Page 245 of These Tears

The branch connects with the nearest mask. A dull, cracking thud resonates.

My captor staggers back with a grunt and a curse, a hand flying to his masked face.

The other man swears sharply – too fast for me to catch the words – and lunges for me.

The second the gap opens, I’m gone. But he’s right on my tail.

My boots skid.

My lungs seize.

Branches claw at my sleeves as the night swallows me.

Snow. Dark trees. A fucking mountain I’ve never been on – at the time of year Elias warned me the animals start moving again.

The world narrows to breath and impact. Snow squeaks and crunches under my boots. The air burns my throat, my lungs. My fingers are already stiffening inside my sleeves.

Behind me, boots hit the ground rapidly. A voice shouts something urgent but the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears won’t let the words through.

I don’t look back.

The cabin disappears behind a curtain of trees as I plunge into the forest. The slope tilts underfoot, steeper than I thought, the ground treacherous with roots and iced-over rocks.

I grab for trunks as I slip, my fingers scraping rough bark, snow shaking down my collar.

If I die here, Elias will never know what happened. He’ll search and search until the snow swallows his tracks too.

If he survives.

Won’t he?

The uncertainty makes me stagger—

Impact catches me between the shoulders.

I hit the snow chest-first, and a weight follows right after, forcing the air from my lungs.

One forearm presses across my upper back while the other hand reaches for my wrist.

‘Stop fighting!’ the man growls gruffly.

As if!

I drive my elbow backwards until it catches a set of ribs.

His weight shifts.

I buck, twist beneath his arm and jerk my knee up blindly. It catches him between the legs. His grip breaks with a strangled sound and we both go down.

We tumble in the snow, the world flipping once, twice.

And finally, I scramble upright, boots sliding beneath me. My legs shake. Trees wheel around me. But I’m lucid enough to remember the cabin is downwards – so I go the other way while the man is still writhing in pain by the birch trees.

No plan. No map. No weapons – and the fucking animals are waking.

I focus on the rhythm of my breath, the rasp of the coat against my thighs, and the way the hood keeps most of the wind off my ears. Tiny mercies.

Wind.