Page 100 of Shadebound
I didn’t answer straight away. My pulse had gone very still as my brother raised his hands.
What’s the letter say?
I handed it to him. Perhaps out of shock. Perhaps because I was still too mad about the bruises on his face. Or perhapsbecause I didn’t want to lie to him. I just watched as his eyes scanned each word, slower than usual. His jaw tensed at the end.
What does it mean?
I swallowed.
“The killer’s here.” I explained, head full of Death’s dark murmurs I couldn’t quite make out.
Draven stared at me. Still and silent, dark eyes swirling.
“The Salem serial killer,” I added, voice hollow. “He’s at Mors and he’s been leaving me notes and now... now this.”
As I reached for the letter in his hand, something slipped out from underneath and fluttered to the mattress.
Not paper.
A Polaroid.
I grabbed it before Draven could, heart already buckling in my chest.
Maya.
Pale. Unconscious. Her limbs were bound at the wrists and ankles with something that looked like cloth but bent and gleamed like wire. Her head lolled against a stone wall that looked too smooth, too dark. Her mouth was open.
I flipped the photo. No writing. Another one slid loose.
Zayden.
His face was streaked with blood. A fresh bruise bloomed across his jaw. His wrists were nailed to a wooden beam—rusty iron stakes jammed straight through the joints. He’d clearly fought. His body was tense even in stillness. His head was turned to the side, teeth bared, eyes half-lidded but still furious. In the bottom corner of the frame, a gloved hand was visible—like the photographer had wanted me to see just how close they’d gotten. How untouchable they thought they were.
I didn’t want to see another.
My fingers betrayed me anyway.
The last Polaroid landed in my lap.
Eris.
She was slumped sideways, her braid unravelled, one cheek pressed against the leg of a broken statue. Her hand was bent beneath her at a strange angle, like it had been twisted the wrong way and left that way for too long. There was blood on her shirt. Not fresh.
She looked small. And still. Far too still.
I made a sound. Just something thin and sharp that dragged up from my throat and didn’t make it all the way out.
Draven stared at me. His face had gone white with confusion. I didn’t let him see the photos. He didn’t need to—not yet. So I shoved them into my combats pocket with shaking fingers and the letter.
My breath was clawing up too fast. I turned, grabbed my boots, and staggered toward the door.
“Come on,” I turned to Draven. “Now. We’re going.”
He signed something but I was half delirious as I flung the door open.
And ran straight into a wall of bodies.
Veyr. Tyler. Viktor. Saphira.
