“Out of the way!”
The group parts and Cyrus appears, his hair matted flat by the rain. He takes quick stock of the scene, his eyes lifting toward Shea. Disgust curdles his mouth into a sneer.
“He attacked me.” The cold has set in, or else the shock. Her teeth won’t stop chattering. “I didn’t— I was— I fell. My hands were bleeding. Lys—”
“Stop talking,” orders Cyrus, and she does. “The rest of you, go back to the lodge.”
No one moves. A ripple of unease moves through their ranks.
“You’re not in charge,” someone mutters.
Cyrus’s scowl deepens and he rounds on the rest of them. “Unless you want to spend the next few hours digging a grave in this rain, I’d suggest you do what I say.”
This time, they listen. They disperse one by grumbling one, dissipating like shadows between the trees.
“You too, Choi,” says Cyrus.
“Me?” Tristan’s gaze lifts toward Shea. “But I thought—”
“I’ll handle Parker. Go.”
Shea watches the broad beam of Tristan’s light diminish until it disappears. And then it’s only her and Cyrus. And the body. The rain has picked up, turning to ice. It ricochets off the roof.
“If you care about Lysander at all,” says Cyrus, “you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Who would I tell?”
As if in answer to her question, a final figure emerges from between the trees. Not a Mercy Boy, but Asher, a drawstring bag over one shoulder.Herbag, a single velveteen ear flopping out from the cinched enclosure. He looks as stoic as she’s ever seen him, shotgun in hand and a bandolier strapped across his chest. The slots have been fitted with wooden bullets, whittled sharp. He surveys Sullivan warily as he steps onto the bridge, prying loose a set of earplugs.
“What the hell is this?”
“An accident,” says Cyrus, before Shea can answer.
“Doesn’t look like an accident.” Asher ventures nearer to the body, prodding its shoulder with the butt of his shotgun. “He’s one of yours?”
“Not anymore,” says Cyrus wryly. “He’s been demoted.”
“Interesting choice of words,” notes Asher.
“Would you call it something else?”
“I would. This was a slaughter, plain and simple. From the way the wounds run parallel to the skin, I’d say it was an animal that did it.”
Cyrus’s eyes glimmer. “You’re the expert.”
A sudden scream rends the night in two. The sound is bestial. An eerie, tortured howl that unspools through the forest. Asher jolts to attention, readying his gun with unrecognizable speed.
“What the hell was that?”
“One of the Gravewood’s great mysteries,” says Cyrus with a shrug. Hunger has begun to crawl into his throat in spider-thin bruises. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you to escort Parker back. She’s a little too bloody for my liking. Don’t be long.”
He’s gone before either Shea or Asher can protest, abandoning them beneath the covered bridge. On the ground, the freezing rain begins to build into a wet slush. It reflects the light of the moon, turning the forest a polished gray.
“Are you okay?” asks Asher, shouldering his gun.
She swipes at her throat with her sleeve. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see it.”
