“It’s quiet down here,” he told her. “You stop minding, after a while.”
Slowly, water began to thread along the floorboards. First in a trickle, then a stream. It burbled noisily, gathering at her ankles.
“Death always comes in threes,” said the boy.
Only—he wasn’t the boy anymore. Now he was Mikhail. Strong, stoic Mikhail, who’d loved her like a father. His eyes were gone, two empty orbitals left in their place. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a skeleton grin. She teetered back, heartbroken and horrified, and fell with a hard thump of her tailbone against wood. Water lapped wetly at her waist.
“It is the way of things,” said Mikhail, slowly advancing. “It’s what was offered. He doesn’t want to frighten you, Sparrow. He only wishes to collect his due.”
In the nearby window, a linnet bird alighted upon the sill.
Chirrup, it called, and hopped nervously to the side.Chirrrrrup.
•••
Vivienne sat bolt upright, her heart hammering.
She was in bed. It was morning, the sun a flat yellow coin in the sky. A little brown sparrow sat on the wrought iron ledge of her balcony, peering warily in at her each time the curtains lifted on a breeze. The dogs were gone. The air inside the room felt stale. She was bone-tired and sore all over, the ribbing of her gown pressed tight into her sides.
Strange. It wasn’t like her to sleep fully dressed.
Climbing out of bed, she shook out the rumpled tulle of her skirt. Her fingers froze over the stiff creases. The folds had gone russet colored, bits of netting slowly flaking. With a horrible dawning comprehension, she realized it was blood.
She shut her eyes and tried to remember coming home—tried to summon the memory of climbing up the stairs and collapsing into bed. It was futile. Her head was full of shadows. They darted from her reach like little fish, too quick to catch. She was about to give up and crawl back into bed when she heard it: a moan, coming directly from her bathroom.
Through the gap at the bottom, she could just make out the pendulum sweep of a shadow. Whoever was inside was rocking themselves like a child. Back and forth. Forth and back.
On unsteady feet, she wobbled her way to the bathroom. The door swung wide and thudded hard into a body. There, on the floor, sat Thomas.
“I heard you,” he said. His forearms had been scraped raw, skin just beginning to break, and she knew without hesitation that he’d been in here clawing at himself in a panic.
“I heard you counting,” he gibbered, rocking faster. “I heard you, and now you’re in my head. There’s these bugs crawling in my skin. Ifeel them. I can’t get them out. I can’t—”
She dropped to her knees, desperate to find some way to console him. The moment she reached for him, his hand flew out like a scythe and caught her wrist. His eyes were hard and cold. There was no warmth in them. Only disgust. Slowly, she followed his gaze down to her forearm. A single filament curled out from her skin, fiber thin and ribbon pink.
She watched, aghast, as Thomas reached for the thread and began to tug. She unraveled in skeins, coming all apart in sickening garlands of tulle and glistening tendon trimmings. He tugged and tugged, laying her bare, until all that was left was the bald white of her ribs, the hideous red throb of her heart. And there, woven around her sternum, was the glossy black carapace of something poisonous.
“I knew it,” said Thomas, and let her go without warning.
She toppled backward onto the tile, the gruesome exoskeleton clicking horribly as she began gathering herself up in ribbons.
Don’t look at me, she wanted to screech at him.Don’t look.
She staggered to her feet, intending to flee, and stumbled directly into Mikhail. He stood in the open door, silently contemplating Thomas.
“Who is this?”
His voice came out several registers too low. Not Mikhail at all, but that insidious whisper from her dreams. On the balcony, the sparrow fluttered nervously.
“Stop thrashing,” it said, in an all-too-human voice. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“This boy reeks of hellfire,” said Mikhail, speaking over the bird. “You shouldn’t have brought him here.”
“Vivienne,” said the bird. “Open your eyes.”
She did.
The nightmare fell away, and there in front of her was Reed. Truly Reed, and not some horrendous amalgamation. Like her, he was still dressed for the gala, though his shirt was untucked and horribly crinkled, the buttons stained with wine.
