Page 80 of Hallowed Bones

CHAPTER 28HAVEN

There’s a house on fire and I’m standing in the middle of it.

Dark shadows approach from all sides.

They want something from me.

Something I’m not willing to give.

So I walk into the flames …

If I die, no one will get it.

—DREAM JOURNAL ENTRY WRITTEN BY HAVEN WARDWELL, AGE EIGHTEEN

In the past, I always ran from the monsters that approached me. I hid and prayed that they went away. Eventually, they did, only to return again when I felt safe. The creature that approached me in the hallway is no different in that it came when I least expected and the fact that it came even after Ezra got rid of the last one.

This time, though, I let the monster get close. I let it touch me. If I’m honest with myself, I know the reason. It was because of the voices. My parents’ words and questions. I’m almost positive that it’d been the monster, but what if it hadn’t been? I saw no ghosts, but surely, if I can see these monstrous creatures and specters … ghosts would be nothing, right?

Even if that’s not the case, I’m now paying the price of my foolishness.

After cleaning and bandaging the wounds that had been left behind in the hopes that they would heal on their own, when—days later—they remain as fresh as they were minutes after Elodie had stepped out of the dorm room, I have to accept that ignoring the problem won’t make it go away. The wounds aren’t just healing slowly—they’re not healing at all. They’re getting worse.

My head throbs with a consistent ache that won’t go away no matter how much medication I take. My body is sore and coated in a thin sheen of sweat that pops right back up the second I get out of a shower or wipe myself down. Every time I catch sight of my face in a mirror, the dark circles under my eyes and sickly paleness of my skin remind me of the creature’s own looks.

Am I turning into one of them? The sharp bite of fear stabs into my skin like needles. Despite knowing that I need to do something, my body is uncooperative. I miss classes for the rest of the week, sending out an email in one of the short intervals that I’m not passed out in my bed or shivering through a fever in the showers, letting my teachers know that I’m feeling sick. I don’t even bother opening their responses or trying to catch up on the work I know I’m missing.

Trying to form a coherent thought is akin to wading through an ocean of mud. In a word: impossible.

My phone trills on the nightstand next to my head, sending another bolt of agony through my skull. With a groan, I roll over and silence it. My vision swims when I pluck it off the charger and stare at the glowing screen. Words dance back and forth across in little bubble boxes. The more I try to focus on them long enough to read, the blurrier my sight becomes.

I give up with a disgusted huff, slapping the phone back on the nightstand and immediately regretting the action. Burrowing back into my bed, I grab my pillow and yank it over my face. The sunlight spilling in through the window is too bright, hurting my eyes. My arms ache with each movement. My throat is dry. My eyes gritty with sleep and exhaustion.

When someone knocks on my door sometime later, I release yet another groan. My arm lifts, and the pillow slides off my face. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the sunlight that had been so bright before is muted now. Grateful as I am, it still hurts, and I whimper as I roll over in bed. A shiver racks my bones. Once started, I’m forced to endure as it runs its course through my arms, my spine, and down my legs.

The knock sounds again, louder this time and accompanied by a male voice. “Haven? I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Reyes?

Sitting up in bed is an effort, and unfortunately, it’s all I can manage for several moments. Once I’m right side up, the room spins and tilts. My stomach rebels, but I can’t remember the last time I ate or drank anything. Elodie had shoved something down my throat at some point—several times, actually—but when was the last time?

My head slants to the side as I try to turn and glance in the direction of her side of the room. If she were here, though, she’d have already gotten up and opened the door. The fact that her bed remains mussed and empty when I finally settle my eyes there is more evidence of what I already knew.

I turn back to the door and stare at the several-foot distance between me and the knob. Another whimper threatens to escape. I can’t. I just … can’t.

“Haven?” Reyes tries again, sounding more worried than frustrated this time. I open my mouth to call out, to tell him … what? That I’m too sick to get out of bed? I smack my lips, but nothing manages to make it past the raw muscles of my throat.

“Move aside, Mr. Scott.” A woman’s voice reaches my ears. Not Elodie’s, but … Amelie’s?

My eyes are centered on the door as I sway in place, my hands clutching loosely at the folds of my blankets, when I hear the telltale sound of a lock clicking and the knob turning. A moment later, the door swings inward, revealing both Amelie and Reyes standing on the other side.

“Oh dear.” Amelie takes everything in as Reyes rushes inside. She drifts into the room at a more sedate pace, glancing around and likely noting the mess that’s both from Elodie’s lack of neatness and my inability to clean.

“Fuck, Haven.” Reyes is at my side, cupping my face in his hands before I can blink. “You’re burning up,” he says.

I close my mouth, swallowing roughly. I blink again, slower this time. I’m so fucking tired, it’s hard to stay conscious.

“Elodie should have reached out sooner,” Amelie murmurs with a clucking tongue. “Come, Mr. Scott. Let’s get her to the infirmary.”