He lunged.
I braced myself, lifting my arms—but then he jerked.
His entire body seized.
His mouth opened in a small, stunned O.
And then he slumped forward.
A wet, choking gurgle tore from his throat as he crashed into me and drove me back to the ground. Hot, sudden weight pinned me. Something warm and thick soaked through my shirt, my skin.
Blood.
His.
I froze.
The hatchet was sticking out of his back. It was buried to the hilt, the handle jutting up at a crooked angle.
Behind him, a shadow in black. A presence I recognized before my mind could form the word.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t need to.
The shadow stepped past Jackson’s sagging body, into the strip of moonlight.
My father.
The man who once cradled me in the dark, whispered lullabies, and taught me how to draw monsters, and how to become them.
He pulled Jackson’s body off me like it was trash that offended him, one hand on the ruined shoulder, heedless of the torn arm and the hatchet still lodged deep.
“Failure,” he said, almost bored, flicking his gaze over Jackson’s twitching body.
Then my father knelt beside me.
“Get up,” he said, voice low, almost tender.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“I’m not here for you,” he added. “Not tonight. It’s not your game—yet. You need to run. They will take you if you don’t.”
My heart stuttered. He sounded almost protective of me. Like he was trying to shield me from the people who worshipped him.
He reached out and tucked a blood-matted strand of hair behind my ear with a touch too gentle for a killer.
“What about Max?” I croaked. My head swam.
He shook his head, almost fond.
“It’s his turn now. Run, little one,” he whispered.
I held my breath, staring into his green eyes. Exact replicas of my own.
“Who is coming for me? Tell me what all of this means,” I rasped. “Are you the Butcher or the Alchemist?”
He didn’t answer.
