by Darcy Coates
She clambered up the slope created by the front stairs and collapsed as she reached the door. Her lungs ached. Her throat burned. But she’d made it. Dorran had left the double doors open when he left. Clumps of snow dotted the marble floor in the foyer.
Clare finally allowed herself to look back. Dorran was slowly weaving his way across the field. But so were a cluster of dark, twisted shapes.
“Oh…” Using the stone walls for support, Clare stood. Dorran backed towards the house, moving cautiously but steadily. Any time one of the creatures drew too close, he swung his shovel at them. Twice, he hit his mark and knocked them down. More often than not, he missed.
Clare realised he wasn’t trying to hit them. There were eight of the creatures. Trying to battle all of them at once would have been suicide. Every time he swung the shovel, though, the crowd would back off, allowing Dorran to gain another few feet.
Clare pressed a hand to her throat. If Dorran could just get to the front door, he could drop inside the house, and they could slam the wooden slabs shut. The creatures would still be outside, but she and Dorran should be relatively safe in the building. At least for a few days… until their food ran out.
She tried not to think about that. Dorran’s tactic was risky. He was slow, trying to move through the thick snow and keep the creatures at bay at the same time. They weren’t as mindlessly obsessed as the first two monsters that had attacked Clare, and they weren’t rushing forwards recklessly. Occasionally, one would try to creep around the group to get at Dorran’s back, and he had to dance away to keep them all within sight. She didn’t know if he had the energy to ward them off until he reached the house.
“Come on,” she whispered. Once he got closer, she would be able to help. She could find a weapon or distract the creatures by throwing something at them. But he was still too far out for her to do anything, and he was drifting away from the front door.
Clare took a step forward, confusion and panic catching in her throat. Instead of aiming for the house’s front, Dorran had speared off to the side. She couldn’t tell if the creatures had managed to herd him off course or if he’d become disoriented. As far as she knew, there was no entrance to Winterbourne in the direction he was moving. Just endless windows, all locked. And the pond.
When Clare craned her neck, she could see the hollow in the snow. Dorran had told her to avoid the area. The excess warmth from the garden room was piped outside near the pond. The ice would be unstable.
Clever, Dorran.
He passed behind the snow-frosted hedges. Clare, unwilling to let him out of sight but also conscious of her promise to stay in the house, slipped through the open doorway. Her sore feet ached as they jarred on the marble floor. She pushed the doors closed so that passing eyes wouldn’t think there was a way into the house but left them unlocked in case Dorran needed to make a hasty retreat. Then she kicked off her snowshoes as quickly as she could and jogged through the house.
Despite the time she’d spent in the manor, she still wasn’t familiar with its layout. She thought she could visualise the path she needed to take, though. She burst through one of the doors and into the dining room. The immense space stretched along one side of the house, overlooking the front gardens. And, like Clare had hoped, it had a view of the pond.
She ran across the room, pressing close to the tall, narrow windows as she watched Dorran’s progress. He seemed to be flagging. His broad shoulders shook, and when he swiped the shovel, the movements lacked their earlier intensity. But he’d managed to lead the monsters on without letting any of them circle around him. Clare bit her thumb as she watched.
The snow dipped down over the pond, and Dorran let himself skid down the side. As he came to a halt in the basin, his movements slowed and became much more cautious. He lowered his body and used a hand to help disperse his weight as he crept back towards the building.
It was a gamble. He was banking on the idea that the ice was melted enough to crack when eight emaciated bodies weighed it down but wasn’t thin enough to drop him in too. He’d asked her to trust him. He wasn’t making it easy.
Clare pressed close to the window. Dorran moved incredibly slowly. The humanoid creatures were gaining on him. They didn’t seem to realise what he was doing, and in their eyes, it must have looked like Dorran’s energy reserves were gone. One of them got near enough to bite at his leg. He jabbed the shovel at it, and it backed off, teeth bared.
Now that they were closer, Clare could see the malformed bodies. They were walking nightmares. The closest one, the one who had tried to bite Dorran, had meters of excess skin. The flaps hung loose, like a blanket wrapped around the body and pinned at strange places. Whenever the creature moved, the flaps swung like pendulums. Holes pocked the skin. Clare thought she saw maggots squirming inside one of them.
Another creature scuttled closer. Its lower teeth had grown horribly long. Three of them had pierced its upper jaw and poked out through the cheeks. The skin around them trembled every time the being breathed.
Dorran had passed the halfway point in the lake. He looked down then back up. Clare felt her stomach drop. The monsters gathered together, keeping in a group, but their combined weight wasn’t enough to break the ice.
Maybe he miscalculated. Maybe the vent wasn’t hot enough. Maybe the lake is still frozen solid or has five feet of ice that won’t crack, no matter what.
Dorran stood. Clare guessed what he was about to do. She yelled and banged her open hand on the window. He turned, looked at her, and gave her a very small smile. Then he lifted the shovel and slammed its edge down onto the ice.
Clare heard the cracking noises even through the window. Dorran took a step back as the frozen surface under his feet lurched.
The creatures sensed their moment of opportunity and swarmed forward. Shards of ice burst upwards as the lake’s surface broke, showering little specks of snow across the scene. Then they all, monsters and human, plunged into the lake.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“No!” Clare beat her fist against the glass. Jets of water sprayed up as the nine bodies disappeared into the lake. Dorran wasn’t surfacing.
The front door was too far away. Clare tore off her gloves. Numb fingers scrambled along the window’s edge and found the latch. It was fused closed from disuse and cold. She wrenched on it until the glass cracked and the latch finally gave way. Then she kicked at the window frame, forcing it open, and climbed onto the sill.
Dorran surfaced, black hair plastered over his face. He coughed violently, reaching for the shore. The ice, already fractured, broke under his hands.
Hold on. Please, please, hold on.
She wouldn’t be able to get close enough to pull him out without being sucked into the lake as well. Desperation pulsed through her as she searched for something—anything—she could throw to Dorran. The serving tables were too large and heavy. The chairs were too short. The curtains…
The curtains might just do.
The windows were massively tall, and the curtains had been designed to match. The vivid red cloth had to be close to fifteen feet from floor to ceiling. Clare grabbed the nearest bunch. It was thick, heavier than was ideal, but there was no time to look for something better. She yanked on it. The curtain rods were well-made and barely bowed. Clare wrapped her arms around the fabric and leapt off the windowsill, using her weight to pull them down.
The wooden rods cracked and broke, and Clare tumbled to the ground in a flurry of fabric and clatter of metal rings. She rolled, regained her feet, bundled the cloth up, and threw it through the window.
Dorran clawed at the edges of the lake. Icy water surrounded him in a maze of blue and fractured blocks of white. Every time he gained an inch, the snow gave way and dropped him back in.
Clare ran, struggling through the thick snow and dragging the curtain with her. She stopped where the snowbank sloped down to the water’s edge and bundled the curtain up.
“Dorran!” She didn’t know if he could
hear her, but she threw one end of the fabric. It spiralled out, unravelling as it tumbled, and slapped into the water near Dorran. He grabbed it. Clare tightened her grip on the other end then leaned back and pulled.
Slowly, agonisingly, Dorran began to emerge from the lake. He kicked to help push himself out while Clare tilted backwards. Her tired muscles screamed. She stumbled, dropping Dorran back by half a foot. Then she collected herself and redoubled her efforts.
He coughed, hacking up water as he gained solid ground. Once he was free, he fell to his side.
Clare let go of her end of the cloth and scrambled down to Dorran. He was shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes were closed. He looked completely spent. She dropped to her knees at his side, gripped his wet shirt, and shook him. “Dorran. Dorran. You have to get up.”
His eyes cracked open.
“Please.” She ran her fingers across his forehead, pushing the drenched hair away from his face. He felt like ice. “I can’t carry you. You have to get up. The house is close.”
“I am sorry.” The words came out as a gasp through chattering teeth. “I am sorry. I tried. I… I am sorry.”
“Dorran?”
His eyes lost their focus. Terror hit Clare, thick enough to choke her. She grabbed Dorran’s collar and shook him hard, trying to keep him awake.
A hissing, clicking noise came from the lake behind them. One of the creatures had reached the shore. It clawed at the snow mindlessly, its fingers frozen stiff.
Clare’s throat closed with panic. Moisture stung her eyes.
Dorran was breathing thin gasps that sounded raw and painful, but he wasn’t moving. The water leaking from his clothes was turning to rivulets of ice among the snow.
“Dorran!” She screamed his name, her voice breaking. “Get up, get up, move!”
He took a ragged breath, and his eyes opened. They were dull, exhausted, and resigned. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
No. Don’t leave me here. She pulled on his shirt, trying to drag him towards the house. “Please. Please. Get up. I need you. Please.”
“Nh.” He pressed one hand into the snow and tried to rise but collapsed back down.
Clare wrapped her arms around him. He felt like winter. Her hands turned numb as she grasped fistfuls of his shirt and tried to lift. “Come on. Again.”
He lurched onto his knees. Clare tried not to gasp. Icy water drained from his clothes, seeping into her jacket and turning to frost on the zipper. She tightened her hold.
“A bit more. I won’t leave you. Just… just keep trying.”
A grunt of pain escaped him as he staggered onto his feet. Clare kept her arms wrapped tightly around him, carrying as much of his weight as she could. She dragged him towards the open window. One of his hands gripped her shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. He didn’t know how tightly he was holding her, and Clare didn’t try to stop him. The ache lent her focus.
“Just a bit more.” Her voice cracked. She didn’t know how she was going to get Dorran through the window. The door was too far away. But she had to get him inside.
Think, Clare!
Dorran unexpectedly let go of her. He reached forwards and grasped the sill then pulled himself onto it.
He had no strength left to climb, so instead, he fell. He hit the floor of the dining room with a horrible thud. Clare followed him, clambering over the sill, shaking. She slammed the windowpane shut behind them. In the distance, the lake edge shimmered in the pale light, a sheet of ice already reforming. The sole surviving monster clung to the shore, its arms coated in ice and cemented to the ground. Its head continued to move, though, as its jaw twisted and gnashed.
“We did it. We’re okay.” Clare bent and touched Dorran’s face. He didn’t respond. Her smile faded, and she shook his shoulder to rouse him. “Dorran?”
He was still breathing, but he wasn’t moving. Her heart squeezed, the relief vanishing. He needed warmth. Clare looked towards the dining room door. The bedroom was heated, but they were separated from it by two flights of stairs.
The dining room had its own fireplace, but it was stone cold. Clare had no other options, though. She ran to the hearth and shovelled the kindling inside. Numb fingers struggled to light a match, and it took her three attempts to get the fire started. Mist rolled away from her lips with every breath.
It won’t be enough. Come on, Clare. How do you treat hypothermia? You know this.
She returned to Dorran. He lay beneath the window, his clothes dripping water across the tile floor. She rushed to pull his boots off then unbuttoned his jacket and shirt. She couldn’t lift him high enough to get the clothes off his arms.
The nearby serving table had a cupboard underneath. She crawled to it and wrenched the door open. Inside were utensils, including a carving knife. She flexed her grip on the handle as she moved back to Dorran.
Be careful. Your hands are shaking. Don’t cut him.
She pressed the blade against his throat, near the collar. He flinched. It was a small movement, but Clare took a shuddering breath. She began cutting.
The fabric was a thick weave, but the blade was sharp. Clare sawed through the shirt’s sleeves then turned to Dorran’s pants. She didn’t dare touch his underwear, but everything else came off.
“Okay. Okay.” Clare dropped the knife. The scraps of fabric lay underneath Dorran. His skin, still damp, was an unnatural white-grey colour, the same shade as a corpse.
Get him off the tiles. Clare dragged her fingers through her hair as she looked around. Her lips trembled as she fought to keep frightened tears inside. The fireplace had a rug in front of it. The mat was thick and covered in a twisting pattern of blues and golds. Clare grabbed it and dragged it back to the window to position it at Dorran’s side.
She got her arms around him again, fighting her impulse to recoil from his cold flesh. He was heavy, but Clare didn’t give up until he was fully off the tiles. He fit on the rug without much room left. Breathing heavily from the exertion, she let him go then tilted his head back, ensuring that his airways would be open.
What next? What does he need?
“Heat,” Clare whispered. The fire’s blaze was still young but growing. Clare gripped the rug’s edge above Dorran’s head, then leaned back, gasping and struggling as she pulled it across the tiles. She got him to the space in front of the fire, as close as she could manage, then dropped down beside him, exhausted.
Don’t stop. Find blankets.
She winced as she returned to her feet. Her fingers were burning as exertion forced hot blood into her cold hands. Her mind was scattered, pushed to breaking from fear and exhaustion, but she pressed it to work, to remember what she needed, as she crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs. She found blankets in the upstairs bedroom and towels in the bathroom. She filled a pot with water and snatched their dressing gowns off the bedroom door on the way out.
The water sloshed and threatened to spill, and Clare’s teeth began to ache where she was clenching them. She stumbled down the stairs, too frantic to be safe, and made it back to the dining room. As she closed the door behind her, she craned her neck to see Dorran by the fire.
He’s not breathing.
A metallic tang flooded her mouth as she bit her tongue. She staggered forward, the pot’s water dripping over her arms as it tipped. She left her burdens on the floor and knelt next to Dorran. Her fingers shook as they pressed against his chest. If there was any warmth left in him, she couldn’t feel it.
“No, no—”
He drew breath. It was shallow and weak but not yet gone. Clare rocked forward, gasping from relief.
Heat. Hurry.
The fire was gaining momentum as it consumed the kindling. Clare shoved small pieces of wood onto it and set the pot of water beside the flames to heat. Then she grabbed one of the towels from the pile beside her. She dug it into Dorran’s long black hair, squeezing to get the water out. He made a small noise in the back of his throat.
“You’re okay.�
�� Clare leaned over him, her face above his. Dark shadows framed his closed eyes. His lips were blue. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”
Clare turned towards the pot in the fire. It wasn’t quite boiling, but steam rose from the surface. She picked up a fresh towel and dipped it into the water, heating it, then draped it over Dorran’s throat, where the warmth would reach his core faster. She held it there until it started to cool, then returned it to the pot to heat again.
Please, this has to be enough.
Images of frostbite ran through her mind. She wanted to wrap Dorran’s hands and feet in warm towels, but Bethany’s sharp voice rang through her mind. She’d heard that lecture many times: heating extremities too quickly would cause more damage. The best she could do for him was to get his core warm first.
Shivers racked Clare. The fire’s heat kissed her skin, but her own clothes were still damp. As she left the heated towel on Dorran to warm him, Clare shuffled back and quickly undressed down to her underwear. She wrapped one of the gowns around herself, tied it tightly, then took the wet towel away from Dorran’s throat and dabbed the skin dry.
It wouldn’t help to cover him yet. The fire’s glow was warming him better than the blankets could, so she left him exposed to it. But his right side, the one facing away from the fire, was left cold.
Clare shook out the blankets then carefully lowered herself to the rug beside Dorran. She wrapped the blankets around her own back, then shuffled forwards to share her body heat.
Embarrassed but too afraid of what would happen if she didn’t, Clare undid the dressing gown and pressed herself against him. His arm lay along her stomach, the cold fingers resting on her thighs. She resisted the urge to move away from his chilled body and curled forward, resting one leg against Dorran’s and placing her hand on his chest. She could feel him breathing under her fingers.
She closed her eyes and whispered against his shoulder, “Please don’t leave me.”