“We’re famous!”
I glance around, trying to find Jack in the crowd of warm bodies. “Is Jack here?”
“Nah.” Dagger shakes his head. “He was here and gone a couple of hours ago. Was headed straight back out to see if it was worse anywhere else.”
A couple of hours ago. Did I see him before or after that? Surely I wasn’t wandering around in the fog for hours, was I?
The frightening thing is, it’s just as likely that I was. There are apparently entire conversations I don’t remember having.
Just what else have I forgotten?
Chapter 8
Finch
Ifind myself strapped to a gurney, cold metal beneath my naked body as a scream rings out from the next room. Hooks glint in the harsh light above me, swaying to and fro as they descend toward my body, ready to pierce and drag at the skin.
I’m good at recognising my neighbours just by the sound of their pain. Always have been.
And once again, it’s him. Kit. My little brother.
There’s a low buzz underneath the screams and I know that sound too. A flash of white passes by and my gut clenches as sweat begins to pool at my back. That noise doesn’t signal anything good, and the hooks let out a hum as they descend toward me.
I brace myself for the next bit. Readying for the pain that feels like my skin is being peeled inside out, even though it never helps. Another scream rings out and—
I jerk awake, covered in cold sweat. My ears are peeled, listening for the screams, and instead there’s the sound of a snorted snore. Torin, or possible Jack. Both of them sound like a frog with a sore throat in the dead of night and I let the sound wash over me as my tentacles rub at my shoulders, as though they’re trying to soothe my lurching, stuttering heart.
This is why I don’t sleep. Naps only and even they’re a menace.
I glide through the silent house. Seems like I’m the only member of the insomniacs club tonight, which means one thing. Time for some fresh air. I need to feel something else on my flesh that isn’t the memory of those hooks. My skin puckers at the memory as I grab my coat and pull the hood to cover my head.
That damn place still haunts me, even in a dream.
In my dreams, it’s always the same voice. It’s always Kit. Not so much a nightmare so much as it’s a memory, although one that’s grown thorns over the years.
I slip out toward the water, unnoticed. Might as well use these moonlit hours for something useful. I could build another table, or knit yet another jumper, or I could continue with my task from the past week.
Heading along the shoreline for about a mile, I let my body shift into its other form, unraveling into the water and onto the land and then sliding until we’re fully submerged. Often, this is the point where my plans derail. The beast doesn’t care about my wants most of the time and, more often than not, we wind up slinking into the deep and settling there until it decides to resurface again.
Tonight I’m not pushed to the back of the beast’s mind like I often am. Instead, I’m at the forefront, guiding it along as we eat up the miles until the water changes, growing murkier and more polluted, indicating we’re close to a larger town.
The beast flicks up one tentacle, water pouring off it in a deluge as I push out of its body, shifting back to my usual form as I fly through the air. It’s always the trickiest part of the whole procedure, with every chance I might land too early or splat right into the cliffside rather than landing on top and out of sight.
Hitting the ground at the top of the cliff on my hands and knees, I do a quick check to see I’ve not snapped any bonesand then brush off the worst of the mud from my knees before making the trip down from the clifftop, following the sight of the violet streetlamps toward the town.
I readjust the important package in my pocket. There’s a midnight mail coach out of here and I slip the package onto the back as I pass by. Nothing fancy, travelling by road to the next city, where it’ll be taken by air or by water until it reaches the capital.
Once I’m done, I’m then in the middle of a town where no one knows me. And I find I can’t bring myself to head back to the island. Not just yet.
And so I go exploring.
It’s the middle of the night and there’s no one out on the streets. Not even drunks or dodgy dealers. Keeping my hood pulled over my face, I stride through the drizzle, following my nose as I search for the specific mix of smells that are exactly what I’m looking for. There’s the faint smell of damp cigarettes and beer in the air, which grows thicker as I reach a piss-soaked alleyway.
Here.
If the grotty nature of the alleyway wasn’t a clear enough signal, the fact that this area is scent-marked makes it clear enough. It’s a beast-borne neighbourhood. Exactly what I’m looking for.
Every town like this has one. They’re hidden little rat’s nests for the most part, places no one wants to go near so they all just ignore their existence. Which suits everyone just fine. Beyond the smells of rubbish left to linger too long and spilled beer, all mingling with the piss that marks this area as beast-borne territory, there’s something else. Fried fish and vinegar.
