Looks like we’re advancing on the outskirts of Perche National Park. Before I can confirm our whereabouts, he folds the map over and throws me a wilting glare.

  Then it’s silent-business as usual as he secures my rope to his belt, keeping me close to him when we leave for our venture in the dark.

  We pass through the rocky plain until we reach a sparse treeline. Cliff pauses for only a short moment before he takes us into the trees.

  I wonder if we have reached the national park, but my fear of the woods is squashed when the trees thin more and eventually fade away to the shadows.

  At the side of a town, we find our first road. It’s a small place; the town is the sun that cabins and farms and villages orbit. The gravel road we take narrows into a stone alleyway which takes us out between two forever-grey buildings. We come out into the next street (not the main road. I can tell by the lack of shops and streetlamps and, usually, there’s a town hall).

  It’s entirely unoccupied. Not a flicker of a light in the thick-dusty windows, a faint shoeprint on the dirt that’s blown onto the street, or even a whistle of wind creeping through an ajar door.

  There’s something ghostly about the place.

  I inch closer to the warrior, eyes darting from a rotted wood door across the way to a facemask rolling down the street from the push of the breeze.

  Cliff twists his arm back to clutch onto the rope and takes us into the street. He seems at ease, which should make me relax a little. His senses serve him well—he even knew that my group was there, ready to attack. Of course he hadn’t suspected anything about a bomb.

  Still, there’s tension wound up in my bones, stiffening my legs as I totter beside him. He pulls off-road and walks along the pavement to the end of the street, where a plain brown-brick building stands, abandoned.

  Cliff makes to kick in the door but pauses. He drops his foot to the ground and, with a dark look over his shoulder at me, tries for the brass knob with his hand.

  As he breaks the lock open, I spot on the wall beside the door a plaque. My heart skips a beat when the shadows of letters clear under my squint and I can make out ‘Bibliothèque’; Library.

  I’m tugged out of my budding hope as he pulls the rope and drags me inside. He kicks back his boot and the door slams shut.

  The torch lights up the inside. It’s a small town so I don’t expect much and, in turn, it doesn’t deliver much more than a squared room with sparse bookshelves plastered on the walls, some couches and wood tables and chairs, and a cosy unlit fireplace that looks like it holds more cobwebs and dust-bunnies than logs of wood.

  Then my heart sinks and I know exactly what he means to do here, why he chose this building. He means to burn all the books.

  Words are fuel…

  Unlooping the rope from the belt, he holds it tight then steers me over to the fireplace.

  “Wait,” he orders, dropping the rope to the musty rug beneath my boots, then shoves the torch into my hands.

  Grunting at the new weight of this damn heavy flame-stick, I lean to the side and try to balance the flames far above my head so that my hair won’t catch fire.

  I watch as he kicks back tables and chairs, clearing space around the hearth. He moves on for the shelves at the back of the cosy room, piling stacks of books into his hold before he makes his way back over to me. On his way, he boots the crimson threaded couch closer to the clearing.

  Dumping the books in the hearth, he knocks out most of the cobwebs obstructing his path.

  I pass over the torch into his hand—and he takes it as easily as I would lift a feather drifting in the breeze.

  As he sets the stack of books alight, I eye the shelf nearest me. After a beat, I wander closer to it, and though I can feel his black-amber eyes burning into the back of my head, he doesn’t stop me.

  I run my fingertips over dusty spines balanced on each other like falling dominos. Loved that game when I was a child. Forced the maid to play it with me every evening when my parents were out and about, doing their fancies.

  My gaze shifts back to one spine in particular. I slip it from the shelf, bringing it closer, then blow a gust of air at it, letting dust fly off.

  A small smile flicks up my mouth at the corners. Beauty and the Beast—the original French version by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve. Rough blue cover, peeling silver letters on the front, pocket-sized. Might be an early edition.

  “You can’t burn this one,” I say, hugging the book to my chest and turning on him. “It’s special.”

  “Words are fuel,” he echoes those old words to me, his blank stare on me. His gaze flickers to the book I hold as gently as I might a newborn. “All of your history and world must be burned, Cora-lee. Another troop will move through this town and destroy it. Saving one book when all else must burn…” He shakes his head, a dark look shadowing his face.

  Still, he doesn’t take it from me, despite the thirst to snatch it shining in his black eyes like freshly spilled tar pools.

  Facing the flaming hearth, I drop into the couch. “Why do we keep stopping?” I ask, eyeing him sharply. His stony face betrays nothing. “I know you don’t need the rest.”

  “You do.” He cuts a sharp, black look at me. “Your body needs to heal. Otherwise, you will slow me down when we walk the journey.”

  He turns his back on me, looking into the growing fire.

  “Keep it in your bag,” he tells me after a while. “Don’t let anyone else see it when we reach my people.”

  Can’t stop the smile from sweeping my face. I shift on the couch, stuffing the book into my bag, saving it for a rainier break. I pull out a slim cigarette and light it.

  Cliff draws away from the fire and advances on me. With the flames and the light behind him, his eyes are pools of ink all over again.

  I watch him advance, watch as his hand reaches out for me, my smoky breath hitching. My lashes flutter as his fingers brush against the roots of my hair—he pulls away a small twig and lets it fall to the floor.

  He turns, dropping beside me on the couch, bang in the middle of it; much closer to me than he needs to be. And, without looking at me, he reaches his hand into my bag and draws out a cigarette for himself. He lights it, then tosses the lighter my way—it lands in the bag with his perfect, disinterested aim.

  His nose wrinkles as he exhales his first breath. He studies the white stick.

  “It’s menthol,” I tell him, turning to face him. The toes of my boots tuck under his thigh. “Minty.”

  In answer, he is quiet. He still smokes the cigarette, though by studying the faraway glaze of his eyes and the slackness of his face, I can sense that he’s doing it out of nostalgia, to be reminded of his home and what they smoke there.

  Fleetingly, I wonder how long his unit has been in this world. Long enough for him to yearn for the true darkness again, I suppose.

  I put out my cigarette on the wood floor, making sure it’s out because the last thing I need is to set fire to the library by my own hand. Not my style.

  Cliff doesn’t move away from me, so I have a choice. Sleep sitting up or … or spread out my legs over his lap and somehow find rest that way.

  I go with the latter, stretching out my legs, watching his profile for any cracks of distaste. No such thing happens. He just flicks the cigarette and it goes zipping into the flames.

  Then he moves and, fuck me, my heart sinks a little.

  But he doesn’t move far. Grabbing onto my waist, he lifts me up and shoves me into his place just as he slips into mine. He swaps sides with me then, before I can even blink, he grips the side of my neck and pulls me back so that my head rests on his lap.

  Lying on my back, I stare up at him. His stare is fixed ahead, his hand gentle on my skin now, fingers tenderly grazing the length of my neck almost absentmindedly.

  I hum and turn on my side, curling up against him. Before my eyes shut, I hear him murmur something that clenches my heart and floods my gut with butterflies—

  “I find you most tolerable when you are near sleep.”

  I blink at the flames, once, twice, then let my eyes close. My voice is a hushed mumble, “I think you find me tolerable most of the time.”

  Then the skittering sound of critters rolls through the air outside. I curl up against him tighter, feeling the touch of his fingertips graze along my shoulder and to my arm, where it stays. He holds me, sort of.

  And I let him. He is a safety blanket against the critters, and I am a sad, twisted woman for wanting this blanket wrapped around me in any way.

  29

  I wake to the tug of ropes on my wrist.

  Cliff has shut down. His stony face is an unreadable mask of caramel skin; his eyes black pools that give away nothing.

  I don’t doubt that it’s got something to do with letting me sleep on his lap for hours on end; and I know it’s been hours, since the heavy snares of sleep still cling to me, but I feel entirely well rested.

  Snubbing his icy indifference, I sit up on the couch and stretch my arms high above my tousled hair. The yawn that ripples through me ends with a yelp, and I let my arms drop to my sides.

  Cliff yanks the rope again, hard enough to bite the bones in my wrist and twist my skin.

  A sleepy hum crawls up my throat. “I thought you tolerated me better when I was sleepy?”

  Shadows darken his face. His lashes lower over dark pools.

  “Near sleep,” he corrects, grip flexing on the rope attached to his belt. In his other hand, the torch sits upright and blazes orange light over me.

  I hope it’s a flattering light.

  With a defeated sigh, I wrestle my way off the couch, sleep still fresh in my mind and body. My movements are heavy as I trudge alongside him out of the library. Before we leave the door, he pauses to allow me a moment to light a smoke, then we’re off into the darkness.

  The urge to lean against him is strong. But it’s just the weariness, I tell myself. And isn’t it? I’ve only just woken up, so I feel heavier than usual, and despite all the rest, I still wear the bruises and aches of his initial attack on me.

  Should have shot myself then. Would have saved myself a lot of bother.

  And walking.

  We walk long and far this time around. I suspect it’s got less to do with making up for lost time since I’ve seen the map and the generous distance between him and his people—it’s got more to do with keeping us both on our feet, so avoiding me sprawled out over his lap again, avoiding moments spent by fireplaces, huddled up too close together.

  But eventually, the time comes when I need to stop, and I see a village sign rear up in the shadows.

  My pad is getting too heavy, too full, and you know, toxic shock syndrome is still a thing in the end of days. I’m not trying to catch that.

  I mimic his earlier impatience and tug on the rope. He doesn’t pause or stop, he marches on in the orange glaze of the torch, but his muscles are his giveaway; they clamp up like metal bolts jolting beneath his skin.

  “I need the loo,” I say my usual line. “And supplies.”

  “Manage without.” His sharp voice cuts my face into a crumpling scowl.

  “Or stop and let me take care of my period,” I argue, digging my heels into the ground. “I’m all out of cigarettes, my pad needs to be changed, I also have a human body and sometimes need relief.”

  With a weary sigh, he stops and throws a dark look over his shoulder at me. “Tend to yourself here,” he finally says.

  My lashes lower on him. “I’m also sore,” I tell him. “All over. Head to toe. Have you already forgotten that you used me as a practice punching bag?”

  “Punching bag,” he spits, his upper lip curling. “I did no such—”

  My face falls flat. “You punched me on the back. And it hurts. Still.” I throw my hands up at his unwavering look. “I’m human, Cliff. I need to have breaks, stop to rest, let my body heal—just like you said.”

  Silent, he turns back to the shadows and marches onwards. The rope drags me along with him.

  As we breach the border of the village, my gaze cuts from the side of his still-stony face to the house-faces aimed at us. On the second level of a terrace building, I spot a pharmacy and, beside it, a doctor’s office. Looks like the flats are on street-level here.

  Cliff shows no signs of allowing a break as we head down the village road. He keeps watchful of the windows looking down on us, his footfalls nearly silent, mine scuffling behind him, and the muscles in his arms tense, ready to jump into action.

  No action is needed. We’re almost at the end of the main street when he pulls left, and my heart skips into my throat. He’s taking us to a little corner shop with the door boarded up.

  I wince as he grabs the board and wrenches it off with a single pull. As if I needed another demonstration of his strength.

  Dark, avenging angel comes to mind again…

  He breaks the lock with a mere twist of the handle.

  There’s nothing spectacular about this corner shop. Looks just like every other I’ve been in with the till at a squared area by the door, then shelves that line the space down to dead refrigerators.

  As soon as we’re inside with the door shut behind us, I lift the rope and push the small tether into his free hand. Without looking at me, he unloops it from his belt, letting it slap to the floor, releasing me.

  First, I rush straight to the till and duck under the counter. I browse the back shelf for my favoured brand of cigarettes. I find just three packets of Vogues, but they are slim and narrow enough that I can easily slip them into my shoulder bag.

  Then I embark into the far shelves for sanitary items. Bloodbusters.

  The torchlight betrays Cliff; it follows me closely, so I know he’s silently keeping to my heels, as though worried I might make a run for it.

  I come up with some applicator tampons—the best kind—and a pack of regular pads. Now where to fix them on me…

  For a moment, I look around, pushed up on my tip-toes and gaze darting over the top of the shelves. At the far corner of the shop, I spot a plain white door.

  As I make to move past Cliff, his hand comes out and presses against my tummy, blocking me from taking another step. I shoot a glare up at him, but it quickly fades. A severe stare has settled over him, and he watches the door I spotted with a furrow between his brows.

  “Wait,” he growls lowly, then pulls away from me. Silently, he draws his sword from the scabbard at his back. It doesn’t so much as sing.

  Hugging my loot to my chest, I watch him slip over to the door, his boots silently flattening on the floor, avoiding the spilled products all over. A shudder runs down my spine as he reaches for the door handle.

  He pulls it down, then opens the door slowly.

  My breath hitches as he slips inside. I’m silent out here, on my own; silent and watchful of the open door that I can’t see beyond.

  The breath loosens as Cliff, after a moment, returns to the shop. He looks utterly unfazed. But then I notice the gleam of red on his sword.

  My mouth falls open as I watch him wipe the blood with a rag from the countertop. Tossing away the cloth, he sheaths his sword before advancing on me.

  “You cannot use the water closet,” he tells me. “Do your business here.”

  Rage lifts up inside my chest. I shove past him—and he doesn’t stop me. A part of him wants me to know what he did. A part of him wants me to be reminded that he’s a monster and perhaps I’ve forgotten that.

  And maybe I have a little bit.

  I stagger to a stop at the door, my wide eyes wetting instantly.

  There’s a dead body slumped against the wall.

  He can’t be any older than I am, mid-twenties maybe. And he’s been hiding out in here, alone. Stacks of supplies are encircled around him. Bags of nuts, packets of crisps, bars of chocolate and bottles of water.

  Counting that most of the supplies have been used and are now crumpled and empty, I suspect he’s been here for a few weeks maybe.

  Not surviving anymore.

  There’s a bloody gash running down the middle of his chest, perfectly vertical and leaking crimson onto the threads of a grey t-shirt. And then I spot them—the three freckles above his eyebrow, stamps of what he is.

  “He’s a kuri,” I whisper.

  At some point, Cliff has snuck up behind me. “Yes.”

  A jolt of fright spins me around at the close sound of his voice. My wild eyes land on him.

  “You killed him.”

  He blinks, unfazed. “Yes.”

  I swallow down my thickening throat.

  “Why?” I ask, my voice a hopeless breath.

  “It is difficult enough watching after you,” he tells me before he pushes in through the door.

  I’m knocked to the side as he moves past me. Then he boots in the door on the other side of the crammed hall.

  “You’re never going to stop killing us, are you,” I wonder aloud. It’s not a genuine question, so there is no infliction in my tone.

  I stare down at the limp feet of the kuri, still wrapped in mud-stained plimsolls.

  Cliff is quiet for a moment. “He slept through it,” he finally tells me, as though that’s any consolation.

  Might not have been aware of his death, but it’s murder all the same.

  With a gesture to the toilet behind him, he turns to me, his lashes low over bored eyes. “Your weak stomach is due any moment.”

  Numb, I take my supplies into the toilet—and I have to step over that dead kuri’s legs to get there. Cliff, for once, shuts the door on himself; he gives me an iota of privacy.

  I take it. I use it. And as I sink down to sit on the toilet seat, I let the tears come. I weep for that stranger who could have survived.

  Maybe he wanted to die, like I do. Maybe it was a mercy killing. But none of those thoughts change what I feel carving up inside of me; a deep pit of despair.