Page 12 of All Hallows Fate

“Alright, that’s long enough,” Cat muttered, shoving back. Her eyes were tight with confusion, her expression unsure.

“Miz next,” Tor said in a burr-rough voice, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He needs a hug, beautiful.”

Her posture tightened, arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not hugging anyone else. This,” she spat at Tor, “was against my will. Now tell me my name.”

“Cactus Bengal-Tiger Wallison.” Tor’s smile was strained, painful to watch.

Cat laughed. “No seriously. Tell me my name.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but a drift of white mist caught my attention, and my stomach dropped so fast I felt sick. It wasn’t the fog dancing around our knees; it came from me. From my fingertips. And as I watched, my heart clattering into my ribs, I watched the tips of those fingers bleed into fog, watched them crumble away, all the way to my knuckles.

The ground rumbled under my feet, flaring my nausea. It wasn’t simply the domain decaying around us; I was succumbing too.

I shoved my hand into the folds of my trousers and prayed no one had noticed.

10

Cat

The sexy, scowling bastard had to be lying. There was no way my name was Cactus. And worse than that—my middle name was Bengal Tiger? Were my parents clinically insane? I asked as much, a deep furrow carving into my brow as I looked from the intimidating, tattooed man—who smelled so good, a heady aroma of sandalwood and something sweet—to the others.

The curly haired, kind-faced man gazed blankly into the fog, his expression slack, something about his posture bereft and hopeless.

The solemn-eyed black man gave me a smile so sad and aching that my stomach knotted, and something like guilt churned within me. Had I seen that smile before? Had I stood here, so close I could feel the heat and presence of him? Had those arms wrapped around me and held me tight? He looked like he gave good hugs, and a phantom feeling of being held made me jump, looking quickly away.

The pretty, pale-haired man beside him was crying, except he’d turned away from me, his hands covering his face. His back was bowed, white shirt clinging to the ridges of his spine in a way that squeezed my heart and forced me forward a stunted step. Seeing him cry hurt, the same way seeing this place in ruins hurt.

The redhead stared at me with teary hope, his hair a mess that stuck out in all directions and his shirt ripped at the bottom, the top printed with I like my whiskey straight but my friends can go either way. It made my lips twitch into a smile, and he heaved a broken, jagged sob like I’d told him Dolly Parton had died.1

“Sorry,” I whispered, the guilt swirling faster, until nausea wavered through my middle. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

I wanted to. I wanted to know who I was, who they were to me, wanted to fill in the void in my head with memories of these men who clearly loved me. Who were so hurt by the blank space in my memory that they cried.

The gruff, tattooed man sighed and while my defences were down, he swept me into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, a kiss finding the crown of my head. My eyes slammed shut, as they did the last time he hugged me, and even though I yelled at myself that I was allowing a strange man to hold me, I allowed it for a moment, then two, and three. It felt good. Reassuring in a way I couldn’t remember feeling. Safe.

For a girl with a black hole in her mind and nothing but uncertainty in her future, the feeling of safety was a drug.

“It’s not your fault, beautiful,” he sighed, letting me go with another kiss to my hair.

I swallowed, wet my dry lips, and smiled softly when my horse—Fuzzball, apparently—nudged my arm. I stroked her soft nose, wishing I had a snack for her. Horses liked apples, right? That thought hit me out of nowhere, and I could almost remember feeding her a crisp, green apple, listening to her crunch as we prepared to ride to… somewhere.

But who were we? Were these men the ones who’d ridden with me?

“Do you have horses, too?” I asked, which admittedly was a strange question to voice before I even knew their names. “And—what are your names? I think you’re important to me, so I should know them.”

“We have horses,” the broad-shouldered black man said in a voice made of velvet and honey. So soft, so adoringly sweet. Just the sound of it made my chest ache, and a lump rose into my throat. “We can ride with you wherever you choose to go.” That wasn’t what I meant, but before I could say that, he made me freeze by adding, “And I’m Death.”

I jolted like I’d been struck. “Death? You’re Death?”

He nodded, thin braids swaying around his face. “Your husband.”

I didn’t have the bandwidth for that. “Well, this has been lovely, but Fuzzball and I must be off. So nice to meet you, have a good life.”

I reached for Fuzzball’s reins, about to pull myself up when he laughed. A low, luxurious roll of thunder that worked through my body like it knew the pathways of my heart, knew exactly how to flutter through my belly, how to settle lower and pool into warmth. I knew this laugh, even if I couldn’t remember hearing it before. And the pause was just long enough for the freckle-faced, redheaded man to dart forward. He lifted me off the ground, throwing me over a surprisingly strong shoulder, gently enough that it didn’t wind me. But his arm latched over the backs of my thighs, trapping me against him as I struggled.

“You’re not allowed to leave, lioness,” he said in a voice rasped raw. “You need to stay so we can help you remember us, and then you can love us again and we’ll live happily ever after. Cruelty’s dead now. Your dad killed him. That reminds me; should we have left him behind? Was that a bit mean?”

Words spilled from him so fast they stumbled over each other.