The Grace Year(62)

“Innocent?” He looks back at me, staring pointedly at my shoulder. “No one is innocent in this. You of all people should know that.”

“It was an accident.”

“Accident or not, you have no idea what they’re capable of. The curse. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” As he stokes the fire, his shoulders begin to relax. “Besides, nothing in this world is cut and dried. From death there is life … that’s what my mother always says,” he adds quietly.

“You have family?” I ask. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that poachers would have feelings … a life before all of this.

He starts to speak but then clenches his jaw tight.

“Look, I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t want me here. I’m only trying to pass the time.”

He remains silent.

I let out a huff of air. “Fine.”

“I have a mother. Six sisters,” he says, staring up at the figurines on the hearth.

I count them. There are seven in all. I thought they represented the girls he’d killed, but now I’m thinking they might be his family.

“Six sisters?” I ask, trying to adjust my body so I can see better, but I’m still too weak. “I didn’t think women of the outskirts had that many children.”

“They don’t.” He sets the kettle over the flames. “They’re not blood.” He glances back at me but doesn’t meet my eyes. “My mother … she takes in the young ones. The ones no one wants.”

I’m trying to figure out what he means when the thought hits me right in the throat, making me choke on my own words. “Girls from the county? The girls who get banished?”

He stares into the flames, his eyes a million miles away. “Some of them are so traumatized they don’t speak for months. At first, I hated them, I didn’t understand, but I don’t think about them that way anymore.”

“As prey?” I ask, my voice trembling with anger … fear. “And still you poach us?”

“We’re not poaching anything,” he snaps. “We’ve been sanctioned to cull the herd, paid handsomely to deliver your flesh back to the county. Your fathers, brothers, husbands, mothers, sisters … they are the ones who consume you. Not us.”

A sick feeling rushes through my entire body, making my eyes water. “I had no idea it was the county who did this.”

“If I leave, if I don’t take my place as a poacher, my family won’t get my pay … they’ll starve. And thanks to the county, I have a lot of mouths to feed.”

“Who pays you?” I ask, trying to get control of my breath … my reeling thoughts.

“The same people who send you here,” he says, pouring a steaming cup of broth. “On the final day of our hunting season, we line up outside the gate. Those who return empty-handed get just enough so our families can survive. Those who have prey present their kill. The bottles are counted, the brand verified. If it’s healthy, properly rendered, they get a sack full of gold, enough to take their families west … leave this place for good.”

“But there’s nothing out there … nothing but death.”

“Or maybe that’s what they want us to believe,” he says, barely above a whisper, as he lifts my head, helping me drink.

Another caw rings out over the woods, closer this time, making my skin prickle.

“How do they do it?” I ask, staring toward the doorway. “How do they lure the girls out of the encampment? Is it skill … brute force … the power of persuasion?”

Ryker sets down the broth. “We don’t have to do anything.” His gaze settles on my wound. “They do it to themselves. To each other.”

His words feel like an axe, cutting me all over again.

“Have you ever killed a grace year girl?” I whisper, afraid of the answer, afraid not to ask.

“Almost,” he says, pulling the pelts up, gently tucking me in. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”





“You’re burning up,” he says, pressing a cool rag to my forehead.

Prying my eyes open, I’m struggling to focus on him, to focus on anything. A dull clanking noise pulls my attention.

“What’s that sound?” I whisper.

“The wind.”

“The other sound. I’ve heard it before.”

“The chimes?” he asks.

I let out a deep shiver. “I don’t remember wind chimes sounding like that.”

“They’re made from bones.”

“Why?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes open.

“Anders … he likes to make things with bones.”

I think I heard him correctly, but I can’t be sure of anything anymore.

I reach for the cloth draped over his mouth. “I need to see your face,” I say through my chattering teeth.

He stops me, tucking my arm back under the pelts. “It’s better this way.”

“You don’t have to worry about me … how I’ll react,” I say. “I’ve seen all kinds of deformities. My father has a book—”

“It’s not that.” He lowers his eyes. “It’s forbidden.”