Hesaid, “If you’d like, I can vanish, and you’ll never see me again. Itmight be better that way.”
“Idon’t want that. But I wish . . .” Her face puckered, brow furrowedin thought. “But you’re not ever going to take me on a trip, or stay upto watch the sunrise with me, or ask me to marry you, or anything, areyou?”
Heshook his head. “I’ve already given you everything I can.”
Exceptfor one thing. But he hadn’t told her that he could infect her, makeher like him, that she too could live forever and never see a sunrise.And he wouldn’t.
“It’senough,” she said, hugging him. “At least for now, it’s enough.”
TheIsland of Beasts
SHEWAS A BUNDLE on the bottom of the skiff, tossed in with her skirt andpetticoat tangled around her legs, hands bound behind herwith a thin chain that also wrapped around her neck.
Shedidn’t struggle; the silver in the chain burned her skin. The more shemoved, the more she burned, so she lay still because the only way tostop this would be to make them kill her. They wanted to kill her. Sowhy didn’t they? Why go through the trouble of rowing thiswave-rocked skiff out to this hideous island just to throw her to herlikely death? To save themselves the taint of murder? To keepthemselves clean of whatever small sin her death would engender ontheir souls? Surely her life was not so large that her death would besuch a burden.
“Why?Why not just kill me and be done with it?” she growled.
Hercaptors—the two rough men on the oars and the gentleman with thetailored frock coat and fine manners who sat at the prow—were wolves,like her. They smelled of musk and wild and moorland, of the beaststhat hid inside their flesh. But they were civilized.They followed orders and bowed to their betters. Not like her. Theyalso smelled of hearth fires and smugness. She smelled of fury.
Thegentleman, Mr. Edgerton, laughed sourly. “You are not worth the cost ofthe silver ball it would take to kill you.”
Shewas not valuable enough to keep and not dangerous enough to kill. Therewas a pretty fate. Too dangerous to keep and not valuable enough tobother taming. And so here she was, dumped on the edge of the world,off the coast of Scotland. She could laugh and cry both, but her throatwas too locked up with stifled screams. Edgerton would like it if shescreamed. He’d tell his master, the Lord of Wolves in London, that shescreamed. He’d likely tell the Lord that anyway, but it wouldn’t betrue, and that would be something. She’d make the fine gentleman a liar.
Edgertondrew out a spyglass and used it to search the island’s shore.
“Seeanything, sir?” one of the oarsmen asked. The men at the oars wereservants, lower wolves who bowed and scraped and thus got their meatthrown to them. They wouldn’t save her.
“Nota thing. They’re hiding from us. Biding their time.”
“Maybethey’re all dead,” said the other. “Maybe they all killed each other.”
“Perhapsthey did. You’ll have the island to yourself,” Edgerton said to thewoman and grinned. The bottom of the skiff hit sand. “That’s enough, noneed to go all the way up.”
“Sir?”
“Lether walk the rest of the way.” He would never say it, but he was afraid.
Herhands jerked; the silver chain seared her neck. Her bonds were suddenlyloose, but in the next moment she was rolled over the side of the boatand into the freezing North Atlantic water, wool skirt instantly soddenand pulling her down. She flailed, reached out. Put her feet down onthe sand, stood. Was only knee deep in the churning surf, watching theskiff row away, the men laughing. Edgerton held up the silver chain ina gloved hand. It was worth more than she ever was.
“Damnyou all! Damn you all for cowards and bastards! You couldhave just killed me, but you’re cowards, aren’t you just!” She screamedafter them, and their laughter carried to her in reply. They, all ofthem who condemned her to this exile, need never think of her again.
Shestood with the waves pushing back and forth around her legs, shoving’round her skirt, freezing water pulling at her. The sand reached fromthe lapping surf to a stretch of sea grass and crumbling gray rock. Thesky was gray, the water was gray, dark slate, pushing up the thickstretch of pale sand. Beyond, the land was green and spare, grass keptshort by wind and whatever gnawed at it. Sheep had been here days ago,and oddly the scent of their droppings gave her hope. There was foodhere, if she could get it.
Pastthe beach, up a slope, was a craggy outcrop, stones tumbled down fromsome exposed hillside. Wasn’t as good as a fort or a tower, but maybeshe could defend the spot. She needed a place. She needed weapons. Sheneeded time. Soaking wet, she wanted a fire. A fury had built up in herheart to the breaking point. She would snap and strip and the wolfwould burst through her skin and run wild, and if that happened she wasdone for, she’d have nothing.
Nomatter. It was finished. She was here, and she knew that she was notalone on this island.
Shegot to work.
Bythe time the cold rain started, she had something resembling shelter.She’d piled driftwood and rushes over a cleft in the jagged rocks andmade a little cave for herself. With the rain, well, she had freshwater. Though she was hungry, food could wait until tomorrow. The graysky was turning dark, the sun setting, the slate ocean turning black,and the rush and crash of the waves went on and on. Survive the night,that was all she had to do. Then the next night, and the next.
Goddamn them who put her here, but she would live. If for no other reasonthan to spite them.
Wasn’ttime for the full moon—breaking
