He ripped up the page and started clawing a hole in the ground near the tree’s roots. At least he wasn’t seeing blood—rich and vile, turning the ground to sickening mud—this time. But he couldn’t dig deep, not as stones and grit tore apart his fingernails, and Thomas’s cries grew more desperate behind him. Andrew tore up every page in the sketchbook until there was nothing left but fluffy shreds, and then he buried them all, smoothing leaves over the top of the dirt.
Andrew swallowed. It had to be over now.
He punched to his feet and ran back toward Thomas. Not ran, heflew.
Thomas, Thomas,Thomas.
It took less than a minute to get back, but Andrew’s calm had shattered. It was as if the monsters had noticed him being stoic and factual about this horror, and they’d found the best way to slit him open and make him pay.
Try to kill Thomas, and Andrew would lose his goddamn mind.
The thistle fairies hadn’t dropped dead the second the sketchbook had been torn up, but no new ones arrived. They still clawed all over Thomas’s bare back, his stomach, his shoulders. They burrowed into his ears and climbed his ribs like ladder rungs and sank their teeth into every bit of soft flesh they could find.
Thomas had dropped his flashlight, and he slammed himself against a tree to kill them. He picked creatures off by their wings and crushed them in his fist. Their tiny bodies exploded in green pus that oozed between his fingers.
He dropped to his knees and let out a broken sob.
Andrew snatched Thomas’s abandoned tee shirt off the ground and used it to swipe fairies off his back. He threw the shirt down and stomped on it. Their deaths smelled of cut grass and copper.
“This s-s-s-sucks.” Thomas ripped thistle fairies off his throat.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” Andrew hissed.
“Someone always has to be the sacrifice.”
“That someone doesn’t have to be you. This isn’t your fault.” Andrew wrapped his hands in the tee shirt and picked more thistle fairies off Thomas. Each one felt like pulling out a pin buried viciously deep.
Thomas looked at him then, his eyes pooling with tears. “Maybe itismy fault. Maybe last year, I made this happen when—”
Andrew didn’t want to hear it. He abandoned the shirt and hauled Thomas to his feet. He shoved him against a tree so Thomas could grip the branches as Andrew pried the last fairies out of his skin. His back was a battlefield.
Andrew twisted the last thistle fairy’s wings off and dropped it to the ground. He let it writhe around with malevolent, waspish howls before he ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.
Thomas crumpled. Every inch of him looked bloodied andswollen, riddled with puncture marks and lacerations. Andrew felt sick looking at him.
“The sketchbook is destroyed and buried,” Andrew said, ragged. “It’s over.” He knelt slowly, expecting the other boy wouldn’t want to be touched, but Thomas flung his arms around Andrew’s neck. His sobs came silent, desperate, anguished.
Andrew tried to slow his heartbeat. “Don’t ever do that again.” He didn’t recognize the hard edge to his voice. It felt like black frost had grown all over his tongue. He dug his fingers into Thomas’s hair until his breathing hitched at the pain of it.
Thomas didn’t answer, maybe he couldn’t. It didn’t matter anyway. Andrew was busy listening to the echo of monsters cackling among the trees at this pathetic display of bravery.
The monsters knew how weak these boys were and they found it
delightful.
THIRTEEN
The world had no business being this bitterly crisp at 6:00 a.m. The cold stung Andrew’s fingertips as he dressed with eyes half-closed, his headache not helped by the feet pounding up and down the dorm halls. Voices clamored and doors slammed. The bus would leave in an hour and no senior wanted to miss the first outing of the year. The art gallery tour would swallow the morning, but they’d been promised the afternoon loose in the city. Senior privileges.
Andrew threw another pillow at Thomas. “Sound off if you’re alive.”
Thomas gave a muffled groan but didn’t get up.
“I’ll bribe you.” Andrew messed around with his tie and frowned at the place where the mirror used to hang on the inner side of his wardrobe door. It was for the best that he couldn’t see the too-sharp cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes. “We’re buying art supplies. You can draw again.” He paused. “We’ll get coffee.”
Thomas dragged a pillow over his head. “Kill me.”
A fist thumped on their door, their counselor’s voice far too cheerful. “Thirty-minute warning!”
