I keep the handgun out, since I’ll be on watch soon.

  And as I expected, nothing to eat can be found in my bag. No chocolate bars, lone sweets, or even crumbs.

  I pack everything back into it carefully (though I do light a slim cigarette) then slump back against the wall.

  Just as I get comfortable, a flicker of movement catches my focus and I look over at the door. Spike has pushed up from the floor where he was resting, and he’s wandering over to me.

  I almost snarl him away, but then I spot what’s clenched in his right fist. A nougat bar, coated in chocolate. A type that’s tough to get on this side of France.

  I watch him as I exhale a cloud of smoke.

  For some reason, he sits on the table so close to me that our hips are almost touching, then he decides to do the classic man-spread, stretching out his thighs and pushing way too far into my personal space.

  My eyes roll back before I scoot away a bit. Normally, I would have man-spreaded right back at him. But since we’re all about to die very soon—and he has a nougat bar for me—I don’t much see the point. But I am careful to flick some ash onto his leg. He doesn’t notice.

  He hands me the snack.

  I don’t bother with a thanks before I tear off the plastic wrapper, then let it flitter to the floor.

  I stamp out my cigarette on the table.

  “Do we even know where they are anymore?” Spike asks after a while. He scratches the pimpled-stubble on his pointy chin.

  I shoot him a perplexed look, mouth full of nougat, my faintly freckled cheeks bulging. My voice is muffled by chocolate as I ask, “E-r hoo iv?”

  Somehow, he still seems to understand me. “The dark fae, the ones separated from their group. We’ve been pushed out of their path, maybe pushed towards the rest of their army.”

  I shrug, my mind answering where my full mouth cannot, ‘Then we will take on the army.’

  Death will come much swifter that way.

  But though it is unspoken, it’s obvious what our next move will be. It’s the only way to do it: When we’re certain it’s clear, and the lone warriors have had enough time to catch up with us, we’ll double back to the main street.

  First, we need to make sure the bomb is ready. Without it, there will be little purpose to what we’re planning on doing other than simply walking into our deaths. If that’s all we wanted to do, we would form a suicide pact here in the flat and just shoot each other.

  No, it’s more than just a craving for the finale, a longing to end the suffering and tedium. It’s the vindictive victory in taking a few of them out with us. Bringing them down as far as we can.

  Who knows, maybe by taking out these few warriors, we might be saving other lives out there? If there are many left to save, that is. Which I doubt.

  Earlier days saw more survivors. Now, starvation, infection, the dark and its dangers, wild animals—it all has led to a complete dwindle of our numbers. The dark fae really are here to wipe us out completely—an extinction.

  But then, that doesn’t explain what I saw in the army; the group of humans with them. Their prisoners.

  “Did you see them?” I ask Spike once I’ve finished off the bar. I suck chocolate and nougat residue from my teeth. “The curries or whatever you called them.”

  “Koo-rees,” he corrects me, his voice muffled by past pains. He looks down at his hands threaded together between his spread legs. “Kuris. Yeah, I saw them.”

  Spike has had a lot to say about these ‘kuris’. Before I spotted the human prisoners in the army, I must admit, I didn’t believe his stories. Most of us just brushed him off.

  Before we came across him a couple of months ago, he claimed to have been kidnapped by a band of dark fae. A smaller army, but one packed with warriors all the same. They had slaughtered his fellow survivors before they searched his body—apparently stripped him clean—and found a crooked line of three freckles on his back. That, he said, is what saved him. The freckles.

  I can’t say why or even pretend to know, but those freckles apparently mean something to the dark fae. And it’s what spared Spike’s life. He was taken into the army to join the group of twenty-odd other humans (all with the same markings somewhere on their bodies) and they were forced into … well, slave labour.

  According to Spike, they were called the ‘kuris’ by the dark fae, and they were made to wash their armour and cook their food and pitch their tents and start their fires.

  He doesn’t go into his time with the dark fae army any more than that. And before I saw a group of humans with the dark fae, I didn’t believe him at all. I didn’t believe that they would keep humans alive because of some freckles, and I certainly didn’t believe that he managed to escape when another human survivor group started shooting at their camp one night.

  As it went, turns out he wasn’t lying. At least not about everything. Now I know for certain, they do keep humans with them—likely for slavery for their journey. What freckles have to do with it beyond meaning the difference between life and death, I can’t even guess.

  “Let me see them,” I say and rub my hands clean of chocolate stains. “Your freckles.”

  He shifts around and, craning his arm back, lifts his blue t-shirt. The three freckles are crooked, I notice. They dot down his spine, the last one curving off-line. Reminds me somewhat of the stars in the lost-sky, Orion’s Belt. Those were always my favourite stars back in the day—those and Sirius, of course.

  He drops his top. It falls back into place, crumpled at the waistline of his blue jeans, and he shifts back around, angled towards me.

  He tells me, “If this all fails—” he throws his hand around the room, gesturing to us, gesturing to the plan “—then I’ll show them my freckles.”

  I arch a blonde, microbladed brow (I’ve had some dermal fillers too, but that wears off eventually). “You think it will save your life a second time?”

  “Can’t hurt,” he says with a shrug. Then he turns his gaze up at me, his head bowed, and there’s something sheepish in the way he regards me. “You could show yours too.”

  I blink, stunned. “What?”

  “Your freckles. They might save you, too.”

  A frown pinches between my brow.

  At first, I think of the faint dusting of freckles on my cheeks and nose; but none of those are in a crooked line—they are barely even three shades darker than my complexion. It’s as though I’m permanently wearing an off-brand concealer.

  Then, it hits me like a punch to the gut. I feel sick—and I know what freckles he’s talking about.

  Slowly, hot bubbles of anger start to rise up in my chest until rage is boiling over around my beating heart.

  The urge to punch him straight off this table seizes me so strongly that I clench my fist. Prickles roll over my skin like ice-cold water, and my shoulders stiffen so hard that they quickly start to ache.

  Through clenched teeth, I hiss, “I never told you about those.” I roll my jaw then suck in a long, deep breath before I slit my eyes at him. “How do you know, Spike?”

  How does he know about the three crooked-line freckles on the side of my right breast? How could he possibly know about those—unless…

  And that hatred I have for him rises back up like a tornado.

  Before I can boot out at him or swing or lunge, he holds up his hands in surrender, as though sensing the violence swirling around me.

  “Look, it was an accident. I didn’t know you were in the bedroom—it was a few towns back, and you were changing clothes, and I came to the door and it was cracked open a bit. I looked inside, but I didn’t think I would see you in your knickers, all right?”

  I don’t believe him.

  And I definitely don’t get changed or undressed with the door open, even ajar.

  I cave to the urges and lean back. My boot comes flying out at him before he even has a moment to blink. I catch him straight in the gut.

  He doubles over. I slip off the table, grab my handgun and my bag, then storm out of the lounge, through the kitchen door.

  7

  Paul is sitting at the window, perched on the sill that’s far too narrow for his bulky frame. He looks up from his pocketbook (the ones with black-leather covers, but no titles, since they have been worn-off over time) as I come in.

  He reads my scowl all too easily. “What’s he done now?” Exasperation clings to his tone and he softly folds his book closed.

  “Spying on me while I change clothes,” I growl and stomp over to him. My hands are balled at my sides. “Says it was an accident.”

  “It always is with him,” Paul mutters and shakes his head. “He won’t be a problem much longer,” he adds as if to reassure me, comfort me somehow with the truth that we will all be dead shortly.

  “I hope he dies most painfully of all of us.”

  Paul’s mouth pulls into a tight line. He doesn’t speak as he shifts off the window sill.

  “You two just need to stay away from each other,” he adds after a pause, and he pockets the book in his jeans. “After last time—”

  “Oh, I hit him again,” I confess without the slightest hint of regret or shame to cloud me. I merely blink, unperturbed. “He deserved it then and he deserves it now.”

  You see, Spike and I have a bit of a history. Let’s just say I don’t like the way he speaks to the girls around here. He’s the kind who claims to be a ‘nice guy’, and it’s a rule of thumb that when a guy self-professes himself that way, he’s in fact the exact opposite.

  I don’t make the rules.

  Besides, one day—after rejecting him by a lake we stopped to make camp at—he hit on me. The usual. Asked if we should “bunk” together that night.

  To no surprise of mine, when I said no, he called me a “rich bitch” and “frigid”. I showed him how much of a bitch I can be. I stomped on his toes so hard that he had a limp for a week, and his foot was all bruised and swollen.

  Fingers crossed I actually did some real damage.

  “I’ll take over,” I say with a sigh.

  Paul nods and I can tell that my timing couldn’t have been better for him. His eyelids are fighting him, drooping over his glass-blue eyes so unlike my ocean-blue ones, and he stretches his arms over his head.

  He rolls his shoulders. I hear a faint clicking sound that brings a shudder through me—much too close to the noises of the critters.

  Thinking of which…

  “Have you heard them?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “It’s clear out there. I’ll use the bathroom,” he adds, “before I head out to scout for those lone ones.”

  The lone ones. The separated dark fae warriors.

  My stomach turns cold at the reminder. It’s starting to feel real, less like a fantasy and plan, more like a looming reality.

  I nod and wander past him to the window. I hop up on the sill. I’m narrow enough to fit on it comfortably.

  The swing of the kitchen door tells me that Paul has left. Turning the gun over in my slender hands, I study the curtains that shield the window. Best not to slide them open just yet. Wait for Paul to scout first before I start to feel too safe.

  But I know what’s out there by the style of this flat. We’ve been in many like it before. No fire escape, just a straight-down fall to the cobblestone below. The main road must be close by.

  A part of me flutters at the idea of a fire escape. There was one outside my room back at boarding school. I used to sit out there in the middle of the night and sneak a joint. Helped relax me for bed. Or I just wanted to numb myself. Whatever reason I indulged in it, I was only ever caught once and it wasn’t at school. It was a maid at our villa, on my bedroom balcony, and of course she told my parents. But they never brought it up with me.

  They never cared about much that I did. Even when I OD’d on painkillers and sleeping pills. Our family was the type to keep things quiet.

  Hush, hush—our unofficial motto.

  I could have snorted a line of coke in front of my parents and I swear they would have just turned their heads. That’s if they would have even noticed.

  If they did notice, the worst they would have done would have been to send me back to boarding school over the holidays. It was rare for me to be allowed to return home for the holidays, even Christmas. My last December at school, my parents left me there so that they could go to the Swiss Alps and all the charity events without me.

  It wasn’t a lonely Christmas, though. Most of the kids at the school were left behind. We just did Secret Santa, and that was enough for most of us. That year, my secret present-giver gifted me diamond earrings. Never wore them. Not much of a jewellery person. Never much thought they looked all that good or saw the point of them. Mother’s favourite pearls, I think, looked wretched and out-dated.

  No pearls or diamonds in my life anymore.

  I wonder if my parents died from the plague after I was taken by it. Maybe they went to a different sanatorium than the one they sent me to?

  Then, a strange thought strikes me.

  Did I survive the plague—just like Spike and all those human prisoners—because of the freckles?

  Of course not. That’s a silly thought and I chide myself for it, shaking my head. There are plenty in the group who don’t have those freckles and who did suffer and survive the plague.

  I’m putting too much weight on Spike and his theories. Who knows if the freckles have anything to do with why the dark fae spare some humans along the way?

  My mind spirals too quickly into nonsense. That’s what my House Teacher told me, at least.

  With a sigh, I sink back against the window curve and watch the crimson curtains as though they themselves are the darkness beyond them. Silence is all that greets me. Silence is good. Means there are no dark fae armies descending upon the village, or any of those creatures lurking in the black.

  The quiet has had a change on me in these bleaker times. It doesn’t lull me to sleep like it used to. Now, it keeps me alert, because it means that the rest of the group are likely asleep and someone has to keep an ear and eye out for anything that might come our way.

  Too many dangers out there to let myself relax with all the others. And the critters are just another threat to be worried about.

  I stay on ‘watch’—as close to watch as I can get without peeking through the curtains.

  I ache to fidget, to do something other than just sit here listening to nothing. So I fiddle with my gun. I’m not too familiar with it. Never fired it before. But I know how, thanks to Paul.

  I check that the safety switch is flicked on, then count the bullets in the clip. Fully loaded. I have another clip in my shoulder bag, but it’s only got four bullets in it.

  We’ll face dark fae stragglers soon. I plan on shooting at them if they survive the bomb just to secure the promise of a swift death. They’ll be furious and quick about it; likely slice off my head before I can feel anything. Anne-Boleyn-Style.

  The fight is in my bones. I’m prepared, but more than that, I’m ready. I’m almost relieved beneath the icy fear. It’s a formidable thing what we are going to do, but there’s a sweet mercy in it, too.

  Still, the nerves biting at me keep me awake for a long time. I tuck my gun into my brown suede ankle-boot, deep enough that it’s secure yet definitely not in line with gun-safety rules.

  Not that I give a damn.

  I don’t give a damn about much anymore.

  *

  After hours of staring at the curtain, the door swings open. I toss a glance over to it, seeing Laura slip into the kitchen.

  “Bathroom is free,” she tells me, and it lets me know more than just that people have been taking turns washing up. It lets me know that people can queue to wash up, which means all of our injured and wounded have died. They need no more care.

  Who died?

  I want to ask, but I decide against my morbid curiosity. Glad I wasn’t in there to witness it all. I have a weak stomach. Too weak for this world.

  Laura has her serrated hunting knife out of its holster; it’s firm in her grip as she wanders over to me, and I know she’s ready to take over watch.

  I slip off the sill. “Paul back yet?”

  She nods. “Got back about twenty minutes ago. The stragglers are on the main road,” she tells me. “He saw them because they had torchlight with them—” not the torches we use of course, but those old-fashioned sticks with real fire at the end. “—and they were reading a map, trying to get their bearings. We’re heading to the end of the village to cut them off in about an hour.”

  I nod, my heart sinking all the way down to my watery gut. Now I need to use the toilet. And there’s no point in washing my body in the bathroom. But I’ll do it anyway, if only to fill this last hour before shit gets real.

  When I pass through the lounge, I see that the bomb is hidden under a blanket, and that confirms that it’s finished. Harry made quick work of it.

  Spike—thankfully—is asleep in the corner, as far away from the bodies as he can get. I wonder if he was always funny about corpses, like I have always been, or if he developed an aversion in his time with the dark fae.

  Even though he’s asleep, I take care to lock the bathroom door before I turn on the bath tap. As I let the water run, I do my business on the toilet—grateful that it flushes for me—then strip off.

  The tap water is cold, as expected. Not icy or freezing, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

  Still, I get to work. Naked and tucked up in the bathtub, I grab a sponge and rub it with a soap bar. Suds gather quick and I scrub myself raw.

  After I run body lotion all over me for no point other than to keep myself busy, I comb my blonde hair; natural, a hundred shades of gold and ash and yellow. Gone are the days of sun-bleached highlights and hairdressers.

  Once I’m finished pampering myself, I wipe clean the mirror on the wall above the sink. And as soon as I see myself—my wet champagne hair, my ocean-blue eyes hooded with too-heavy lashes, my pale lips chapped by mistreatment, a pointy chin free of blemishes but sharp cheekbones with the faintest hint of freckles—I’m yanked back to a moment in time.