Page 20 of The Mirror of Beasts

Winter had settled over the little seaside village like a curse from an old fairy tale, imprisoning it, and all those who lived within its reach, under a low, dreary sky.

It was the sort of bone-deep cold that invariably slowed the pulse of life and left behind a heavy stillness that wouldn’t be broken until morning. Here and there, frosted windows were aglow with unseen life, but no one dared to venture outside now.

No one but us.

A soul-chilling wind blew in from the coast, lashing the age-worn stone buildings until snow misted off the low garden walls and thornlike icicles broke from the thatched roofs to shatter on the ground. It became a bitter companion, following us through the narrow cobblestone streets, moaning like a restless ghost determined to put us off our search.

It was appropriate, in a way, I supposed—the village’s Welsh name, with its intriguing combination of consonants, had been helpfully translated by the One Vision to Spirit Point.

While it was not on any map, I recognized it from a particularly infamous entry in Nash’s journal, in which he’d described getting so blisteringly drunk he lost his boots, gave himself frostbite on both big toes, and stole someone’s Sunday roast right off their table. He’d been so preoccupied with eating his turkey leg, he’d ended his night by nearly walking off the nearby cliffs.

Cabell would have been beside himself to finally see this place. I’d have to bring him here, once it was all over. Preferably in the summer. Because right now, having wandered the dark streets of the village for over an hour, searching for a place that clearly did not exist, I was beginning to worry about my own fingers and toes.

I glared at Emrys as he circled the narrow street, baffled.

“Just admit that you lied,” I sneered at him, too proud to let my teeth chatter. “You have no earthly idea where the Bonecutter is, and you never did. Is this all one big game to you?”

I’d sent Emrys to retrieve whatever gear and coats he could find in the library’s lost and found—our polite name for the box of freebies left behind by dead Hollowers—but the pickings had been fairly slim. Avalon had destroyed my one good winter coat, and the green utility jacket I was wearing wasn’t up to a Welsh winter. Worse, it still smelled like the tuna sandwiches Amos Martinus had eaten every day until his last.

At least Olwen had been able to apply salve to my aching ribs, and the worst of my cuts. Small movements no longer felt like a hot knife through my chest, though I was beginning to suspect my whole body had just gone numb from the cold.

Emrys stopped circling, his hands on his hips. He, of course, was well bundled in a scarf and a stupid tweed jacket. His brow creased as he shot me a look of irritation. “I didn’t lie. I said I knew where she was, not that I’d been there.”

“And where did that information come from?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at the road. “Maybe one day you’ll have enough money to find out.”

God’s teeth, I hated him.

My breath blew out in a cloud of white as that old, potent blend of shame and indignation rose like bile in my throat. If he was going to use what I’d told him to hit me, then I’d gladly return each blow.

“If only Daddy’s money could buy you a brain,” I crooned back at him, hands curling into fists, “then maybe next time you’d think to buy some actual directions instead of being taken for a fool.”

The hit had landed, but there was none of the satisfaction I’d craved, only more of that gnawing anger, that revulsion. Emrys turned his back to me, stalking past where the others had stopped to rest against the wall of a sweet shop.

“Have you even s-seen the B-Bonecutter?” Neve asked, bouncing on her heels as she tried to rub some warmth back into her arms.

“No,” he grunted out. “No one has ever met her.”

Caitriona pushed away from the icy stone wall, shucking off her own black wool coat. Without a word, she wrapped it around Neve’s shoulders, then went back to her post, keeping watch on the empty street.

Neve tried to take it off, protesting, “You’re going to freeze—”

“I’m used to the cold,” Caitriona said with a dismissive wave. Remembering the oppressive gloom of Avalon, I didn’t doubt that, but I also didn’t like it.

It was strange to see Caitriona dressed like any other mortal; her jeans, a smidge short, and the button-down flannel shirt were strangely discordant with the very essence of her—it was like watching a king playing peasant. Her unusual, silvery hair was tucked up into a knit cap to avoid attracting unwanted attention. The black coat had highlighted the unhealthy pallor of her skin, matching the heavy smears of shadows beneath her flinty eyes.

She cut her gaze around at the cheery Christmas decorations on the nearby shops and flats, her top lip curling at battery-powered candles flickering in the windows above us.

Night had come early, as it always did when the Wheel of the Year turned to winter. It looked like everything had been closed for hours. In these farther-flung places, villagers had been set in their routines for centuries, and had a well-earned suspicion of outsiders.

Salted ice crunched under my feet as I stepped forward, gesturing to one of the buildings with lights on. “That’s a hotel of some kind—maybe someone there will know where to find the Dead Man’s Rest, or tell us what happened to it.”

“It’s here,” Emrys insisted, more to himself than to the rest of us, as he continued down the street. “It’s around here somewhere.”

“The maggot suddenly seems too kind to curse him with,” Neve muttered as she followed him, wrapping Caitriona’s oversized coat around her like a blanket.

Caitriona trailed two steps behind, her gaze still sweeping the street for some unseen danger. I spun on my heel, realizing we were missing someone.

---