Page 38 of Fangs

Wings beat against my skin, leathery and soft. Hundreds of them. Thousands. A storm of bats descends, their bodies forming a living cushion beneath me, lifting me, carrying me. They surge upward, their combined strength bearing my weight, and I am flying.

I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the rush of air and the frantic flutter of wings. The bats carry me across the grounds, over the rooftops, toward the isolated tower that looms at the edge of the manor. The isolation tower—the one where they send girls who bleed.

The bats pour through the highest window, a river of darkness flooding into the dusty attic. They deposit me on a bed of white sheets, old and yellowed with age, and then they are gone, streaming back out into the twilight sky.

I lie on the bed, gasping, trembling, my hand still pressed to my throat. The ceiling spins above me. Dust motes dance in the dim light. Old furniture looms in the corners, draped in white sheets like ghosts.

—

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time has lost all meaning.

I drift in and out of consciousness, my body heavy, my mind a tangle of nightmare and reality. The wound on my neck throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Voices. I hear voices.

“Lucy. Lucy, can you hear me?”

Jenny’s face swims into view, her brow furrowed with worry. Behind her, I see other girls—their faces pale, their eyes wide.

“Where am I?” The words scrape out of my throat like broken glass.

“The isolation tower,” Jenny says, her voice soft. “We heard a window breaking. We came up here and found you—bleeding, covered in dust, surrounded by bats.” She shakes her head. “Lucy, what happened? How did you get here?”

I touch my neck. The wound is still there—tender, raw, undeniably real.

“I cleaned it and applied a salve that numbs the pain.” Jenny says.

The evidence is right beneath my fingers.

It was not a dream. None of it was a dream.

I sit up too fast, and the room tilts. Jenny steadies me, her hands firm on my shoulders.

“Slowly,” she says. “You have lost a lot of blood.”

“The masters,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “Thomas. He—”

“I know.” Jenny’s voice drops to a whisper. “I know what they are. I have suspected for a while. He bit you. I saw the mark.”

I nod, the movement making my head swim. “He is dead.”

Jenny’s eyes go wide. “What?”

“The shadows. They—” I stop myself. I can’t tell her about Blake. Not yet. Not when I do not understand it myself. “They killed him. He turned to ash.”

Jenny stares at me for a long moment. Then she exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like relief. “Good,” she whispers. “He deserved it. They all deserve it.”

She glances toward the window, where the sky is beginning to bruise with the colors of dusk. “The other girls… I told them you were feeling sick and needed rest.”

“Mag,” I say suddenly.

Jenny’s expression flickers. “She doesn’t know about Thomas. She doesn’t believe he is—” Jenny hesitates. “She cares for him, Lucy. She won’t take the news well.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow. Mag loved Thomas. Or thought she did. When she finds out he is dead because of me…

“I can’t go back down there,” I say quickly. “Not yet. I need to be alone. I need to think.”

Jenny studies my face, and her expression softens. “I understand. I will tell the others you are resting. No one will disturb you.”