She skidded to a halt at the gates. The bodies began just beyond, and she didn’t know what had killed them, or if it would have any effect on her.
The hunters ran on.
“Lyssa!”
The girl never turned back. She stepped on a body as she ran and kept going, as if were of no consequence at all.
Then, she flickered. For a brief moment, she vanished, then reappeared, then vanished again. The pattern repeated several times and then she was gone. All the hunters, those that were still in sight a few seconds ago, were now gone.
“What the—?” she breathed. She peered into the predawn for several minutes, but there was no movement other than the rats around the dead.
Finally, she sighed and returned to the red hunter lying in the street. She was surprised to find it where she’d left it. Her hand was throbbing, but she didn’t feel like she had hit it hard enough for it to be unconscious for this long.
Her approach was cautious. It could be playing possum, waiting for her to return so that it could spring up and grab her. Strangely, she wasn’t frightened. Let it jump up. She’d put it down twice now and could do it again.
Still, there was no sense in being stupid about it.
When she neared, she nudged its leg with her foot. It still felt like wood, with only a slight give, then a toughness underneath.
She remembered the noise when she punched it and moved around to see its face. There was a jagged crack running from the left temple of the mask in a diagonal down to the right cheek. It was still attached to the thing’s head by whatever mysterious method it always was.
Celia squatted down near it, studying the figure but not attempting to touch it. If it moved, she could still spring away before it could grab her, give herself room to swing.
There was no sign of life. No up and down motion of its chest, no tremors or twitches of its limbs.
She reached out and touched the mask. It was cold, colder than it should have been, as if it had been kept in ice. She touched the hunter’s arm. That was a more normal temperature. Not warm like a living body would be, but not cold either.
The masks had something to do with these things. They either made them what they were, or kept them this way, or controlled them, or… something. The masks were key, she was sure of it.
Which begged the question; what would happen if a mask was removed? Would the hunter return to be a normal person? Would they die? And what was under there?
She was going to look. There was no doubt about that. Maybe she’d wait until it was closer to full light. Then, if the thing did rouse, it wouldn’t have time to fight, and maybe the light itself would kill it.
She heard a noise and looked up the street. A few people were peering out of hiding places, watching her and whispering. She searched their faces. None of them were the man who locked her in the manor.
Turning her attention back to the hunter, she stretched out her hand, trying not to let the fact that it was shaking bother her. She grabbed the edge of the mask and tried to curl her fingers under it. The hunter gave a soft whistle, its arm jerked a fraction of an inch, then it was still again.
The mask was still stuck firmly. She tried harder, putting more strength into it, and her fingers went under further. It felt like she was forcing them into stiff mud, grainy and slimy. An unpleasant odor arose.
She pulled, the mask lifted a tiny bit and the hunter moved. It rolled away from her, almost pulling her with it until her fingers slid free.
She sprang back with a cry. Down the street, faces that were watching in fascination disappeared as suddenly as they came.
Celia rose, hands up, weight on the balls of her feet. Her fingers that she used to try to get the mask off were covered in dark brown filth and they stank. She wrinkled her nose and tried to concentrate on the hunter.
It shook its head, spun to face her and started forward, moving slowly so that it wouldn’t run into a punch like the last time. These things learned as well as held grudges, Celia thought.
Then, it stopped. There was a noise like it was sniffing the air. The mask tilted up, looking at the sky. Then it lowered to her again.
The hunter stepped backward, once, twice, and three times. Celia didn’t pursue it. Her one hand hurt and the fingers on her other that were covered in whatever was beneath the mask were starting to itch terribly. For a moment, she thought she saw something wriggle through the brown goo coating them.
With a loud whistle, the hunter turned and ran, back to the main street. Celia followed and watched it speed up the road. It leapt up the steps to the manor, the door slammed behind it, and the sun came up over the horizon.
Celia wiped her hand on her pants, but the muck was too hard to get off that way. She needed water, ice for her other hand if possible, and to rest.
Later, she would need to find out what killed the people outside the walls of Dunfield. Then she’d have to chance it and find out where those things were going. Wherever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.
Chapter 39
The man was broken, or near enough to make no difference. Pain and deprivation followed by kindness and relief, and Samuel didn’t have any idea that all of it was being supplied by the same person. When Darius
