.
But it’s only the hound. His paws beat the ground just behind me, eyes wild and wet. Ransom is ahead, coat slung across his shoulders and flinging behind him like wisps of smoke. Bram lifts his arm toward something. My lungs burn and my legs ache, and I am about to lie down, cover my head with my hands and hope for the best, when I catch sight of where Bram is pointing us toward.
The church.
It stands tall, unlike the rest of the shelters, its stone a testament to whatever rotten magic eats this place alive. Red ivy hangs down its sides, twisting vines cut away from the decaying wood door—so like the one I have watched my father walk through countless times and yet so very different.
My boot catches on a rock. I stumble forward, pain searing up my leg, and cry out, rolling onto my back. The sky overhead bleeds, and a shadow crosses over me.
I open my mouth to scream again, but no sound comes. Only hot breath. My fingers scramble in the earth, but I cannot get away. I am frozen to the ground.
A shrouded figure rears its ugly, pale head. Lips spreading wide, tongue twisting over sharpened teeth. The eyes bob in their sockets, as if they are barely holding on, might slip out any second and come rolling across the wet leaves to land at my feet. Fear blooms bright in my chest, spreading cold, like so many reaching fingers. I choke on it while the shadows close around me and the figure extends one of its long, white hands.
A smell turns sharp in the air. The emptied bowels of an animal, spoiled eggs. I gag.
This is how I will die. Devoured by minions of Erybrus, smelling of nothing but rotten meat. I lift my chin to the approaching monster, determined to not die a coward.
But then hands are on my shoulders, tugging at my arms. They lift me to my feet, and we are running. Bram and I, hand in hand, fleeing the serpentine creatures. It is only when we reach the safety behind the door of the church that I realize my heart has stayed calm the whole time.
“What the hell is going on?” It is Ransom’s voice, ragged with heavy breaths. “And who”—he points a finger at Bram—“the hell are you?”
Bram ignores him and, instead, hurries to my side while I heave back against the door. I slip down the splintered wood until I am seated on the dusty stone of the floor. The familiar scent of home still clings to my skirts. Ink, stones, autumn wind. I take in deep breaths of it, try and push the dizziness from my mind, spread my knees, and hang my head. My finger shakes to my neck and waits for the beats I am sure are all wrong. Erratic and out of sync.
A-live, a-live, a-live,they greet me. Steady, strong, and so curious my skin prickles.
What is happening? There is comfort in the pain, in the wrongness to my heart, and not having it there is like ripping off the blankets. Exposed.
Something wet swipes at my cheek. The hound, eyes wide with concern, tail limp and tucked. My every muscle tenses at the sight of the creature, my breath coming stiff.
“That’s Rascal,” Bram says. “He won’t hurt you.”
I look into the red eyes, lift a finger to his pink nose. He licks it, and I laugh. A strange sort of sound. “What is he?”
