The Grace Year(66)

“Ned got one by the eastern fence,” Anders says.

I sit up straight, tight as an arrow. That must’ve been the caw we heard last night.

“Hardly any meat on it, brains all scrambled, but Ned’s set for life. You’re missing out. That’s the sixteenth one you’ve slept through.”

“Sixteen,” I whisper.

“They’re going down a lot earlier this season. Martin says the magic is really strong this year.”

“Is that right?” Ryker replies, but I can sense the uneasiness in his voice, which means Anders can probably sense it, too.

I hear him take another step up the ladder. “How’d that wool work out for you?”

“Wool?”

My eyes shoot to my cloak, hanging by the hearth.

“You traded me an elk hide for it?”

“Oh, yeah, made a great herb satchel.”

“Let’s see.” The poacher takes another step up the ladder.

A surge of panic rushes through me. If he gets all the way up here, I need to be ready to run … to fight.

“I haven’t started yet,” Ryker explains, “but I will as soon as the weather turns cooler.”

Getting up as quietly as possible, I tiptoe across the room to fetch my cloak and boots. The floorboard lets out a deep groan.

There’s an awkward pause. I’m waiting for Anders to come charging up the ladder to see what’s going on when he says, “You know it was a year ago today that I was cursed … when you brought me home.”

“That’s right,” Ryker replies, a soft haze slipping into his voice.

“I thought I was a dead man.”

“But you made it. You survived.”

“They owe me,” Anders says, his voice darkening. “They killed my whole family. All I need is one clean shot. We’d have a lot better chance if you were out here with me. All we need is one kill, and we can take your family and get out of this place for good. Just like we planned.”

“Take a look at that sky,” Ryker says, clearly trying to change the subject. Or maybe he’s trying to buy me some time.

Slipping into my boots, I grab a knife off the table.

“Yeah. Weather’s changing fast,” Anders replies. “Birds are flying low. Better batten down the hatches, close off the flue. Spring is about to go out with a bang.”

I let out a shaky breath when I hear Anders step off the ladder, his feet hitting the ground, hard. “Hey,” he calls up. “You know you can tell me anything. Whatever’s going on with you, I’m here. Whatever you need.”

As they say their good-byes, I sit on the edge of the bed, boots on, cloak around my shoulders, my body covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Ryker whispers as he comes back inside. It’s the first time he’s ever said he’s sorry to me.

“I wonder who it was last night,” I murmur. “Could’ve been Nanette or Molly or Helen…”

He takes off my boots.

“Or maybe it was Ravenna, Katie, or Jessica.”

He removes my cloak.

“Becca, Lucy, Martha … Gertie…,” I whisper, my chin beginning to tremble. “They don’t deserve this. They don’t owe him their lives.”

Prying the knife out of my hand, he sits beside me.

“I know this is hard, but you don’t know what the prey is capable of … I mean, the girls.” He corrects himself. “When I found Anders last year, he was near death. It started with a rash near the bite mark, and by the time I got him back to the outskirts, it covered his entire body. He was burning up, vomiting blood, white bumps bursting to the touch. And within a week his entire family was dead.”

“White bumps?” I ask, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. “The size of early spring peas?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Does Anders have scars?” I ask, trying to control my breath.

“Yes,” he replies warily.

“Like the one on my thigh?”

He thinks about it for a minute and nods; his cheeks flush.

“It’s from the vaccination my father gave to me.”

“I have one, too,” he says, pointing out a small spot on the back of his shoulder.

“Did my father give you a shot?” I ask, running my thumb over his scar.

“Yes,” he replies. “After we made the agreement.”

The memory comes flooding back to me. The ear in that glass bottle at the apothecary—covered in pustules. My father wasn’t buying that vial for himself or even for my mother—he was buying it for this.

“It’s not a curse,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks. “It’s smallpox. A virus. I don’t know why I never put it together before, but my father had been working on a cure for years. You need to tell the others,” I say, shooting to my feet. “If you go to them and tell them the truth … they’ll stop.”

Ryker shakes his head. “They’d never believe me, and even if they did … think about it…” A look of horror passes over his face. “If they think the curse isn’t real, what’s to stop them from crossing the fence and hunting them down? They’d all be dead by sunrise.”