Kendare Blake - Girl of Nightmares

Walking through Hell with Anna, it feels like I should blurt out every damn thing I’ve wanted to say to her for the last six months. It feels like we’re on borrowed time, even though I’m here to bring her home. I never really counted on seeing her again. It was just a dream. A quest, like a knight after the Holy Grail. But I’m here now, with a hole in my stomach that’s starting to throb, trying to lure my father’s killer out into the open. The surreality of this moment is probably making my brain bleed in nine places.

“I won’t tell you that you shouldn’t be doing this,” Anna says. “Trying to free your father. I know I would, if he were mine.”

“Is that what I’m trying to do? Free him?”

“Isn’t it?”

I guess it is. I’m trying to free all of them. Will and Chase—they’d have been stuck here forever if I hadn’t come looking for Anna, and the thought makes my insides twist. And my dad. I thought Anna had done it six months ago, when she dragged the Obeahman down here.

Something moves in the corner of our vision, and we both jump. But it’s not him. It’s something in the distance, hanging from the branches of a lonely tree. We keep on walking, walking without walking, because we can’t really tell by looking whether we’ve made any progress. The landscape just shifts and changes; rock formations crop up and disappear. It’s like being on an enormous treadmill. Now we look down over a canyon of sorts, cut down deep into the stone. There’s what appears to be a black, oil-slicked river cutting through the bottom.

“Do you—have you ever talked to him? My dad, I mean?”

Anna shakes her head gently. “He’s just a shadow here, Cassio. They all are.”

“But do you think he knows where he is? Has he known the whole time?”

“I don’t know what they know,” she says. But she looks away. She doesn’t know. But she thinks he does.

Ahead, the canyon looms closer, too quickly for the pace at which we’re moving. I hate this place. It’d drive a physics professor batshit crazy in the span of three seconds. Where is he? Where is Jestine? The pain in my side is heavy, and it’s starting to get harder to walk. If Jestine’s breathing had slowed already, she might not even be here anymore. I guess I hope she isn’t. By my side, Anna tenses as she scans the landscape. But there’s still nothing there.

“Listen,” I say. “After this is over, assuming I’m still alive to go back, I want to take you with me. I came here for you, and so did Thomas and Carmel. We want you to come back.” I swallow. “I want you to come back. But it’s your choice.”

“I’ll still be dead, Cassio.”

“So will I be, someday. It doesn’t matter.” I touch her shoulder and we stop so I can look into her eyes. “It doesn’t.”

She blinks, long and slow, her lashes black against her cheeks.

“All right,” she says, and I exhale all over. “I’ll come back.”

The Obeahman’s scream cuts through the still and vibrations resonate up through our feet.

“There he is.”

The walking, distant stick figure at the bottom of the canyon could be anyone. But it isn’t. It’s my father’s murderer, my father’s jailer. He got the better of me once, with a curse that almost killed me. It’ll be different this time. This time I’ll make it stick.

His footsteps sound in our ears, too loud for being so far away. As he moves closer, our position changes; the cliffs shift in the space of a blink. We’d been looking down. Now he’s straight ahead.

“What’s wrong with his arms and legs?” I ask.

“Borrowed joints. Borrowed strength.” Anna’s eyes are steel; she doesn’t blink at his approach.

The extra joints make him ungainly. Before his gait was stiff, almost dragging. Now his legs jerk like they’re attached at wrong angles. He walks closer to the wall and grins as he grasps on to it with his hands, heaving himself up onto the side of the rock face, defying gravity. When he pivots and skitters forward faster, on all fours, I take a step back in spite of myself.

“Show-off,” I say, meaning it to come out mocking, but it sounds high and nervous, close to a squeak. It’s like Anna said. He is whatever he wants to be here. He can probably twist his head all the way around. I wish I could tell my dad how well I’m following his advice about always being afraid.

“I’ll slow him down, try to hold him,” says Anna, and her hair turns black and starts to lift. The white recedes from her eyes and dark veins stretch beneath her skin. The dress goes red in a slow, deliberate soak.

The Obeahman has come down from the wall and walks briskly on disjointed legs. His stitched-over eyes are trained on me. He doesn’t want Anna anymore. He has her. I’m the last loose end.

“He’ll break my arms first,” Anna says.

“What?”

“I’m just telling you,” she replies like it’s a matter of course. “I’m going to try to hold his arms, so he’ll break mine. I can’t beat him. Don’t rely on me. I don’t know if you can.” She looks at me and her expression reads easy. Regret. Empty wishes for more time or better chances.

I wish Thomas and Carmel were here. Only I don’t. I just wish there was a plan, or a trap, like last time. It would be nice to have some kind of advantage, aside from the one clenched in my fist. Anna steps forward.

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask.

“I’ve done this before,” she replies. She actually manages a smile. Then she’s gone, closing the distance, her movements quicker than I remember. She throws a punch and his teeth rake a red gash into her forearm. She doesn’t wince, or scream. The way she’s fighting is robotic. She knows she’s going to lose and she’s used to it. She doesn’t even feel the pain.

“Don’t just stand there! Help her!” Jestine yells at me as she streaks past to jump into the fray. I have no idea where she came from. It’s like she popped out of the rock. But it doesn’t matter; she doesn’t hesitate. She dodges one of his arms and jams the end of her chisel into his shoulder. Anna has hold of his head, but it isn’t a good hold.

My legs are frozen. Between the two of them I don’t know what to do, where to attack. None of their movements have any effect. We should have gone. Gotten out when we could. Inside my head, Thomas is talking to me, his voice urgent. I can’t pay attention or look back. Instead I watch as the Obeahman snaps Anna’s arm like a twig, shoves her, and sends her rolling. Jestine he just shrugs off like an annoyance not to be bothered with. Not once has he taken his gaze off me. I stare where his eyes should be, watching the movement of the black stitches and the slow trickle of blood. I fear him. I’ve always feared him. He jerks his head once when he unhinges his jaw. He’ll be on me in seconds to tear pieces out of me like he did with the others, and my dad and I will stay here forever.

Black tendrils of hair rise up about his shoulders in the instant before Anna’s arm snakes around the front of him and takes hold of his jaw, her fist folding over his teeth and squeezing down. The Obeahman screeches, his black tongue lashing as she wrenches him around, grimacing.

“Stay away from him,” she growls, and smashes his body against the rock. The force is enough to send pebbles skittering. She does it again, and again, bashing him against the stone. I hear joints popping.

I hear Jestine say, “Bloody hell,” in a breathless voice.

The Obeahman is like an angry animal. His fingertips sharpen down to points and he slices through her chest and shoulders, shredding muscle until her arm falls and his feet find purchase on the ground. Still Anna doesn’t stop, jerking her shoulder, pounding his head into the rock so hard that any moment it must burst like a watermelon. But it doesn’t. And the only blood running down his chin is from the cuts his teeth are leaving in her palm as she holds his jaw. She goes down on one knee and her grip finally fails. He claws across her back and she slumps down into the dirt.