Page 403 of Coal Hearts

Terribly vulnerable.

I didn’t know what I was expecting but...this?

I blinked at the long row of identically painted slaves.

What on earth—

Rachel blanched. “Well...this isn’t good.”

Swallowing hard, I went to agree, but Peter looked up from where he slouched against the wall of a muddy handyman shed. Wearing a pair of tanned boxer-briefs and nothing else, he threw up his arms and limp-ran toward us. “Rachie! Ily! Where have you two been? I’ve missed you so, so much!”

Rachel and I both stumbled as he crashed into us.

His skin felt damp and feverish, his pulse pounding visibly in his neck.

For a second, I couldn’t see much wrong with him.

For a heartbeat, I hoped whatever Victor had done for three days wasn’t that bad after all.

But then, I noticed.

And almost threw up on the grass.

“Oh God...Peter. No...”

He giggled and held up his palms.

His burned and awfully charred palms.

No bandages, no creams, nothing to protect his raw, red-black, oozing flesh. “Oh, these? Nah, it’s fine, jaanu. Don’t feel it. In fact, the smell reminds me of barbecue. See? Smell it. Makes me hungry.” He shoved his hand under my nose, smearing my upper lip with whatever fluid his body produced, doing its best to heal.

“Peter, you need to snap out of it. Okay?” Rachel yanked his hand away and marched him back to the others. “Where are your slippers? Citra gave you a pair of her handmade slippers this morning, remember? You need to wear them.”

“Nah.” Peter shook his head, stumbling drunkenly as he waved at all the other jewels. “Not allowed.” Every single one wore underwear matching their skin colour, making it seem like they wore nothing at all.

The fact that they actually wore underwear ought to be the most shocking part, if it wasn’t for the giant bullseye painted right on their chests.

No...not just their chests.

Peter spun in place and tipped his head back to the sun, revealing his back.

Beneath the lashings from the night of the treasure hunt, a bright red dot marked the centre of his spine with ever-expanding circles in black and white.

Sick.

Twisted.

Evil.

I struggled to breathe as Rachel grabbed the basket from my slack hand and shoved a muesli bar into Peter’s burned one. “Here. Eat this. Maybe it will sober you up a bit.”

“Oh, yum! Thanks, Rach.” He tore into it. “Better than eating myself, I suppose, seeing as I smell so fucking tasty!” Kicking up his left leg, he showed me his sole. “Tempted to gnaw on this if I’m honest.”

My knees gave out.

I staggered to the side before I caught myself. “Fuck, Peter.”

I couldn’t tell if I wanted to burst into manic, morbid giggles or die of a broken, battered heart.