“An enemy in the fog.”
A…
A fuckingwhat?
At first—in that immediate reaction that almost conjures a scoff—I think it’s a ridiculous thing to say. But then, the dark fae seem to sense things. Things I don’t. Things that even Bee can’t sense.
I’ve never given any thought to what that feels like for them, to have chills running up their spines, their stomachs turning, teeth on edge—to feel like something is off, then home in on it, decipher it, and recognise it as an enemy.
But hail is ice—and so, “Is it an enemy?”
He lifts his stare to me, but this time there’s a faint crease between his eyebrows.
Rugged up in the blankets, I say, “I know hail. I’ve never known it to do that kind of damage. But, like, you’re an ice specialist or whatever, and hail is ice, so—is it your enemy?”
The frown smoothens. “It is not your hail. It is ours.”
“But can’t you stop it?”
“No. There was too much.”
“But—”
“Stop speaking,” he says, and my face hardens. “You need rest.”
A huff grates my throat and I shift around under the blankets until my back is facing him.
I stare at the stains on the wall.
‘It is not your hail. It is ours.’
As in, it came from their world…
No.
No, it didn’t come from their world. It came from the darkness. Like the cactus. Like my period that’s gone on for a lot longer than a week.
I stew on that for the moments I’m awake, mulling over the fact that our world, our earth, our plants, our bodies, are all adapting to the blackout.
Not just adapting.
It’s all changing into areplicaof their world.
And that’s fucking horrifying.
FOUR
A hand grips my shoulder and rattles me.
The sturdy metal frame is unmoving beneath me, the faint creak of the mattress muffled by blankets, and the hail still battering the earth.
I pry an eye open.
Just one.
But that’s all I need to see Samick leaning over me, his hand firm on my shoulder, and his face as cold as ice.
“Up,” he says, then lets his hand slip from my shoulder. “Now.”
