She slows, wary—unable to make out his features in the dark. He doesn’t announce himself as she approaches. Instead, he stands perfectly still, his arms hanging slack. Down in the ravine, a narrow river runs hard and fast, broken sheaves of ice bottlenecking along the shore. She clicks on her hearing aids and is immediately met with the rush of running water, loud enough to drown out the murmuring forest.
“Busted,” she says, striving for levity. “How long have you been following me?”
He doesn’t answer. The rain has slowed, and the moon slips out from beneath the clouds. Its light catches in the red curl of the boy’s hair.Sullivan.
“You’re bleeding.” His voice is garbled, muted by the river.
Instinctively, Shea tugs her hands into her sleeves. “It’s just a scrape.” She edges past him, heading for the path as quickly as she can. “You can go. I don’t need help.”
“Do you know what I’ve just realized?” He does a hard about-face and falls into step alongside her, his gait heavy. “I haven’t fed tonight. I’ve been too busy running errands.”
“Take it up with Lys,” she says. “I didn’t ask you to do anything for me.”
“Not so fast, Princess.” His hand snaps out, closing tight around her elbow. She’s veered sideways into the railing, the wild river frothing just below. The icy spray kisses her cheek.
Horrified, she coughs out,“Princess?”
“That’s what they’re calling you.” He leans in close, his smile sharp. “The Gravewood Princess. That makes me your knight. And do you know what princesses do to show knights their appreciation? They bestow a favor on them.”
“I’ll scream,” she says, tugging at his grip.
The tip of his nose runs along her carotid artery. “I’m depending on it.”
When his teeth sink into her throat, the pain is punishing. Her scream comes out throttled, cut off by the appearance of a shadowy figure standing in the dark just over Sullivan’s shoulder. A bipedal creature, the lines of it disfigured by the trees. With liquid grace, the shadow brings a finger to its lips.Quiet.She obeys as if compelled, her breath sawing against her ear. She feels the pull of a swallow, the rush of blood—the first surge of liquid venom into her veins. The world goes gray at the edges, the pain dulling with morphine quickness. She blinks, and the creature is gone.
A half second later, so is Sullivan.
He’s ripped away with a shout—a garbled scream that cuts off in a yelp. Over the rush of water, she hears the wet tear of flesh. The brutal sever of bone snapping in two. She staggers away, one hand pressed to her throat to staunch the bleeding. Blood ribbons, hot and sticking, through her fingers as she peers into the covered dark of the bridge.
Sullivan lies unmoving on the ground, his chest gorged open.
The shadowed figure hunches over him, his still-beating heart clutched in its hand. More beast than boy, the creature hunches oddly, the seams of its shirt strained to breaking along the protrusive ridge of its spine. Moonlight gleams through the curve of two fluted horns. The bloodied tips of its talons puncture the organ in its grasp.
She scrabbles backward, intending to run. A twig snaps beneath the heel of her boot, and the creature’s head kicks up. She’s met with a familiar face. A thin, bowed mouth. A thin, straight nose. A dark fall of hair, rainwater dripping into eyes as black as brimstone.
A startled breath shudders out of her. “Lys?”
The heart drops to the ground with a wet squelch. The creature takes a single step toward her. A second. Blood falls from its fingertips in blue-black drips. A shout in the distance draws its focus. Light streams through the trees, splicing the dark into strips of silver. Shea is momentarily blinded as the beam of a flashlight sweeps over her face.
When it moves on, the creature is gone.
“Over here!” someone shouts.
Several Mercy Boys appear one after the other, wedging themselves hurriedly through the trees. They shove and jostle, their shadows tapering along the mirror-slick path. One by one, they catch sight of Sullivan lying there beneath the covered bridge.
“There’s a body,” someone calls out.
“I can’t see,” gripes another. “Move your big block head.”
“Hey, dickwad, you’re on my toes.”
“Shit, is that Sully—”
“It’s Sully!”
An uneasy silence crawls over them as they notice Shea standing nearby. They keep their distance, drawn like sharks by the scent of blood. A familiar face elbows his way to the front. It’s Tristan, the wide beam of his flashlight sweeping over Sullivan’s heart. The organ sits, steaming, atop the ice. Rotted through and ruined.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
