Page 91 of Hallowed Bones

Frustration coils in my gut like a live wire. Even if the manor is comfortable—a pleasant cage is still a cage. But fine, if they want to keep pretending like this is normal, then I can play along for a little while longer. After all, I haven’t demanded to leave because I want something too.

Information.

Cameron reaches out, brushing a finger across my arm and then down. “You’re not alone in this, Haven,” he tells me. “It’s time to stop acting like you are.”

Lyall steps in front of me, cutting off whatever smart-ass remark was about to slip past my lips. I blink up at him, and for a moment, we just stare at one another. His gaze roves across my face like he’s memorizing it. Then, without a word, he bends down and presses his mouth to my forehead. It’s soft, and I fucking hate how it makes my breath catch.

The warmth of him lingers long after he pulls back—and then Reyes is there, close enough that I can feel the shift in the air as he leans in. The kiss he plants on my cheek is slower, his lips grazing just below my skin, close enough to feel the ghost of a smile.

“Try to have fun with Cameron today,” he murmurs, his voice low and close, brushing against the shell of my ear like a secret. “He’s a pretty decent teacher.”

The air shivers between us. My skin prickles.

“I don’t know,” I say softly, watching Reyes pull back, my gaze catching the way his jaw flexes. “Ezra was pretty informative when he showed me what he could do.”

Even though it’s the truth, I say it more to provoke them than anything else. And it works.

They each stiffen in turn—first Lyall, then Reyes. Their eyes lock over my head, silent tension snapping between them like an electric wire. They don’t speak. They don’t have to. An understanding that I am not privy to passes between them.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks behind them, and I’m left standing in the quiet with Cameron.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. Just watches me with that infuriating calm, like he’s already seen every move I’m about to make and mapped out his response.

There’s so much I don’t know about them. About this world. About myself. They keep feeding me pieces in small increments as if they’re worried I’ll choke if I try to take on too much.

But I’m no stranger to hunger. The last year has been nothing but that hollow ache in the pit of my stomach. The constant feeling that something is missing, that the place I’m supposed to be is no longer there. I want that hunger to go away. I want to feel like I belong again.

I know I should be more understanding—after all, I’m as new to them as they are to me—but I can’t help but feel like I deserve those secrets. They were raised knowing the truth. I’m just now discovering it all—and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

What were you thinking, Dad?

The question burns, low and sharp, every time I think of him. My father, the man who lied to me by omission, who died with every answer I didn’t know I was missing. I want to scream at him. Shake him. Demand to know why he never told me what I am. Who I am.

No matter how much I ask, though, I know there are no answers from him. Dead men can’t answer questions of the living. And the grief of realizing that—the grief that comes with losing not just a person but all that they represent—doesn’t go away just because you’ve decided it’s time to grow up and get over it. I wish it were that easy.

“Let’s go,” Cameron says, disrupting the silence. He gestures toward the hallway. “I want to get through as much as we can before they get back.”

He doesn’t wait for me to argue. Just turns and walks—quiet and controlled, in the way only someone who’s constantly holding back can be.

I follow.

Maybe I’m heading toward answers. Or maybe toward something even more dangerous. I won’t know until I get there.

CHAPTER 32LYALL

I got into a fight today. Harry Bullard said I was a creep. He told the new girl in my class that I’d eat her if she’s not careful. She didn’t know about the rumors. I’m glad I punched him. It’s not like Dad cares. You don’t care either. I don’t know why I keep writing these letters. You never write back.

I don’t think you ever will.

—EXCERPT FROM LETTER WRITTEN BY LYALL COREY, FOURTEEN, UNSENT

The clerk watches us from the register. Pretending to be busy. Her fingers twitch every time we touch something, like she thinks our hands are dirty. Like witchcraft might rub off. It takes every ounce of willpower that I possess not to do something to freak her out just because she’s acting like we might.

“This too.” Reyes tosses another shirt onto the pile in my arms.

“She might need more than just T-shirts and pants,” I comment absently as one of the general store shoppers passes by us with wide eyes.

And just because I can’t help myself, I smile at the woman—full teeth. She flinches, ducks her head, and scuttles away. I shake my head in amusement.