Page 7 of All Hallows Trick

“My back,” he sighed, letting me see all the way to his soul. He was as tired as I was, and hurt, not just by pain but becausewewere hurt. I rested my head on his shoulder, letting my gaze trail up to Miz, too.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, making sure to look each of them in the eye. “It wasn’t your fault anyone got hurt.”

It was Nightmare’s.

I watched the doctor like a hawk as he assessed Tor, muttering to himself, and applied some sort of green goop to the open wound, covering it in a bandage. He searched his chest and found puncture wounds on his shoulder that made me sick. I drank the rest of my tea and didn’t ask if the poultice would help. He’d either say something I didn’t like or lie to me.

“The antidote,” I rasped to Virgil, hesitant to meet my brother's eyes as I thought of everything he’d been through. “Could it heal them?”

He sighed, his eyes tight, face covered in grime that was a stark reminder of where he’d been held captive. There were cuts and needle marks beneath the grime, evident now we stood under bright lighting, but I forced myself not to stare at them even if my throat filled with raw edges. “I wish I knew, Cat. But we can’t spare any vials.”

“To heal my men, we can,” I argued in that voice of darkness, dropping an octave until it was so deep, I barely heard it.

“What antidote?” the doctor asked, rising to his feet and already looking to Miz.

Virgil explained while I watched Tor sleep, my hands tightening around the mug in my hands.

“See how he fares overnight,” the ghost man said after he’d considered all options. “We may have to try it tomorrow morning.”

That statement formed a lead lump in my stomach. I just nodded, watching him squint at the slash on Miz’s arm, repeating the poultice and green sludge, doing the same to Death’s back. Numbness crept in further, heavy and cold. I stood there, helpless, frozen down to my bones.

“She’ll come back for us,” I said before I’d processed the intention to speak. “She’ll want to finish the job she started.”

“She can try.” The icy words came from Madness. “She won’t get through me.”

I dragged my eyes slowly to him, my stare reluctant to leave Tor. “Why?”

His smile was slow and genuine. “Like you said, I’m your darkness.”

“You’ve been with me this whole time,” I said, a hollowness spreading to my voice, too. “Since that night in June. Haven’t you?”

“Every day since,” he confirmed.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I just shook my head, tired, hurting deep in my chest. I realised my stare had dropped from his freckled face to a spot on his chest where a tattoo peeked above the leather V of his waistcoat, his eyes too intense to hold eye contact. Because of that I didn’t realise his arms were moving, coming towards me, until my legs were knocked fromunder me and I was swept up in strong arms. The scent of honey burned away the blood in my memory.

“Madness,”Miz warned, an edge entering his tired voice. “Put my girl down.”

I liked being called his girl.

“She’s burned almost all the way out, like a cute little candle left burning too long,” Madness explained patiently. “She needs to sleep. I have a room all ready and prettified. You can all stay with her,” he added quickly, “I made sure the bed was big enough for five.”

That was… sweet.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Rest now,” the doctor input, his voice still rife with fear. I’d done that. Shame hit me even if I didn’t quite regret the words. This wasn’t who I was; I didn’t scare people and enjoy it. But the spirit grabbed his bag and ran through the solid wall instead of taking the front door, rushing to escape me.

“I can carry her,” Death offered as Madness began to walk.

The god tsked. “You need to carry Torment. I’ve got her. I'll never, ever drop her. I’d pinky promise you, but I don’t have a hand spare.”

It was awkward, being carried by a man I didn’t know, but as strange as it felt, there was something familiar about it, something that reminded me of the way darkness wrapped around me in my lowest moments, encouraging me of my strength at my weakest.

I watched as the living room’s grey ceiling changed to the glass roof of the atrium, rain drumming the glass as Madness carried me towards the tall, sweeping staircase. It was a lovely castle, not quite as cold or dark as Death’s, but I longed for black halls and familiar rooms that had begun to feel like home.

Miz followed us up the stairs, saying nothing but hovering close enough that his presence was a comfort to me and awarning to Madness. I watched him over Madness’s shoulder, the sight of those golden eyes soothing me, promising he’d never let anyone hurt me. Not hating me for what I’d become, not judging or fearing me. He looked at me the same way he had this evening, before we walked to Byron’s memorial together—with affection and heat and low, simmering obsession.

“This is your room, lioness,” Madness declared when he’d carried me up to the first mezzanine, strolling down a corridor that branched off from the left, lined with three doors each painted a different jewel tone. He stopped in front of the deep cerise door and carefully set me on my feet.

“Thank you, Madness,” I said, trying to outrun my memories of a cottage in the woods, a room lit in green, a shelf full of vials of blood, and a cage with my brother in it. Thoughts of Phil began to spill out, but I cut them off like hacking off the head off a slug. That was what these memories were—slimy and unpleasant.

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