I reach out my restrained hands for the top of the pile.

  Old photographs, stacks and stacks of them. Most of them gleam a dusty brown hue under the firelight.

  I pull out a handful, then angle them towards the torch. I flick through them. Nothing spectacular—if family memories and the memories of our soon-to-be extinct species are unspectacular. Still, none stand out to me. The poses are stiff, faces are unhappy, clothes are too corseted and miserable.

  I set the photographs aside before I reach into the box again. I feel around, go through stacks of pictures, until I come across a smaller hard-wood box.

  Inception, I think to myself, and that stupid smile twitches again.

  I bring the smooth, polished box to my lap, then flip open the golden clasp. Inside, a bunch of medals shine up at me. War medals and memorabilia I assume. Tucked beside them is a small stack of Polaroid pictures (really, one of my favourite cameras).

  Now this is what I’m talking about. Sincere moments, captured and forever preserved in time—two mates in tank-tops passing a bottle of beer between them; a wedding photograph in black and white with one of those lacy vintage style gowns that I just love; and one of those classic ones with a woman leaning up against the side of a train to kiss her lover who hangs out of a window to reach her.

  I pinch all three of the photos, tucking them into the side of my boot. With socks, they would be better secured, but I make do.

  Those Polaroids flood me back in time when I got my first camera. Same camera (obviously my devices advanced over time), and my first love.

  Photography is an eternal passion of mine; one lost some time ago. But in all truth, I was never any good at it. I just did it. I loved my pictures of bland, withering flowers, and shadows stretching over cobblestone streets, and that time my mother passed out in the bathtub after too much morning-vodka. No one liked my photos, except me.

  Wonder where they are now. I had a collection, boxes and stashes of them. Probably burned to the ground by now.

  I let go of those thoughts as I close the lid on the box and push it away from me.

  I tuck back to the post.

  As I twist around to face the door, a shadow catches in the corner of my eye and I stiffen. Eyes widening, I slowly slide my stare to the bench—and see the warrior straddling it, sitting upright, and looking right at me.

  His arms, bare like his chest, looks slick under the torchlight, as though slathered in tanned oil. Orange light licks up the profile of his olive-skinned face, catching the cutting shadow of his chiselled jawline. Those amber flecks in his eyes dance like wild flames through towns, made darker—more threatening—by the loose strands of dark hair brushing over his brow.

  I swallow, audibly.

  I have a thought—are all the dark fae so beautiful because they used to once lure us humans into their realm?

  That’s how the stories go, at least. Could be zero truth to them at all, but I doubt that since most of the world had lost their belief in the fae and then, what-da-ya-know (as my school roomie used to say), they came here with all their power and magic and ferocity, and they decimated us.

  Loosening a quiet breath punched with exhaustion, I turn my gaze down to the fae’s side.

  Reddened and bruised, the wound looks nearly knitted shut by invisible threads. He’s almost fully healed.

  And he caught me in the act of preserving some of human history.

  Yet, he does nothing. He says nothing. He simply watches me.

  I sink back against the post, bringing my knees to my chest, holding his ember gaze.

  After a while, he pulls his gaze from me and starts to check his wounds. I finally loosen a strangled breath and let my head fall with relief.

  He works in silence for the better part of an hour, reapplying salve and balms, redressing his shoulder. I take the chance to check my own.

  With the dark fae distracted and Spike snoring like a foghorn, I lift up the torn hem of my dress. Revealed, my legs are bruised and scraped from the knobbly knees up.

  I cut a glance at the warrior, making sure he’s still distracted—and he is. He has his back to me now, hunched over (back muscles rippling with every move of his arms) as he riffles through a satchel.

  For a beat, I study those charred-like, ribbed scars running down his back; shoulder-blade to the defined muscles of his smaller back. The scars are exact mirrors of each other, and I still can’t decipher whether they mean something in his culture or he was simply born that way.

  I throw the scars out of mind. I have my own mending to do.

  Knowing it’s safe for a moment, I lift up my dress to check my torso. And it’s covered in kiss-bruises. Except the right side, where the bastard booted me onto my back and definitely cracked a rib or two.

  I let my dress fall back into place before I reach up my aching fingers for the strip pulled tight around my mouth. I wrestle it out, then settle it over my nose; it’s a better angle to press against the wound at the back of my head, and I can breathe much better this way.

  As I look up at the bench again, I catch the dark fae watching me. He has a waterskin in his hand, his gaze burning into the muzzle I fought out of my mouth.

  All he does is toss the waterskin through the air. I watch it arc towards me, then land right on my lap. A perfect aim.

  Hesitation clings to me. For a moment, a battle erupts inside of me; is it poisoned or is it drinkable water? But then, I want to die and I want to drink.

  So what’s the harm, I decide?

  I pull out the cork-lid and lift the leather-bound waterskin to my mouth. Leaning back my head, I pour a steady stream of tepid water down my throat. Don’t even stop to swirl it around my parched mouth.

  Barely have a moment to lower the waterskin from my mouth before hands snatch it out of my grip. I snare my snarl on Spike as he starts to guzzle down as much of the water as he can—

  But he hasn’t got another moment before the warrior is towering over us. One look from the fae, and Spike’s hands tremble as he draws the waterskin away from his mouth. He offers it up to the dark fae.

  Before he takes it, he shoots a puzzled look at me—that I have no idea the meaning behind—then stalks off to the bench. For a heartbeat, I almost let myself wonder if we’ll have more time to rest. But those hopes are shattered as he scoops up the satchel straps then flings them across the shed at Spike.

  The warrior storms over to us.

  Numbly, I watch as he unloops our ropes from the hooks, then fastens us to his belt. The leeway is shorter now, but I can’t decide whether he meant to keep us closer to him, or it was just done without much thought.

  Once we’re secure, and Spike has the satchels over his shoulder, the warrior adjusts the sword slung over his back and the weapons belt low on his hips.

  He makes to move away, but pauses in front of me, turning his head to cast his dark stare down at me. Then, after a moment, he snatches the fabric from my face and fits it back into my mouth.

  My face crumples, making no effort to hide the glower I shoot his way.

  Indifferent, he turns his back to us and kicks out the door again.

  Time to go. And my whole body screams at the idea.

  16

  I suspect we spent too long in the shed, because the warrior moves faster across the farms this time. Though, he doesn't have his bleeding, gaping wounds to slow him down this time.

  Still, it very much feels as though he’s trying to make up for lost time.

  I’m slow, staggered by the aches that plague my whole body, and he often has to tug my rope to hurry me along. Unlike before the shed, he doesn’t pull the rope hard enough to bruise my wrists any further.

  The trek is an agonising, monotonous one. Spike fumbles with all the baggage and the torch he has to mule across the plains, and I’m just trying not to collapse on the hard earth. At least the warm breeze is back to warm away the prickles on my bare legs. A small thing to be grateful for. It’s the little things these days, you know?

  When the dark fae stops in the middle of an abandoned farm—the countless ones we’ve passed through since leaving the shed all those hours ago (at least a whole day)—he pauses and turns his head to the right.

  I study his profile as it hardens; his face turning to bronzed stone. He lifts his strong chin for a moment, then I see the deep inhale he takes through his nose. It fills his chest and spreads out his broad shoulders. When he releases the breath, his body relaxes as though tension unribbons through him, but his eyes lower and he cuts his head to the left.

  An uneasy wave curdles my gut.

  He smells something—he maybe even sees something far in the darkness. Whatever it is, he knows something’s off.

  A sudden decision strikes through him. He cuts to the right, our ropes staggering us along behind him, and heads off in the opposite direction to the one he glowered at.

  Humans, I wonder? Enough for them to be a threat to a lone dark fae warrior? I mean, he likely recalled how we blew up and killed his companions, ready to die for our cause, and just decided it wasn’t worth the risk. So he takes us deeper into the black, and we wind up slipping into a sparse tree-line.

  Not the fucking woods.

  I hate the woods.

  They are so damn dangerous these days. More than they were before. Animals from all over Europe moved wherever the wind took them with the loss of humans; and now, even in France, we have bears and wolves to worry about. Not only that, there are all sorts of problems that come with the dark (and the creepy crawlers!).

  Last time my group went into the woods, we wandered right into the path of another tribe’s cabin. We lost three of our own trying to escape. Some people are really hungry these days—and humans aren’t off the menu.

  Gruelling shit.

  So it’s no wonder I start to drag my boots across the foliage-dusted ground and tug on my ropes.

  Impatient, the warrior turns on me sharply. The torchlight reflects off his vexed eyes.

  I stumble back a step as he reaches out for me.

  His grip is firm as he takes my rope in his hand and guides me closer. Then he loops it around his belt a few more times, until there’s hardly a half-metre between us.

  Venomous words build up in my throat, threatening to spill out onto my tongue—but I’m muzzled like a fucking dog, and so all I can manage is narrowing my eyes on his unfazed face.

  He heads back into the trees; and the pull of him is suddenly stronger the closer I’m bound to his belt. I have little space to fight against him; so, I stumble at his heels, a moody look on my downcast face.

  After a while, Spike’s breathing takes a hoarse, haggard turn. He’s weak; hungry and parched, struggling to carry the load of a mule.

  The fae does nothing to aid him. And even if I wanted to help Spike, it’s not like I could do much. My body is too broken and bruised to carry anything, let alone a satchel filled with waterskins and food and medical supplies and whatever-the-fuck else this beast has with him. Probably the decapitated heads of his enemies, the psycho.

  Despite his choppy breaths, Spike manages to keep pace. And we walk for a long time.

  I swear we’ve been moving for a whole day and night by the time I hear it; a crunching sound to my right, like bone being pulverised.

  My heart stops and, instinctively, I duck closer to the side; tucking myself between the fae and Spike, as though they are special shields made for me.

  The warrior pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. My wide eyes meet him. He blinks something weary, then slowly turns his gaze to the side, where the crunching sound crawls out from again.

  The fae reaches back for the torch. Spike releases it with an audible sigh of relief. But the relief is short-lived as the warrior extends his arm out and, with it, the light of the torch, showing us what’s making those noises.

  I pale, instantly. I feel all the colour drain out of my face, down my body, and the swirl of it all in my watery gut.

  It’s a pack of at least five dogs. Pet dogs—old, torn and bloody collars. Dogs that were once loved. And they are feasting on the body of a lone human. Clothes have been torn from the now-exposed body, but it’s clear that it was once a man from the body parts that still remain. A torso and bits of meat still clinging to bony legs.

  Suddenly feel sick again.

  I shut my eyes, the woods spinning around me, and pinch my mouth shut. My hand comes up to my mouth. I lean forward, meaning to fold myself over and steady myself, but my forehead touches something cool and firm; the warrior’s bare back.

  Before I can jerk back from him, it happens; I wrench the gag from my mouth a split second before I’m retching; I fight it, fight it into just one heave, not a trigger of an onslaught.

  I taste no sick on my tongue, but water and the aftertaste of some doughy bread the warrior gave us.

  I blink away the last rolls of nausea—and I realise what I’m doing. I’m leaning my head on the fae’s shoulder blade.

  Again, I blink, this time startled. Then I slowly peel my forehead from his skin and avoid his gaze; he looks over his shoulder at me, a frown pinching his brows together.

  Stepping to the side, I clear my throat before I spit out the last of the vomit in my mouth.

  He’s still watching me, so I just look down at the foliage.

  It’s not like I meant to lean on him for support. It was an accident, but by the intensity of his stare, you’d think I’d jumped on him and kissed the soul out of his body.

  Finally, he pulls his gaze away, and relief falls out of me in a light breath that deflates my shoulders. He shoves the torch back into Spike’s hands, then sets off through the woods again.

  I keep up just fine this time, pushing myself to my limits. Gotta avoid any more attention thrown my way after that.

  It’s when we’re walking—leaving the dog pack behind us—that it hits me. That bastard wanted me to be sick! He purposely pushed the torchlight into the scene to reveal it to me, all so that I would suffer that bit more.

  Oh, I’m so going to kill him when I get the chance. I’ll kill us both. Quick and clean. Poison, maybe.

  Just waiting for my chance.

  I’m not the type to steal a knife from his weapons belt and plunge it into his back. Too much gore, too much blood. And there always seemed to be something personal about a knife, something intimate in a sick and twisted way. I’m more of a poisoner, myself. Sneaky, deadly, and without much gore.

  17

  Though he has mostly healed from his wounds—the bullet holes are puckered now and the gash down his side, once gaping, is now a mere slit—the warrior still seems to sense a vulnerability.

  Perhaps he feels exposed, I wonder. Without his comrades to flank him, with how easily (to him) we took out three of his own kind, it would be understandable that out here, alone, his confidence might have been shaken.

  So when we reach a small commune—whose village sign is overgrown by moss and the vines of a nearby tree—he cuts his pace down from a stride to something slow, stalky and soft-footed.

  This place is more like a suburb than those stunning medieval villages I’ve watched burn to the ground.

  I make no effort to hide my watchful gaze. I study him as he creeps down the edge of the street, his dark eyes sweeping from window to window, door to door, alley to alley.

  He takes no chances of being seen if other humans are out here somewhere. At the first sign of a deep street, he cuts off from the main road and heads out of the centre of the town, far into the circle of houses.

  Spike adopts the fae’s quiet-footed steps. I’m the bull around here, the heels of my boots scuffing off the tarmac, the weight of my agonised body dragging me down. Can barely stand up, let alone keep good posture and move like a panther.

  Light is extinguished. The warrior took the torch from Spike, then flipped it downwards; all the flames suffocated somehow, and we’re submerged in utter blackness.

  I inch closer to the pair, as though that will somehow offer a hint of protection. How twisted is that?

  We are led down the curled road of the court, darkness our only companion. I listen to the silence of the world around us. No birds chirp, no rustles of leaves as a breeze passes through, no shutter of blinds or creaks of doors.

  I think we are completely alone here. This place is as abandoned as the last village we were in after it burned to the ground from our own bomb.

  Ropes tug me to the left.

  Blindly, I follow the soundless bootsteps off-road until beneath my soles grass softens my scuffling. Heading up to a house, I suspect. And my suspicions are confirmed when I hear the rattle of a door handle.

  Luckily, the door creaks open. I hate the sound of a door being booted in, and I know that would have been his next move if it hadn’t been unlocked.

  He slips inside, my tight tether pulling me in close behind him. Spike shuffles in after, and as though he knows what to do, closes the door gently. There’s a soft click before the torch is flipped back up and orange light floods the inside of the house.

  It’s uh ...

  Well, it’s modern. Contemporary. Not a favourite style of mine. Reminds me of our family apartment in London. Cold and clinical, little personality or feel of the people who live (lived) here.

  From the lobby, where a runner rug leads all the way up a corridor, everything else is open-plan. To the left, the lounge (filled with white leather couches and armchairs and a black-marble fireplace. I hope the fireplace works.) stretches through an open arch and into the kitchen (black marble-top counters, stainless steel fridge, rigid stools and a high-tech cooker).

  I glance down the corridor that narrows ahead, but it only seems to lead to two doors, one on either wall. Perhaps a toilet and a study. Then I look up at the hard-wood staircase that lines the left wall, leading to the second level, where all the bedrooms and bathrooms likely are, and hope springs in my chest that one day I might reacquaint myself with a warm bath and a fresh change of clothes.

  No such luck, of course. I’d be a fool to expect otherwise.

  Loosening the longer rope, the warrior cuts a dark look at Spike. “Close the curtains.”