Wild Things Will Roam

By K.M. West

In a war-scarred world where horrible Creatures ("Creats") roam wild, the future of humanity rests upon the shoulders of Lash and Ander, two brothers who failed to fulfill their prophecy once before.

Liv cut her teeth on war, famine, death,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lights Out Ink
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914152030

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Liv

Time of Collapse.

One. Two. Three.

They stopped saying ‘toss’ twelve bodies ago. Leaving the word implied, Carian and another man released a teenager into the all-devouring pit. Was it still a teenager? Was there age in death? Liv’s twelve years hadn’t set much precedent for catastrophe, and her mind whiplashed with questions like these. Were they forever a teenager now? Nah, just dead.

Liv shuddered. Everyone was dead.

The fingers around hers tightened. Rhys stared up at her, mouth and nose covered to block the stench of burning flesh. Tear tracks carved through the dust of his cheeks. This boy had been a stranger to her before the bombs. His black eyes reflected darkened sky, cut with the flames of the pit. He hadn’t spoken much—not since he and his father brought her into their fold—but he clung to her. She’d have fought it, but she needed to be held just as badly.

At the pit’s edge, the adults tossed questions back and forth. Their answers fell short. No service. No communication. Terrorists. God’s punishment. War. No one knew what happened, what was happening. Rhys inched closer to her. She slipped a cautious arm around his shoulders. I should say something comforting...

Rhys, darling. Carian's Welsh accent pulled Liv's attention toward him, away from his ten-year-old son. Why don't you and Olivia come over here by me? Careful, boyo. Nice and slow. He smiled kindly, but his eyes trained on something behind them. The man beside him drew his pistol.

Liv turned her head. Bricks and debris lay scattered about her field of vision, unmoving. A heavy breath clipped her attention, gave her a glimpse of the source's body writhing in the ruins. She placed her palm on the back of Rhys' head, gripping to keep his eyes forward. Delicately, she pushed him toward his father.

Gurgles echoed in the silence, punctuated by gnashing teeth. Backing away, Liv kept her eyes on its frame, hunched and stark among the wreckage. What the heck is that thing? It called to memory a leopard but shaved naked and robbed of all beauty. Only the visceral remained, as though it...

Her foot snagged. A squeak clawed from her throat. The creature snapped its gaze to her; blood trailed from its fangs. Terror collapsed in her chest. The beast blurred into rubble, the rubble into black sky, the sky into flames, as her eyes traced her fall into the pit.

HUNTED

Ander

Summer thaw, fifteen years after the Collapse.

Ander spared a glance for the corpse at his feet. So I was walking down an old wooden staircase toward a green door, and the light from the outside was fading the further in I got.

Makes sense. Lash only ever half-listened. Ander had to be grateful, though; this inattentiveness had sharpened his storytelling.

I met God.

What?

There was the attention he wanted. Ander ground half an Adderall against a stainless-steel wallet card. Once belonging to a man named Braydon, it read:

BRAYDON -

I LOVE YOU FRO ALL THAT YOU ARE

ALL THAT YOU HAVE BEEN & ALL THAT

YOU'RE YET TO BE.

Ander rubbed the dust onto his gums, then ran his tongue over the grooves of the words to catch the rest. ‘I love you fro’ had become a bit of a running joke. Well, when I finally got to the door, I opened it…

Shocking.

... and inside was this vast library, right? Round room, about forty feet in diameter, with a bright fireplace opposite.

Setting a trap, Lash carved a patrin in the bark of a pine to denote the location of the cadaver, his focus again waning. And God?

Nine stories of books looked down at the center of this silo, with these intricate gold railings. Now Ander was teasing, dragging things out. And at the top, a dome, like an observatory. And God...

Finally.

"... was sitting in one of two wingback chairs between me and the fireplace, reading a book. Except the thing was, she was me. Like, a female version…"

"So... you."

... the yin to my yang. Brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin.

Lash glanced up at the sky. Night would soon descend. You didn't try to hit on her, did you?

Like I would be so irreverent? Ander purred, kicking loose dirt over the mangled body below him. I didn't, but now that you mention it, I wonder...

She say anything? Lash grunted, his knife snagged in dense pine.

Tell your brother he can go fuck himself.

Sounds about right. Lash stood back, taking in the grove. His markings lined the trees around them, an indicator of the trap they’d set. Now, they just needed to get armed and get comfortable; the Creature would arrive soon enough.

The wood around Ander morphed into the library of his dream. Closing his eyes, he recalled the face of God— heart-shaped, with almond eyes— and the warmth of her voice. "No, she looked at me, looked up at the grand cosmic abyss above us, and slammed her book shut. Then, she smiled and just said, 'live.'"

Live?

Yep.

Helpful.

"Right? I mean, I’m tired but I’m not trying to put a gun in my mouth... at the moment. A hard side-glance fired Ander’s way. Oh, come on. It’s not like we can’t joke about it."

You might have been high out of your mind, little brother, but I wasn’t. That was a very shitty day for me.

"How funny, I was talking about dad." On that particular day— the day of his dad's death— Ander had not been high; he’d been six. A flutter of crows speckled the gray sea of sky overhead. Time to move.

Alright, time to move. Lash said, echoing Ander’s thoughts.

On the plus side, Ander noted as he took his place behind a tree. At least we know God’s rooting for me?

He really thought that was true. Hell, even the spirits thought so. But they didn’t know everything and neither did he.

Liv

An hour later.

Will the Priestess have fangs, do you think?

Why the fuck would she have fangs? Liv was hardly in the mood for Carian’s poor attempts at humor. She was too tired to laugh. Snares weighed down her arms, each trap the difference between starvation and another day of survival. Rest was still hours away but being a jerk wouldn’t make the work go any faster. Oh my, great Oracle! she sighed, tonelessly. What large teeth you have...

All the better to eat you with, my dearie. Carian smiled. His soft lilt made music of the tale.

Thawing, the mud under their boots revealed hidden things: mushy leaves, ripening ground cover, the occasional carcass of something small... Liv wondered what else would emerge now that the cold was shed. Earth, like all great women, had her secrets, and only shared them once she trusted you. This was true in ancient Greece, it was true before the Collapse, and it sure as hell was true now, fifteen years later.

To Liv's left, Carian tripped, groaning. I’m too old for this, I am.

Liv barely paused to wait.

The mud shifted beneath him, opening to swallow him whole. He made a small sound, digging. Oh god, he muttered, raking the dirt aside. Frigid skin appeared in the clay beneath, bare and bloody. No, no, no...

Rhys. Liv's knees jarred, slamming the ground beside Carian. Cold soil oozed beneath her nails. Please don’t be Rhys.

Too cold for summer, her brother whispered from somewhere in her memory. Frantic, she helped claw dirt back from the body. Hey, Liv, you remember Before, when summer used to be hot?

A hand extended through the leaves of its shallow grave, its size too small and delicate to be a grown man. She exhaled; it couldn’t be her brother.

Oh, thank god, Carian came to the same conclusion. Silence struck them both. Baby teeth protruded from what was left of a tiny jaw. The arm disappeared below the elbow, the flesh freshly chewed away. Little fingertips reached upward, searching for someone to hold onto, someone who might come to the rescue— no one had. The kill was recent, decomposition still hadn’t set in. Livy, it can’t be far... Carian cautioned, but she was already searching the woods.

What do you think did this? She whispered without meaning to, her voice soft in deference for the child. Internally, she set up a coin toss: If he doesn’t know, we’ll go back to camp, but if he does…

Wendigo, he answered, with a grim nod. Certainty—that was all she needed. A large, emaciated creature stalked through her mind, a flash of sharp teeth in a hollow face. Wendigo were the monsters of nightmares. The child might have known to run, but tiny legs could never outrun something so desperate to consume.

Liv rejected the fear itching at her nape. Fucking Creats. Good, so you know how to kill it, she asked, eyes hardened.

Livy, I know how to defend against them... Carian stood, dusting himself off. Doesn’t mean we ought to go after one.

That child had a mother, Care, someone who loved him. She dropped the last of her traps, resigned to her newfound duty. She'd only ever seen a few, but the threat of Creats haunted every walk, every harvest, every market. Why should she live in fear? What's the worst that could happen, death? Who gives a shit about dying? We’re not gonna let the monster that killed him get away.

Worn fingers reached out to touch her gently. She pulled away. You can’t put yourself in danger, no matter how much you miss him, love.

Him. Her heart leapt. Her boyfriend Grayson’s open throat burned behind her eyes, furthering her resolve. What if you could kill the thing that took your grandson, Care? A low blow, but she needed him to feel it, needed him to understand her outrage. What if you could make it pay for what it took from you? From Rhys?

"You can’t kill fate, Liv."

No, but we can kill Creats. She didn't let him argue. Sprinting off, spears of undergrowth scraped and snatched at her skin, severing her present from her past. There was no Olivia who lived at the base of Big Walker Mountain with her family. No, that Liv had disappeared in the moonlit snow, her lap awash with hot blood. That Liv might as well lay nestled in the dirt beneath three wooden crosses at the edge of the garden. That Liv had died.

This Liv hunted. Years of powerlessness evaporated in a swell of rage, propelling her through the woods. Her steps rippled across the forest floor, summoning some unseen force of change.

A ghastly figure flitted between the trees; its filthy white shirt a beacon in the blue tint of dusk. Hello, Wendigo. In the quieter part of her mind, Liv wondered how the Creature— or Creat as they were now almost universally called— moved with such speed. The Wendigo possession had reduced its once female frame to mere bones; a stretch of pale, hollowed skin maneuvered the monster’s limbs like puppet strings. It has to eat, she recalled. It’s insatiable. She resigned herself on its destruction; only then could she let the child rest. She'd bury his spectre in the graveyard with the rest of the horrors she’d known.

The cool summer breeze swept Liv forward. Adrenaline pumped beneath her skin, numbing any grief she carried. She was animal, all instinct. Her leg muscles flexed as she sprang over a fallen tree. For an instant, she was weightless.

A tight grip on her collar tore her from her pursuit. Her back slammed into the tree beneath her, snatching the wind from her chest. Black branches stretched overhead like tiny fingers pleading for help.

Her vision blurred, a cry clawing from her mouth. Someone leapt over her, chasing after the Wendigo. Her arm throbbed, a blade gleaming at her in the fading sunlight. She blinked hard. The weapon bit deep into the outside of her arm, effectively pinning her to the trunk. Beyond her field of vision, she heard approaching footsteps. She jerked at the knife.

I have to get free. I have to defend myself. Gaining little traction against a cushion of dry leaves, she slid, digging the knife deeper. Willpower alone kept her from adding vomit to her already bloodied shirt.

For fuck’s sake, Lash! A voice boomed from the woods. Another imposing shape materialized at her side. The stranger’s tone shifted, curious. "Well, you’re not a Wendigo, are you?"

Eyes and teeth glowing bright, he smiled down at her. Long shadows crossed his brow, reminding her of the Cheshire Cat. In her daze, a swarm of vibrant stripes and caterpillars, roses and queens, shoes, and ships, and sealing wax danced over his face before the pain jerked her back to lucidity.

I’m Ander. Cautiously, he reached for the knife buried in her shoulder. Here, let me get that, he continued, voice warm and melodic; its unforced kindness reframed her initial impression of him. And look away— we don’t want you going into shock now, do we?

Liv huffed deep breaths in preparation. Once free, she’d run. She’d be damned if she waited around to see what else these people might do to her. She stared at the trees, waiting for them to stop spinning. Is the sun sinking that quick, or is my vision going? She tried to assess the damage, but turning her head made her nauseous. She gagged.

I can’t believe he stabbed you, her medic mumbled, almost to himself, as he applied pressure to the wound.

Don’t come down, her mind instructed her body. You’ll be sick if your adrenaline stops. She pawed at the ground beneath the tree, her knife elusive. I dropped it here somewhere, she thought, her eyelids too heavy to focus. A rabbit hole swallowed her, filling her nose and mouth with darkened dirt.

Stay with me, darlin’, the stranger-named-Ander insisted as her eyes closed. Stay with me.

Lash

Moments before.

Little brother trailed fifteen steps behind and growing. Ander was getting slow; he’d be fat before long. The trees around bore Lash’s patrin, marks he’d left earlier in the day to indicate the area of their trap. In the near vicinity, a little boy’s body lay half-buried. Meat stuck to a few of the bones; the starving Creature would no doubt circle back. Lash’s vision tightened, the forest blurred by his pace. Brushwood cracked at steady intervals ahead— measured, for a Wendigo. Tracks in the cool dirt seemed heavy, too. The leader of Danville had described a Creat far gone in her possession… he must have lied. Movement drew Lash’s eye. The forest drained in color, the yellow plaid on the Wendigo ahead bright in contrast.

Too bright? He considered, even as he gained on her. Knife drawn, he clutched the beast by its collar. Thick, black hair whipped through the air. Too thick. Clotheslined, the female’s lower body propelled forward. Too heavy. A clear, tan face twisted with shock. Too human. His knife was already through her shoulder before she hit the tree. Too late.

Screeching ripped across humid air, sparing him from confrontation. The Wendigo. Lash vaulted after the Creat, leaving an unlucky stranger in his wake.

The splashing of a stream struck his ears, thirty paces ahead. Now, this Creat was as quick as he’d expected. He drove harder into his legs, pouring energy into the chase. Rhythmic but fast, his heart provided a drumbeat to his movement. Ice water struck his thighs, his waist, his stomach. Everything slowed in the current, churning. To his left, something big hit the brook. Ander? Not Ander, he was too far behind. A dark figure met him over the waterline, muttering a brief introduction through an unintelligible accent. English, maybe? Irish? Probably in the company of the girl; if so, he clearly hadn't seen Lash stab her, or their introduction would be much more hostile. The distraction snapped Lash from his hunt; his mind caught up, clear. Bringing a finger to his lips, his free hand drew a circle in the air. The Wendigo would head back for the woman he stabbed.

The bank sunk under Lash’s feet. Swinging wide, he set up for the Creat. Voices carried on the wind.

Do you ever actually drink any of that? the woman said, voice slurred. Either passing out or coming to.

Plenty. I’ll tell you what, we’ll get you back to Danville, get you real medical care, and I’ll buy you a proper drink, Ander crooned. Lash scoffed. Ander’s torch burst to life in the distance.

Splashes heralded the Wendigo’s arrival. She doubled back, circling in the shadows as she prepared to feed. The accented stranger moved almost invisibly through the night, his dark skin a form of camouflage—a soldier. Lash never served, but the grandfather who raised him had; he could spot military bearing a mile away. Waiting for the Creat to cross their path, they rounded the perimeter of light where Ander and the wounded woman stood back-to-back.

Branches snapped. Lash held his breath, listening. He felt it approach, the hairs on his skin alert, waiting. Mid-blink, the Wendigo appeared. She no longer resembled a human being. Her shirt— the only reminder of her former life— draped shimmering wet over skeletal shoulders. Curly hair lay in thin patches around her hollow cheeks. Nothing in her eyes. She leapt ravenous for the bleeding woman; teeth bared. Mid-step, the Creat hesitated. Drew up to her full height, head cocked. Almost human.

Lash lit his own torch as the Wendigo froze, driving it straight into her stomach. Flames sputtered against the damp of her shirt. Wailing pitiably, her bloodless face stretched taut over her skull, confused. He curled his fingers around the knuckles he wore, then slugged the cartilage in her spindly throat. She collapsed. The soldier appeared behind her, gripping her hard by her remaining hair. A halo of flames seared down to her roots. Unnatural screams rattled over crushed vocal chords, boiling liquid horror in Lash’s blood. To shut it up, he drove a six inch knife through her neck. The blade was long enough to tear through her delicate frame, anchoring her to the forest floor as she burned.

Ander and the other woman broke for the stream, lighting the dry branches overhead en route. Blaze spread, raining embers down on them. A brief break in the fireline beckoned Lash, and he took it. Sprinting for the creek, he offered no glance back for the soldier. It’s on him if he can’t get out.

Lash dove into the stream. Fresh, cool water struck clean some of his anxiety alongside the sweat and soot from his skin. Dancing firelight shimmered through the ripples in the water, illuminating his path. He exhaled everything from his lungs, the squeeze in his chest comforting. If he stayed under long enough, the lack of air would spark a panic. Then he could focus only on the relief of death. For a moment, he could shake his constant fear of the things that hunted him.

What he didn’t realize, however, was how close those demons actually were.

DANVILLE IS DEAD

Liv

Later that night.

Liv reeked of blood and honey. Suppressing a gag, she crossed the alleyway toward the sounds of Danville’s celebration. With every clunky step, her body begged for a place to rest. By now, she'd happily bargain away her first-born for somewhere quiet. The doctor's manhandling managed to kill the half pint of plum wine Carian had given her; having a stab wound cleaned and packed was literally sobering. She rotated her shoulder to get a feel for her new stitches, archiving a simmering rage for the decrease in range of motion.

Lash can go fuck himself.

Opening the door to the banquet hall, a blast of heat rushed her, contrasting the cool mist outside. Her eyes tore through the dancing crowd for Carian, but he didn’t sway amongst them. He must have left with someone. Good for him. Her pseudo-father deserved a break. He’d spent the past six months searching for his son, and that aching loss had taken a toll on both of them. Noise from the party reverberated deep in her brain with all the harmony of clanging metalware. Of course, it could have been a full marching band and still not have made a difference. Her bloodless fingers pressed into worn eye sockets; nothing would keep her awake tonight. All she needed now was a room.

Prying eyes of the hotel’s ‘clerk’ met her at the base of the stairs, their bloodshot hue blending into sunburned skin. She must have been a sight to behold. The bags under her eyes advertised every one of her twenty-seven years, and then some. Malnourishment set a sallow color over her normally brown skin. Still, the gatekeeper scanned her as though picturing her naked. Great. Probably has some Before fantasy about skinny Asian chicks. She assumed her sex appeal would be tempered by the blood covering her shirt and limbs, but from the look in his beady black eyes, maybe not.

I need a room, she asserted, squaring her shoulders to seem less like a wounded animal. Carian always warned her to stand tall beneath a pair of hungry eyes. The Farrows said they’d cover it.

They hadn’t, but the line had worked with the doctor. Besides, it was the least they could do. The glorified clerk looked her over, his gaze lingering on her newly bandaged arm. "Oh, you."

"Yes, me," she spat, watching him remove a ring of keys from his pocket.

Lash said to look out for you. Second floor, last one on the left. He nodded toward the stairs and handed her the key. A lewd grin followed her to the staircase. It's one of our nicest, he called. Even has a mattress.

That was a surprise. Most beds, even ones paid for, didn’t have real mattresses. Piles of blankets, maybe, and hardly clean ones. Anything that could burn had been used for fuel during the cold years following the Collapse, so a mattress was a rare—and highly expensive—treat. Tiny soldiers of exhaustion marched through every inch of her anatomy; with this level of comfort, she’d be asleep in seconds.

Lash said to look out for me, huh? The irony climbed the stairs with her, her shoulder still throbbing from where his hunting knife tore through her skin. What the hell kind of name is Lash anyway? She tried picturing his face, but only Ander stared back with his broad, Cheshire grin. Were they twins? And where were they? Did they also have rooms somewhere in Danville’s only remaining hotel? This can’t be cheap... Good, she mumbled aloud. Lash deserves to pay.

Looking up, she saw a woman exit the last room on the left. Long, brown hair swayed with her hips, languidly migrating to the next door with an assertive knock. Blowing a kiss as she passed, the woman smiled, revealing a string of stained teeth. Isn’t that my room? Liv glanced down to confirm the number written on her key; the complementary door stood ajar. She fumbled for the fixed blade knife in her waistband. With a quick glance down the hallway, Liv estimated the number of steps back to the stairs. She missed her own weapons, the sum of which lay hidden back at their camp. At least I can account for how sharp this one is. She nudged the door with her foot. Peering through the crack, she saw a dresser, a fragmented mirror… The reflection held a man in his fading thirties, laying on the bed with his eyes locked on the ceiling, his boots propped up on a jacuzzi bathtub tiled into the back corner of the small space. Not exactly a defensive position.

You can come in, he called. "It’s your room."

Lash had said maybe three things to her throughout the course of their hike into Danville, none of which even hinted at an apology. Still, she’d be hard-pressed to forget his voice; it grated on her. I’m in no mood or condition to play your whore, she said through the door frame. So, if that’s what you want in exchange for the room, I’ll just leave...

Was just on my way out.

She watched him sit up in the mirror, and pressed the door open to scowl at him face-to-face. "Good, I’m not—"

How's the arm? he cut her off, brows raised in semi-concern.

Glaring, she gestured to her shoulder, now bare, save for the duct tape which held her bandages in place. The cut strap of her undershirt hung loose beside her breast. Never better, she bit back.

Ah, glad to hear it… he paused, scratching his chestnut beard. "But not feeling good enough to, what did you say? ‘Play my whore?’" His broad grin instantly summoned Ander’s to her mind.

He’s fairer than Ander… rougher, too.

Lash crossed the room with slow caution, hands raised in compliance. Liv pressed her back into the doorframe, squeezing her knife hilt. One foot in, one foot out. Either way, she’d be ready to escape.

You smell like honey, he observed softly as he approached, squinting at the reddened flesh around the bandages.

She regurgitated the doctor’s words: It’s an antibacterial.

So it is. Fingertips reached for her wounded shoulder. May I?

Don’t you fucking touch me.

Can I at least see if that mouse they call a doctor was worth her price tag? I just want to make sure she didn’t make it worse...

Liv flinched as his hand gently grazed her skin. "That’s very generous of you to be concerned for my wellbeing, but—" Yanking her arm back, she realized too late that it wasn’t responding. It twitched, still well within his grasp.

I’m a generous guy. Lash prodded gingerly around the tape. His fingertips felt cool against the heat of inflammation. Studying him, she noted a metal frame daypack resting at his feet. Worn boots, weathered skin. Iron and smoke met her nose. More like a rabid dog than a man with apparent wealth. Eyes as wild as the woods snapped to hers. He drove his thumb hard into the wound.

Sheer wrath braced her against the pain. With every bit of leverage she had, Liv propelled her knife toward his kidney. She wouldn't feel guilty about killing him; the world could use one less asshole.

He didn’t give her the opportunity. Twisting her wrist, he spun her until her fist wedged painfully between her shoulder blades. Face smashed into the doorframe, she burned with rage and embarrassment. Her grip weakened until the knife fell. Behind her, his voice lifted in mild curiosity. Is that my knife?

I figured it transferred ownership when you left it in my arm, she seethed.

Lash’s free hand fumbled along her waistline for additional knives, the presumption compounding her anger. She wriggled toward the hallway, but he pressed his weight against her to pin her down. Any other weapons I should know about?

Scanning the room, she prayed for anything she could use against him. Seeing nothing, she bluffed, Yes.

His beard scratched as it rubbed against her cheek. He’s fucking smiling. Lifting her knee, she rammed her heel onto his toes as hard as she could manage.

With a bitter curse, he let go of her arm. Good girl. You can keep the knife. Hiding a mild limp, he stepped into the hall with his ruck. "Lock your door, in case some drunk bastard has a mind to come in here and make you ‘play his whore.’ I’d rather not foot his medical bill, too. He winked at her shoulder. We'll see you in the banquet hall for breakf—"

She slammed the door.

With it closed, Liv released the breath she’d been holding. Fucking asshole, she mumbled, sliding the lock into place. Resting her weight against the wooden slab, her heart hammered behind her ribs. There should be a cap on the adrenaline a person could burn through in one night. Checking her shoulder, she noticed the rosebud of blood blooming in the center of her bandage. He can go fuck himself, she thought once again, anger renewed. Taking careful inventory of the room and its contents, she was glad he’d left it mostly undisturbed. Even the bed seemed clean, despite the ruffled blanket where he’d lain. Did he fuck someone before I got here? Recalling the woman she passed in the hallway, she removed the top blanket, just in case. She pressed her hands gently into the mattress, enjoying the way it gave under her weight. It’d been at least a decade since she felt one, maybe longer. Fighting her desire to climb in, she resolved to wash the blood off first. Thankfully, the tub was already full. Her fingertips didn’t register the heat immediately, expecting cold. She tested it twice, shocked. Talk about a fucking expense.

The exchange with Lash consumed her thoughts. If he’d wanted her body as payment for these luxuries, he probably could have taken it. A chill coursed through her. In her injured state, she couldn’t really defend herself. She cursed him for wounding her, but more so for making her feel vulnerable. She’d be ready next time. With a wary eye on the lock, she peeled her clothing off with her good hand. The tender spot where her back had slammed into the tree thundered in protest. She lamented the idea of her heavy pack jostling against the inevitable bruise. Pinching off a piece of charcoal soap next to the tub, she breathed in its crisp scent. In absolute privacy, she sank slowly into the basin, indulging in its warmth. Her body melted into the water, purging layers of sweat and grit like sins in a baptismal rite. With her other arm, she scrubbed dried blood from her limbs and chest. Unfazed by the russet cloud tainting her bathwater, she turned on her side, keeping her wound dry and exposed, as instructed. The waterline crept over her skin until only her face remained in open air.

"Stay with me, darlin’," she heard again, the tone melodic.

She pictured Ander’s broad smile, even as he prodded her knife-wound. Her arm throbbed with her quickening pulse.

"I’ll tell you what," he’d said, handing her a makeshift torch. After this, we’ll get you back to Danville, get you medical care, and then I’ll buy you a proper drink. He’d lifted his foot to reveal a sliver of flint melted into the sole, striking a set of steel knuckles across the base. Sparks flew and the torch burst to life, illuminating his face in a bright, broad grin.

That grin. Why did it stick with her? It was... what? Unburdened? He obviously had never lost someone.

Liv opened her eyes, swallowing a sob at the thought of loss, of Grayson. Ander’s face dissipated in the dark of her hair swirling around the tub. Sighing, she stood. The echoes of the night evaporated with the water from her skin; she dried the rest. Cleansed and uninhibited for the first time in months, she slid naked between the sheets. As her aching muscles settled into paralysis, she fought to quiet her thoughts. It occurred to her, from somewhere in the oblivion she drifted through, that maybe a knife through the arm wasn’t such a misfortune after all.

It doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would, Liv contemplated as she fell deeper into the pit. Burnt bodies huddled together at the bottom, crumpling to nothing. Ash and soot filled her lungs, eyes, and mouth. She choked on its bitter taste. A raucous pounding punctuated the fog around her, fanning the smoke with each thud. Coughing, she forced her eyes open.

The pit morphed into the soft plush of the mattress beneath her. The air cleared, save for the noise. Across the room, the door shook on its hinges. The bolt vibrated against the wooden frame with each heavy beat. Streams of light pierced the darkness around her. Liv drew the knife from beneath her pillow and dove for her pants. A sharp pain in her shoulder startled her into reality.

Fuck. That hurts.

The door flew open, and a man barged into her room. Liv! We have to go, the stranger roared, rushing to gather her things for her.

What?

Ander. Of course. His name surfaced with the impression of his Cheshire smile. Now, he was a