Page 7

Who are you? I think, my heart racing in my chest. It doesn’t deter me, the fact that she has a weapon. If anything, it makes me more intrigued.

“Let me go,” the Mary says. “Trust me, you do not want to fuck with me.”

I do, in fact, want to fuck with her. I slam forward, my eyes fixed on that knife. A simple cut won’t be an issue—I heal quickly—but if she knows the right places to stick that blade, it could be more problematic.

She shrieks as I move in on her, swinging the blade in a wide arc that, shockingly, manages to nick my bicep. The pain is nothing. A kiss, like the kiss I’ll give her after she’s dead. It doesn’t stop me from grabbing her by the waist and jerking her up against my chest, her body warm and bright and full of pounding blood. Even with the barrier of the gas mask, I can smell her fear. Her determination, too.

“Absolutely fucking not!” she screams, stabbing backward at me. The knife flashes in the sunlight. Not only has she been trained, but she’s been trained well. Her movements aren’t desperate or panicked, even if they are ineffective against me. A soldier, maybe? She doesn’t have an especially military air about her, though.

I grab the Mary’s wrist and twist it back just enough that the blade clatters to the ground.

Her fear flares as bright as a supernova, and I kick the knife under the car. I’ll fetch it later. It’ll make a lovely trophy. Perhaps I’ll even add it to my own repertoire of weapons.

“You’ll regret this!” she growls, fighting against the bounds of my arms. Just for a moment, I allow myself the pleasure of her struggle. I’ve missed this so much: bracing a Mary in my arms while she fights and squirms against me, her terror perfuming the air around us. I breathe in through the gas mask, and it sounds like the ocean.

“You won’t survive doing this!” the Mary yells. “My mother will hunt you down!”

That’s an interesting threat. Usually it’s a husband or a boyfriend. A man, at any rate. But a mother?

There really is something different about this one.

She screams, shattering my thoughts. Then she kicks her legs up like she’s trying to use the force to propel me backward onto the asphalt. She knows what she’s doing.

I squeeze harder on her arms. Hard enough that I know I’m hurting her.

She still keeps fighting.

“They’ll kill you,” she pants, her voice pained. “They’re like you but so much worse. So just let me g⁠—“

I slam her head against the frame of the car.

I don’t want to, particularly. I don’t want her blood on the car or on the road. But she’s fighting too much, and it’ll be much easier to get her to the cabin if she’s knocked out.

“Fuck you!” she bellows, jerking her head back like she wants to head-butt me. It doesn’t work. I tilt away from her, although she clips her head on the gas mask. Then I grab her by the hair and slam her into the car again. Harder.

Not full strength, of course. The last thing I want is to kill her out here.

This time, it’s enough. She immediately goes slack, the full weight of her body slumping against my arm. I guide her carefully down to the asphalt, arranging her on her back so I can check the head wound that I, unfortunately, just had to give her.

It looks bad, of course. Head wounds always do. Her forehead is split open, and enough blood washes over her face to give her a mask of crimson. I dislike it immensely. The faces of Marys are meant to go untouched.

Her eyes are closed, though, her mouth open and breathing. I gently smooth her hair away, relishing the silk of her hair against my fingers. And the heat of the blood. I don’t like the visuals, but I can’t help what I am. Blood always excites me.

“Forgive me for that,” I say softly, my voice echoing in the mask.

She moans softly, mutters something incoherent.

I move quickly. She won’t be out for long. I gather her up in my arms, carrying her the way I carried the first Mary on our wedding day, carting her over the threshold of our home. For a sudden, dizzying moment, it feels like I’m back there, like the last hundred years were a terrible nightmare and I’ve finally woken up, back in our cabin in the woods, Mary asleep at my side.

But then the wind gusts, and the tree branches rattle around me like bones, washing the mirage away. A familiar prickling crawls down my spine, although I dismiss it; the gods abandoned me a long time ago. This is just the present, reminding me that my wedding day was only a fleeting moment of joy.

Even then, I knew I was a monster, no matter how desperately I wanted to be otherwise.

Mary didn’t, though. And she never learned the truth of me. Not like this one will.

I move quickly, leaving the car. It’s a risk that someone will drive by, of course, but I doubt they’ll stop. The car’s on the side of the road, not blocking anything. People don’t stop for stalled cars anymore.

The Mary stirs in my arms. Her body wakes up before she does, her heartbeat and breath both quickening. I plunge into the woods, cradling her tight against my chest. Branches lash out at us, and I don’t bother to keep my steps quiet. It’s not a surprise when she wakes up, flailing against me. I’m prepared, though.