15

“ D o you think anyone is home?” Koen leaned forward with bloodied fingers curling around the headrest of the seat. He pulled forward as far as he could, his chest brushing against my face as he peered up at the derelict building.

“Do you? ” Wes asked, the sarcasm rolling off him in waves.

The Manor was clearly empty. All of the windows were buried behind thick, dark vines that curled around the house and hugged it tight. The stone was decaying around what was stillan expansive, intricate overhanging that protected a large, decorated wooden entrance.

The garden beds that would have once been filled with flowers now overflowed with weeds and dead branches that sprawled across the messy gravel drive. The moonlight slithered across the sloping moss and vine covered roof. I swallowed tightly, not exactly sure what to expect from the inside. A thin film of weathered grime covered the window panes, clinging to the metal frames and turning everything a murky shade of brown. I collected a full breath, swallowing down the nausea and pushing away the dizzy feeling overwhelming my rational thoughts.

There was something…wrong about this place.

“You up for a sweep?” Wes’s bright hazel eyes turned on me and I nodded, shaking off the sharp pain that radiated through my muscles and burned the ends of my nerves.

I sat up and shifted, extending my uninjured arm to the dash and gripped the butt of my gun. “I’m shooting anything that moves,” I hissed as I climbed from the truck.

Koen jumped out behind me, his feet crunching on the gravel as he landed. He extended his hand in my direction but I pushed it away. “I’m alright,” I grumbled.

I was far from it but I was standing, despite the dizzying blackness that crept into the sides of my vision. All things considered I thought I was doing a pretty good job pretending. My sleeve was soaked and, even though the tourniquet Koen had applied was holding, I could feel how deep the cut ran with every small movement I made. It needed stitches.

“Let’s get this over with.” Wesley nodded, leading our way with his gun first. He leaned forward, checking the doorknob and found it unlocked. The door swung open lazily, hinges squealing as they rotated.

Koen stayed close to my back, keeping an eye behind us as we carefully crossed the threshold into the colossal Manor. The inside was much the same. Worn down from years of neglect, vines had forced their way through the wood flooring, filling the cracks with greenery that climbed the walls and overran the foyer. Hanging in the center of the ceiling, framed by two rotting staircases, was a cobweb-covered chandelier. It was coated with so many years of dust that I wasn’t positive if it was made of gold or brass. Regardless, it was extravagant and once would have been an impressive display of wealth. It was precariously suspended in the air with most of the glass shattered beneath it, scattered amongst errant pieces of fallen plaster and dried leaves.

“It smells like death in here,” Koen coughed as his shoes dragged lines through the dust that covered the warped wooden floors.

I stumbled, my knees shaky from the blood loss. Koen’s fingers found my good bicep and dug in to hold me steady. Usually I’d fight it but there was no way I would make it much further without his help. Wes went ahead, sweeping through the closest rooms, calling out to us with each one he found empty.

“Judging by the amount of vines I had to hack off the gate, and the leagues of undisturbed dust, I don’t think there’s been anyone in this place for a while. We should be alright,” he said on his way back through, stopping in front of us as he shoved his gun in the back of his pants.

“That’s not a guarantee…” I grumbled.

“Keep your percentages to yourself, Clay. You wanted a place to hide, I found you a place to hide.” Wes shrugged in his jacket.

“I would have preferred a place that didn’t look like it was full of black mold.” I shifted my stance against Koen and groaned under the dull, throbbing pain.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, and that arm will kill you faster than the mold will,” Wes sniped as he helped Koen, slipping under my arm and guiding us toward the empty sitting room.

There was an enormous stone fireplace that looked like it hadn’t seen a fire in a century and two large chairs, which appeared to have been devoured by animals and insects. The fluff torn and pulled from within the ugly graying fabric. Once upon a time they might have been beautiful, but now they were void of any comfort as they sat across from a long settee with a high back and exquisite wooden details.

They lowered me onto the ruined cushion, making sure I was balanced before pulling away and surveying the room more closely. The wallpaper peeled away from the decaying and cracked molding in the corners of the room. Vines pushed their way through the separated walls and made home within, thriving in the darkness.

“This place gives me the creeps.” Koen stayed close, his green eyes flickering over the space with caution.

“I’m going to bring our stuff to the door and hide the Bronco,” Wes said as he started to walk away. “Koen, come get the kit and sew him up. The sooner he stops bleeding all over the place and feels better, the sooner we can leave.”

Koen followed Wes to the front, his sneakers tapping impatiently on the floor as Wes hauled everything inside unassisted. Wes mumbled something to him and Koen responded in a grumbling tone that could only mean they were arguing again.

Blood was still continuing to seep down my arm despite the makeshift tourniquet, and was staining my fingers crimson.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I won’t bleed out before you’ve finished fighting…” I yelled from my slouched position on the couch. That got Koen moving, the heavy door slamming with a vibration that shook the walls of the sitting room.

“Sorry.” He knelt beside me on the couch, working at the knotted fabric on my arm. It only took him a moment of fussing with the knot before he discarded the soaked scrap at our feet and scowled at the damage.

“Remember the steps.” I closed my eyes, just trying to remain conscious long enough to walk him through the important stuff. I opened them when he didn’t respond. “Hey.” I clapped a hand to his face, leaving a tiny smear of blood across his flushed cheeks. “Take it slow, clean it, sew it up. Easy.” Typically I was the one who did the sewing in this group, so this was a step out of his comfort zone.

Koen nodded, worry rippling over his face as he started on the buttons of my shirt. He rolled the fabric down gently. I leaned forward for him, so he could work the shirt down over my arm to give him better access to the wound.

“It’s deep, Clay,” he mumbled, grabbing his flashlight from the pocket of his jeans. He flicked it on and popped it into his mouth. The light shone over the wound, and he was right in his examination. The long jagged claw marks had sunk deep enough to pull apart the tattoos on my bicep, leaving them in shredded pieces between the three gaping slashes.

“Damnit, that was my favorite one.” I offered a small joke to break the tension as I stared down at the once elegant tattoo. A portrait of a woman; her delicate black and gray features were strewn into fragments, eradicating what she had been.

Koen’s hands trembled, noticeably silent compared to his usual playfulness.

“It was a joke, Koen, It’ll be alright,” I said, and leaned my head back against the couch, closing my eyes as he flicked off the cap of the antiseptic we kept on hand and dumped it out onto a cloth.

“This is going t’ fuckin’ hurt,” he hissed as he pressed the cloth to my open wound.

“Bugger me,” I growled as he quickly cleaned the deeper spots around the wound. I could tell he wanted to apologize for hurting me but the last time we had been in a similar situation Wesley had not so politely reminded him that it wasn’t his fault and that I would likely die from infection or blood loss if he didn't just ‘get on with it’.

”Almost done,” he huffed. Sadly we were far from the finish line.

The next few moments were tense as the silence between us filled with small groans of discomfort and Koen’s mumbled thoughts. He cleaned the needle and cut the thread. Pausing for a moment to steady himself before he attempted to thread it, once, twice…

“Koen.” I pressed the back of my hand against his thigh. “Breathe.”

His wide, panicked green eyes looked up from his shaky hands to meet mine as my head rolled to the side. It took him a moment, —a long, painful moment—and one rough inhale before he started again. The needle pushed roughly into my skin and I did my best to stifle the sound to protect him from the pain he was causing, but I couldn’t. The groan left my lips and Koen paused, hand on my arm, needle in the air.

“Listen,” I said to him, pausing to take a short breath. “I’m going to pass out,” I said tightly, trying to keep my eyes open through the excruciating throbbing that wracked through my body. “Monitor my breathing, keep sewing, clean it when you’re finished,” I instructed him slowly, my breath getting harder to manage through the ache.

“Wait—wait, wait!” Koen’s words were strung together roughly in his panic. “Isn’t falling asleep bad?” He asked.

“No, there’s a laundry list of—” I moaned through a wave of pain. “I’ll be okay. Just finish your job.” I promised him. I needed sleep, days of it, but a few hours would suffice.

My eyes grew heavy as Koen talked himself through each tedious stitch, the skin pulling and stretching in a new agonizing way each time. Shadows claimed the corners of my vision as my blinks became longer and eventually I drifted into unconsciousness, passing out from the pain.