Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

Peter barely heard. His gaze was riveted on those drops, Finn’s fingers, that small core of ice bobbing in all that cool water. The need for water was so great it took all his willpower not to grab Finn’s hand and lick the moisture from the old man’s flesh.

“I think I made a serious miscalculation in my initial hypothesis,” Finn said as his fingers worked the cap. “The will to survive exerts its own pressure. Right now, I’ve given you walls to push against, obstacles to overcome, someone to hate. What I neglected to consider was what might happen if those walls suddenly vanished.” Finn proffered the open bottle. “If there was no one left to hate except the self.”

He’s giving me water. There are no guards and Davey’s not here and he’s not going to kill me. That was all he could think. The hot surge of gratitude, absurd and irrational, made him want to weep. He let Finn fit the bottle to his lips and hold the back of his neck as he drank, greedily, the icy water spilling around his mouth and down his neck and exploding into his empty stomach with such force that he moaned with the pain.

“Easy, boy-o, not too fast,” Finn murmured, almost lovingly. He didn’t take the bottle away, but kept talking as Peter gulped. “So I thought to myself: Finn, stop with the threats and the pressure. Making the boy fight for his life might not tell you what you want to know.”

“What . . . what’s that?” Peter gasped. Every drop of water was gone. He leaned back with a sigh. His belly sloshed. He would probably be sick; might even bring it all back up. But he didn’t care. His head was spinning, and now his hunger was a roar again: something struggling to be born in the taut tent of his skin that just might tear him in two.

“Every man breaks, eventually.” Finn capped the bottle. “Even Jesus cracked at the end. But that wasn’t because of what was being done to him. His pressure was doubt and came from within, but he always had a choice. We just call it destiny when it’s too late to change our minds. But I realized that I had to make your choice yours and not mine. In the heat of battle, all a man wants is to live.”

He had no idea what Finn was going on about. His head was muzzy and, too late, he wondered if maybe the water had been spiked with something. Killing me with kindness, he thought, and nearly giggled. The water made him a little giddy. But the hunger was sharper now, a knife slashing at his guts, and he stifled a groan when his stomach cramped.

Beyond the cell, there was a clank of a lock and then a gush of cold air as the prison house door swung open. “Ah,” Finn said, checking his watch. He pushed up on his thighs. “Right on time.”

Three guards guided Davey in on control poles fitted to that wide leather collar. The Changed boy was fully dressed in the same uniform everyone else in Finn’s compound wore.

Peter’s heart lurched against the cage of his ribs. So it had been just a trick. Probably, Finn gave him water so he’d be strong enough for one last bout.

Keep fighting. Using the wall for support, he struggled to his feet as the guards maneuvered Davey down the center aisle. Davey’s glittery eyes fixed on Peter, and his nostrils flared and relaxed and flared again, like those of a hound eager to have at the fox. Peter slid along the wall and then felt along the bars until he could wedge himself into a corner. If he used the bars for leverage, he could kick. Better than Davey catching him in the center of the cell. Kick at his face, if you can. He wrapped his hands around cold iron. No matter what, don’t just give up.

“That’s good,” Finn said as the guards reached the cell. “Hold it there.” Finn had his knapsack again, and when he opened it, Peter saw Davey’s head suddenly jerk toward the old man. The Changed boy actually tensed, going up on tiptoe the way little kids did at Halloween so they could dig into that bowl for their favorite candy.

“Sorry, Davey boy, not for you,” Finn said. Chuckling, he reached a hand to Davey’s head and ruffled his hair. The Changed boy didn’t react at all.

My God. Peter’s heart stuttered. He’s turned it into a pet. “Here we go,” Finn said, and withdrew a white paper packet. Waxed paper? Peter wasn’t sure. He watched as Finn squatted, set the packet down, and teased open the paper. Coils of steam unfurled, releasing the juicy aroma of fresh-grilled meat and perfectly seared fat.

A moan pushed between his lips before he could call it back. Saliva gathered under his tongue, and the beast of his hunger tried clawing right into his throat.

“Yes, smells good, doesn’t it? I do love a good steak. I hope you like medium-rare. Oh, and it’s fresh. Just butchered this morning.” Finn used the point of his knife to flip the muscle so Peter could see the crisscross grill marks—

And the faded red ink of a tattooed heart.

At first, he just didn’t understand. His eyes fixed on that tattoo, and then his brain was working the problem like a complicated geometry proof. There was meat and . . . a tattoo; steak and a—

“N-no!” he gasped. He cringed back against the bars. He did not know which was worse: the steady, strong claw of his hunger that simply refused to stop—because the scent of that meat was so strong and he was really and truly dying—or the sudden, cold blast of horror. “I . . . I won’t. You can’t make me p-put that in my m-mouth. You can’t make me eat.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Haven’t you been listening, Peter? This is your choice now. No threats. No pain. No Chucky ready to tear your eyes out. I wash my hands of this fight. There is only you, Peter, and”—he aimed the knife—“that piece of meat. This fight is between you and you. There is food, and it is the only food. So eat, and live.”

“I w-won’t.” And now he was weeping. His legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore, and he let himself sink to the grimy, bloodstained floor. “I . . . I can’t.”

“You can,” Finn said. “You could. The question is, will you? Because of the pressure, Peter, you see? In a battle, even of the soul, a man will do anything to live. The only saints exist in fairy tales and legends. So maybe you won’t break today or tomorrow . . . but soon, Peter, very soon.”

No. Peter turned his face to the bars. The smell of succulent roast meat was overpowering. No, I won’t. I’ll die first, I’ll—

“Watch and learn, Davey,” Finn said. “Watch and learn.”

Dawn was two hours away, the night sky a black bowl salted with stars. Beyond the bouncing ball of her headlamp, the snow between camp and the church spun out in a brassy, bright ribbon. Luke moved easily enough, but the only one of the three who seemed to be having any fun at all was the dog, a yellow Labrador that trotted ahead, its tail whisking a mad, happy semaphore. Every twenty feet, it dashed back to give Cindi an encouraging yip.