Page 128 of Into the Dark, We Go
"He made me carry his stupid backpack," June whined. "It was so heavy!"
I buried my face in my hands and laughed wearily. Hearing her complain again felt like a breath of fresh air.
Nick was puttingthe real grimoire back into its cover, wrapping it with fabric before tucking it into his backpack. He’d stashed it in the woods near the clearing, keeping it hidden the entire time.
"They probably searched the motel room, too," he said. "Didn’t want to risk leaving it there."
"Can’t we just leave it here? Or destroy it?" I begged.
"No," he said abruptly. "We don’t know if it’ll calm it down, set it free, or piss it off. Let’s not risk it."
No one had the energy to argue. We all looked like we’d been through the wringer. Nick’s eyes were sunken, his skin paleand clammy, and his clothes were torn and stained. Mitch had a nasty gash above his eyebrow, and his lip was swollen and bruised. June’s hair was matted and tangled, her clothes ripped and filthy. She didn’t have any visible wounds, but she was limping slightly. I probably didn’t look any better. My shirt was torn, and I was splattered with forest mud and blood, the bruises from before still in bloom on my face.
On the bright side, I was so tired that the pain barely registered.
"Wait here," Mitch said, nodding at the corpse on the other side of the clearing. "We’ll take care of him."
They hadn’t come back for two hours. During that time, June kept retelling how they fought and how she’d almost shot a guy. I asked how long I’d been gone, and she said,
"Like, five minutes? Maybe less?"
To me, it had felt like forever.
As we were leaving, she picked up the abandoned stag mask. "What happens to them?" she asked of the men who’d fled. "Are they going to die?"
Nick gave a slight raise of his shoulders, as if he didn’t care. And maybe he really didn’t.
I wasn’t sure I did either.
34
Chapter Thirty-Four
October, 2020
I didn’t knowwhere they buried Robert, and I had no intention of finding out. The less I knew, the better. No one even mentioned calling the police. When June asked what would happen if someone found the grave, Nick’s reply was a curt "They won’t."
I clung to the hope that he was right.
Dawn had already broken by the time we left the clearing. Our procession was a grim sight: bloodstained, dirt-smeared, and silent. Bone-deep weariness numbed our senses, leaving only a dull resolve to press on.
Mitch took his knife back, wiped it clean, and tossed it into the river as we crossed the bridge. We agreed not to ditch all the weapons in one place, so we kept the guns. Even though we hadn’t killed anyone with them, there were still bullets scattered about. We didn’t want to risk leaving a trail.
We dropped off the rental car and crammed into the van, which Nick and Mitch had fixed up, the donut tire a temporary fix for the flat. Mitch was driving, and I tried to get comfortablein the back, but leaning against the seat was impossible. I kept twisting and turning, every part of my battered body aching. Luckily, I didn’t need stitches, or at least it didn’t seem that way. Nick and June took turns tending to me. It felt nice to be cared for, although I’d have much preferred not to be injured at all.
I was glad to leave Black Water as soon as we could, but we had one more stop to make.
Mitchell argued with Nick that we didn’t owe Mathilda anything, since she hadn’t directly helped us and had almost gotten me killed, even if it wasn’t intentional. To my surprise, Nick stood firm, and Mitchell reluctantly conceded.
The siblings stayed in the idling car, keeping a watchful eye on the square. It looked deserted, as though everyone had gone into hiding.
Nick wanted me to wait in the car, too, but I refused. I wanted to look the witch in the eye. I wanted her to see what she’d put us through.
"Please don’t attack her. At least not right away." Nick squeezed my hand, grounding me, making sure I could hold back.
I gave a complicit nod. A crushing heaviness and bruises kept me in check; otherwise, I might’ve gone for her throat and made her feel the terror she’d let me suffer. But holding my tongue was one thing. Hiding my expression was another. I didn’t have the energy to fake a neutral face.
Mathilda had been waiting—I could tell. The moment the doorbell chimed, she emerged from the back of her store. Her stilettos and perfume were back, robin-red lipstick on her mouth, every curl flawless and in place.
