Eeep. I took a while. Again. I’m past the point where I’m going to promise quicker updates. Heh. Though I will say that there are only about 3 chapters left after this one. Approximately. Hehe. So hopefulliez things are getting wrapped up. & thanks for all the questions!

Also, as a side note, I’m going away from 23rd March to sometime in April (again). It’s been one of those hectic life changing years, if that makes any sense. So please bear with me, guys. I’ll finish this before it hits its two year anniversary.

And if I miss anyone out, let me know!

Mandy40: yay. One sitting’s good. Hehe. Makes me feel all proud.

Winged Kitty: psh. Im always late, so nm on that one. & mmm…well…that was scythe when he was eight years old, and now he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to pray. As for when he was eight… people change through time. And the thing with scythe is that what happened to him when he was eight changed him a lot. & yay. Scaring is good. Yeah. Angela’s dad complex is kinda icki. But im probabli going to give a kinda ish summari on wth is going on with that in the next chapter. Or the one after. Somewhere before the end. & thankies for the questions! They don’t suck. & I like ur theories. & haha. You feel more sorri for the house. LOL. I like that…

Katieee: lol. Rayth’s name is Herbert. Odd names for the 21st century, I know. & yayy for you reading. Hehe. & thankies for the questions. Hope you like the chapter (and welcome to the cancer club. Most people like him best).

i-rite-gud: LMAO. Mmm. Ur questions had me cracking up. & I like broccoli. As for the penguins. Psh. The tux idea so blatantly came from them. After all, rayth, angela and scythe are, secretly, penguins in disguise come to Britain to take revenge because of the melting polar ice caps. Damn. Just reviewed the whole plot but shhh, it’ll be our little secret – conspiratory wink –

Death Princess: yer mum’s a hobo. And im done. Updated. Over. Lick that –love-

Silent Dreamer: wow. You make it sound so pretty. Hehe. And headtrip’s good I hope

Its never too late: mmm. The wall’s going to come in once more. It’s not amazingly relevant to the plot, but it plays a part in the next few chapters sort of. You will see. Hehe. & hehe. I liked the rayth description. Makes him sound all super clever like echem.

Tomoka: never? Yay! That makes me feel all special. & mm. how I came up with it? Lol. It’s been so long I really don’t remember. Lol. I came up with most of this while I went along. It’s nothing like it was originally meant to be. And the little boy thing is explained in this chapter I think. So no worries on that one.

Personwithaccount: euphoria will definitely continue. As soon as predator’s done, I’m gonna chug out the last chapter of her ashes and then work on euphoria. I know where I want to go with it, just don’t have enough time to focus on two things at once. & thankies for the questions. They’re all going to be answered by the end in some form or another.

Live-your-fantasy: I considered trying to type out your name. but all the caps confuseded me. Heh. And yay. I love you for loving this story –big smile –

Creative Edge: thankyou. What you said about the feelings translating and stuff – it’s a really big compliment and you’ve made me all fuzzy inside for it. Uhm. All the stuff you mentioned’ll be explained. Except, with angela’s eating habits… I don’t think im going to really go into that one. It’s one of those open things that im leaving to the readers. Hehe.

Rissa Black: mmm. Most of your questions are gonna be answered, so yayy. But mm. as for angela’s airheadedness – I guess it’s just the way she deals. I mean, all the stuff that’s happened: tyson’s death, lynn’s death, scythe nearly raping her etc, it’s all happened in a very short space of time. So it’s a lot for her to process, therefore she’s a bit blank on how to react. Which is why she’s all airheaded. I could go into some big psychological rant but I’d rather leave it up to the readers than go and give a big analysis on the way that angela works. Hehe. But I liked the question. Made me think too.

Imames: Uhm. I shouldn’t really say this one but it’s been mentioned earlier. Hehe. So it’s not like I’m really reveaaaling anything. But anyhows. Cancer’s real name is Lionel Hambridge. But they call him Leon for short, which is more “Lionn” but Leon’s a more fitting spelling cuz “Lionn” looks a lil funny. Makes you think of simba and all that jazz. And psh. There’s no such thing as being obnoxiously long when it comes to reviews. I heart long reviews. I think most authors do. So the longer it is the better.

Snowy708: thanks for the questions! I think one of them’s answered in this chapter. Hehe.

Ruby: angela’s whole eating thing is entirely subjective. Like, im not really going to give a definitive answer to it – it’s all up to the readers, really.

Jade Dream: all is revealed in this one.

Sousie: thanks for the review!

LIPS: ahhh. I loveloveloved your reviews. Hehe. Four is good. Four is fun. And they were all weighted and stuffz. Put a big smile on my face. I’ll start from the last one and work down. Hehe. And omg ahhhh I love you. Yepyep. The whole thing in the first chapter with when scythe tried to rape her was completely intentional. And you’re the first person to point it out. You make me feel all proud. And nah. The reviewing isn’t annoying. So pshh. Uhm. I’m not sure which matted fur your talking about. Cuz there was that one chapter, after the party, where scythe went all missing and got attacked by tons of animals cuz he broke into a pet shop – so it might be that matted fur. Mmm. And as for eleanor’s diary…to an extent, it’s actually very important. Hehe. And yep. The whole thing at the start of chapter nineteen – that was all in a car. Which is probabli why scythe’s all icky about cars and water. And lol. Nah. Angela doesn’t have two sisters. Lou is grace. Grace is lou. I kind of forgot what her little sister’s name was half way through, so I changed it from grace into lou cuz I didn’t remember grace. Echem. Bad me. I like your theory on why angela doesn’t eat. Tbh, im not really going to go into it in much detail because I want to leave that one up to the readers, so I like the way you’ve approached it. And I hearted your theories. I’ll be all cool and tell you that some of the stuff you said was right. Though I won’t say what. But yeah. Hehe. Go you! And thanks tons for the reviews. You really motivated me to chug this one out as soon as possible.

-

.predator

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20

-

.i t. n e a r s. t h e. e n d.

-

Around me, the air was thickening. Smoke touched the sky like something foul and dirty come to rip blue from the heavens. My shoulder grew damper with Pippa’s racking sobs and it made me irritable. I wanted to shove her off and watch the ashes. It felt so cold.

Someone sifted her off me where before she’d felt like some leech sucking on skin. Cancer had taken her to the side and I stepped forward to watch the wreckage. There was an officer speaking to Mrs Butcher and I let my eyes touch upon her. Rayth stood at her side, nodding, answering questions, ever controlled. She wasn’t. Mr Butcher sat to the side, cigarette placed deftly between his lips. His smoke was feeble in comparison to the wreckage. He watched the sky, amused.

Pretentious.

“Miss – excuse me, Miss –“

Smoke circled air.

“Miss – I’m not sure if you should be here. Excuse me, are you a resident? Excuse me –"

A hand touched my shoulder and an officer was behind me. He quickly let go and I watched him acidly. He opened his mouth to speak, evidently irritated, and Rayth’s voice scratched through air.

“Wait!”

Someone slapped me.

I froze, momentarily shocked, and my cheek seared red hot. Mrs Butcher stood before me, fuming, and the officer was at a loss for words. She was shouting at me, shrieking out a ball of incoherency and all that registered was the ringing in my ears, the heat across my cheek and neck and the smoke that tried to rip through sky above.

Someone grabbed my hand and the officer was holding her back.

“Mrs Butcher –”

“Ayla,” she spat. “Ayla Antoine. I don’t want his fucking name. I don’t want anything to do with him. I –”

He was still smoking, ever patient.

“I don’t – oh, god.” Hands ran through her hair and she fell to the floor, body racking with sobs. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. “My baby. My Scythe.” She was shrieking now, tearing and tearing at her hair and a hand grabbed mine, wrenched. I was dragged, consciousness half there and the rest – floated, like some phantom at the edge of purgatory.

Feet were tracing through grass like a pen, inkless and scratch-scratching across paper. The trees formed a canopy and Rayth let go. I watched him under the shadows. Light was obscure. Behind us, sirens still wailed a requiem. His back was to me and instinct pressed me to run. I stayed rooted to the spot.

“Why did you come?”

It was hollow.

The name fell automatically into place. “Lionel told me they wanted me for questioning.”

“About Lynn?”

“Yes.”

“They’d have wanted you at the station.”

His words hung in the air. They clawed its edges for a moment, waited.

“They’re a bit too busy trying to figure out the Tyson thing, anyway. Forget Lynn. And now this.” A brief pause. “Lionel brought you here.”

“Yes.”

“I told you to stop seeing him. I told you he wasn’t safe.”

“Because you are?” Why was I still standing there? Overhead, a bird cawed.

“No.” He turned to face me. “I’m not.”

I took a step back.

“But I only help hell, darling. Cancer is hell.”

“You’re a freak.”

Rayth shrugged. “You shouldn’t have come. It was wrong of you.” Something flickered through his eyes, dimmed.

“Oh?”

Another step back.

“And with Lionel,” he scoffed. “Lionel of all people. Just rub it all in her face, why don’t you? She already regrets it, all of it. She gave his father a job, you know. She felt guilty – took pity on them. And this –” He gesticulated, “– this is how he repays her, us.”

“Cancer didn’t burn your house down.”

“Hell did.”

“I hope you rot there.”

Rayth put a hand to his heart. “My brother just died, Angel. Have some compassion.”

I hesitated, then took a step forward. “You don’t deserve my compassion.”

“Deserve,” he tested my words. “As if it’s some prize.”

“I’m leaving.” I turned, cheek still burning.

His voice carried over. “I told you to stop seeing Lionel. Maybe if you had, none of this would have happened.”

I looked back. Rayth bent down, scooped some mud into his hand. Ants crawled between his fingers. He watched them as he talked. “People don’t do good things unless they get something out of it – whether it be something material or pure, egoistic satisfaction. Sometimes, though, we forget that.” He pressed mud – “and that’s when diseases spread –” and poured it back onto the ground.

Suddenly overwhelmed with anger, I whipped around to face him. “I’m so sick of you.” I gesticulated, hands out in the air. “You and your riddles and your stupid word games and just everything. Do you know what you’ve done? God, do you know what you’ve put me through? I feel like I’m not here anymore. I’m barely in touch and everything’s just one, big floating mess – and the only one who’s still there for me, who keeps me warm and sane, is Cancer. And now you want to take him too and –” I stopped, breathing erratic, suddenly overwhelmed and Rayth brushed off his hands.

He walked toward me and I froze. “Just like I don't deserve your compassion, Angela.” Then he brushed past, tossed over his shoulder.

“You don't deserve mine.”

-

Above me, the sky roiled. Blue, white. Grass tickled my back and the flowers were crushed. I exhaled and it bit the air. Cancer lay beside me. He turned over, plucked a flower from foliage, and held it between his fingers.

“Breathe.”

“I am.”

There was a momentary silence.

He spoke again, “Okay.” Then he crushed the flower. I watched shattering petals and thoughts were a spasm in my mind. They shook, racked for a moment, and begged words. I didn’t answer. Light from above pierced my face. I turned over to watch him and block out icy light. Electric blue eyes answered, slightly bored.

“I’ve been thinking,” I commented.

His fingers raked grass. “Oh?”

“About Scythe,” I elaborated.

“Oh?”

It triggered a response. “I’m having one of my anti-Scythe moments.”

He edged nearer and tore another flower, then held it to my face. I wrinkled my nose.

“He gets me really annoyed sometimes, you know?”

Cancer made a face. “Angela, he’s –”

“I don’t know,” I carried on. “I mean – when we were younger, I –” the thoughts were flittering. I snipped the edges and they formed without coherency. Sporadic. “He used to have parties, when he was younger, that is, and, well…he was always a bit antisocial. Well, not always, but straight after –” I hesitated and didn’t elaborate. Instead, I changed tack, “He used to stand there and watch and then everyone would go on about how much of an awesome party it was afterwards. And no one ever mentioned the way that he was or the way that he acted because they just wouldn’t because he’s Scythe and –” I breathed. “Am I making any sense?”

I didn’t give him a chance to answer.

“And then smoking. He didn’t like smoking and he said it wasn’t cool to smoke – this was way back, when Tyson first stole the pack from his dad’s coat pocket – anyway, because he said so no one else did it and then suddenly it wasn’t cool to do it. But why? I mean, it’s a good thing not to smoke but only because Scythe said it was. How shallow is that? But no one cared. I didn’t care. I still wouldn’t care. I –”

“–Angela –”

“He has this thing, you know? Something that makes everyone just love him and hate him at the same time. But then they want him. Everyone wants him. Whether it’s to be his best friend or his girlfriend or just his acquaintance. They want something to do with him and I have something to do with him. At least, I thought I did. But I don’t feel like I do anymore. I just…” I stopped, paused. “I don’t know where I am anymore.”

There was a brief silence, then he leaned down and kissed me. I tasted wetness, savoured it, and let my fingers claw his hair. He moved on top of me and spoke against my lips.

“You think too much.”

I scratched.

“I’m serious.” He nuzzled my neck. “Thinking –” he started to lick, “– is bad for you.” He bit me and I let out a sound. Then he withdrew, smiling. “Scythe doesn’t matter now,” he said from above me. “He’s gone, Angela. You’re free.” The air was growing colder.

I shifted. “I didn’t feel like I was trapped.” Flowers broke beneath us.

“But you were and now you’re not. Now you’re mine.”

It had a nice ring to it. Mine. His. I belonged to Cancer. Something niggled, shook and screamed at the back of my mind but I ignored it. When someone rambles about something personal, they can be offered two answers – the one that they want to hear and the one that they should hear. Lionel gave me the former. I was satisfied.

We lay in the grass for a few hours, watching the sky and he tickled me with flowers. Occasionally, we kissed and he raked fingers across my skin. I let myself melt into him, breathed in his warmth and felt enveloped, intoxicated. Eventually we mounted his bike and rode out. I closed my eyes and kept my head to his back, not watching scenery spiral around me. I didn’t need to. I kept my eyes closed. Wind touched me and pushed against skin like claws scraping flesh raw. Air intoxicated my lungs so I stopped breathing.

My eyes snapped open. We were in an area that I recognised – faintly, at the back of my mind.

“Can you drop me off here?”

It wasn’t long ago. I remembered.

He slowed down, stopped. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“No.” I got off the bike. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” He waited until I was off, then revved the engine and drove away without another word.

-

We walked together all the way home. He kept to the shadows, watching after me, and, for some reason, his presence set me on edge. We reached the tree outside my house and I whipped around, suddenly, a fire of hair hurtling behind me.

“Rayth –”

“You’re home now,” his voice came from a shadow of bushes not too far away. “I didn’t want to leave you alone in the dark.”

-

The sun was setting. I trailed down the street. Empty air whipped past. Everything in our town was so still at night: dead, gone, as if breath only dared to touch the sky in morning and, even then, faded. Footsteps scuffed pavement and I made to the house. Trees surrounded me, blocked out all light like a tent. They stopped the rain. The door had fallen off its hinges and all that remained was one, big, black, gaping hole. As the sun was setting, light dimmed.

I entered. My feet found their way through the entrance, through to the main door and into the room. A spider web of cracks splayed the smashed window. Gold light from the setting sun trickled red across shattered glass and fire lit the edges. In the corner sat a tub of glue and a messy pallet of paint. Beside it was a little figurine, like something a baby moulded from plasticine. I made my way toward it and bent down, looked. The hair was a dark brown, bits of spiked glass that I’d smashed with my fingers – there’d been no black, so I’d had to make do. The face was painted a lighter shade of brown. He’d brought me only brown, white and blue, so I’d mixed brown with the white for his skin. The clothes were only half done. I’d planned to come back and finish it.

“Now are you going to make me a present, or not?”

Carefully, I picked it up.

“There’s nothing outside the window,” he calmly stated. “Okay? Now I want you to make my present.”

I turned it over. Glass cut through.

“Now?” I forgot about the window.

“You can start on it.”

“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.” The voice echoed through air. “You made him into an idol.” I looked up. The little boy watched me. “Clever.”

“What?”

He kept his hands in his pockets. Electric blue eyes watched from above a bandana, wrapped, securely, around the bottom half of his face. Wisps of blond tipped out and were rendered dull under wading light.

“You know.” He scuffed glass with the tip of his shoe. Part of me wanted it to rip through. I suffocated it. “If you’d just listened to me, even to Herbert, in the first place – it could have saved them all a whole lot of heart ache.”

I stayed on the ground. This time, I kept my anger in check. “Are you going to bother to explain, or am I meant to delve into some deeper meaning?”

“The latter.”

“Fuck you. I can’t be arsed.”

The little boy started laughing. Sharply, I looked up at him. He kept laughing, tipped his head back and the sound became eerie. Red light swam amongst his feet and ripped across limbs like whips lashing flesh. Eventually, he stopped and when he did it was abrupt. The silence that followed was still.

He leaned against the wall, chipped plaster and moss. Why hadn’t Scythe just let this place be knocked down?

“This was one of Eleanor Hambridge’s houses.” He knocked the plaster. “They had two in town. The other was the one with her special garden. But I’m presuming you know all about that – you have read her diary, after all.”

Curiosity nicked the edges. “About what?”

His eyes widened for a moment. A pause, then the words came out, amused, “Haven’t you got to that bit yet?”

“If I had,” I answered briskly. “I wouldn’t be asking.”

He brought a hand to the plaster, evidently amused, then knocked. “It’s where they fucked,” he bluntly stated. “And then it’s where she had her baby, ten days before she climbed up the light house, jumped. Down –” he gestured, “– and splat. Kind of like a water balloon.”

“Cancer said he shoved her off.”

Knock.

“Lionel would.” He paused to consider. “Metaphorically – yeah, I guess he did.”

“I think you’re lying.” I turned the statue over. Light dimmed over cracked paint.

“I didn’t expect any less.”

Knock.

A brief silence. “What’s that meant to mean?”

Knock. Knock.

“You’re the ammunition, Angela.”

I looked up at him.

“If it weren’t for you, none of this would have happened.”

My knuckles clenched.

“Lynn’s cat, Tyson, Lynn,” he listed. “Scythe, the house.” He knocked at each word. “People need someone to give them the first nudge. They need a motive so that they feel like what they’re about to do has a purpose. Satan chose you, and his disciples blindly followed.”

Knock.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Lights outside were dimming.

“One word.”

The air grew colder. I held the statue tight and he knocked wood.

“Revenge.”

It hung in the air for a moment, something lit dimly, faint. Nothing made sense and the words were on fire. I watched him under retreating light. Electric blue eyes now held me as their focus. Momentarily, I waited. Slowly, unease crept up my spine in small slivers of frost.

The silence dragged, scraped like nails across a chalkboard. Finally, they rested. Words pressed air. “They’re not finished yet.”

“Who?” It was hollow.

“Him.”

“You said they.”

“He works alone.” He moved from the wall, began to walk forward. “And he has one step left – only one thing which he hasn’t done. The last step and then –” He stopped walking. “He’s won.” Glass lay shattered at his feet. I kept my eyes trained to it.

“You, Rayth, the lot of you – you’re weird and just...” I searched for the word. “I don’t know – freakish. I don’t understand what the hell you’re going on about and I’m not some ammunition. If you just made sense, then...” I stopped, exasperated. “I don’t know.”

“When Herbert and I told you to stay away from Lionel, it was for your own good.”

I rolled my eyes. “That again.”

“Satan may have had his own motives, but he stuck to the deal. You’re going down to hell with him. Check the list.”

I looked up at him again, a small spectre of blue and blond and black. I was tired. “I’m not going anywhere, kid.” I stood up and put the statue to the ground. “No where but home.” I walked to the door, brushed past him, his back still to me. A hand touched cold metal.

“I tried to save you.”

I turned it.

“Before they made you do it all, I offered you salvation.”

It was stuck. I pushed harder.

“Blindly, at first, then the one time you walked right into it. Nearly washed away your sins, but then they wrapped hell right back around your throat, and you took it.”

For a moment, I was confused. Then realisation dawned. Every inch of my body went cold. The necklace – a single, red, stone – was a weight against my chest.

“The door’s not opening,” I said, voice weak. I turned to look at him. He was standing there, watching me, dagger in hand. Grass crunched beneath his feet. The blade was upturned to the sky and as its tip caught wading light, realisation broke through in a tumult.

After that time in Rayth’s bug house, when the cages had fallen from the sky, he’d somehow known about it. Before the boat ride, he’d mentioned how I should be careful before I went on. Scythe had been too scared, so it couldn’t have been him, and Cancer had saved me.

“You told me beforehand about the boat breaking so that I’d suspect one of them and be put off them if –” the words were heavy in my throat, “– if I’d have survived.”

“Which you did.” He took a step forward. Glass crunched. He tilted his head to the side. “Didn’t really turn out as planned, did it?”

He advanced. My screams pierced through air and I threw myself to the side, knocked into glass. Wood ripped and splinters shot through air. He wrenched out the knife and my fingers burnt against shattered glass. I crawled across carpet and he was on me in seconds, plunging the knife over and over again, ever missing. I swerved at every movement, whether it was luck or pure bad aim on his part all that hurt me was the blunt glass that begged entry into my skin. I kicked him off and turned over. He advanced again and grabbed for his hand. Somehow I touched his face and ripped off the balaclava. A moment of pause. A small, white face watched me, shocked, pallid. I took it as my opportunity and kicked, suddenly, caught him off guard so he fell hurtling back. Then I clambered, straight to my statue, cradled it to my chest, leaned against the wall.

I was still shrieking, body tired, numb, drained. There was no energy. I couldn’t move. Just cradled forward, back, like a mother rocking her child. Blunt glass had made me numb. Part of me bled. Nothing major. He looked down on me, a pallid, white, face and sharp, electric blue eyes. He looked the spitting image of a boy I’d seen once, eight years ago, fingers dripping against the keys of an old piano.

“Cancer.”

“Cairon,” he hissed. “His little brother.”

I nodded, tears dripping down my face in small pearls. So scared. So small. Wasn’t it meant to be the other way around?

“Are you going to kill me?”

His posture grew lax. The silence dragged on for what seemed like years. Finally, he replied, “If you want everything to stop, you’ll let me kill you. If you don’t want it to go anywhere further, you’ll let me kill you. There’s only one left, Angel, and he’ll make you do it. I swear he’ll make you do it and if you want salvation – if you don’t want to go down with him, you’ll let me do it. You’ll let me kill you.”

Blood dripped down my fingers. All I saw were his eyes. Small, only a child. How did a child become so cold? Wind washed past me. I was cold. Cold and tired. But not defeated. Not yet. I put the statue to the ground and wiped my tears.

“I want to live.”

He looked defeated. “I can’t save you,” said Cairon, “if you don’t want to be saved.” He looked at me again. “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

He turned, walked to the door, and rammed the knife into its side. Twist, kick, and it fell open. Darkness. He looked back.

“This was your last chance, Angela, and the last time you’re ever going to see me. From now on –” He shrugged, “you’re on your own.” And with that he walked, straight out, and was lost in the darkness.

-

Home was dark. Mum and Lou wouldn’t be back until another few days – they’d gone to visit my aunt up north. She seemed to like me more than she liked Lou, yet I wasn’t able to find myself in the state of mind to entertain. Staying home to think and be alone had been my best option. If only I’d done just that –stayed home, not gone to Scythe’s party, not gone anywhere. That way the world would have moved on but I could have stayed still, happy, under the shelter of my whirling fan.

I watched it.

Slowly, as night crept across my window in little black hands – babies beating against broken glass (fire) – I slipped into a state of half consciousness. Sleep came unbidden. The darkness of my room was untouched and I watched the fan. Goosebumps crept across my flesh. My eyes slid to the window. It was wide open, air caving in. It sounded thunderous, a roll of soft drums that rose and fluctuated, then settled before rising again. I slipped out of bed, feet scraping carpet, and touched the handle. My hair went flying back like flames ripping a landscape bare and I wrenched the window shut.

Silence. I turned. A figure sat at the bottom of my bed, soft white feet swaying to the hum of my fan. Ashen hair draped sunken pallor and long nailed, thin fingered hands, lithe, sat folded in the laps of a pale blue dress. I stood, frozen to the spot, and, slowly, the head turned. Electric blue eyes shot icicles through my veins.

She watched me.

The hands moved to smooth over her dress. Slow. So slow. And then she rose, like a patient drugged and awoken from sleep. The sway of her movements was the haze of fog clouding her mind and the effects just something barely beating against the edge of her blood. Cold. Her blood was ice. She swayed toward me, a spectre of life and stopped half way there, electric blue never leaving my face. My throat burned, a circle of red where Cancer’s stone lay against my skin.

She watched it.

My hand touched it and the fingers stung. Immediately, I drew them away and they blistered, red hot. Thin lips moved, slowly, as if forming the words. Then they were wrenched out.

“You stole it.”

A whip of movement and her hands were clasped around the stone. Long fingers wrenched and I shrieked. Forward, back, and nails clenched my throat. Tightened. Then push. Bash. My head hit glass. Bash. I shrieked and claws ripped skin. Electric blue eyes. Bash.

“You stole it. You stole it. You stole it.”

Bash.

Bash.

Bash.

I shrieked and my eyes shot open. My throat burned and I sat up, shaking uncontrollably, hands slipping over my sore throat, feeling for something, anything. The stone weighed against my chest and I tried to control my breathing. The room was empty. Then something tapped my knee. It was faint. I looked to the foot of my bed and Lynn sat there, glass of water in hand. The machete ripped straight through her abdomen, dripped out the other side.

She tilted her head, offered the water. “Your throat is sore.”

I screamed, fell back, and closed my eyes. This time, when I opened them, there was nothing. Only darkness. I rocked. Back and forth and back and forth. The fan was whirling, twisting, almost breaking off its hinges and everything that hung from it shook and shook and shook. The noises were unbearable. I switched it off. The room was silent and my eyes rested on the window ledge. Eleanor Hambridge’s diary. It sat there. Waited.

I made my way to it, legs shaking, and picked it up. Then turned on the light, sank into bed, and flicked to the last few pages. Ink was blotted. The words were shaky, half formed. I read them.

They’ll come soon. They’ll come to see where I’ve gone and I’ve left the child in the main room. They’ll find him – I’m sure. The light up here is cold, striking. The water is turbulent. It shrieks down below like sirens begging sailors’ entry into water. Oddly lulling. This is the last time I shall write in here – the last time I shall ever write, and where I felt I had so much left to say, I’m left with a simple void. There is nothing left to say. I hope he falls straight into hell. God give him no mercy. I’ve thrown his stone straight into the water and watched red skitter, taint purity. Forgive me. And if I fall into the water, maybe, just maybe, it may wash me straight into heaven – cleanse me of my sins. It is doubtful. Will my blood taint the waters alongside his wretched stone? Let god be my judge.

But Father, oh father, please watch my child. Look after my child and give him back that which is his birthright. And if he cannot have it, send it straight down into the pit of hell for no one but my child shall have it. Let it burn, tremble, turn into ashes or give it to my child. It shall belong to no one but my child.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

I closed the book. I felt cold under the amber light of my room. I shivered. Light wavered. Wind outside shook trees. Something inside of me turned, twisted, and I slipped out of bed, down to the kitchen, and opened the tap. Water ripped out. I filled a glass, downed it, and leaned against the counter. A fleeting memory crossed my mind. Last time my mum had gone to my aunt's, I’d decided to stay at home. Except, then, Scythe had stayed over. We’d watched reruns of some old black and white comedy show, then made fun of all the voices and tried to bake a cake in the kitchen. Scythe had insisted it would be chocolate, so we’d shoved chocolate and milk in a plate into the microwave to help it melt. Only, Scythe had been the one to put it in the microwave and he’d failed to notice that the plate was metal. When the plate had set on fire, we realised our mistake. A smile touched the edge of my lips. Scythe hadn’t cared that he’d ruined the microwave, or that he’d ruined the plate. The point was that the cake had to be plain, no chocolate. That had been his main complaint.

For some reason, the thought of it didn’t bother me. At least he hadn’t pretended that he cared about the microwave, or the plate. He’d flat out said what his main priority was, no flashy formalities or half meant sorries. Just the truth.

He’d sat on the counter opposite where I stood, swinging his legs, half laughing about the ruined microwave. On my own, I would have panicked and stressed but with Scythe, the laughter was contagious. My mum hadn’t minded much either. She loved Scythe and Scythe managed to work his way around her, the way he always did. There’d been no trouble. Just laughter at our dumb mistake and a new microwave – no complaints. I watched the counter and tried to remember how he’d looked, just sitting there, legs swinging, eyes sparkling. Nothing. A ghost of what had once been refused to appear. For a ghost of Scythe to appear – it just wouldn’t fit.

Because ghosts are dead people.

Scythe isn’t dead.

I shook the thoughts out my head. There was no point in denying it. There was no point in trying to lie to myself. Because Scythe was dead. Dead. Dead. Dea –

The phone was ringing.

My blood went cold. Fingers gripped tighter on the counter. Could it be –? I almost sprinted to the phone, picked it off the receiver, blood pumping so fast it felt it would rip straight out of skin.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Angela, it’s Pippa.”

I felt sick – disappointed? Quickly, I composed myself. “Oh, hi.”

“I …” she hesitated. “I wasn’t sure who else to ring and – it’s been a while since it…”

I wished she’d just cut to the chase. It was obvious that she’d rung to mourn with me. “It’s been less than a day, Pippa, and we’re all pretty shaken up. So don’t feel like you made a mistake ringing me.”

“No…” More hesitation. What did she want? “That’s not it.”

“I’m confused.”

“Angela, Scythe –” A long pause, and then the words dropped like led, “Scythe just rang me, Angela.”

My insides went numb.

“Scythe’s dead, Pippa.”

“He’s not!” she sounded desperate. “Please, I – I’m really confused. I thought I was hallucinating – I thought I was dreaming but I wasn’t and I just checked and it’s in my call history and oh, god, Angela. I don’t know what to do. I’m confused and why did he ring me of all people? I don’t know why –”

Why did he ring her?

“But –” suddenly, her voice went cold. “He called me Lynn. He sounded hysterical and he was going on about loads of random crap which I just couldn’t process and then he had the nerve to call me Lynn. That dead bitch.”

Something inside of me stirred.

“As if she hasn’t done enough damage as it is,” she carried on. “I mean, as if one wasn’t enough. Okay, I know I’m not that great and all. After all, I did cheat on him but still – at least I stuck to one brother. But her…” Pippa scoffed. “Did you know that she got with Rayth at that party, the one where Scythe went off and you had to go find him? And this was only a little while before Scythe asked her out. I mean, oh my god, who gets with one brother and goes out with the other a day after?”

“She’s dead, Pippa.” I was getting angry.

“Didn’t change what she was. Didn’t change that she was just a lanky, stupid, ugly who –”

I hung up, blood boiling, and it took me a moment to control my breathing. Scythe’s alive, I reminded myself. No need to get worked up. What Pippa had said hadn’t bothered me at all. The point was that Scythe was alive. That was the point. And as for where he was… I left the phone off the receiver, just so that she wouldn’t ring me back. I didn’t need to hear her say anything more about Lynn. Instead, I pulled on my coat, shoved on some shoes and left the house, locking the door behind me.

Scythe was still alive. Scythe was still out there. And he was alone. He was scared. So I was going to find him.

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