Beneath Blood and Bone

by Madeline Sheehan

  His wet hand touched my face, wiping softly and rubbing gently. Eventually, as he gave my arms the same treatment, I opened my eyes. Surrounded by large looming trees, we were seated in a shallow creek, the water only reaching Eagle’s waist.

  He continued cleaning me, scooping up water and letting it pour over me. I trembled with every wipe of his hands, every touch of his fingers, until I was shaking so violently, I could no longer contain my tears. Clinging to Eagle, I started to sob.

  I didn’t know how long we sat there, seated in the water as we clung to each other, but he never once let me go. He held me tight against him, his hands rubbing soothing paths up and down my back, until eventually my sobs subsided and I fell limp in his lap.

  “I need to clean up,” he finally said.

  He set me down beside him, and I brought my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Standing before me, he pulled his shirt over his head and used it as a rag, dipping it into the water and then wiping it over his skin. When the blood was gone from his face and body, I stared up at him, shocked.

  What happened to him?

  His face and neck was a mixture of swollen cuts and rapidly darkening bruises, and his torso was more of the same. He hadn’t left me, I realized. He must have tried to get to me. And his body displayed a map of the pain he had gone through while trying. The realization gave me a surge of energy, and I let go of my knees and shakily got to my feet.

  I reached for the rag and he readily released it. Dipping it into the water, I stood on my tiptoes and tentatively daubed around the worst of the cuts on his face. As I gently wiped a nasty-looking cut slicing through his eyebrow, our gazes locked. His fingers encircled my wrist and pulled my hand from his face.

  “Squirrel,” he said, his voice a throaty whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know what to say. To tell him I was sorry as well sounded weak and placating. Instead, I simply stared up at him, telling him with my eyes everything I couldn’t say. Telling him I was sorry too, that I was sorry for everything. For the infection, for his family, for my family, for barging into his life and screwing it up, for the loss of my cave, for forcing him to leave his home. For everything. I was sorry for it all.

  He cut off my silent apology with a kiss. The kiss was soft and incredibly sweet, all lips with only a touch of tongue. It was unlike any kiss we’d shared before, and utterly unlike Eagle.

  Pulling away, he bowed his head and pressed his forehead to mine. “So,” he said. “Where to?”

  I looked up and into the black depths of his eyes. It was quiet here, wherever we were, and peaceful. Despite the cold water at our feet, in his arms I felt warm. That was where I wanted to be, somewhere quiet, and with him. Only him.

  “Somewhere quiet,” I whispered. “No people.”

  “No people.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my nose. “We’re going to be okay, you hear me?” Not waiting for a response, he crushed me to him. “We’re going to be fine,” he muttered. “Just fucking fine.”

  Maybe we would and maybe we wouldn’t; I didn’t know. The world was a big place, and full of danger. But if we could find a corner of it, a quiet and safe place, and make it our own . . . just maybe we’d have a chance.

  Epilogue

  Eagle

  The shrill scream penetrated my thoughts and sent me running back in the direction I’d come. Not an easy feat in mountainous terrain. The rocks were slippery, thanks to the last remnants of winter snow still melting away, and I was falling more than I wasn’t. Black ice lurked on most of the landscape, catching me unaware and sending me flat on my back each time my threadbare boots touched down on it.

  I needed new boots; hell, I needed new everything at this point. Not that any of those things were obtainable. Living off the land came with little-to-no guarantees, especially when more often than not, you didn’t have a goddamn clue what you were doing.

  In hindsight, Purgatory had been living in luxury compared to living like a mountain man. Out here there were no wind turbines, no wells, no variety of people with invaluable skill sets. The gas had run out, and the ammunition was gone. Out here there was just me, the machete at my hip, the blades in my boots, and my own two hands.

  The screams grew louder the farther I ran, accompanied by the clang of metal against rock. When I recognized the small clearing I’d passed through earlier, excitement pooled in my gut. Slowing to a jog, I came to a stop behind a large tree trunk.

  Taking a minute to catch my breath, I glanced up through the canopy of tree branches to peer at the sun. It was nearly midday, the sun at its highest. I needed to be getting back, but I refused to go home empty-handed. Pulling my machete free, I stepped out from behind the tree and grinned.

  The doe’s big black eyes connected with mine, and her screams died in her throat. The bear trap I’d set had clamped down on both her hind legs, breaking them and leaving her unable to stand; she could only flail uselessly against the rocky ground.

  My steps were slow and deliberate as I circled her. She twitched nervously, and a high-pitched growl erupted from her as she twisted her neck, attempting to follow my movements.

  “Never did like a noisy female,” I whispered.

  Behind her now, I feinted left, and her head whipped in my direction. Lunging right with my arm raised, I swung down on an arc and embedded the blade in the back of her neck. Her head dropped to the ground with a soft thud, although she continued to twitch for several more minutes.

  Taking a seat on the cold ground beside her, I pulled my flask from inside my camouflage jacket and took a long drink of water. There were several freshwater falls within these mountains, but fresh water didn’t mean clean water. Every drop drank was first boiled and cooled. Not such a big deal in Purgatory, but out here it was time consuming in a situation where every minute counted.

  Hell, out here, every second counted.

  We’d only made it six hours from Purgatory when we ran out of gas, but by then I’d already formed a plan, and had been purposely traveling toward the mountains. I’d just never expected it to be a permanent one.

  We’d spent two days camping in a state park before setting out on foot with whatever supplies we could carry strapped to our backs. The first day we found several cabins, but none of them were habitable. Roofs had caved in, walls were crumbling, and weeds had grown up through the floorboards.

  They were prefabricated structures used by seasonal campers or hunters, and without continuous care and maintenance, their condition didn’t surprise me. They’d been produced on an assembly line, profit above product, and not made to weather the elements. Taking what usable items we found inside them, we’d continued on.

  Eventually the trails grew scarce and the cabins even scarcer. We hadn’t spotted a rotter in days, but the higher we climbed, the colder it became. Without decent shelter, and without the remaining supplies left in the truck, I’d had little faith either of us were going to last if we didn’t turn back.

  On the sixth day, we’d come across another trail in the middle of nowhere and had mindlessly followed it until reaching the end. Surrounded by trees and rocky outcroppings stood a cabin, a log home a story and a half high with stone accents. Hand crafted from the ground up, whoever had built it had known what they were doing. It was a structure made to withstand the mountain elements.

  I stopped keeping track of the days after that.

  The sun rose and the sun set. Every day was another fucking challenge to get through. Wood had to be found and chopped. Food had to be hunted, dried or cooked, and stored. Water had to be collected and boiled. There was no one to trade with, no nearby towns to pillage, and no one to hand the work off to. Every day we worked just to see the next.

  Turning to the doe, I scanned her prone body. “You done bleeding yet?” Black, unseeing eyes stared back at me.

  Time to get to work before the meat spoiled. I got to my feet and pried the trap from her legs. After resetting it on the opposite side of the clearing, I
pulled the rope wrapped around my shoulder free and set it aside. Maneuvering the deer onto its back, I pulled a small blade from my boot and cut the animal open from sternum to crotch. Blood gushed as I pulled her insides out, soaking the animal’s fur and pooling on the ground below. When I couldn’t pull anything else forward, I took my blade and started pounding the knife through the center of the pelvic bone and quickly finished the job. I hated leaving the mess behind; the blood and guts were a beacon to other wild animals and the possibility of rotters. Digging a shallow hole with my blade, I buried them as best as could, although there was nothing I could do about the blood.

  Picking up the rope, I hog-tied her legs, finishing the job by bringing her hoofs above her head and tying her off in a ball of fur and blood. Unlike the smaller animals I usually caught, she was too heavy to carry, but dragging her back would be easy enough.

  The walk back was quick and uneventful. I knew it by heart now—every tree, every clearing, even the larger rock clusters that were strewn around, I now recognized on sight.

  The trees thinned out and the woodpile came into view first, and I nearly groaned at the sight of the pile of branches waiting to be chopped. Dropping the doe by the wood—a reminder to finish what I’d started this morning—I headed for the house.

  The grass here was nearly to my thighs, and hiding behind it was the low-set front porch that spanned nearly half the cabin. Once on the porch, I balled my hand into a fist and pounded hard on the door, three hard, quick knocks.

  We’d had to break the door open when we found the place, but I’d long since patched it over and fashioned a drop-bar latch, stolen from a tiny shed behind the house. It meant we couldn’t exit through the door and keep it locked, but these days I wasn’t allowing Autumn to do much leaving, with the exception of gathering flowers and weeds.

  I heard the floorboards creak beneath her feet as she padded swiftly across the room. The latch moaned in protest as she lifted it, and the door squealed lightly as it swung open. The pungent smell of boiling plants wafted out to greet me as gray eyes scanned me up and down, before looking past me and settling on the woodpile. When she saw the doe, Autumn’s lips split into a smile.

  “Good job,” she said softly as she placed a hand over her flannel shirt that covered her slightly rounded stomach.

  Watching as she unconsciously rubbed her belly, a prickling sensation washed over me. Fear. Every day since the day we’d figured out why she’d been throwing up everything she ate, I’d felt nothing but fear. She could die giving birth, both she and the baby could die, and there was nothing I’d be able to do to prevent it.

  “Are you going to stand out there all day?” she asked.

  “No,” I muttered, then turned. “I’m gonna go string her up and finish the job.” I paused when I felt her grab hold of my coat sleeve.

  “Eagle.” She pulled, attempting to tug me forward. “It can wait,” she said.

  Reluctantly, I let her lead me inside to the piss-poor excuse of a couch left behind by the previous owner. Taking a seat on the threadbare cushion beside me, Autumn curled up against me and slid an arm across my stomach. Her fingertips tiptoed beneath the hem of my shirt until her bare skin was touching mine. Neither of us said a word, the only sound the hiss of boiling water from across the room.

  There were times we’d go days without talking, consumed by the constant work that needed to be done, too exhausted to form a word. Other times, we’d do nothing but talk. Mostly Autumn would plan; she was always planning something. I would listen, attempting to weed through her ramblings and pinpoint what was actually doable. None of it ever was.

  But I never went a day without touching her, even on the days we didn’t speak.

  Glancing down at her, I found her watching me, her eyes curious, her cheeks adorably rounded and flushed. Her hair was longer now, thicker, and hanging down over her shoulders in soft waves. She looked healthy, so fucking healthy, and goddamn beautiful.

  “You should kiss me,” she whispered.

  My brow lifted and I smirked. “Yeah? Why?”

  “Because when you’re kissing me, you’re not thinking, and when you’re not thinking, you’re not worrying.”

  My gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Smiling, she pursed her lips. “Kiss me, Eagle.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I got shit to do.”

  “Eagle . . .” Grabbing my hand, she placed it on her belly.

  I started to pull away but stopped when I felt it, a soft nudge against my palm. My chest tightened and my eyes closed. I’d been down this road before, with a woman I loved and two children I would have died to protect. I couldn’t protect them, and I couldn’t save them.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, pleading.

  I opened my eyes and moved my hand from her belly to her cheek. Cupping it, I stroked my thumb across her bottom lip, tugging it open. Then I lowered my head and covered her mouth with mine, and slid my tongue inside.

  She was right. Just like it always did when I kissed her, everything else faded away, faded to nothing around us.

  It was just me and her, and the quiet.

  About the Authors

  Fantastical realm-dweller Madeline Sheehan is the USA Today bestselling author of the Holy Trinity Trilogy and Undeniable series. She has also co-authored with Claire C. Riley the Thicker than Blood series, and Shut Up and Kiss Me.

  A Social Distortion enthusiast, lover of mud and anything deemed socially inappropriate, Madeline was homegrown in Buffalo, New York, where she can be found engaging in food fights and video game marathons with her husband and son.

  Welcome to her world of fantastical romance, full of unconventional love and unscripted emotions.

  www.facebook.com/MadelineSheehanBooks

  www.MadelineSheehan.com

  Claire C. Riley is a USA Today bestseller and bestselling British horror writer whose work is best described as the modernization of classic, old-school horror. Author of the bestselling Odium The Dead Saga series, as well as Limerence The Obsession series, she co-authored the Thicker than Blood series and Shut Up and Kiss Me with Madeline Sheehan.

  Claire lives in the United Kingdom with her husband, three daughters, and one scruffy dog. She’s a lover of epic romances and an eater of cake.

  She writes characters that are realistic and kills them without mercy.

  www.facebook.com/ClaireCRileyAuthor

  www.clairecriley.com

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I’m nothing without with the team behind me. Pam B., Gail H., and Ashley S., you ladies are my lifesavers, always ready with an answer to every one of my questions, and full of unwavering support of my stories. I may write it, but you read it, critique it, edit it, and help shape it, and I consider it a privilege to work with you.

  To the women and men in Hemingway and Hawing, the literary world is lucky to have you and so am I. Thanks for the constant shoulders to lean on.

  And Dad, thanks for reading everything I’ve ever written. Despite your thinking that books about zombies are laughable and ludicrous, I enjoyed proving you wrong. Your opinions and praise (and *ahem* criticisms) are the ones that have always mattered above all others. I’ll never be as notable or inspiring as you are, but you’re a reminder of what I’m forever striving to achieve.

  Madeline

  To my badass girls, you know who you are. Your constant encouragement, your shoulders for crying on, and your strength when I’m struggling to find my own are a constant testament to your amazing friendship. A good friend will tell you that you’re great, a real friend will tell you that you suck! Thank you, ladies.

  And as always, thank you to my amazing Street Team—Little Reds Deads. You rock so hard, and I love every one of you for it. Thank you for your constant belief in me.

  Claire xxx

  Coming Soon

  From Madeline Sheehan

  and Claire C. Riley

  THERE WILL BE BLOOD

  (Thicker Than Blood #3)


  PROLOGUE

  Do not go gentle into that good night. It was a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas I’d learned in my youth, before I’d been forced to drop out of school. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  The lines had stuck with me throughout my life, always hovering on the edge of my thoughts, waiting for me to grab hold of the words and thrust them forward. Waiting for me to take my fate in my own two fists and bend it to my will.

  When the Vaal Fever came, I thought my prayers had finally been answered, that God had heard my pleading cries. Because when you lived the sort of life some of us less fortunate were relegated to, the end of the world as you knew it was really a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t succumb to the sickness, and I sure as hell wouldn’t go gentle into that good night.

  Finally, I was truly living; we all were, those of us who hadn’t been before. We fought against the death that threatened, experiencing for the first time all the things we’d been long deprived of.

  I was determined to live, mowing down any and all in my way, and using whatever resources I had at my disposal. Steel, blades, even my own body.

  This was the world I’d been meant for. A world without books and bank accounts. A world without rules. A world without cages.

  This was the world that enabled me to crawl, bleeding and broken, from beneath the oppression of social hierarchy and the moral majority. A world where I could finally stand on my own two feet.

  This was a world where I could be queen, where my presence should have both the dead and the living falling to their knees before me.