“A few mice scampered across the floorboards earlier. They seemed alive, not missing fur or teeth or eyes or anything. They were bleeding, though. Thought that was strange, but…” She shrugs. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”
Bram shoots me a strange look, but I read it perfectly. Things—livingthings—slip into the rowan wood every now and then, yes. But this many in so short a time? Something is wrong. Or more wrong than usual.
I drop his hand and slip into the pew beside Clara.
“Do you remember telling me who it was you followed here?” I ask.
She nods, though the look on Clara’s face says she wishes she could remember anything but. “I swear that’s who it was, Addie. And I’m sorry. You probably don’t—”
“I believe you.” My gaze shifts to Bram. “You know how my blood runs black, Reaper’s blood?”
Bram nods, a rather pained expression on his face. Like he’s trying to hold back the truth but it’s like swallowing poison.
The realization spills across my skin like oil. Smothering me. A lump sticks in the back of my throat. “I think my father is a Reaper. The Reaper of Rixton.”
When the words tumble from my mouth, something I have long wondered at, the truth, is apparent.
My father is a Reaper. Created by Erybrus and Ithrandril alike in the Rending. A servant to harbor souls to this under-land while they await their choice, their final judgment. Or seek a way to broker their peace. Their deals.
Something outside one of the windows catches Bram’s attention. He puts a finger to his lips and crosses the room, each footfall barely a breath.
Clara closes her fingers over mine, and Rascal, from where he lies sleeping next to the cold coals, lifts his head and utters a low, mean growl from the back of his throat. My skin prickles.
“Addie?” Clara’s fingers dig into my arm, but I keep my eyes on Bram, who sidles up to one window and peeks through the glass.
His face goes white, lips peeling back in a snarl. He turns to me, and that’s when I know.
It was a good thing to keep him from saying those three words in the vestry because we will never be safe again.
“Addie, run!” His words echo off the church walls.
I grab Clara’s hand, Rascal leaping to his feet beside me, and pull her off the pew. She is screaming something, but I can’t make out the words. Can’t hear her over the sudden wind, the sound of splitting wood, of Bram yelling at me to run, to get out of here, to go home, over and over and over.
Through the chaos, our eyes meet, and the spark in my chest goes out. Frost sharp. The ice I have been holding onto for so long cracks.
I run for the door, Clara tripping behind me, Rascal on our heels. For the world outside, the flood of iron and snow, all the dead and dying things. My nose fills with the wet scent of rot, thick and sickly sweet. I gag on it, my knees rocking.
No.
The door is knocked off its hinges, wood splintering. I shout, cover my eyes, bend myself over Clara. Rascal rushes forward, haunches raised.
Something crashes through the roof behind us, and Bram cries out. When I turn, dust blooms in great clouds, filling my lungs and forcing me to my knees in a fit of coughing. I still feel Clara at my side, Rascal a shadow now in front of us. And something else,someoneelse, comes through the shattered door.
“You know, I never thought you’d be the next woman I killed, Adelaide Thorn, but here we are.”
The voice shoots through me like a holly spear, spreading poison between my ribs.
Ransom stands at the door. Ransom and yet not Ransom. Gone are his handsome features, replaced by a patchwork of skin that does not belongto him. One eye blue, the other brown, blink out at me from beneath a crooked brow. His hair is matted in shades of red, gold, white, and black.
My stomach swills, expands, presses into my throat. I reach to sink my hands into Rascal’s warm fur, but he and Clara have scuttled into the shadows, too far away from me and the thing standing in Ransom’s clothes.
“What have you done?” My voice is choked. Bram struggles behind me, but I do not turn. Not yet. I keep my eyes firm on Ransom. And the face that does not belong to him.
“What haveIdone?” he asks the question as though the words taste sour. His boots scuff the floor, and then he is bending down, a black-threaded nose coming equal to mine. The smell rolling off him is foul, blood and cold metal and the sting of winter wind. “The real question is, Thorn, what haveyoudone?”
I match his gaze with stone, lips pressed into a line. My fingers itch to reach forward, to peel apart his skin, to reclaim it for the girls he stole it from. I search his eyes for any signs of remorse, but all I find is the truth: the boy who cried wolf is the monster in sheep’s clothing.
“You murdered all those girls, Ransom,” I say finally. “Lilith, Hester…Liza was next.”
