by Darcy Coates
Clare felt sick. She wanted to believe Dorran, but she could hear through the confidence in his voice. He wasn’t certain distractions would work. Madeline was smart. She was not the kind of woman who took things at face value or relied on a single plan.
But they had no alternatives. Dorran was right; he needed to continue visiting the garden. Even just one day of cold could kill the plants, and without transport away from Winterbourne, they couldn’t risk losing their only ongoing source of food.
Relenting felt like sacrificing something valuable, but Clare swallowed, her throat aching. “All right.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Clare napped through that afternoon, catching up on missing sleep from the night before. Her dreams were scattered and anxious. Dorran had promised not to leave while she was asleep, but every time she woke, Clare still had to search for him before her heart fell back to a healthier rate. He was never far away, either relaxing beside her, reading a book on the nearest chair, or staring towards the door, his eyes sharp and jaw tense.
The last time she woke, she caught Dorran looking at her. He smiled, but Clare could see how forced it was. He had heard something outside.
She sat up, her back aching and her head foggy from sleep. Dorran moved to put the kettle over the fire, brushing a hand over her head as he passed her.
“Everything okay?” Clare asked.
“Of course.” He smiled again, but it still lacked the natural ease Clare had grown to love. He laid out their two mugs on the fire hearth while the water heated, and Clare pulled her knees up under her chin.
“What’s it like out there, when you go to the garden and the library? Do the hollows avoid you, or do you see them?”
Dorran faced the fire, and although he was clearly trying to keep his expression neutral, the flames highlighted the tenseness in it. “I see them sometimes.”
“How often?” When he didn’t immediately answer, Clare shuffled closer to him and rested one hand on his arm. He still wouldn’t look at her. “I’d rather know.”
“They line the hallways,” Dorran admitted. “Every corner and beside every door. They watch me, but they never try to touch me.”
Clare shuddered. She imagined walking through the hallways—the wallpaper and furniture were nearly invisible in the gloom, with the hollows, so still that they could be statues, flanking him on either side, their bulging eyes catching in the scarce traces of light.
“Are you ever afraid Madeline will lose control of them and they’ll attack you from behind?”
A thin laugh escaped. “Oh, yes. I do my best not to think about it. I don’t like walking past them, though. After killing so many of the beasts, it seems unnatural to cohabitate with them.”
Clare licked her lips and broached her next question carefully. “Have you seen Madeline?”
“No.” The kettle began to bubble, so Dorran pulled it off the flame and poured the steaming liquid into their mugs.
Clare watched him as he used a tea bag to flavour both of their drinks. She waited, sensing that Dorran was keeping something from her.
After a moment, he sighed. “I hear her, sometimes. Not just when I’m moving through the house, but in our room, as well.”
“What does she say?”
“Horrible things. Violent things.” He threw the tea bag into the fire then passed Clare her mug with shaking hands. “I do my best not to listen to her.”
“It won’t be long now.” Clare leaned back, her toes digging between the rug’s threads. “The code must be ready. Unathi wouldn’t announce it otherwise. I just wish she would unleash it. This could be all over by now. I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”
Dorran stroked her hair back from her head. “She must have wanted to give people warning. If losing your thanites feels anything like what I experienced, it could be devastating if you were driving, or in any other precarious sort of situation.”
“Hm.” Clare pressed her lips together. “She probably thought three days would be reasonable. Maybe even on the short side, since it’s so hard for news to spread now. But it feels like an eternity when you’re trying to survive.”
“Things were simpler in the institute. They hadn’t truly experienced the new world and didn’t know what it was like. Days blended together too easily.”
“I wish we had some way to contact them. Or a way to contact anyone.”
“I do, as well.”
Clare wondered if Dorran was thinking along the same lines as her—towards what they would do if the code worked. No one except John from West Hope knew they were at Winterbourne, and no one was likely to stumble on it. Even with the hollow ones gone, they were still essentially stranded. We’ll figure it out. We’ve come this far; we can see it to the end.
It was better than imagining the alternative: a world where the code failed and killed them all.
Two more nights. She shivered. It was so close.
Dorran drained his cup of tea and exhaled. “It’s time to visit the garden.”
The familiar anxiety squirmed through Clare’s stomach, turning her cold. “Already? Can’t you put it off for another hour?”
“I would very much like to, but I shouldn’t delay. This will be the last time.”
She drew a sharp breath. “Really?”
“Yes. I will overload the furnace with fuel, like we did on the day we left to search for Beth. The heat should hold until Wednesday evening. I will bring back as much food as I can, and we will stay here until the code has been activated. Does that sound like a good plan?”
“Yes, please, yes.” She grabbed his arm, squeezing it. “And come back quickly. It doesn’t even matter if we don’t have enough vegetables; we can use some of the tins.”
“I will. I promise.” He kissed her and drew back, smiling. “Twenty minutes. And then I will be all yours, and the next time we leave this room, we leave together.”
They were some of the sweetest words Clare had ever heard. She let Dorran slip his hand out of hers and followed him to the door.
He gave her one final fond look on the threshold. “Can I bring you anything else from the house? More books? Wine?”
“No. This is going to sound cheesy, but as long as you’re here, I have everything I need.”
His smile broadened. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Then he stepped through the door, closing it with a click. Clare turned the lock and clutched the keys in both hands, nerves and hope thrumming through her. It didn’t matter how often Dorran left; the fear was never any easier to handle. We’re on the edge of a new world. Three more days…
Clare left the keys on the seat by the door and crossed to the fire. It was growing low, so she stacked more wood on it, filled the kettle, and hung it on its hook. Dorran would have a fresh drink as soon as he returned. It would help warm fingers that had been chilled by the frosty air that saturated the rest of the house.
A door slammed above Clare. She stared at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked. Something heavy moved through the attic. Trying to picture the kind of hollow that would make that noise, she scrunched up her nose and turned away.
The room no longer felt like a prison now that they were so close to the end. Clare pulled on her boots then went to the ceramic pot on the bureau. The tomato plant had grown even in the time she’d had it. She would keep it with her once the house was theirs again. It could stay in their room, something green and beautiful to look at each morning.
The radio rested beside the pots. A pang of loneliness ran through Clare, and she turned the radio on, adjusting the volume just until she could make out Unathi’s voice, but no one outside the door would hear. She’d already memorised the looped message. Her smile faded as unfamiliar words were broadcast to her.
“Update: The deadline has changed…” Unathi took a sharp breath. “The code will be activated at sundown today. Please prepare yourself. Find a secure location. Ensure all wounds are treated. The code will b
e activated today.”
There was a click as the recording ended, then the original message resumed. Clare’s mouth was dry. She hung close to the radio, clutching it with both hands, waiting while the original, memorised announcement played itself out. Once it finished, there was another click, then Unathi’s voice became harried again as the two recordings played in a loop. “Update: The deadline has changed…”
Why would they have moved the deadline closer? Unathi sounds stressed. But why? I’d think they were being harassed by survivors looking for supplies—but she never broadcast the shelter’s location.
Wait… Clare closed her eyes. The radio transmissions would have attracted the hollows, just like Ezra’s transmissions resulted in a pile of the monsters around his tower. Some of them, the smart ones, might have even understood the announcement. The research centre was probably under assault as hollows tried to break in and destroy the one thing that was guaranteed to kill them.
She chewed on her thumb as she paced the length of the room. The station couldn’t have been breached; Unathi would have executed the code out of desperation. Their situation wasn’t dire. Yet.
Please, don’t leave it too late. Don’t wait until they have broken your systems or clawed through the doors.
An idea hit her, and she paced faster. The two messages looped automatically. Clare didn’t know how long they had been running. Maybe the station had been breached. Maybe everyone was dead. Maybe the code would never come, and all that was left of her friends was a recording that would play endlessly, always promising, “Today… today… today…”
“No.” Clare kicked at a chair as she passed it. She didn’t want to think about that. She would know, one way or another, by the end of the day.
Dorran, where are you?
It would be easier if she had Dorran with her. He had a calming effect, his steady presence and logic settling the storms in her mind. She looked at the clock. He had been gone for twenty minutes. The kettle above the fire had nearly bubbled dry.
Clare wrapped a cloth around her hand and removed the pot from the flames. She poured fresh water into it, then moving as patiently as she could, she returned it to the fire.
Twenty minutes, Dorran. Time to be back. She approached the door in slow, measured steps. Her breathing was even, her movements cautious, both belying the painful thumping of her heart. I don’t need books. I don’t need wine. I don’t even need food right now. I just need you.
Footsteps still moved around her, roving through the passageways, but they had lost their scraping, slouching cadence. Now, they beat faster, almost eagerly, the teeth chattering as they raced through the house.
No. It’s your imagination. You’re growing paranoid. This is fine. It’s only been twenty-two minutes. Dorran will be back any second; just wait.
She wrapped her arms around herself and strode to the window. Snow drifted past the glass. She tweaked the curtains back just far enough to see the field outside. The hollows that had been pacing around the building had come to a halt. A dozen of them stood, staggered in the snow, as motionless as statues as they stared up at her.
Something’s happening. The taste in her mouth turned sour as fear ran through her. She dropped the curtain, her chest so tight she thought she might hyperventilate. They’re doing something. The hollows have stopped being passive. They’re doing something, and Dorran is out there.
She was back at the door in five long paces. Her fingertips pressed against the wood as she tried to still her mind long enough to think. Dorran had been gone for twenty-five minutes. He had promised twenty. He knew how important the deadline was to her; he wouldn’t leave her waiting. Not willingly.
I can’t leave the room. That was the one thing we agreed on. I have to stay here.
But Dorran had thought he was safe in Winterbourne. Clare had struggled to believe it as readily, but she had trusted him. Now, that trust was crumbling.
He’s strong. He’s smart. If he’s in trouble, he can either get himself out, or the trouble is so bad that there’s very little I could do to help.
She knew it was true, but that made it no easier to stand at the door. She and Dorran had always faced their challenges together. Clare was prepared to hurt. She was prepared to struggle. She was even prepared to die. The only thing she couldn’t conceive of was being left alone in the new world. If Dorran died, she wanted to die at his side, doing everything she could to protect him.
He wants you to stay in the room.
Her fingers dropped to the lock. Her eyelashes were wet, her lip aching from where she bit it. Dorran had been gone for nearly half an hour. A lot could happen in half an hour.
Then she heard it, rising out of the house’s deepest levels, echoing as it bounced between countless layers of wallpaper. Dorran screamed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Clare moved on instinct, one hand turning the lock as the other shoved on the door. Dorran’s scream, raw and pained, cut out abruptly. He had tried to muffle it. He hadn’t wanted Clare to hear.
Liquid fire pumped through her veins. It scorched every atom of her body, filling her with frantic energy. Her feet flew, carrying her towards the stairs. Faintly, she was aware that she didn’t have a weapon. Going back for the fire poker would waste seconds she didn’t have. She would figure it out when she reached Dorran.
Glinting eyes stared out at her from the shadows. The hallway was lined with hollows. Clare barely spared them a glance. She didn’t have time to fight them. They didn’t try to stop her.
She reached the stairs, grabbed the railing, and swung herself around. The foyer was almost pitch-black. The windows had been shuttered; if Dorran had lit candles on his way to the garden, they had been extinguished.
Clare took the stairs three at a time, risking a twisted ankle with each step, breath catching in her throat as she raced to find Dorran. Pain arced through the cuts in her leg, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. She hit the foyer’s tiles and kept moving.
Something immense loomed out of the darkness. Clare skidded as she tried to avoid its clutching hands. It wasn’t moving, though; it was only the statue constructed from bones. Clare ducked under the outstretched arms.
Dorran, where are you? To her right were the house’s living areas: the dining room, the library, the ballroom, and the drawing rooms. They had scarcely been used since the stillness. Straight ahead and down a hallway were the doors leading to the house’s staff areas: the kitchens, the garden, the furnace room, and the cellar.
Clare’s heart pulsed unevenly. She dreaded visiting those lower levels. They were the farthest from safety, the most inhospitable, and the darkest. But that was where she was most likely to find Dorran.
Creatures watched her as she moved along the hallway. They pressed their backs to the walls, maws open, eyes swivelling without blinking as they followed her progress.
She passed the kitchens. Clare didn’t expect to find him there, but she still had to be sure. She pushed open the doors, shivering as the freezing air rolled around her. The benches, ovens, and utensils were all shrouded in darkness, untouched for weeks. Clare was prepared to leave when she glimpsed the knife block near the door. It would be better than nothing. She grasped the largest handle, pulling out a long metal blade. She held the knife at her side as she followed the passageway to its end, where it let into the stone chamber.
The garden’s lights flowed out through the door’s small window. The glow landed across something made of cloth lying on the stone floor. Clare approached it, her heart in her throat. It was the bag that Dorran had used to gather produce. Vegetables had fallen from it, tomatoes and cucumbers scattering across the dusty floor. To her right was the door to the furnace room. Clare glanced at it but didn’t approach. Madeline wouldn’t have taken Dorran there. The furnace room was where she had lost to him the last time they had crossed paths. She would want this new confrontation to happen on her own terms. Somewhere dark. Somewhere quiet.
Clare’s
eyes drifted towards the stone archway to her left. It led to the cellar, and anxious prickles crawled across Clare’s back. She hated that room more than any other in Winterbourne. Of course that was where Madeline would choose. Dorran had said it himself: “She will wait until we are at our most vulnerable.”
She fought to strike a match and light one of the candles on the table by the wall. Every wasted second pulled on her, fraying her and filling her with horror about what it might be costing. But there was no light in the cellar, and stepping into it blind would be suicide.
The candle caught. Its tiny flame struggled in the cold air but grew slowly as the wax warmed. Clare lifted its holder and turned towards the wine cellar. The opening stretched like a screaming mouth, black and toothless, threatening to drag her inside. She forced her legs to move faster than they wanted to. The house was cold to begin with, but the chill rolling out of the cellar was intense. Clare grit her teeth as she passed the threshold and began to climb the worn stone steps that led to the lowest level.
Please, Dorran, please be all right. I’m coming.
The stones were damp. Clare’s foot slipped on one. The flame guttered, and the knife clanged as she threw out her hand to stabilise herself against the stones. Clare took a gulping breath then righted herself, her limbs shaking. It seemed impossible to keep moving. She forced herself to, regardless.
Her steps echoed horribly. Clare tried to listen through them, to hear the tell-tale gasps of breath or the crunch of feet on grime that would tell her the wine cellar was occupied. She couldn’t hear anything. She extended her arm as far as she dared, trying to force the candlelight to penetrate the gloom beneath. A dozen tiny reflections twinkled out at her, and at first, Clare thought she was seeing eyes. Then she took another step and saw they were only the wine bottles stacked upon the racks filling the space.
It felt reckless to speak, but Clare didn’t think she had much to lose. The hollows knew she was there; she was making too much noise for her arrival to be a surprise. So she licked dry lips and hazarded, “Dorran?”