Page 89 of Such a Feral Little Lamb
“You just had to fuckingagree, Isaac,” he snarls. He hits me again, in the face, and stars burst behind my eyelids.
Fuck this. I’m not dying like this. And when he hits me again in the side, then the shoulder, I know that’s what he intends to do.
I bring one leg up between his thighs, and he grunts when my knee connects but doesn’t move. He hits me again. My head is swimming, and I can’t fight him off when he tightens one hand around my throat.
I struggle to no avail. He squeezes, cutting off my air, and it’s seconds before I panic, tugging ineffectively at his arm. “D-Dane,” I wheeze, and he smirks, grip tightening.
“I don’t have to take any of you back,” he says. “Fuck you, Isaac. I’d have given you everything you ever wanted.”
Black creeps in at the edge of my vision. His face is so close to mine, but he’s not the last thing I want to see. Mason might be—He might have done terrible things, but he never hurt me. I believe, still, that he never would.
My gaze seeks out Mason instead. Hopefully, he can get out of here. Hopefully, he’ll tell the others, and they’ll stop Dane before he gets on that train. That’s all I want. If they kill him, then Autumn and Blake and Otto didn’t die for nothing.
Mason’s hands are unbound. He’s standing, unmoving, eyes closed. I wheeze, breath rattling with the little air that remains in my lungs. Why isn’t he moving? Running?
He said he’d protect me.
Why isn’t he doing that?
Dane follows my gaze and smirks. He leans down, lips pressing against my ear. I hear the rushing of blood, my heartbeat so fast as I try to draw in air, but I can’t—Ican’t…
“You made the wrong choice,” Dane whispers, his voice a slithering, loathsome thing.
Then he screams.
His grip on my throat loosens and the first lungful of air I get feels like a salve, even if it tastes like death. I smack his hand away and push myself back, coughing as I try to breathe.
He doesn’t even notice. How can he? He’s far too focused on Autumn, who’s digging her teeth into his shoulder. She’s still dead, the edges of that fatal wound on her throat fluttering with each groan. She has hold of him, the skin on her hands torn where she forced her way out of her bindings. Stronger in death than she ever was in life, she digs blunt teeth in again, biting through Dane’s T-shirt and the flesh beneath.
“No, no!” Dane cries. He hits her, blows that are strong enough to crack bone, but she doesn’t stop. Even when he cracks her skull, when he caves it in and all I see is red beneath, she doesn’t stop.
I look at Mason. His eyes are still closed. This is nothing like the magic he showed me before. Mere tricks. Now his pale face is devoid of all colour and every vein stands out in stark relief. Not blue or green, but purple and black, almost pulsing with every twitch of his fingers.
It’s grotesque. It’s magnificent. I can’t tear my eyes away.
I have to, though, when Dane lets out another desperate cry. He hits Autumn again, but this time it’s his hatchet that meets the side of her face. Her jaw dislocates on one side, enough for him to finally get away.
I try to get to my feet, but my legs won’t support me. Not yet. I still haven’t caught my breath, and the throbbing around my throat tells me that bruises will be the least of my worries.
Dane turns on Autumn with an animalistic cry. Each swing of his hatchet brings a new spray of blood or crack of bone, and she’s still trying to move when he’s done—Mason is still trying to move her—but all she can do is drag her pulverised body across the ground.
Dane laughs and gets to his feet. His shoulder is bleeding where she’s bitten him. It’s not a virus, but will he turn anyway?
I push up onto my knees. My bat is too far away, and I still can’t stand. Dane lists to one side as he steps past me, well out of my reach.
Mason’s eyes are closed. He hasn’t reacted to a single thing we’ve done. I don’t think he can hear us.
“Mason!” I try, all the same. My voice comes out in a croak. He doesn’t flinch.
“You get to watch this,” Dane says. “And then I’m going to fucking kill you, Isaac.”
My fingers brush the handle of my knife. Then up. My jacket, the pocket…
The gun.
I pull it out just as Dane reaches Mason. We don’t practise shooting. Why would we? Guns aren’t useful weapons doing the job we do.
My hand shakes when I take aim. They’re both only a few feet away, both in profile, and Dane lifts his hatchet in his left hand, non-dominant but uninjured—
