Page 89 of She Haunts Me Still

“I couldn’t move. I heard a—a voice. Agrowlingvoice. It didn’t…sound human. It told me what to do. And I felt like Ihadto listen. Like I was outside my body. I saw myself get the knife from my bag. I saw myself start cutting. Like I was trying to carve open my chest, straight through to—to—”

Saskia’s voice catches on a sob and her face crumples, nose tipping into Mallory’s neck. For a moment, Mallory just holds her, the curve of her throat growing slick with Saskia’s tears as she fights against breathing in her sweet floral scent.

“This makes no sense,” Mallory murmurs, cheek pressedto the top of Saskia’s head. “This is how my mom died. HowI’msupposed to die. Because my family is cursed. But you’re not part of my family, so why would you—”

She slams to a halt. Thinks back on Lily’s words in the hospital.

It’s not meant for her.

“The curse,” she says. “That’swhat Lily was talking about. The curse that’s made every woman in my family cut out their own heart. It’s not meant for you. But it’s affectingyou.” She narrows her eyes, remembering the obituaries she swiped from Victor’s office.Sixobituaries. “You’re not the right one.I am.I’m the seventh one.”

“What?” Saskia asks, eyes round in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“I just figured something out,” Mallory says. “I’ll explain in a minute. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She crosses to Saskia’s desk, scanning for a first aid kit when a different object catches her eye. It’s the size of a necklace box but made of heavy, textured wood. Four letters are etched into the top—ICOE—and the sides are covered in rainbow stickers. A strange-looking lock secures the lid: a black ring with a single ball in the center.

“What is this?” Mallory asks. “What does ICOE stand for?”

Saskia waves dismissively. “It’s just something my mom gave me before she died. The first aid kit is in the top drawer.”

Mallory fetches it and returns to the floor. She glances at the streaks of blood across Saskia’s tank top, swallowing.

“Can you…?” Mallory gestures to the shirt.

Saskia nods and pulls the garment over her head. She’s wearing a thin black bra, cut like triangles with a front clasp. Ordinarily, Mallory would be fighting not to stare at thecurve of Saskia’s breasts, the outline of her nipples, but she’s too distracted by the dozens of slash marks, her shameful, relentless hunger. Her mouth waters. She wonders if she’ll ever feel normal again.

“You said that Lily spoke to you once, right?” Mallory dips a cotton ball in saline, desperate to quell that ravenous need. “To say that something wasn’t meant for you?”

Saskia nods.

“Okay, so. Lily is my ancestor,” Mallory continues, trying to ignore how her hand is shaking. “Every woman in her bloodline after her has likely died the same way: self-inflicted stabbing to the chest. It’s the way I’m supposed to die, too. That’s what we’ve been saying, right?”

Saskia nods again, this time studying her. As if registering the way Mallory is biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

“But something just compelled you to do this to yourself.” Mallory’s lashes flutter as she presses the cotton to Saskia’s chest. She cleans gently, fighting against the thirst that floods her. “The curse that should be in my body? Somehow, it’s inyours.”

In the silence that follows, there’s no escaping the esurient torment in her stomach, the way her traitorous eyes keep lingering on the slashes in Saskia’s skin. Mallory dabs again at the cuts, her hand noticeably shaking now.

“What’s wrong?” Saskia asks, and Mallory squeezes her eyes shut. The room seems to tip on its side.

“I can’t say.”

“Mal.” Saskia cocks her head. “Mal,you’re crying.”

Is she? She can’t even tell. Her body is a mutated thing she no longer recognizes.

She won’t do it, she tells herself again, teeth rattlingbetween locked jaws. She’s not a monster, she’s a girl. Her name is Mallory Webb. She’s nineteen years old. She has brown hair that looks red in the sun, she pets every stray cat she sees, she’s here, and she’s alive. Her name is Mallory Webb, she’s nineteen y—

“Mallory,” Saskia says more firmly, and Mallory wonders if she’s spoken aloud. “Whatisit?” Her hands curl around Mallory’s shoulders, and the touch breaks something inside her. Dismantling her resolve and pulling the truth loose. “Mal—”

“I want—I needblood.” Mallory’s voice cracks around the admission. “Oh god.” She presses a fluttering hand to her mouth, humiliation festering at the way Saskia is staring. Like she’s suddenly afraid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

But Saskia remains silent, narrowed eyes dropping to Mallory’s choker. As if connecting the dots between the swollen marks on her neck and what she’s saying now.

“Shit,” Saskia murmurs. “That bite must have infected you somehow.”

Mallory chews her lip. “I don’t know. All I know is I’ve been sick for days, and your smell, it—” Her stomach lurches. “I’m sorry—I won’t hurt you, Saskia, I can leave, I’ll—”