The Grace Year(55)

Noticing my agitation, the poacher emerges from the shadows, covered in charcoal-gray shrouds. He’s been watching me this whole time. Probably enjoying it. He forces more of the noxious fluid down my throat. I’m choking on it, but he doesn’t care. I can see it in his eyes. I’m nothing more than a pelt to him. An animal.

As the heavy liquid spreads through my body, I’m trying to decide if I should fight or give in, if I even have a choice, when I sense a glow moving from the hearth to my left side. It doesn’t flicker like a candle; it’s strong and steady as a northern star. As the light bends toward me, with it comes the pain. Agonizing pain. A soundless scream boils inside of me. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils. I remember hearing that some of the cruelest poachers like to brand their kill, play with their prey before death.

On the edge of passing out, I hear a sound—boots trudging through heavy snow, the clank of wind chimes, only the sound is too dull for metal or glass. It sounds like heavy blocks of petrified wood clattering together.

The poacher must hear it, too, because he lowers the iron from my flesh. A flash of fear in his eyes.

“Ryker, you there?” An unfamiliar voice penetrates the small space. It sounds like it’s coming from far away.

I let out a moan for help, anything but this, and the poacher shoves his filthy hand over my mouth and nose. I’m struggling against the fleshy part of his palm, for even the smallest bit of air, but he’s too strong. Meeting his cold dark eyes, I know that in a few short seconds he could snuff me out without the slightest hesitation, and maybe that would be for the best, but then I think of my mother and father, my sisters, even Michael. I promised that I would do everything in my power to make it home. Not in those glass bottles … but alive. And as long as there’s breath in my body, I will fight.

But there are many ways to fight.

Blinking up at the poacher, I feel tears slip from the far corners of my eyes, pooling in my ears. I’m silently pleading with him to let go. He must understand, because just as I’m on the verge of death, he eases his hand away. I’m taking in wild gasping breaths when he whispers, “One more sound, and it will be your last. Do you understand?”

I nod my head. At least I think I’m nodding,

“C’mon, lazy,” the stranger’s voice calls. “You’re missing out.”

“Can’t. Sick,” the poacher replies, never once taking his eyes off me.

“Then I’ll come up.”

“No.” The poacher bolts to his feet, showing me his knife belt, one last look of warning before slipping through the heavy door covering.

“Why are you wearing your shroud inside?” the other one asks. “Are you hurt? Did they try to pull you over the barrier?” There’s urgency in his voice, but it sounds thin and distant, like he’s talking through a narrow tube. “Have you been cursed?”

“Only a fever,” the poacher replies. “I should be fine by the new moon.”

I wonder how far away that is … days, weeks, if that’s how long he plans on dragging this out before he finally kills me.

I’m struggling to get up, even lift my head enough so I can get a better sense of where I am … but it’s no use. I must be tied down.

“Did you hear the news?” the other one says. “We got two a fortnight ago. One right by the gate. The other one made it clear over here to the southeast barrier. Your territory.”

“Huh,” the poacher says. “I guess I must’ve slept right through it.”

He’s lying, but it tells me something. They must not know about the rotting cedar, the gap under the fence. And by the way he’s talking, it can’t be far from here. If I can just make it out of here, maybe I can slip back through.

“First one lasted a couple of days, had burns on its back and chest, but Daniel was able to render most of the flesh.”

“Tamara,” I whisper, my eyes veering toward the glass bottles on the table.

“The second one drowned in its own blood before Niklaus even got off its fingertips. At least it wasn’t burned.” He laughs. “Dumb, lucky bastard.”

My chin begins to quiver. She wasn’t an it. She had a name. Meg.

“They said there was a third. Blood trail led right to the shore, to a big hole in the ice. I tried fishing it out, but only found this old rag.”

“Is that wool?” the poacher asks, a strange tension in his voice. “I’ll trade you for it.”

“Why?” the other one asks. “It’s all ripped up … filthy. Probably full of disease.”

“I can boil it … make a nice satchel out of it.”

“Got any hemlock silt?” the other one asks.

“Not yet, but I bet there’ll be some down in the cove come spring. Got a nice elk hide, though.”

“Why would you trade a fine pelt for this? What’s going on?”

“Look, I don’t like to rub it in.” The poacher’s tone changes. Light. Sunny. “But there’s plenty more pelts around here … if you’re skilled with a blade.”

“Hey, I’m getting better,” the other one says with a robust crack of laughter. “Just get me within ten feet of prey and I’ll take it down. You’ll see.”

They’re joking about killing … killing us.