Chapter 12

Kate

Marlowe is being suspiciously nice. It’s freaking me out. I thought he was going to panic and throw another chair against the wall. Tanner, I hoped he might follow me into the tree. He said he didn’t care where he lived so long as he had a partner.

But Marlowe? I give him another skeptical look and try not to glance over at Brooks. Still having a hard time with the reality of fucking him while he was bleeding to death. I shouldn’t let myself feel guilty; I can see that his leg is now attached with muscle and tendons instead of shredded paper-thin skin.

I shudder and try not to imagine what Brooks’ mood might be like when he wakes up.

They all followed me. I didn’t know if they would, but they did. It only took a few seconds for me to hop in and grab my friends, to keep them quiet. It was an instant later when the men joined me.

If we weren’t in the Witchwoods being hunted by monsters, I’d probably be thrilled with these guys. Instead, I need to figure out how to deal with my friends. I heard the Hag’s lullaby, and I know it wasn’t really their choice to come here, but I think that maybe the song called to some inner truths inside of them.

Tacy didn’t believe me. Fernanda was caught up in the fantasy. And Georgia … Just keeping her girls safe, like always. I smile at her and then remember that I have a pointed metal mask chained to my face. Just like she does. Like we all do.

Tanner and Marlowe sign at one another, amping up the former’s amusement and the latter’s irritation. After a while, Lo turns away and refuses to communicate with Tanner any longer. Tanner pats him amicably on the shoulder, and Marlowe throws him off.

Their conversation ends.

Tanner’s eyes meet mine. He walks over to me, curling his fingers around my arm. Unspoken words fill his expression. “You remember what I told you? You’re mine, Kate. You go nowhere without me.”

There’s nothing to say, but Tanner nods like he thinks I’ve understood, wolf ears cocked. He’s instructing me to stay close to him. I get it. He moves over to a chest against the wall, opening it and revealing tightly packed snow and raw meat.

Ah. The Witchwoods version of a refrigerator.

As my friends stare back at me, Tanner preps some meat for stew, cutting it with a very big, very loud, and very sharp cleaver on a wooden cutting board. The sound echoes in the confined space like a drum.

Any questions? I write the phrase on the board, my eyes on Georgia’s. She very slowly, very tentatively takes the board from my hands. Tacy can’t stop her brown eyes from darting around the room, taking in the taxidermied animals with a slick sheen of sweat on her face. Fernanda is weirdly starry-eyed about the whole situation, like she’s enjoying herself.

Georgia is the only practical one, as per usual.

What if we miss sunrise? she asks, giving silent voice to a question that we’re all wondering.

I’m not sure that anyone knows the answer to that. With the Witch’s Tree wide open, will the Hag Wytch still sing us to sleep for thirty days? If we do fall asleep, can we walk out of here when we wake up, provided we don’t talk?

Whatever happens, at least we’re together.

We did it before, escaped this place, and we can do it again. A month isn’t so long. Shit, the animals. Flick and Stix and Ebon.

I have plenty of kibble out, and there’s a dog door to the backyard. Still, I don’t like the idea of them being alone. We have that spell on the house and besides, I told my dad to fuck off, and I don’t know anyone else. On the whole of planet earth, these girls (and these men) are all I have.

I did what anyone else would do in my situation. If I’m here with my friends, I can keep them quiet. I can get them home. As long as we don’t speak, we’re not trapped here.

We won’t, I write, as Tanner struggles to light a fire without Brooks around. He manages enough of a spark that it catches, and soon enough, the cauldron above the flames is boiling. Tanner adds handfuls of dried mushrooms, hastily chopped meat, and some small purple potatoes that he pulls from a cupboard.

I gesture at the table, and the women sit around it. They’re all stiff and uncomfortable in their seats, even Fernanda. But when Tanner serves the stew in big clay bowls, she’s the first to tear her mask off and eat. Tacy refuses. So does Georgia.

I eat my food with quiet slurps of rich, fatty broth. Tanner is on my left, Marlowe on my right. My eyelids are drooping, even under the combined stares of my friends. I’m drained, and all I want to do is sleep. Casting spells is hard. I’m exhausted.

Tanner and Marlowe start signing to one another again, so I leave them to it, moving back over to the couch to check on Brooks. He’s sleeping peacefully enough, but his leg is still only halfway there. I can see a solid streak of white inside that slowly regenerating muscle, his bone knitting together and straightening out properly.

When I turn around, I see that the women have followed me. I adjust the brim of my witch hat, thankful for the robe that hides my pink-streaked breasts, splashes of blood that didn’t come off when Marlowe hit us all with a small tsunami. The bone necklace is still visible, sitting atop the bright green fabric like a blight.

I look at my friends, standing there in a mixture of jean shorts, black cigarette pants, and a floral dress, waiting. There’s a lot of tense waiting in this room. I decide to take them on a little tour of a house that I know nothing about.

Neither Marlowe or Tanner stops me as I move into the upstairs hallway and experimentally open the first door on the left. Inside, there’s a small, dark room filled with shelves. Canned goods and cotton bags full of wild rice. More dried mushrooms. Garlic hanging on a thin rope alongside herbs I can’t identify or have never seen before.

A pantry.

The next room is similarly laid out, but filled with bones and bits and jars of glowing things. I see potion bottles with handwritten labels, and vials with brightly colored liquid. There are baskets of dried roses and buckets full of acorns, shriveled banana slugs dead in jars, and an entire row of redwood tree saplings in soft, moist earth.

Spell supplies.

My friends crowd in behind me at each door, straining to get a look, making almost no sound at all. I don’t want to tell them a gasp or a cry or a moan is okay because I’d rather they just did their absolute best to maintain complete and utter silence at all times.

Closing the door, I turn around to see that the three of them are still watching me like something ancient and arcane. Maybe that’s what I look like, with blood dried on my face and the backs of my hands. With a string of small skulls around my neck.

I give them a thumbs up, but I’m not sure if it helps or just makes things weirder. Tacy looks like she might faint. Fernanda is beaming like she just won the lottery. Georgia is as solid and reliable as ever, ready to follow my instructions in this strange place.

Too bad I don’t know much more about it than she does.

My gaze shifts back to Marlowe, sitting on a wooden stool with his arms folded. He’s got grapevines on his hat, royal purple clusters spilling over the brim. His dark eyes never leave me, and I imagine that if I try to go downstairs or into one of these rooms, that he’ll follow. If I’d have asked, he’d have taken me into a different room and made me come. I wanted him to, but I can’t leave my friends for a tryst.

With slow, easy footsteps, I move to the next door, fingers curling around the intricate metal handle. Each door has a different one, all of them cast in iron. Leaves and branches and, yes, more skulls. I wonder if they weren’t made by magic. How else? I doubt much blacksmithing goes on in the Witchwoods.

This particular door doesn’t lead to a storage room, but to a bedroom. It’s the smell that hits me first, like leaves and leather and iron. Tanner. I know from scent alone that this space belongs to him. Even if I didn’t, the decor would be a dead giveaway.

There’s a heavy rough-hewn bed in one corner, piled with furs from fantastical beasts. Bones hang from the ceiling like inanimate wind chimes, and a chest sits open with clothing spilling out and across the floor. A bow decorates one wall, and a series of knives take up another.

I can’t resist stepping inside, moving up to the wooden nightstand beside the bed. There’s a lamp there that, when I lift the shade, reveals a glowing stone on the inside, just like the ones Marlowe clacked together that first night for light. A bottle sits beside it, filled with a viscous liquid that I imagine must be a spell of some sort. It’s purple and somehow carbonated? I give it a little shake before a shadow falls over me, long forked tongue snaking across the wall, double tails swaying.

When I turn around, there’s Tanner behind me. His mask is still on, even if his quirky shadow refuses to acknowledge that.

He signs something to me that I don’t understand, his eyes sparkling with amusement. When he takes my hand, I notice that my friends have stepped back into the hall, giving us a moment. My eyes shift back to his, but he’s not looking at me. Tanner stares down at my palm, using one of his fingers to write a word into my skin.

He traces the letters slowly, offering me the opportunity to decipher them.

L. U. B. E.

I almost laugh, but the mask helps me cut the sound off with a sudden swallow. I’m smiling though, behind all of that sharp iron. Right. Not a spell. Just thick, purple lube with bubbles in it. I look back at the bed and wonder how many times Tanner might’ve laid there and touched himself, dreaming of a wife.

There’s a tender moment there where we both just look at each other. His gold-and-black hair peeks out from under his hat and catches the light, his matching eyebrow bisected by that silver scar. He takes a small step forward, reaching past me to remove one of the larger knives from the wall. My breath catches behind my mask, and I hope he doesn’t hear it.

I thought he was going to touch me.

Pretty sure that he wanted to, but we’re not in a place for sex right now. We’re on a strict timeline, counting down to the sunrise, waiting for Brooks. Somehow, I feel like things are going to get messy when Brooks wakes up.

Tanner taps the flat of the blade against one palm, watching me. Eyes smiling. I can’t see his mouth behind the metal mask, but I can still decipher his expression. He tosses the weapon onto the mattress, taking my hand again.

E. V. E. N. Okay, I got that part. He draws several more letters on my hand. H. E. R. E.

Even here, what? I wait patiently for Tanner to continue, shifting slightly from foot to foot. This room is packed with emotion, like his longing and his loneliness seeped into the walls. It’s not a terrible room. Bed looks comfy. But there are no windows, and outside, great horrors roam the woods.

Even here, you’re my wife. That’s what he writes, adding a period to that sentence with a slap of his palm against mine, like a high-five. Tanner winks at me, and I flush hot, reaching out and putting a hand on his lower abs before he gets the chance to move away.

You were nice to me from the start. Don’t think I didn’t notice. It’s not like I don’t enjoy your flirtations. Your smiles. They’re working on me. They’re working way too well.

I’m suddenly and irrationally terrified that Tanner might think I like Brooks or Marlowe better than him. I’ve never been a part of anything like this before, juggling three brand-new relationships at the same time. Hell, if I really think about it, was a four-year high school boyfriend really a relationship at all?

We study each other, unable to speak but communicating nonetheless.

He takes a sudden step forward, and I move back, ass bumping into the nightstand. His hands take over the small of my waist, rubbing the green silk of the robe against my skin with lazy circles of his thumbs. His expression is wry, amused. There’s a glint in his eyes though that I just know I’m not imagining.

Definitely some jealousy there.

It’s easier to believe that Brooks and Marlowe are telling me the truth because they’re mean. Ugh. It feels so stupid now, but here we are, and my tongue is tied. I can’t say anything, and I’m not drawing a thousand letters into his skin. When we get out, I’ll … talk to him.

Somehow.

Tanner tugs his mask down with his hand, and he isn’t smiling. He doesn’t look like the adorable golden retriever anymore. All that’s left is the part of him that told me he’d worship me, if only I showed up.

And by show up, what he meant was never leave me.

I shiver and that makes him smile. He even chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against my cheek. Soft lips. Stubble on his face. I realized a few days ago that he does shave, just that he gets a five o’clock shadow faster than the other two.

He steps aside and holds out a magnanimous hand, letting me know it’s safe to pass. His lips quirk up at the edges.

I exit the room like it’s on fire.

My friends follow me across the hall, peering into the first two doors to find a weapons cache and a utility closet filled with brooms. Or maybe not a utility closet at all. The third door on the right is another bedroom, and yet again, it’s instantly recognizable.

Marlowe.

There’s a lumpy mattress on the floor in the corner, items piled in a tight half-circle around it. The walls are bare, and even the lamp is sitting on the ground. It, too, is lit, and I wonder how long those magic stones last. It makes sense that the guys didn’t bother to put them out; they never intended on coming back here.

Something about this room makes me fall so hard for Marlowe that my breath catches. While Tanner made a home out of his space, Marlowe tucked himself into a temporary nest and covered himself with dreams of getting out.

I see a backpack that he must’ve had with him when he put his hand in the tree. A laptop sits propped beside it, little more than a brick here. There’s a stack of notebooks, some curio jars, and a pile of clothes. That’s it. There’s no sense of permanence in this room, just lingering despair and loneliness.

I turn around and there he is, leaning against the doorway that leads into the main living area. Watching me with those dark eyes. Tracking me. Afraid to let me go.

No, Marlowe definitely isn’t angry with me. I think he likes me more for what I did, following my friends without thinking. I don’t like to be left, he told me. His eyes sweep the room with disgust before falling back to mine.

You asked for a woman who’d follow you into hell—and you showed me you’re a man who’d do the same. Chills. Full body chills.

I retreat from that room as quickly as I can and shut the door.

When I head downstairs, Tanner and Marlowe follow behind my friends. I can tell that the girls don’t like having the massive witch men at their backs, but they’re so much safer for it. The way these men leapt into battle outside was impressive. It made me want to be able to leap into battle, too.

There’s only one room on this level, and it’s halfway down the curving hallway on the right. I know before I ever open the door that this is Brooks’ room.

He doesn’t disappoint.

When I step inside, I’m awestruck. There’s a four-poster bed with heavy fur curtains, pulled back and tied with twisted sinew rope. Silk sheets—where did they get the silk for this robe, let alone a bed set?—and a mountain of pillows atop the thick mattress.

A wardrobe, bookshelf, and desk round out the space, made cozy by the fur rugs on the floor. Art decorates the walls, leather canvases with intricate designs made of multicolored gems and iridescent beetle carcasses. There are decorative stone fixtures tucked into the corners, glimmering statues made of bright blue or sharp yellow or angry red rock.

I open the wardrobe, finding women’s clothing alongside oversized tunics and jackets. His mentor’s clothing? I don’t know anything about the woman, but I’d like to. I’d love it if Brooks would actually talk to me. About his sister, too.

I realize that I know so little about these men that their bedrooms are a revelation. Tanner, sturdy and prepared and lonely. Marlowe, desperate and achy and dreaming. Brooks … his room holds a sad sort of permanence.

My footsteps are soft as I slip back into the hallway, closing the door softly behind me.

The six of us all just look at each other, and I realize how quickly I miss the sound of human voices. Wordlessly, we make our way to the bathing area, and I show my friends the toilet.

I’ve never seen Tacy look so thankful.

Once we’re back upstairs, we take a seat at the table while Marlowe resumes his spot on one of the stools. Tanner checks on Brooks and then spends a few minutes signing to Marlowe.

I watch the pair of them carefully, trying to discern what their conversation is about. Maybe, I look a little harder because I like the way their big, inked hands look when they speak in silent conversation. I shift in my chair and untie my robe, retie it.

Tanner picks up his bow and tosses it over his shoulder. Slips into a pair of boots. I see the knife he took from his bedroom wall strapped to his belt. He takes a few seconds to write me a message, and then flips the chalkboard over so that I can see it.

Scouting. Back soon.

I launch myself out of that chair and grab onto his upper arm. Scouting? He can’t go out there alone. Look at what happened to Brooks. We’re only going out if we go together—and only if we’re running full tilt for the edge of the woods.

I shake my head vigorously at him, the chains of my mask clanking. When he hands me the board, I scratch out my own message.

No. I don’t want you to go.

Need to check status of Hag, he replies, and then erases it. Bear and toad.

Wait for Brooks, is my response, but Tanner is shaking his head right back at me. I try to tell myself that he used to do this stuff all the time, that for more than a year he did all of these things without my even knowing he existed.

Things are different now.

He’ll wake soon. Route needs checking. Tanner writes that out for me, but he doesn’t give the board back, passing it over to Marlowe instead. I tilt my head to look up at Tanner’s handsome face as he removes his mask first and then, with hot, rough fingers, takes my mask off, too.

His fingers slide into my hair as he leans down, pressing his warm lips to mine. My fingers clutch subconsciously at his bare chest, scraping at the dried blood on his impressive pecs. It’s a completely different sort of kiss than the ones he’s given me before, dripping with lust and possibility, with effort.

Tanner was—and probably still is—simply making an effort to love me. He’s chosen it. By default, I’ve become his and he’s become mine. But this kiss is better, like he’s actually kissing the woman in the paint-spattered overalls with the old house and the hyper dog, the woman named Katelynn Poppy.

My urge to hear voices diminishes under the light of that kiss, like I can hear Tanner speaking to me even though all we’re doing is kissing. It strikes me how many ways there are to communicate without saying anything at all.

He breaks the seams of our lips, binding us together by stroking my tongue and drawing me even further into him. I lean against his body, smelling blood and leaves and leather, just like his room. Iron and salt. Blood.

Tanner draws away from me with a smart quirk of his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s just done. Like he does everything else, it seems: with perfect intent. He puts my mask back on, slips his into place, and then turns to head up the stairs.

I throw my arms around him from behind, clinging to his waist, cheek pressed into his lower back. He stiffens up, head to toe. Not a single muscle in that hunter’s body of his is relaxed. One of his hands drops to mine, fingers laced together on his lower belly.

Marlowe’s the one who comes over to untangle me, grabbing on from behind and prying my fingers apart. I’m making wordless sounds of protest as Tanner shakes himself out and then darts up the stairs while I’m held prisoner in Marlowe’s strong grip.

The front door opens to the woods, and then closes just as quickly.

I deflate, fear cutting through my heart like a blade. Every second is fraught. Tense. Brittle.

Silence falls over the room as I turn away to glare at Marlowe.

He’s just sitting there with his arms crossed, watching me. Even when I start to pace, he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

My friends look at one another, exchanging silent glances as the emerald green robe slips off my shoulders and hits the floor. I pause, my bare feet scuffing against the wood, and look at it. My breasts are exposed, and they’re not the soft, pale mounds I’m used to seeing. They’re as savage as everything else in these woods, bloody and defiant.

I like that.

I hate that Tanner is gone.

I pace some more, check on Brooks. Pace. Brooks. Pace.

I’m never letting Tanner leave like this again, I tell myself, wondering how it’s okay for him to leave the cottage when the men won’t even let me leave the house. I answer my own question before I even finish the thought: necessity. Survival. That’s the only reason, but I still tell myself that I’m never letting him do this again.

Panic chokes my throat as I wait, but I keep up the routine. Pace. Brooks. Pace. Brooks.

This time, when I pause beside his bloodied bedside, I see that his eyelids are fluttering open, that he’s reaching up with a shaking hand to touch the mask on his face. His fingers brush it like he’s coming out of a dream to find himself in a nightmare, forced back into the very woods that he was willing to become a monster in order to escape.

His green eyes find mine, and there’s a flash there, something like recognition. Like disappointment. Like anger. The eyes on his hat won’t look at me at all, turning this way and that.

Brooks moves to sit up, and I reach forward to help him, as if I can move his massive body any easier than he can.

He doesn’t need my help or anyone else’s. His leg is fully healed, intact but scarred, like the woods just had to leave their mark on his skin. He stands up, and I keep my hand on his arm, just in case. The way he looks down at it, like an intrusion, and then pushes it away, that bothers me.

Brooks walks right past me, spots the women sitting at the table, and then turns to Marlowe. The pair of them start signing to one another, as if Brooks didn’t almost just die on us. As if I didn’t fuck him back to full health and choke him at the same time.

As if he isn’t naked, flaccid dick right there for all my friends to see.

God.

I can read Brooks’ displeasure in the set of his shoulders, in the tight press of skin around his eyes, in the way he slants his gaze to me and then sharply away like he doesn’t want to look at all. I just stand there, waiting. These men know far better than I do what should happen next.

Tacy jumps when the front door opens and Tanner reappears, wet with dew from the mist outside and dragging … something behind him. A man appears, followed by a young woman.

People.

Tanner has brought people back with him.

More importantly, Tanner is back. Relief floods me, and I have to swallow it down to keep back the words I wish I could say. Tears prick my eyes as he takes me in like he was starving for me. And even if I can’t see his mouth, I know that he’s smiling.

Worried, kitten? You shouldn’t be. Think I’d be foolish enough to get killed? I’d never. I’m not leaving my woman alone in these woods. I imagine all of those things, but they’re probably not far off from what he’d actually say.

Tanner shuts and locks the door before dragging the bald man down the steps. The woman follows behind dutifully and without complaint. She has this hardness to her face that doesn’t look new, like maybe she saw plenty of unspeakable things before she came here.

Before the three of them have even gotten down the stairs, Brooks is signing again and Tanner is signing back. Marlowe starts signing, too, and they’re all looking at each other like they’ve briefly forgotten they can’t stand one another. It’s nice to see that they’re capable of putting their shit aside.

The two newcomers haven’t spoken yet, so I just sort of assume they haven’t spoken at all. Like maybe they haven’t talked during the time that they’ve been here. I wouldn’t have, even if I couldn’t get to the edge of the woods, dogged by giant bears with wasp minions and toads with acid warts.

The man’s bald head snaps up, shiny and marked with cuts and scrapes, actively bleeding. His clothes are ruined, spattered with mud and torn. He’s missing a shoe. He’s vaguely familiar to me, but only vaguely.

Detective Gilley, the man who tried to question me and then stuck his hand in the Witch’s Tree. Which must mean the woman is the K-9 handler?

“Oh, thank God,” the detective says, almost a sob. I cringe at the sound of his voice. So does Georgia. Tacy, too. I can’t see Marlowe’s mouth, but I can tell from the rest of his face that he’s scowling behind his mask. Just hearing someone break the perfect silence is unsettling. “Please, do you have water? Food?”

Detective Gilley is beyond worrying about his dignity, turning to Brooks like he can sense the big dick energy in him. Can … can see the BDE. In person. Flaccid it may be, but our Southwoods is still impressive. Brooks delivers, staring down at the man like he pities him, but also like he’s more than willing to leave him behind.

I’d assumed that the two missing police officers were dead in the Witchwoods, that they couldn’t possibly have survived. Yet, here they are. And we’re gearing up to leave them behind. There isn’t much time left until sunrise, that much I do know. We need to leave—and soon.

When we do, we’ll be leaving both of these people behind.

Fernanda scrambles up from the table and fills two of the clay bowls with stew before placing them in front of a pair of empty chairs. Detective Gilley sinks into one with a groan, spooning stew into his mouth in a way that tells me he’s probably eaten little to nothing this whole time.

Another strange thought strikes me. It’s not a moonless night. It hasn’t been a month since the last one, so … shouldn’t the woods be sleeping under the Hag’s lullaby? Shouldn’t Detective Gilley be a little less hungry?

I look over at the men, but they’ve already moved on. Bringing the missing people here is one thing, but they’re not going to go out of their way to save them either. I’m not even sure if they can, if we as a coven could perform the spell to get them out of the woods.

So many things are confusing to me right then. If the gate is permanently open, does it also offer a permanent way back? That is, we opened it, and it’s clearly not closed, so can the detective and the K-9 handler come back through? Is time running normally here now? If so, why? Because the Hag is hunting us?

It’s too much to discuss via blackboard, but it’s a lot to think about.

“Thank you,” the woman tells Fernanda, taking the other chair. She picks up her own spoon, but her eyes track the rest of us like she can sense that we’re about to leave. I can’t abandon these people here. Even if we leave right now, I have to at least try to find a way to come back for them. “I’m Viv, and this is John.”

“They know who I am,” Detective Gilley—John—says between mouthfuls of stew. He eyes a glass water jug on the counter and gets up, digging through the cabinets until he finds a clay cup. He pours himself a glass, drinks it, pours another. Gets Viv a glass, too. “They’re the ones that trapped me here.”

Viv’s eyes go wide, but I can already see the men suiting up (finally, pants for Brooks), strapping on weapons, discussing strategies in sign language. We are this close to walking out this door, survivors be damned.

I snatch up the chalkboard and scribble down as many words as I can fit.

We have to go. We’ll be back. Don’t go out at night. Food, first door on the left.

Brooks steals the chalkboard from my hands, likely before Viv or John could finish reading it.

“What do you mean you have to go? You can’t leave us here.” John takes a step toward me, and Brooks slams the chalkboard on the counter, breaking it in half. I’m gaping as I scramble to pick up the pieces, rubbing off the white letters and starting again on the much smaller board.

Brooks’ strong fingers lock on my left arm, ready to pull me away and out the door.

“Why isn’t anybody talking?” Viv asks, sounding alarmed, her focus on Fernanda now. My friend stares back at her with apology in her eyes. I have smart friends, that’s for sure. They know that talking back to these people won’t help anyone. Put your oxygen mask on before helping others, right? “The legend? Is this about the legend? What happens to people who talk?”

“Where are you going?” John roars, his voice colored with confusion. He tries to rush Marlowe, and ends up on his ass on the floor because of it. Lo’s pit eyes stare down at the detective, daring him to try a second time. A spider skitters over the grapes on his hat. “How do we get back home?!”

Brooks is dragging me up the stairs with Tanner leading and Marlowe following behind my friends. I toss the upper half of the chalkboard on the counter, sending it skidding in John’s direction.

Try putting your hand in the Witch’s Tree, is what I wrote.

“We can’t get near that goddamn place!” Viv calls out to me as the front door opens onto mist and the dark columns of tree trunks against the even darker shadows behind them. Light spills out of the cottage, slanting sharply through the opaque dawn. We might be on the cusp of sunrise, but very little sunshine reaches through the trees. “Please don’t leave us here!”

Her plea breaks my heart, but if I don’t go then I can’t come back. If I stay and end up trapped, I’m not helping anyone.

Besides … I look up at Brooks, but Brooks isn’t looking at me. He also hasn’t taken his hand off my arm, fingers hard enough to bruise. If I tried to stay, he’d throw me over his shoulder. If I took my mask off and spoke, I’d more than likely be damning the men along with me. I’ve done that once tonight, and I can’t do it again.

Viv comes to the top of the stairs, but she doesn’t follow us outside. I don’t blame her. I don’t see John Gilley either. Marlowe waits for all of us to slip past the doorway, and then he drags the heavy wood shut behind him.

Just barely, crouching like a predator at the edge of my hearing, I catch a hint of the Hag’s lullaby.

In bare feet and blood, in iron masks and silence, we start to run and we don’t stop until our skin kisses pavement instead of dirt.