11. Emily

11

EMILY

M y name echoes through the valley. At least, I think that’s what I hear.

When I whip around, scanning the large expanse of nothingness, a rotter lurches toward me, teeth bared and eyes dull with decay. I stagger back, narrowly dodging its gnashing teeth. When it turns to get me again, I raise one of Max’s knives and plunge it into the rotting skull with what’s left of my energy, dropping it into the dirt in a lifeless heap.

I have a split second to catch my breath before I see more closing in. Rotters shambling closer, their stench curling around me.

Shit.

Buddy barks from somewhere off in the distance, his yelps frantic. I can’t tell if he’s coming to help me, or if he’s dealing with his own rotter problem. I’m already outnumbered and can’t risk waiting for them to get close enough for my knives alone. Fumbling for the gun, I pull it from my holster, aim, and fire. The recoil jolts through me, almost knocking me off balance. I steady my arm, aim, and fire again, watching them drop like flies, one by one, with each pull of the trigger .

My aim is true at first, but then I miss. I blink back my weariness and aim again. Fire again. Miss again.

Damn it.

My legs are shaky, making me wobble. My arms ache, and I run my tongue over my dry, parched lips. Still, I don’t give up. That’s a promise I made to Zoey long ago after narrowly avoiding death multiple times. We promised each other that if we made it through that day, then we could survive anything this cruel world throws at us, and I won’t let her down now. Not when I’m so close.

More rotters lurch forward, an endless tide. My gun clicks, the chamber empty.

Another rotter crashes into me from the side before I can reload. I stumble and hit the ground, the impact jarring. The gun slips from my grasp.

They swarm closer, the death rattles and moans drowning out every other thought. I force myself upright, grab both my daggers, and stab and slash like my life depends on it—because it does.

I make quick work of it. Actually, I’m moving quite slow, but in my sluggish state I almost feel like a cheetah. A cheetah running through tar, maybe. I grunt when a rotter’s head falls on top of my feet.

My vision blurs. My arms feel like lead, each swing slower than the last, but I keep going. The world spins around me, and rotters multiply, their distorted shapes expanding across my vision.

I kick away the rotter’s head and shake my head to fight off the dizziness, and I stumble. Well, that doesn’t help.

Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I shake my head once and then open them. Nope, that didn’t do anything. Still seeing double. Or am I seeing triple? Doesn’t matter, I’ll get them all. There’s no other choice.

I’m spinning around, trying to get every single last one of them before they get me, when short, disheveled hair and empty gray eyes cut through the chaos like a lighthouse in the fog.

Griffin.

Or…three Griffins. No, two. Now three again.

The world swims until three identical figures with matching stony eyes and short, messy hair, their faces distorted and surreal, float in front of me. I’m frozen in place, watching, blinking, trying to clear my vision. But he’s still there—no, they’re still there, watching me with fierce determination. I rub my eyes. This has to be a hallucination. This is what happens when I run all night long and don’t drink enough water.

When Griffin’s knife gets stuck in a rotter’s skull, he leaves it behind and grabs the next rotter, holding it in place with one hand wrapping around the throat. His other hand reaches in, grabs the center of the throat, and digs his fingers into the graying flesh until he’s ripping through the sinew to yank the spine free. The final rotter collapses in a heap, and he—no, they—turn empty gray eyes onto me. All six of them.

I take a shaky step back, the ground swaying beneath me as the Griffins merge and expand like we’re in some sort of fun house. “You have a twin?” My voice comes out in a slurred mumble, the edges of my vision narrowing.

No, that’s not right. Not twins. This would be triplets. Regardless, I can’t stop looking at all three of his beautiful faces. They shouldn’t be here. I must be so desperate to see him that I’m hallucinating him three times over.

What a shame, though. It would be nice if he were really here. Then I could scream at him, and hurt him the way he hurt me, even though I deserved it.

I fight a dizzy laugh, and sway, my knees going weak until a solid, grounding force grips my arms. His hands, warm and real, curl around me, holding me upright with a steady strength. His fingers dig into my skin, anchoring me, keeping me from spiraling any further into my disoriented haze.

And just like that, the three heads in my vision merge into one. Now only one pair of haunted gray eyes stare back at me, boring into my soul, wide with a look I can’t process. A look I’ve never seen on him. A look of terror.

He’s real. He’s here. And he’s terrified.

But why?

His hand glides up, calloused and steady, until his fingers cradle my jaw. He pulls me flush against him, wrapping his other arm around my waist. His heat envelops me. It seems to radiate from him in waves, warmer than the feverish chill in my own skin.

I can feel every hard line of him pressing into my softer curves, the worn fabric between us doing little to dull the sensation. My fingers curl around his forearm, his bare skin under my hand feeling like the only real thing in this surreal moment. He’s here, solid and unyielding, his grip on me anchoring me in place.

His lips move, and I think they form the shape of my name, but the word doesn’t register to my ears.

My mind is a mess. I can’t decide if I should scream at him, shove him away, or melt into his embrace. Him being here—real, not a hallucination—seems to have sent me into shock. But then there’s the way he holds me.

I’m torn between the memory of him looking at me like I was a stranger—no, worse, a traitor—and the way he’s holding me now, like I’m something precious he’s afraid to lose again. Yet that look of utter betrayal remains etched into my mind and I can’t scrub it away.

The contrast sends my thoughts reeling, and I’m caught in a tense standstill between fury and a desperate yearning to stay wrapped in this moment.

He makes the choice for me before I can even decide. His voice is low, warm against my ear, stirring something deep inside me. “Finally. I’ve found you.”

Then his mouth is on mine, soft at first, tentative, but it’s only a matter of seconds before his restraint slips and he kisses me with a fierce hunger. Like he’s been suffocating since I left and I’m all he needs to breathe. My lips part, letting him in, and his tongue sweeps over mine, warm and gentle, smoothing the rough edges of my hurt. I’m lost to him and his touch. I lean into him, letting my own desperation spill over, a small sound escaping from the back of my throat, betraying how much I need this too.

My eyes drift shut, and I lose myself in him. In the roughness of his hands, the way his kiss seems to mend pieces of me I didn’t even realize were fractured. A moment I’m not ready to end.

Something prickles in the back of my mind. A whisper of anger, a reminder of everything that’s happened, and it claws its way to the forefront until it’s impossible to ignore, until it knocks down the door and rushes through me in a flood of images flashing through my mind. My grip leaves his arms. When I move to push against his chest, the moment shatters when my fingers brush over something slick and wet.

Blood.

The warmth on my fingers pulls me back to reality. I break the kiss, looking down to see a dark stain blooming on the side of his shirt, marring the already dirtied tan fabric. The shirt has soaked through. The sticky red spreads from a wound that looks raw and fresh. It doesn’t belong there, though there’s something oddly familiar. It takes a moment to piece it all together, and my mind struggles to hold on, my head still foggy, my body still heavy with exhaustion.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My tongue swipes out to lick my parched lips.

So thirsty. So tired .

He watches me, his gray eyes no longer empty. Instead, they’re filled with a plea I can’t quite decipher.

There’s pain there, and something deeper, almost desperate. My fingers hover over the wound, unsure if I should press down or let go. Whatever I do, he needs me. I can’t walk away knowing he’s hurt.

He grows two more faces, and the ground flies up to meet the sky.