Page 95 of Deadly Maiden

“Yes.” Wyntre hunches forward over her mug, sipping, eyeing Kyvin where he emerges from the trees. “He’s missing his weeds. Looks like he stayed out of the lake last night?”

“Yes.” I’m copying her, being calm on the outside, frantic on the inside. “Are we both avoiding talking about my fall from grace? Or…is there more to this? I don’t know why I said that, but?—”

“Soulmates?” She fakes a smile, adjusts the mug. “I think we’re seeing things in each other no one else can. Just a guess.”

“Could be.” What is she seeing in me? I shift myself closer until I’m against her and nudge her thigh with mine. “Thank you for not leaving. I can barely recall what I did. It’s a blur.”

“Hmmm.” She places the mug at her feet then laces her hands about my elbow. “There is something more here than just you getting bonkers drunk. So drunk you slept outside the doorone night then threw up in your unicorn wastepaper basket and I had to clean it up.”

“Oh gods.” I fill my lungs ready to apologize when movement registers at the corner of my eye.

The white zeetball barrels past my feet, from left to right, and yet Kyvin is neither to left or right. He’s near the edge of this clearing, in front of us.

Is it from a student? I’m dearly praying our undead guy has not been seen.

Nope.

A black loping thing with little ears races after the ball, a few feet away, its tail streaming out behind like a kite flying. I recognize it.

This is not a cat. I have an inkling and open my mouth to say something alarming, accusatory.

Wyntre’s eyes are closed. She hasn’t seen, but connecting the dots is simple because I’ve seen similar before. That is a darkthing creature. The rendering of it into this more pleasing shape does not excuse its origins. This is what killed Orish.

This is the reason behind Wyntre’s strange reaction. Her secret, my drunkenness and woeful behavior…and there is alsomysecret. I killed her parents.

Does all this cancel out?

Kyvin lumbers to the ball and kicks it, emphasizing the normality of this scene and the insanity. I frown as the thing sprints past, no longer kitelike. It reminds me of a skittering ferret, one that’s been filled with air like a balloon. A ferret crossed with a balloon crossed with a kite.

“I’m sorry, Rorsyd,” Wyntre whispers, lifting her head.

She’s looking into my eyes and still hasn’t noticed the…what do I call this?

I stab my finger at the darkthing where it is now weaving and climbing up the undead man to perch on his shoulder. Unblinking, it stares at me, as if challenging me to truly see it.

“What is that?”

“Oh. Fuck.” Her hands are nigh on strangling my arm.

I keep watching the thing. “Darkthing? Yes?”

“Yes.” Her voice is so quiet.

“Your secret. I see now why you’ve been odd. It’s not just me drinking half my wine cellar. It’s that.”

“That is Anathema. He is Anathema.”

It has a name. The darkthing has a fucking name. This is what killed Orish.

And I… I can go in circles. I can yell. I can leave. I can try to kill it. Flames bubble in my chest, potential flames ready to burst forth. Merely contemplating the act of shifting makes my cells creak to life. They’re ready to crack and flare, ready to go full dragon to immolate the darkthing at a few thousand degrees. I roll my shoulders, suppress that urge.

Would it even be successful?

None of those appeal.

But…I can shift again.

*Exactly. We’re not wondering how or why?*

---