Unhooked(74)

Pain. Sacrifice. Power. The words come together to form a terrible truth.

When we’d come home that night, my mom had started packing, but not before she took me into the kitchen and held ice to my arm. Not before she sharpened the point of a knife and opened my arm so she could place a sliver of metal beneath my skin. A rune, a protective spell against the voice in the darkness that called to me. A defense against what I was. What I am.

Because she was afraid of me.

I look at the dagger in my hand and I don’t let myself think about how it will feel. I look at the scar I’ve lived with for so long, and without any more hesitation, I press the sharp tip of the blade into my skin.





The angel smiled at the boy, her eyes hard and unforgiving. He knew that must mean something, though he could not think what it could be. There was a dull ache behind his eyes. There was something he should be thinking of, remembering. But he couldn’t imagine— “And if I want to go back?” he asked. “There is only forward for you now,” the angel said. She held out her hand again. . . .





Chapter 33


I DON’T FEEL THE PAIN at first. Until the blood wells from where the point of the knife has sliced into my skin, I don’t feel anything at all. It’s like a paper cut you don’t notice until it starts to bleed—and sting.

Rowan says something to me, and I hear the shock in his voice, but I can’t make out his words over the roaring in my ears. It’s too late to turn back now, though. Too late to regret the blood trickling hot and sticky down my arm.

I grit my teeth against the pain and hope that I am right about what I’m doing. I pray the Dark Ones have not given me false memories and the visions aren’t just another trap as I press the tip of the knife deeper into my arm, poking and prodding at the screaming wound until I think I’ll pass out from the pain. Until the tip of my knife hits something solid that is not bone.

My skin is alive with white-hot pain. Still, I don’t let myself stop. This pain is nothing compared to what I will suffer at the hands of those monsters. Nothing compared to what it would be to lose him now.

With a violent jerk, I use the tip of the dagger to pry the small, dark object from my skin. A thin, curved bit of metal rips free, leaving a jagged wound where the scar had once been, and something inside me breaks open—a painful shattering followed by a feeling of relief that almost brings me to my knees.

I don’t have time to examine the strange sense of lightness I feel, but I look at the object dangling from the tip of my knife, and I know the Dark Ones didn’t lie. The bloody metal glints in the afternoon light. It’s a tiny rune my mother used to mute my power in the human world. Because she wanted to protect me . . . and to protect herself from me.

Unsettled and unsure, I tuck the bloody rune into a pocket and focus on what I need to do. Without hesitation now, I press my hands to the wall again. Blood has already left tracks down my arm, but I don’t bother to wipe it away, just as I don’t pay any attention to the burning ache from the still-bleeding wound. My blood courses hot and free through my veins, and I focus everything I have—everything I am—on the island. On the rock in front of me. On saving Rowan. And for the first time, I truly let myself believe in what I might do.

In what I might be.

Heat floods through my body, but this time, it’s as welcoming and gentle as a summer breeze. Above us, the sharp report of cracking rock echoes. The monsters freeze, shifting uneasily as they search for the source of the noise.

“Christ, lass, what are you doing?” Rowan says hoarsely, and I can hear the wonder in his voice. And the fear.

I feel that fear too. I just don’t let myself react to it. “I’m getting us out.”

Keeping my hands pressed against the stone, I shift back a bit, allowing the cliff to move toward me. The whole wall rumbles with great, groaning creaks and thunderous crashes as the once-shear rock rearranges itself one bit at a time, creating a precipitous path up the face of the mountain.

The relief that courses through me nearly knocks me off my feet. “Come on,” I tell Rowan as I step onto the first of the protruding rocks.

He hesitates only a moment before he begins backing his way to where I am. “You think it’ll hold?” He eyes the newly formed steps uneasily.

“I don’t think there’s much choice.” I climb to the next bit of rock. It seems solid enough, so I take another. And then another.

Behind us, the beasts begin to move again as they realize their prey is escaping.

The steps are steep—almost vertical. At times I have to claw at the rock for handholds to pull myself up, but we move quickly—Rowan following at my heels—and ascend at a steady pace.

“Faster, lass,” Rowan urges.

I look down and see that our escape is not going to be easy—the monsters can climb too. So I move faster, ignoring the burning ache in my open wound, ignoring everything but the promise of safety above.

We’re maybe halfway up the wall when I hear the rustling scrape that always sends ice through my veins. Before I can even warn Rowan, the dark spaces beneath the crevices in the rocks begin to move, seeping from their hiding places and creeping down, along the cliff. My heart races as I pick up my pace again, but the shadows are already gathering, sliding down the face of the rock like a dark waterfall, slinking steadily toward us.