“Mom?” If her voice has an echo, she doesn’t hear it. “Mom, I’m coming down.”
In the quiet, there comes a sound. The pull of chains dragging over concrete. The shift of something waking. Holding the mouse at arm’s reach, Shea descends.
The basement is mostly empty. They never used it for much. A boiler sits in one corner, valves rusted. In the other, a set of empty industrial shelves has been anchored to the wall. There—in front of the shelves—sits her mother. Silvered beneath a fall of moonlight, she is white-haired and emaciated, her wrists cuffed in a set of chains Shea found in her father’s workshop. When she lifts her head to watch Shea approach, there’s nothing in her eyes.
“I brought dinner.” Her voice has an echo. Gingerly, she holds up the mouse by the tail. It spins between them in a slow pivot. On the floor, her mother’s head quirks ever so slightly to the side. She’s scenting blood, Shea knows, but she likes to think her mother recognizes her voice. It’s a little lie she tells herself.
“I guess it’s more like a snack. I didn’t have time to stop by the butcher’s after school. I had to stay late, and then I ran into Asher at the shop. Asher Thorley. Do you remember him? He used to come over and walk Camellia home. He always ate all the leftovers.”
She used to be unnerved by the way her mother stared. By the way her jaw hung slack. By the way she never bothered to push her hair back from her eyes, when she used to hate having it in anything but a braid. She’s not unnerved anymore. She’s used to it.
When Shea tosses the mouse, her mother lunges. The chains rattle as she drags herself across the floor on all fours, snatching the rodent with birdlike fingers and then ripping into it with completely unbirdlike grace. Shea takes a seat on the bottom step and tries not to watch, unbothered—after months of the same—by the snap, crackle of bone, the wet tear of flesh.
“I’m sure you want to know why I’m home so late. Ipolitelysuggested to Owen Davies where he could stick his pencil, and Mrs. Lennox was standing right behind me. She slapped me with a detention, which I personally think was an overreaction.”
There’s not much meat on the mouse. Her mother will be done soon. Still starving. Still silent. Still squatting there, listless, her hair in her eyes. At the top step, Hemlock has settled in to watch, tail flicking.
“Dad would have laughed,” Shea adds, watching the moonlight drag along the floor. “If he were here, I mean. He would have tried not to, but he’s always had a terrible poker face. And I know you’re disappointed—you’ve told me amilliontimes to keep my cool—but I’m telling you, Davies deserved it. He was saying these horrible things about Dad.” Her voice sticks in her throat. “About him leaving.”
The mouse drops to the floor. Slowly, her mother’s face lifts. There’s blood on her chin. A blank, hungry look in her eyes. For a fraction of a second, she looks at Shea.
Rightat her.
A wick of impossible hope alights in Shea’s chest. “Mom?”
There’s a loudmeowfrom the top of the stairs. A single warning caterwaul. And then her mother lunges. Like so many times before, the chains clatter noisily behind her. Unlike the other times, there’s no resoundingclankat the end. No violent rattling of the shelves. The couplings come loose in a horrible trill, and her mother is still advancing. Rocketing upright, Shea staggers backward up the stairs.
“Mom—Mommy, it’s me.”
The woman before her—this being, this creature, thisalmost-mother—doesn’t stop her pursuit. She lurches onward, tangled in the chains, her arms outstretched. Shea’s boot catches on a step and she lands hard on her tailbone, scrabbling on all fours.
“It’s Shea. Mom, it’sShea.”
A hand cuffs her collar just as her mother lunges. She’s hefted unceremoniously onto her feet, the basement door careening shut with a slam that rattles the floorboards. Asher is there, his patrol-issued shotgun strapped to his chest, listening as her mother beats her body against the wooden partition.
“She won’t get out,” she manages. “She’s too weak.”
He cuts her a look. “So all those locks are just for decoration, then?”
Her heart gives an ugly squeeze. “I can explain.”
She’s not given the chance. Asher pries his shotgun loose, loading the chamber with his jaw wired tight. The slugs are wooden. White oak, hewn by hand. Horror grips her like a fist.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer, but then he doesn’t need to. They both know exactly what he’s doing—what he’s been trained to do in his eighteen months away. Assess a threat. Put it down. On the other side of the door comes the muffled sound of Ivy Parker’s fingernails scrabbling over wood.
“Asher, you can’t.”
He racks the bolt with a click she feels in her spine.
“Asher,please. Let’s just slow down for a second and—”
“Open the door.” His order slams into her gut like a punch.
She doesn’t budge. “No.”
“Parker.”
