Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

Oh God, please, I’m so close, please, help.

She had less than a hundred feet to go, but they might as well have been miles. Above, the stars were dimming, winking out in a sudden swarm of cold shadows darker than night. The earth began to collapse and fold, the surface shearing; the rock was coming down, and then so were the shadows, and she felt the ladder shudder and begin to break apart; it was breaking, it was breaking, it was— The ladder disintegrated to splinters, and then there was suddenly nothing in her hands at all but air. Beneath her, the tunnel’s throat opened. The water was all sound; it was everything that was left. Her mouth was open, and she knew she was shrieking, but she couldn’t hear anything, and for a crazy second, it was as if the water’s roar had become her voice.

Screaming, Alex hurtled straight down, and her last thought, right before she hit, was: Feet first.

She smashed into the water.

Part 6 - The Devil's Door

89

Sometimes, he moaned. That was her only clue he was still alive.

She sat with him all that night. Maybe she should’ve gone for help, but she was too afraid to move. She called his name a few times. At least, she thought she did. For a few terrible seconds, she couldn’t remember his name—or hers—and that scared her more.

And then, much later, he stopped making any sound at all.

She waited. And waited. The darkness went grainy and gray as that gangrenous moon slid west and the night began to fade. In the spray of weird light, the wood shone a dullish white. She saw that it wasn’t part of a door because of that arch drawn in black paint and the half-symbol of three spiked points just above, like a setting sun cut by a distant horizon. There was a name for this, too. What was it? She couldn’t quite remember. But why not?

She waited, sleepless, raw-eyed. Cold. She hunched up her shoulders, hugging herself to stay warm. Her fear was salt and metal in her mouth. And she was hungry. The snake of her stomach twisted and writhed. So hungry. The need had been building for a while. She had decided not to think about it. Now, as dawn showed in a white streak, she couldn’t ignore it.

Morning soon. Full day. She couldn’t stay here.

But . . . he had a scent. He is—she drew him in and her mouth watered—food.

Don’t.

Yes.

Don’t.

Stop.

She crept, slowly, carefully, on all fours. The wind burned her cheeks. The air was suddenly choked with the smell of iron and meat. He was far down in the snow, and she used her hands to dig at the edges of the trench. The hollow was surprisingly warm, and his smell was so rich her stomach cramped.

Stop. You’re still you. Don’t.

His face was turned away, his watch cap rucked up a little cockeyed, like a makeshift shroud. That made it easier. At his waist, where the wood cut across, she made out an irregular, dark patch. She formed her hands into a scoop and lifted out a scarlet chunk of ice and sucked his blood, still warm, into her mouth.

Don’t.

Warm. Yes.

“Stop,” she said, and then she flung the gory handful away. Her gorge rushed up her throat, and she heaved and vomited, but she hadn’t eaten in two full days, and there was nothing left.

Almost nothing left of her either.

“N-no,” she said. She tottered to her feet and stumbled back, away from the blood and temptation, away from his meat, that scent, his smell. “No. Stop. Run. He said to ru—”

From somewhere down the trail, toward . . . toward . . . where had they been going? She didn’t know. But the sounds, she recognized.

Dogs. From the racket, more than one, and big. She heard the new note of excitement in their cries, too, as they scented her the way hounds chased down a whiff of good prey.

She had to get out of here. Where there were dogs, there might be people, and she couldn’t be caught; she couldn’t be seen, she had to—

From behind came a low, menacing growl. Lena’s throat closed down on a sudden scream. The small hairs along her neck and arms stiffened in alarm, and she had to force herself to move slowly, so carefully. Her eyes inched to the right.

The dog was not far away at all. In her panic, she couldn’t gauge the distance, and that really didn’t matter. With its black mask and those ears, the animal was like a small German shepherd, but the rest of its fur was a reddish-brown, like a chestnut mare’s. Its lips had peeled back from its very white teeth in a snarl.

Her throat convulsed. Her mouth was open, and she thought she was trying to say something, but the only sound that came was a strangled moan. It seemed as if two giant fists had clamped around her chest and squeezed. She eased back a half step, then stopped when the dog’s deep rumble grew louder.

It’s going to kill me. “Puh-puh-puhleeez,” she wheezed. She saw the dog’s ears twitch, and that growl hitched and dropped a note. To her eyes, the dog actually looked confused. “Please, juh-just let m-me g—”

“Meeenaaah.” Not a singsong, although the distant voice was young. “Meeenaaah, where are you, girl?”

Meeenaaah, or Mina, or whatever the dog’s name was, faltered then. She watched as the dog threw a glance over its shoulder, and then she was moving back a quick step and then another. Whirling around, the dog tensed, and for a second, she thought it was going to come for her after all, but then the dog was pivoting on its hind legs and sprinting away, barking as it followed the girl’s voice.

Go. Turning on her heel, she darted off the trail and into the woods. Branches whipped at her skin and tore her face, snagging her hair. Go, go, he said to go, run . . .

The woods still were the color of lead, but the snow was not as deep in the trees and her footing was better. Behind, she heard the moment the dogs’ voices changed—heard that call again—and knew they’d found him. They might not follow her now. She might be safe.

Run. Then: Lena, I’m Lena. He’s Chris and he said to run, Lena, run.

The cold air was crushed glass in her throat, but she blundered on, churning and crashing through the woods. She had no idea where she was going, or what she should do now, but she was alone. No one would see.

I’m a coward. If I had any guts, I would’ve shot myself or told him the truth and asked him to do it. He would have.

But she was as afraid of dying as she had become of sleeping. Because what would she be when she woke up?

You’re still you. She spotted a bright smear, a break in the trees, and felt a tug in her chest, like the set of a hook. She changed direction. Why? Maybe a road. Was that what she thought? Of course she did. Who was thinking in her head but her? Her feet pounded and pushed against snow. There would be a road and she would be able to run even further. You’re still you and you can stop this.