Brenna Yovanoff - The Replacement

The Cutter smiled. “I prefer to think of myself as a demon, personally. But it makes no difference in the greater scheme of things. I’m content to be called nightmare and monster and goblin, so long as they call me something.”

I took another step back, trying to get away from the smell. “But that’s not what the Lady wants—she doesn’t like being named.”

“The Lady has no vision . No perspective . She can’t stand the idea of being anything but a god. She aches for a life that doesn’t exist. We’ll never be the race we were, so it’s time to be something else.”

I took a deep breath and felt it burn all the way down my throat. “What are you going to do?”

The Cutter watched my face. His expression was polite—mildly interested, even. Then he grinned, showing raw, swollen gums, and swung his fist into one of the bell jars on the mantel.

It shattered, spraying the room with slivers of glass. The sound was very loud.

Roswell jumped back, and Drew tried to shield Natalie, covering her face with his hand.

The Cutter kicked aside what was left of the broken jar and stepped over it. “This is not a negotiation. We are not bargaining. If you refuse to hand over that sweet little lamb, I’ll systematically collect everyone you’ve ever cared about and start cutting pieces off them until you agree. Understand that I have no reservations about this.”

I backed up, stumbling between armchairs and low tables, away from him.

He followed me. “You thought you could just come in here and trade us a child for a piece of worthless meat?” Behind him, the bell jar lay in pieces all over the floor. “We know that trick, cousin. We invented it.”

“But you didn’t recognize it when the Morrigan came for my mom. She left a revenant in her place and guess what? The Lady bought it. The Lady didn’t catch her because she couldn’t tell the difference— you couldn’t tell the difference.” I was almost shouting by the time he reached me.

He caught me by the front of my jacket, slamming me against the wall. Next to my head, a shadow box full of beetles fell and splintered on the floor. He twisted my collar, pinning me so that my back was against the wall.

Behind him, Roswell was a tall, indistinct shape, moving toward us.

The Cutter leaned toward me, resting his forehead against mine. “Fool me once,” he whispered, “shame on you.” He pressed the bridge of his nose against mine, his breath burning the back of my throat. His voice was rough and furious. “Fool me twice, and I will cut out your fucking throat.”

“Hey,” Roswell shouted, yanking at the Cutter’s coat “Hey, let go of him!”

The room was so murky now that I could barely focus. The only thing I was sure of were the Cutter’s murderous black eyes.

He didn’t look around. “Is that the trespasser talking, putting his hands all over me? You must be out of your mind.”

“He’s right,” I muttered. “Stay out of this. He likes torture too much.”

The Cutter laughed his slow, husky laugh. “Torture? No, I just want to see the blood run, cousin. It’s beautiful when it catches the light.”

He leaned close, laughing, and I smelled rust and under that sickness, disease. His grin was a glowing slice of white, floating in front of me like the moon. Then I blinked and there was nothing but his breath against my face.

“Cousin,” he said next to my ear. “Cousin, look at me.” He grabbed my jaw and wrenched my face close to his. “ Look at me. I’m going to brand you with my sigil, brand it right over your heart, and you’re going to meet my gaze like a man. Then I’m going to break you, and you’re going to beg for mercy like a little boy.”

He was so close that I could see the raw-meat texture of his gums. I stared at his smile, wondering where Roswell and Drew were, waiting for him to cut me. It was what he wanted—pain, blood, the chance to make someone beg.

“We’ll start with your face,” he said. The knife was long and sharp and strangely bright, like it belonged in his hand. “Your smile needs improving.”

In the rush of his breath, there was nothing but the smell, the dizziness. The room was shrinking, squeezing in, and I couldn’t focus. I felt sick and almost weightless.

I was alone. Roswell, Drew were nowhere. There was nothing but the wall at my back and the blade in front of me.

The Cutter adjusted his grip, turning the knife back and forth inches from my face. “Open wide,” he whispered. I clenched my teeth and waited for the metallic taste, the pain that would blot out the world.

Then Roswell’s hand swung into my field of vision, colliding with the side of the Cutter’s face. There was a hiss and the smell of burning skin and he stumbled back. I didn’t have the strength to catch myself as I slid down the wall onto the carpet. The revenant was sitting a few feet away from me. Her eyes were yellow and empty.

“Get the hell off him,” shouted Roswell, standing between me and the Cutter. His voice sounded angry and impatient.

Then Drew was beside him, holding Natalie in one arm. His shoulders were set and his feet were apart, like he was expecting to get hit.

The Cutter sneered at me, baring his teeth, and for a second, he looked as scary and as nasty as anyone in the slag heap. There was a circle of puncture marks on one cheek that looked like a bite.

“Have it your own way,” he said, starting for the door. “It doesn’t matter. Stay and wait for the end. Honestly, I like it better that way—the horror, the screaming. You’ll want to watch, of course,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Drew. “Cuddle and croon to her all you want. She’ll still be dead by morning.”

Drew squeezed Natalie hard against his chest and she hid her face from the Cutter.

He cleared his throat and spat. Then he turned, kicking at the broken glass in the carpet, and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him and a key turned in the lock. The sound was very loud.

Roswell stood over me, fists clenched. Then he opened his hand. He was breathing hard, looking furious. He was holding a bottle cap.

He put it back in his pocket and tried the door, making an attempt to force it with his shoulder. He kicked the handle and the hinges a few times but halfheartedly, then said the thing I already knew. “I can’t. It’s too heavy.”

I stayed slumped against the wall. My vision was going and I could feel myself starting to slide sideways, tilting in the direction of the floor. At some point, I’d rested my hand in the broken shadow box and my palm was full of glass and pins and sharp, glossy fragments of crushed beetle.

Roswell crouched next to me and glanced up at Drew. “Hey, he’s not looking too good. Think you can help me out here?”

Drew stood over us, still holding Natalie. “Just a sec. I don’t want to put her down where there’s glass. She’s not wearing shoes.” He sounded dazed.

Roswell was examining my hand, brushing off the loose debris, picking out slivers of embedded glass. He studied the blood that was welling up in the cut places, dark and sticky, almost purple.

“Looking good,” he said, and I recognized all the old bravado and the cheerfulness for what it was, easy and fake. The voice he used when nothing was good at all.

It made me feel empty to remember how often he’d done this, sat next to me while I shivered and wheezed, telling me everything would be fine.

After a second, he spoke again, and for once, his voice was truthful. “Well, we’re screwed now , I guess.”

My hand stung as he removed the glass, but my breathing was better. “Danny’s still out there. He could find Emma or my dad. He could still get help.”