Page 25 of Devour the Dark

Our sister’s death broke something between us.

Sometimes, when I allow myself grief, I mourn the loss of my brother just as much as my sister.

“I need to speak with you,” Roc says.

“I know.”

“Take him.” He hands the kitten to Hook.

“What—” The kitten lands in the cradle of Hook’s arm and then paws at the hook attached to his arm like it’s a play toy. “What am I to do with it?”

“Pet it, Captain.”

Roc starts down the nearest alley and disappears through an open door leading into the back of a bakery. Everyone has abandoned their work posts after his monster charged through, so we find no resistance to our intrusion.

He walks through the kitchen and beneath the archway leading to the bakery’s front shop. There’s a glass case full of fresh baked goods and several glass cloches on the counter displaying cakes and tarts. Beyond the counter are a handful of round tables.

Roc opens a cloche and plucks out two chocolate croissants, then plops down in a chair at the front window.

With the violence over, some of the townspeople have left their hiding spots to spill out into the street. Two men in overalls saunter past, their voices carrying through the cracked front door. They’re complaining about Peter Pan bringing more trouble to the island.

I drop into the chair across from my brother as he bites into a croissant. The pastry crackles beneath his teeth.

“What did you get yourself into, Roc?” I ask.

He stretches out his long legs. “I need the hat.”

“I don’t have the hat.”

He uses his index finger to scoop up a melted glob of chocolate from the open end of the pastry, then sucks it off his finger. “Why would you leave it on Darkland?”

“With the shadow, I can’t devour. I had no need for it.”

“Mmm.” He nods, takes another bite. His gaze strays out the window where a woman picks up the basket she’d abandoned on the street when she fled the scene of Roc’s destruction.

“Why did you devour a witch in the first place? You fucking know better.”

“I was mad.”

I snort. Once upon a time, back on Darkland, we were known as the Madd brothers. A shortening of our surname and an apt descriptor for our family and what we are or what we can become if we’re not careful.

“I can’t control it,” he admits. “It’s getting worse.”

The first croissant is gone now. He’s avoiding looking at me. My brother doesn’t like to ask for help. I think in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never asked for a favor. Not from me, not from anyone.

I get up and go to the bakery’s kitchen. There’s a block of knives by the worktable and I pull out a long, sharp blade. On a shelf above, I find a line of white tea cups and snatch one of those too.

When I return to the front, Roc looks up. At the shine of the blade, he grimaces.

“I don’t want your blood.”

“You’ll fucking take it and shut the fuck up about it.”

I set the teacup in front of him, then press the sharp tine of the blade to my wrist and pull. The shadow hisses at me and shrinks away from Winnie, surging toward me. It doesn’t really speak to me, but the feeling I get when the power floods my veins is,Whatever do you think you’re doing?

I sense Winnie coming to a stop wherever she is in the city.

I’m okay, I tell her, and the worry fades.

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