The sound of her name on his lips is odd, like it will always be too loud, no matter how quietly he says it.
Anne de Graaf.
She upended the world. She unwound everything. I can never tell if I hate or envy her power. Maybe both.
Dean gently touches the gold with a hesitant finger. “I always imagine her as this terrifying thing. This force. But she was just a girl once. And she had people that loved her. She probably had inside jokes and a favorite food and stuff. It’s just . . .” He takes a deep breath, and his eyes get this faraway look, like he’s lost in his thoughts. “It’s just weird to think.”
I lift the headdress off my head, wincing as it takes a couple of hairs with it. I don’t want to be compared to Anne. It doesn’t matter what she looked like, or who she was.
The thought brushes against the one secret I have from him, and I don’t trust myself to meet his eyes. I kneel down, wrapping the headdress carefully in a towel I’d brought from the fortress.
“It suits you,” Dean jokes.
I crane my neck to look up at him as I tuck it into my backpack. “Yeah? Just casually wear an ancient headpiece around the fortress while hanging laundry and picking tomatoes?” I tease.
He thinks about it. “Save it for Halloween. Go as Anne de Graaf’s Chosen One.”
My fingers freeze on the zipper. Chosen One. He can say it casually. He can joke about it, since he has no idea. Still, I have to fight the shudder that works its way down my spine as I stand.
“Yeah, because I’m sure everyone is still dressing up this year,” I shoot back. It’s small moments like these, the ones I don’t expect, where I realize how much we’ve lost. Where I feel how different the world is now. I yank the zipper closed. “And Harlow will kill you if she hears you joking about that. You know how she feels about all that Chosen One shit.”
“According to you, Harlow will have killed me twice before this little mission is over,” he muses.
I stand, tightening the straps on my shoulders. “You, of all people, know that Harlow would find a way to bring you back just to kill you again.”
Dean laughs, the sound vibrating off my ribs as he nods. “True.” He looks down at his watch. “Speaking of the merry murderess—”
“Hey. Theoretical murderess. That’s my sister you’re talkin’ about,” I interject.
“She should be heading back soon. If we’re going to beat her home, we’d better move,” he finishes.
We walk down the hallway, past abandoned exhibits about the Mycenaeans and an old gallery devoted to the Bronze Age.
Wind whips up the staircase, careening in from open double doors that lead into the middle courtyard. Overgrown trees lean over a cracked, empty fountain, and weeds spring up between the stones that used to make up the walkway. Dean and I pass through, barely warranting notice from the sparrows that have taken up residence in the rafters of the covered walkways crisscrossing around the edge of the courtyard.
We are cutting through the foyer when we hear it.
Footsteps.
Dean and I freeze. I reach for my blade while he turns his head slowly, locking eyes with me. We both hold our breath, hoping that it is just an echo. Or a trick of the wind.
Anything but them.
Thunk. It sounds again, closer this time.
Dean and I move at the same moment, darting to the exhibit room to our right, hiding in the shadows. He is pressed against me, holding me closer.
“Is it—” I whisper, unable to conjure the word as I keep eyes on the cracked floor at my feet.
“I can’t tell,” he breathes, his voice barely audible over the crashing of my heart in my ears.
I wrap my right hand tight around the mirror in my back pocket as I turn my face up and look into Dean’s eyes, his blue irises glinting in the low light, soft and safe. Not in a poetic sense. Not just because I’m in love with him.
But because the world is different now. And looking in the wrong eyes is a death sentence.
Dean sticks his toe past the doorjamb, tilting his ankle to angle the mirror that’s fastened to his shoestrings into the hallway, as the footsteps sound again.
If it was Harlow and her crew, they would have used the identifying whistle. Even a rival fortress in the area would have used some unique sound. We aren’t friends with other settlements—it is kill or be killed, out here—but we know there is a special kind of alliance between free humans now. There are bigger things to worry about than who has better supplies.
I hold a hand up as the footsteps sound again. Closer this time.
Dean grips my arm, and I shut my eyes. Maybe they will just pass. Maybe they won’t know we are here.
But I know, deep in my gut, that if it’s them, the hope that they’ll pass is wishful thinking, because they have a weapon we don’t—a heightened sense of smell.
He lowers the mirrors, and I know what he’s thinking. I feel Dean shift next to me, leaning toward the door. I grab him, pulling him back.
“Don’t even think about it,” I hiss. He pulls my hand from his arm.
“We’re dead if we don’t know what we’re dealing with,” he whispers back.
He stills as the footsteps sound again, but there’s something else—the sound of hissing—a breath that could be going in or out, I can’t tell. There is more than one, though. A symphony of breath racing past saliva-soaked teeth.
Dean leans forward, tilting the mirror on the back of his hand past the door. I can’t see the glass, but I know the moment he sees them. His jaw tightens and he turns, yanking me closer as he pivots, shielding me. I can feel his heart beating through my back.
“Vessels,” he whispers. One word, and my world feels like it is spinning. I shut my eyes tight, willing the panic in my gut to calm down, but the word is a current in my veins. I focus on the feel of Dean’s heartbeat as I force myself to breathe.
Think.
We need our wits if we’re going to survive this.
It takes a moment, a practiced, steady breath, and I open my eyes, shoving the churning terror down to a manageable corner of my mind.
From the shadows dancing through the doorway on the floor, I know there are at least three.
And from their whispers, I know they’re still aware, still—conscious. The Crimson hasn’t reached the final stages for them yet. They move closer. Two shadows merge, and a wicked snarl rips through the room—one had gotten too close to the other. They are hunting together, but that does not mean that they are friends.
“You said you smelled them,” one snaps. It’s a woman; her tinny voice bounces off the walls like a pebble.
“The wind was from the east. I told you that before we walked up here. That breeze could carry a human’s scent for miles,” a man answers, his tone like the cracking of a whip. His voice has a wilder sound to it—almost like it’s pulling against the limits of his throat with every word.
“Shut up. Both of you,” another male says. His voice is lower than the others, but he sounds younger somehow. Crueler. “We don’t have time for this.”
We hear them walk away, their footsteps on the tile reverberating through the room. They stop, and the sound of sniffing fills the air. I shudder at the horrible noise. Dean’s breath is hot on my ear as he rests his forehead on top of my head. He is shaking. I am too.
I look down at the blade strapped to Dean’s boot. He follows my gaze, and his grip on me tightens.
With one free hand, I reach up, digging my nails into the skin of his forearm. You promised, it says.
The Vessels move to the next door, the dead leaves crunching under their feet.
Dean lets out a slow breath as he nods against the back of my head. He knows what I mean. It is the promise we’d made to each other when this first started. I didn’t ask it of Harlow, because I knew it would scar her more deeply than she already was. But I would rather be dead than be the husk of a person the Vessels would leave behind.
I’d made Dean promise that he would
kill me before that happened.
He’d made me promise the same.
“Over here,” the female says, crossing the foyer to our side.
The Vessel’s breath rattles as she inhales, breathing in the air right outside our door. She runs her nails over the wood, and the scratching noise grates on my bones.
My head swims, and I grab Dean’s arms as he pulls me closer to his chest. He isn’t breathing now. I’m not risking it, either.
The metal of the blade looks so cold, its edges sharp. I wonder if I will have the strength to do it, if I need to.
But I know that if it is going to be the last few moments of my life, I am right where I’ve always wanted to be. In Dean’s arms, his heartbeat reverberating off my spine, the warmth of his skin under my fingers.
Then, as abruptly as she came, the female Vessel steps back, her footsteps fading, along with the others’.
Hope floods me, raw and painful, as Dean lifts his head, straining to listen.
We are quiet for a minute, then two. Three, not daring to move.
Dean’s arms drop, and he chances a peek with his mirror. He looks around, then back over his shoulder.
“They’re gone,” he whispers finally.
“That makes no sense,” I reply. And it doesn’t. Vessels are usually thorough in their brutality.
“I’m not about to second-guess a miracle. Are you?” he asks, motioning for me to follow him.
We creep into the foyer, careful to avoid leaves. The urge to run is thick in my veins, and it takes everything I have in me not to give into it. I want to sprint as fast as I can, shrieking until every last bit of terror that coats my lungs has been shaken off by sheer force.
In an instant, something shifts. The air feels charged somehow, like someone has flipped a switch. And everything feels wrong.
The hissing sounds like it’s surrounding us, but I know it’s just the echo, rolling over each other as it rocks off the walls.
Dean spins, pulling the daggers out of their holster, even though I know it’s useless. With just two of us, there’s no way we could take on one Vessel—let alone three.
I almost turn back to our hiding spot, but the footsteps are growing louder, and I know we won’t get lucky twice.
Then, Dean’s hand is in mine, and he yanks me toward the collapsed fountain. He steps in, swearing at the cold.
The muck in the water is dark enough to hide us from view, and it will mask our smell.
But I freeze at the sight of the small waves soaking the legs of his jeans. My chest seizes, and I shake my head.
“Get in the water, Char,” he pleads. “It’s the only way.”
I know that, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t get in the fountain. I’ll panic like I always do, and they will find us. They will find Dean—all because of my uncontrollable terror.
I can’t let that happen, so before he can grab me, I turn and dive behind a limestone statue of a lion tackling a horse and clamp my hand over my mouth.
The sound starts from outside the northern doors. Dean shoots me one more pleading look before he ducks gently under the water, careful not to make waves. The female Vessel marches inside, her steps decisive. I inch my mirrored bracelet around the corner of the limestone base.
She is beautiful, even in her heartless new form. She has a scar across her cheek, and one side of her head is shaved. The rest of her dark hair falls in waves down her back, and her lethal red eyes are upturned and lined with eyeliner. The mirrors can block the Crimson, but they do nothing against the naked fear that grabs me the second I see her hateful eyes in the glass.
“The orders can wait for one more fucking minute while I find them. I know they were here,” she snips, eyes roving the foyer. I pull my hand back. I thought it would make it less scary to see that she still looked human somehow. That maybe it would be better than being chased by a wraith draped in black robes.
But nope. It is just as scary.
The first male speaks as the female stalks to our previous hiding place and tears the door open. A ripping sound fills the room and echoes off the marble, and she hisses. She’s pulled the door straight off the hinges. She growls in irritation and throws the door to the side. It lands on the tile with a loud clap that makes me jump. “If we find the Chosen One, then we won’t need to scavenge like this anymore, Lemmere. You’re not seeing the big picture. And Caine won’t care if you see it or not. If we’re not back at the gate in two minutes, you’ll never be hungry again.”
The woman, Lemmere, hisses as she slams the door to the viewing room.
“If she even exists,” she bites back. “How many times have they thought they’ve found them before? And it all ended the same, didn’t it? A pile of bones, picked clean before the crows could even get to it.”
My stomach twists, and I clamp my teeth around my top lip.
I want to look over again, just to make sure that Dean is still there. I don’t know how long he can hold his breath, but I pray he can hold it a little longer.
“I smell them. I know they’re in here somewhere,” Lemmere snaps.
If I had been in the water, they’d have left by now.
Leave, I beg silently.
Lemmere huffs but follows the male back to the doors. “This won’t matter if we aren’t allowed to hunt at some point,” she says. “None of her orders will pertain to us if we aren’t alive.”
My mind pricks, questions tinkling like shards of glass at her words.
“You’ll be worse than dead if you mention insubordination again,” the man orders through a wet-sounding snarl.
Lemmere chuckles. “Oh, I love watching you try and pretend you still give a shit about orders, even in your condition, Richtor. It’s like watching a wild boar try and use a fork.”
The Vessel named Richtor starts another growl, but quickly swallows it. “We search, as ordered. Then we find the food,” he commands.
I breathe easier as the door creaks. They are leaving.
Despite my terror, questions bloom in my chest.
I know the legend they’re searching for. We all know—the Chosen One. A myth—the one who can end the Crimson and all the sorrow it’s brought. But the her they were talking about . . . she was different. She was giving them orders, and they were obeying.
Who is ordering the Vessels? I chance a movement, pivoting slowly in the same moment that a slight breeze rolls through the foyer. It’s nothing—a whisper. But that’s all it takes. The squeaking door stops abruptly, and I twist, edging my mirror around the edge of the statue.
In the reflection, I watch as Lemmere turns on her heel, her red eyes positively alight with glee as she zeroes in on the fountain.
“I told you, Richtor,” she sings, walking slowly back to the fountain. Richtor doesn’t argue, because he can’t talk. His eyes have gone a shade darker than Lemmere’s—the color of spoiled blood. His lips twitch, curling over his teeth as he slinks toward the fountain where Dean is hiding. He’s hungry, and whatever reason he has is slowly slipping.
“Come out and play, little human,” Lemmere says, kicking a leaf as she makes a show of tiptoeing toward the murky water. I know he must be almost out of breath. I’m surprised he lasted this long.
It is in that moment, staring into Lemmere’s bloodred eyes, that I realize I can’t do what Dean had asked of me. I can’t kill him.
And I also can’t live with myself if I don’t fulfill my promise.
The panic of those two things, combined, makes me jump to my feet.
“Over here,” I choke out, hoping that Dean is still underwater and can’t hear the stupidity coming out of my mouth. If I survive this, he will kill me.
Lemmere and Richtor both look up, startled for half a second. A deadly playfulness sparks in their eyes, and Richtor’s lips peel back even farther.
“I’m here,” I repeat, my voice catching in my dry throat.
Lemmere jumps from one edge of the fountain to the other with lethal grace. Vessels don�
��t just have immortality and heightened senses. They are also extremely strong and freakishly agile. You know, all the things you’d hope the things hunting you wouldn’t be. If the painful demise into a mindless hunk of cannibalistic meat wasn’t inevitable—a fate Richtor is closer to than Lemmere, it seems—it almost wouldn’t be a bad deal.
I look down, eyeing her in the mirrors strapped to my wrists and thighs. The reflections move together—dozens of Lemmeres inching toward me. My heart pounds in my chest as I chance a look to the level of the fountain. Richtor is on the edge of it. I just need him to step off, to get away from Dean.
He jumps down and comes alongside Lemmere, who isn’t moving.
“This is where you run, little one,” she purrs.
And I am all too happy to oblige.
I whip around, sprinting down the hallway, shoving past half-hinged doors as I book it toward the exit.
I hear them behind me, Lemmere’s snarl ripping off the marble like a living thing as they pursue.
It is only when I reach the far doorway that empties into the main courtyard that I realize I don’t really have a plan.
No. I don’t have a plan at all. I tear down the courtyard, under overgrown olive trees snaking around the trellises that used to separate the walking paths.
“Charlotte!” Dean screams from behind me. The sound of feet skidding on gravel rips through the air, and I raise the mirrors on my arms to look behind me. Dean jumps over the railing of the stairs, running toward me as he pulls his iron blade from its sheath. Richtor spins around, his terrifying grin widening as he takes off toward Dean.
Lemmere stays locked on me, and I take off once more.
I turn left and launch myself over stone benches before skidding to a stop as I reach the balcony that overlooks the museum’s front entrance. I ignore the laughter that bubbles up from Lemmere’s chest as she slides to a stop against the railing.
“Running out of options, darling,” she croons.
I sprint toward the stairs on the far northern side, still without a plan. Even if I get to the cobblestone road that leads down to PCH, I will still have to—eventually—turn and face her. That, or just run straight into the ocean.
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