Melchior had been foolishly optimistic that things could change--but for every one brick that he tore out of the wall between them, three more appeared. The barrier was a living breathing beast, one that Melchior couldn't peirce with his bone-tipped arrows or flee from on shaking legs.

  He'd thought that things might get better, and that'd been his mistake. It seemed the harder he tried, the harder the world came around to bite him. He'd been drawn into the silly idea of wasting an evening at the Kaaterskill, and the angels had returned to him something far worse. A reminder as to why these two boys were in the woods at all. A reminder of what those two boys were. The soul of the Progeny, and his sidekick, bitter sickness.

  That really was all Melchior could be in the story. There was the light, the soul, the hero--and the sacrifice. He didn't mind. His life had been steadily spiraling downward since his accident. He knew that Ira's blade was the kindest thing awaiting him at the bottom. He was only embarrassed to have thought he had a chance. And perhaps remorseful, too, that he'd dragged Ira along with him.

  He had tricked himself into thinking that Ira was his equal, someone like him. He wasn't. Ira was his reminder--no different from the branding in the hollow of his wrist. It seemed clearer now, so much so that he didn't know how he'd deluded himself into believing any differently in the first place.

  The proof of it was in their hearts, and Melchior couldn't cut that out. Ira was promised by angels--Melchior had been made from the fibers of a nightmare six years ago. He knew that now, the same way he knew that Ira was falling asleep. He could hear it.

  Echoing from behind the shell of his ribs. Melchior tilted his head to better soak in the sound of his heartbeat. He let it wash over him as soothing as the tide. Each pulse filled his ears with deep and hollow thumps.

  Ishmael would have scolded him--Ailbe would have smacked the back of his head. He knew he wasn't supposed to listen to the thing he wasn't meant to hear--but he couldn't resist. It was better than any secret. It was an electricity that filled his skin, his bones, and his mind until it began pouring from the inside out.

  He knew what he was thinking before Ira even knew it himself. Melchior could hear Ira's fears better than he could feel his own. It was in the way his blood pounded as faithfully as the churning wharf of the Kaaterskill, deafening Melchior to anything else in the forest. He could hear it all--the rustle of pine, the chirp of crickets, the thudding footfall of a Beast--and he turned it all away. He only wanted to listen to Ira falling asleep.

  He shook his head until he was dizzy--he couldn't afford to be so blinded. He was running out of time. He'd need to leave soon--which would be much easier if Ira would just give in. Melchior could have scoffed at that. Ira wasn't so easily defeated. He fought his weariness as dutifully as he fought everything else. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. He tapped his feet, he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was burning with anger--it rose as his heartbeat slowed.

  They'd been sitting beneath the Kaaterskill cliffs for much of the night, shivering as the stars replaced the clouds, waiting with bated breath for the next move. Melchior's gut was rolling with anticipation, while the stillness pulled at Ira's eyelids.

  He could have found it amusing if there wasn't so much to worry about. Which brought Melchior back to the reality of his situation. They had much bigger problems than the scent of Ira's sickly sweet lavender soap or how close they were. There was a Beast in the Catskills--but it all paled in comparison to the warmth of his breath.

  Melchior was drowning in a thick pool of molasses. His thoughts skipped along the surface, buzzing as angrily as a swarm of wasps, but unable to reach him. He laid at the bottom, processing everything as white noise. His questions bubbled up from the river bank, pouring from him as rapidly as blood from a gaping puncture wound. They stung just as much.

  What am I going to do? Is it my fault? How do I keep him safe?

  Ira was positioned between Melchior's knees, hugging his own to his chest. Crouched over on himself, he looked small and fragile. Well, he might have if Melchior wasn't familiar with the temper just beneath his appearance. Ira set his chin on the top of his arms. His heavy yellow lashes beat the air as he blinked. His heart skipped in his ribs with pitiful defeat.

  Melchior leaned forward slightly so that Ira's back whispered a brush against his chest. His arms were cramping where they held him, wrapped over his chest. When Ira shifted, their arms brushed across each other. Melchior shivered from the warmth of him. His heat soaked into Melchior's bare arms.

  Melchior thought this might be the first time they'd ever touched. Ira had stripped him of his armor, and now Melchior really wished he had more than just the patch over his wrist.

  And why did that matter? Melchior shook his head until he was dizzy. None of this mattered if they were about to die. And that seemed pretty likely. Unless Melchior could scrape together a plan to get them out of the grave he'd dug for them.

  How was he going to do that? He wasn't even really a Deacon. His time served with Ailbe had been barely more than a cheap charade to buy himself time while his brother did all the real work, looking for a fix to Melchior's problem. He couldn't save them. He couldn't even detangle his thoughts from the scent of Ira's hair as it tickled his chin.

  Think, think, think. Melchior cursed to himself. He couldn't. He was running out of time, and all he could do was watch the sand pour down the spout of the hourglass.

  As if sensing his defeat, the Beast trumpeted into the night wind. The sound shook the cave they'd crawled into. Melchior couldn't see past their rocky cover, but he imagined that even the stars hanging in the oil-slick sky trembled beneath the force of the howls.

  Ira flinched in time with his heart's stutter. Melchior winced, pressing his forehead into the small space between Ira's shoulder blades to dull the ache from the echo rattling his mind. He could feel Ira's spine beneath his skin, even the bones thrummed with the pulse of his fears. He was shaking.

  Melchior was dizzy. He couldn't think. He couldn't act--he couldn't even move. He let his eyes draw shut, his lashes tickled his cheeks. Think, think, think--do something!

  "Let me go," Ira whispered. His voice sent shocks through Melchior's chest. His arms moved before he could think, and he was pulling Ira in closer. Melchior tilted his head, ignoring the duet of their hearts, to scan the forest for any sign of the Beast pulling closer. And it was--Melchior could hear the steady thudding of it growing undeniably nearer. "Melchior, what's your plan? Are we meant to sit here all night? We'll have to act sooner or later."

  Melchior wished they could sit all night. He didn't have a clue of what to do--and that was the least of his problems. It was him. If this Beast was anything like the monsters he'd faced all his life, it would be coming for the scent of his cursed blood. If Beasts were like demons--he didn't even know that much. He'd been born into a world cushioned by the Trammel, and he'd always been too preoccupied by wolves to worry about the Beasts of old.

  They had never made it past bedtime stories in his mind, and now one was drawing near, and he had no idea how to get them out of trouble. "I don't have a plan yet--but I know that rushing out there is a significantly worse idea." He muttered.

  "Who doesn't love a good bad idea." Ira shrugged. Melchior leaned sharply back to avoid getting knocked by the force of his movements in their confined space.

  "You, I thought," Melchior said bluntly, "and I'd prefer to keep you alive."

  "So, how do you plan on doing that?" Ira scoffed. "We're Deacons, Melchior. Sure, maybe we spent most of our training eliminating He-Goats and Ze'ev--but a monster is a monster. They'll all go down under an Ossein the same."

  Melchior flinched at the sting of his words and then froze perfectly still. What about that had startled him? Was it that he knew he'd never done any task worthy of Deaconship? Despite his well-defined aim, he'd never hit a moving target. He'd always lost his battles, and his brother had always had to bail him out. No, not that. Melchior already wore that guilt too deep down to let it harm him at the surface.

  So, maybe it was the bitterness soaking the air in the wake of Ira's scorn. Ira had never been a gentle person, but something had changed. This one was different. Melchior was seeing a new Ira. One forged by his mentor for the task of killing. Melchior squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to force out a laugh. One meant to bash himself back into place, but nothing came.

  It wasn't killing, he reminded himself. They never had life to begin with. Melchior winced against the tap of his heart. That didn't count. He was. . . he could be different. He wasn't like those things that Ira would wipe clean from the earth. Melchior's stomach twisted. Wasn't he? Didn't Ira's sword wait for him at the end, too?

  "I have twenty arrows--you have a dagger." Melchior choked on his misdirection. He aligned all the worries inside of his mind and shoved them down into a box, one disguised as concern for their supply. "That's not enough."

  "How do you know that?" Ira scowled. "My mentor once took down a He-Goat with nothing but a pair of Ossein bone pliers."

  "It isn't a He-Goat." Melchior mumbled.

  "Yes, but-" Ira bit back. His voice faltered as Melchior grabbed his arms. "What are you-"

  Melchior's fingers wrapped around Ira's wrist, resting against the pulse he found there. Ira tugged back gently, trying to free himself without raising a commotion. Melchior didn't relent. He pulled Ira's arms away from his captured legs and leaned them both forward, moving until Ira was pushed down into his own knees. He huffed in discomfort, but his body became fluid against Melchior's prodding.

  Melchior pressed Ira's flat palms against the cold stone floor. He rested his chin on Ira's shoulder and whispered against his ear. "Focus."

  Ira's cheeks flushed with heat. It stung Melchior's face where they touched. He winced, of course he was angry. He usually was, even when Melchior wasn't positioning him as easily as a Ken doll, but Ira didn't struggle beneath him. He puffed out an annoyed sigh and shut his vibrant blue eyes.

  Melchior spread his fingers evenly across the tops of Ira's hands. They were smaller than Melchior's, and he could cover the entirety of them while letting his fingertips rest on the cold floor. He didn't need to close his eyes to focus on the world, like Ira did. His senses were sharper. He'd been feeling the heavy thuds in the meat of his legs since before they'd escaped into the cave.

  It was another beat, one beneath the steady roar of the crashing river, one louder than Ira's heart in his ears. Melchior pushed Ira's hands flat until he could taste it in the dirt.

  Thump. . .thump. . . thump.

  Ira flinched, his fingers curled into claw-like formation beneath Melchior's palms. He knew then that he'd felt it, too. Each footstep shook the forest, the echo of it sunk into the skin of their hands against the stone. "Wh-what is. . ." Ira whispered.

  "It's moving." Melchior answered. He didn't mention that each thud was growing steadily stronger. He didn't think it'd do much good to make Ira aware that it was encroaching on the Kaaterskill. He pressed down, forcing Ira's fingers back flat against the earth. "It's much bigger than a He-Goat."

  That was a simplification. He-Goats weren't much different from humans in standing. The largest demon Ira likely knew would be the Ze'ez. They spanned from oxen-sized to rhinoceros-heavy--but Melchior couldn't bring the name to his tongue. It'd remind him of the other monster he'd seen in these woods, and he could only handle one at a time--if he was to exclude himself from the count.

  Whatever this Beast was, it caused quakes beneath its heels. It was only comparable to the footfall of an elephant--if Melchior was a flea. Their arrows would be lucky to tickle its hide, it'd only draw attention from a creature that they had no way of combating.

  "Depending on sense of sight, hearing, scent--it could be unaware of us." Melchior lied. He knew it must have already caught the trail of his cursed blood. He knew it was coming. "I'll go out--I can scout out the area and see what way it's heading."

  I can draw it away and--and what? How was he going to escape a Beast of old? He shook his head. He'd just have to worry about that part later. As long as he took it away from Ira--things would be okay.

  Ira shook his head, too, sending waves through them both, "I think it's obvious what way it's heading. I think it has great senses, and it's coming this way because it knows we're here."

  So he knew. He could feel that, too, when he set his mind to it. Ira's voice never even trembled as he cemented their fate. Melchior felt childishly foolish for assuming Ira could be so easily tricked.

  "Maybe," Melchior shrugged, trying to seem casual. "We can cross that rickety old bridge when we come to it."

  "I prefer to burn my bridges before they can give me splinters." Ira answered.

  Melchior had a bad feeling about that. "What are you thinking about?"

  "Something reckless," Ira shrugged. He shook Melchior's grip off and pushed himself away, breaking the touch they'd been awkwardly maintaining hours. "My mentor taught me something once--okay, he tried to teach me something once. I couldn't actually. . . do it."

  "Angels, I really hate the sound of that." Melchior grumbled. He pressed his palm to his forehead.

  "Angels exactly." Ira agreed. "We'll need their cooperation--and I'm not exactly team heaven's favorite player."

  "What's that supposed to mean? You were chosen by them, weren't you?" Melchior balked before he could stop himself.

  Ira snapped his sharp blue gaze to burn holes into Melchior's face. "We agreed not to talk about things like promises and curses, didn't we?"

  "I-I'm sorry, you're right." Melchior mumbled. "Then, you think you have something that can help us?"

  "If it works." Ira shrugged.

  Melchior's stomach rolled as viciously as if he'd eaten something rotten. "Well, I feel much worse. Thank you for that clarification. What are you going to do?"

  "You'll know if it does work." Ira winced.

  "And if it doesn't?" Melchior scowled. He raised a half singed eyebrow, still smoking from Ira's scalding look.

  "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it?" Ira suggested weakly.

  "Just this morning, you were lecturing me about what makes a proper plan and what's just madness--and now you're throwing this at me. Does this plan even have steps? You said plans need steps!" Melchior sputtered. "At this rate, at least we don't have to worry about Tildy. Why didn't I think of it? Just die before we run out of time."

  "I have a plan!" Ira snapped defensively. "And it has steps!"

  "Oh, yeah? How many?" Melchior scoffed. "A plan you won't tell me is not a sound plan."

  "Three, I think." Ira stared at his fingers, twitching them in thought. "Four! Four steps, and it doesn't matter what you know--if you worry about what I'm doing, you won't accomplish what I need you to do. I have your back, Melchior. Just have mine, too, and everything is gonna be fine."

  Melchior breathed in the cool night air. It was intertwined with sap, pine, and Ira. He remembered something his brother had told him once. They'd been words shared between them before the accident. Words that if he could go back, he'd have listened to more carefully.

  Melchi, sometimes things become so dangerous that it's beyond brave to tackle them--sometimes it's just plain stupid.

  Melchior placed his face in the palms of his hands, groaning in apprehension and then defeat. "Okay, what do you want me to do?" When the worst had already happened, six years ago, it was easier to face the likely outcome of death.

  "Be bait." Ira said. "And bring me the Beast."

  Melchior laughed. He couldn't face his fear any other way. "You want me to be bait? Well, you're in luck. That's my specialty. My brother used to call me Melchior Monster Bait Brisbane." He shook his head. He couldn't help but think of something else that'd been said between them. "Well, Kitten. I did tell you to make my death cool."

  "You're not going to die." Ira said. "Not yet."

  "Not yet?" Melchior pressed.

  Ira shrugged. "Well, I hope so."

  "Bad feeling intensifying." Melchior muttered.

  ? ? ?

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  No one had ever accused Melchior of being the quickest pup in the litter. He'd done reckless. He'd done stupid. He'd done careless. He'd somehow managed to survive all that--but this was the worst yet, and if he pulled it off, he was never going to tell Ishmael or Ailbe about it. Unless it was really cool. Then, he might be susceptible to bragging.

  Even if they both bopped him on the back of the head for it.

  Melchior rolled his shoulders to loosen the nerves stiffening his muscles. If he stood any chance of beating this thing--it had to start inside of himself. That was what Ishmael always said anyway. Stay fluid, stay alert, and stay calm.

  "Tension only exists in my string." Melchior whispered beneath his breath. Easier said than done. Melchior didn't want to be inside his own head. It was loud in there. Only comparable to a thousand metal chair legs being dragged across cement flooring. He couldn't focus. Every instinct in him wanted him to just turn around and go back to the underbelly of the Kaaterskill cliffs.

  Ira would be angry--but they could think of a better plan. One that didn't require them to split up. Melchior froze, his fingers twitched against the wooden shaft of his notched arrow. Would it really be a better plan? How could he make a call like that when he had no idea what Ira was thinking.

  He groaned, wincing as the realization sunk into his skin. Ira was right, of course. Melchior was as simple as a racehorse. He'd need blinders if he was going to make it down the track. Ira knew that, and he'd only given Melchior half of a plan. A half that didn't inspire much confidence--and only served to spur Melchior towards the cliff.

  He'd move forward, but he couldn't help looking back. His mind was pulled towards the rushing falls, to the heartbeat beneath it. Ira's heart. His pulse had been racing since Melchior left. It wasn't entirely dissimilar to that of a rabbit's in the height of fleeing. He tried not to let it worry him.

  There was a lot that he tried to keep from worrying him. What was Ira going to do once Melchior sealed their backs against the wall? If Melchior succeeded in luring the Beast into the Kaaterskill basin--they'd be trapped, too. It didn't make sense. Melchior shook his head until he was dizzy. "Stop. Have his back."

  He didn't know what Ira was going to do. It didn't matter. That had never been the question between them. If Melchior would toss himself aside, giving in completely to Ira's whirlwind--that was all that mattered. And he knew he would.

  The bottom of his boots trembled with the force of the Beast's footfalls. Melchior steered himself into the direction of the creature and began to sink back into the spruce forest. He'd find the Beast, and he'd lead it back. If it didn't kill him first.

  Tracking had always been easy for Melchior. He could pick a minnow from a stream using just the whisper of its fins against the current. Just as Melchior could still hear Ira, he could hear everything for miles.

  It was easy to peel back the layers of the world with just a little bit of focus. The heartbeat of the earth coated the forest, it was a fresh blanket of snow to sink into. Melchior braced himself against the rushing rapids, familiarizing himself to the crash of water against rock. The sound rested in the pit of his throat, pulverizing his sternum. It was heavy but hollow. He could flick it away with a simple brush.

  Beneath the waves were the trees. Pine needles scraping softly against each other. Wooden branches creaking in the midnight breeze. Sticks snapped beneath scampering paws--bark peeling as squirrels launched themselves up and up into higher perches. Crickets, hiding in tall grass, filled the night with their mournful chirping. The racket was cotton light, stuffed into the space behind the bone of his jaw.

  He didn't need to dislodge it to find the noise he needed. The Beast cut through the forest, slicing it apart with glass-like shrieking. Melchior's spine filled with the howl. It seeped into his nerves, lighting his skin with cold fire. The cracking echoed rolled his stomach until bile rose in the back of his throat.

  Melchior shoved it down into the space he'd reserved for his fears and pushed his body forward. His steps were stone-heavy, causing a tremble to radiate into the muscle of his legs. Melchior grit his fang-sharp teeth together and tilted his chin in mock defiance.

  He'd faced monsters before. He'd stared into yellow eyes. He'd fallen beneath snapping jaws. He'd been torn apart before, and he'd gotten back up. He wasn't going to hesitate now. Showing reservation, turning away from reckless and stupid to find reasonable and responsible, had never been his move.

  Melchior had always chosen the path overgrown with thistles. He stomped through the brush, with skin as thick as copper plating. He could face this, too.

  The Catskills trembled as the Beast shambled between the trees. The mountains flinched as century old oaks fell to the heel of the creature. It was slicing through the forest, clearing a road paved by shattered wood. Melchior could hear each tipped trunk crash into the earth in a boom that echoed up into the bones of his legs. It was different from the heft of footfall. It ached, tensing his muscles in anticipation. The sound of treefall filled in the empty space between each earth-shaking step.

  thump. . . thump. . . thump . . .thump

  . . .boom. . .boom. . .boom

  The pain only grew stronger as Melchior drew near--no. They were both closing in. Heading for an equal center between them. Ira had sent Melchior to pull the creature in, but it was already coming straight for them. No--straight for him. The beacon, the bait, the cursed boy. The sting began to sour into a nauseous roll, tugging at his insides.

  In an instant, that dull thudding pain became something Melchior would have gladly returned to if it meant avoiding the agony that found him instead. The Beast wailed, closer than it had been before. The echo of it shook the trees, the earth, and the mountains. It was loud enough to shatter the stars in the sky. It was loud enough to shatter him. Melchior cried out, returning the howl of the Beast with a whimper. He stumbled, dropping his bow to cover his ears with his flattened palms.

  His feet were heavy--too heavy--he tried to move forward and found himself on the ground instead. His knees sunk into the dirt. He crumpled inwards on himself, balancing his elbows on his trembling legs. He'd felt it when it broke. Something in the back of his skull. His palms were wet and warm from the blood dripping over the shell of his inner ear.

  Sick rose in the back of his throat, and his vision began to cloud. He clawed himself back from the edge of consciousness, blinking away the haze over his eyes. He gasped for breath--he thought he did. His chest shuttered, and his throat was flushed by the cold, but it made no sound. Melchior's heart stuttered behind his ribs in a rapid thud that he could only feel in his skin.

  Nothing made sound.

  The forest was quiet. The crickets that had once filled the space inside of his head were replaced by a ringing he couldn't explain. He couldn't shake it from his mind. All that existed was the ringing. And the panic. Melchior gasped in shocks of cold night air. He was blind--no. He was deaf--and it'd narrowed his world into something smaller than the tip of a needle.

  He was drowning in silence. He was kicking in the oil-black water, helpless to fend off the creatures beneath the surface. Melchior screamed--he knew he had. He could feel it tear the back of his throat. He could feel the tremble of it in his chest--and it made no noise.

  He pressed his forehead into the cold dirt and screamed into the moss until he was out of breath. His lungs shuttered, and he fell into stillness. His tongue flickered across the roof of his mouth, his lips split apart. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He'd been cut from his limbs. He reached for anything he could think of--the shake of pine needle, the chirp of squirrels, the steady beat of Ira's heart. His fingers curled around nothing but the forest floor.

  It was the first time he'd ever felt truly alone. Melchior grit his sharp fangs, digging his canine teeth into the soft pink of his tongue until it broke. He froze, startled by the sting. The blood pooled along his lips, dripping out onto the damp moss carpet. He flicked his tongue along the wall of his teeth.

  It tasted like copper, where it mixed with the dirt it smelled as rich as petrichor. Melchior squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself into the moss carpet. It was soft and damp, filling his skin with chill. Beyond the cold, he could feel the echo of the Beast. It was in the dirt, leaking into his palms and his forehead where he rested. It'd been the same way he'd taught Ira to sense things too far from what he could hear.

  thump. . . thump. . . thump . . .thump

  . . .boom. . .boom. . .boom

  It was the same pattern he'd heard--no, he'd felt it then, too. The shakes echoed in his teeth, rattling him as roughly as corn in a windy field. Melchior swallowed his fears because he wasn't alone. He was in the forest with a Beast--and Ira needed him.

  He opened his eyes, drinking in the dark of the Catskills. Melchior could see between the trees, even in the dead of night. He could see almost as well as he'd been able to hear. The moonlight glimmered off the blue pine, turning the air around him into a luminous silver. The shadows were longer, darker, beneath the glittering waves of light. Melchior turned his eerily green eyes to them and tore them apart inch by inch. He could see the crickets nestled in the grass, trembling with soundless nightsong.

  He inhaled, soaking in the scent of earth and sap--and something else. It churned his stomach, forcing his nose down into the crook of his elbow. It was rotten flesh on a hot summer day--Melchior was familiar. He'd thought it was something they'd only achieved in death, but it seemed even living Beasts carried it on them. Heavy blankets of odor curled along the ground, chasing Melchior up to his feet. He swayed on shaking limbs.

  His panic was lodged in his throat so that all he could manage to do was dryly choke in air around it. He'd been knocked down--and getting back up wasn't enough. He shivered as the small rivers of blood trickled down the skin of his throat.

  It had to be enough. Ira was depending on him, and on that, they'd staked both their lives. Melchior scrambled for his bow and arrow, pulling himself together as easily as if he'd never fallen apart. He slipped beneath his facade of calm, one he'd been faithfully maintaining for six years.

  He planted his boots, wincing as each thud vibrated up the bones of his legs. The trees shook, swaying violently. Pine needles began to fall, showering Melchior with the scent of citrus and mint. Melchior drew his bow, aiming into the space between the trembling bark. The fir trees began to bend, giving way as the Beast pressed forward.

  He didn't need to hear to shoot. All he had to do was hold steady, reel in his chaos, and fire a toothpick into the mountain-sized target. The shadow of the Beast crept forward, Melchior sunk beneath the waves of it.

  His ligaments shook under his skin, vibrating with the rumble of the creature. It was here. He could smell the rot of it. He could feel the heat of its body. Melchior's heart dropped, sending a rush of dizziness through him.

  He couldn't see it.

  He couldn't hear it.

  He had no idea where it was--only that he had fallen beneath its darkness. The entire forest had. The space between the fir trees was a perfect gray--one not even Melchior could see beyond. He held his breath, and he waited.

  Everything had gone still, only a breeze remained. It was warm despite the cool night, still radiating heat from being sun-baked in the hot summer day. It carried the scent of rot from the Beast, and it was coming from the dark between the trees. The direction of the Beast--straight ahead.

  The exhale he'd been holding became painfully tight in his chest, burning until he finally breathed over his knuckles. It was warm--it was as warm as the breeze.

  Thump-thump. His heart whimpered behind his ribs in a painful knock. He had a bad feeling building in the pit of his stomach. Well, he always did--but now it was rolling with gained momentum into an unavoidable crash.

  The blank space between the trees--the dark he couldn't see past--looked smoke gray. They always were gray, every piece he'd found. He'd just never imagined how large the puzzle would be if he'd put them all back together again--and now he knew. It'd be larger than Ailbe's cabin. He turned his eyes into the distance between the trees, narrowing his gaze until he could see the wrinkles in the skin.

  Thump-thump.

  The breeze stirred the grass peeking up from the edges of his boots. It rolled shivers over his damp skin, flushing him with heat against the frozen night. He wished it was the wind.

  Thump-thump.

  He followed the shadow, running his eyes up the length of tree trunks to settle in the needle canopy over his head. The moonlight glimmered off the tusks, so they looked bathed in silver. They hung over Melchior's head, appearing as milky ways a million miles away. His yellow-green gaze traced the tusks back into the trees. To the billboard big eyes staring down at him.

  Thump-thump.

  His eyes fell back to his shoes. Melchior held perfectly still, watching the bushes rustle in the wake of the Beast's breaths as if he had all the time in the world. He whispered a prayer, or a curse--he didn't hear it, and it didn't matter. Melchior inhaled. He exhaled. And he released the string.

  The polished pine projectile shot through the molasses thick coating of the world, twisting through the air in slow motion. Melchior registered it as a shock when the arrow struck the wall of the Beast--a jolt as if he'd been struck himself.

  The shaft of his arrow shattered, splintering into sawdust. The bone-tip lodged itself into the hide, opening a wound as wide as the point of a needle.

  Nineteen arrows left.

  His toothpick attack was nothing to a creature as sturdy as a blue whale on four telephone-pole legs--but Melchior had spent a lot of time wandering the Catskills with Ira Rule, and he knew a thing or two about pressing buttons.

  Everything that had gone still rushed forward on a landslide. The trees burst under the crushing body of the Beast. The ground shook with the force of its advance. Melchior whirled on his heels--he was running before his mind could catch up.

  He hoped Ira was ready--because they were coming.

  Where the Beast stepped, century old oak trees exploded. Melchior ducked his head to avoid the sonic booms he couldn't hear and the splintered projectiles of sharpened wood that he could feel. Woodchips the size of spears pelted the back of his thin shirt and whizzed past his exposed flesh. He hissed as a piece of bark sliced his cheek. A warm trickle of blood seeped down his face to follow the trail of dried copper from his shattered eardrums.

  He was sure there would be nothing left of the forest--he didn't stop to check. Melchior kept his bow loose at his side, swinging in his arms as he bolted. It might have aided him to have his hands free--but he was very much under the impression that he'd be needing his weapon.

  He sunk his gaze on the tangled forest floor, leaping over roots and fallen logs. Branches tore at his skin, his clothes, his closely cropped hair. He bore it with a wince and never stopped running. He only hoped he was going the right way--straight backward.

  He never held still enough to feel the thunderous river in his feet. He couldn't pick apart Ira's heartbeat from the ringing in his ears. He was flying blind. He could have been running in circles. Without his ears, he was directionless. He was lost. He was--lavender.

  Melchior almost stumbled. He regained his balance, pushing himself upright on the side of a shaking cedar tree. There was lavender. He hated lavender. He always had. If scents could fall out of fashion, the trend would have been long past for it. It was an herb for old women.

  He might have shouted, he might have whispered. He called his name, and he hoped he could hear him. Melchior turned himself into the dizzying perfume of Ira's soap--and he ran for it. He scampered over logs and rocks, panting in the cold night air until it became thick with mist.

  Melchior coughed, his throat burned. He choked down the sweet river air and screamed again. Ira better be ready--it was now or never. Melchior broke through the treeline, waving his arms in the air and barking nonsense.

  Ira's gaze met him--and for a moment, they both seemed equally as confused. Ira, baffled by Melchior's shouting--and Melchior concerned for why he was submerged up to his waist in the Kaaterskill. Ira's mouth was moving. Melchior stared at him blankly. Which, he knew wasn't the best use of their time--but why was Ira in the middle of the lake?

  Ira frowned, in the way that indicated he was going to bring this back up in an argument later, and abandoned his shouting to point beyond Melchior and the trees.

  Melchior shouted something that he hoped was similar to I know.

  Ira rolled his eyes and pointed again. He dragged his finger from the Beast to the water.

  What? Melchior said, he hoped.

  Ira crossed his arms over his chest.

  Oh, come on!

  He knew by the way Ira rolled his eyes that he'd at least said that part correctly. He gestured at the water again, madly and angrily. Madly, because he looked crazed while doing it, and because just saying angrily wasn't enough to explain the full range of his rage.

  Melchior grit his teeth together. He didn't know if he was meant to go in the water, or if the Beast was, but if Ira was in the center of the pond--and with the plan--that was probably the place to go.

  He could feel the tremble in the land, see the ripples along the surface, and he knew the Beast would be on them soon. Melchior stepped into the cool stream.

  He thought feeling his eardrums shatter had been painful--this was agony. The water rose over the top of his boot, licking at the skin of his ankle. Where the water touched him, it boiled.

  His skin turned red and bubbled. Melchior fell back, gasping in deep breaths of mist laden air. It stung the inside of his nose. It scratched his lungs raw. He was burning.

  Where his palms rested on the wet rock, they steamed. He peeled his hands from the rock, leaving behind small scraps of skin that cooked away into nothing. He pulled his hands to his chest, wiping off the water on his shirt. He looked at Ira--and Ira looked back.

  A knot engulfed the space over his pounding heart. Ira had done it. Somehow. He'd turned the entirety of the Kaaterskill into a fresh spring of holy water. Melchior swallowed. He couldn't move--terror held him in place. Terror of what Ira had just seen. Terror of what it meant. Terror that he was no different from the Beast.

  Ira was the first to move, the waded through the Kaaterskill, his blue eyes trained on the trembling trees. His lips were moving--Melchior was getting really sick of that. Ira climbed the bank towards Melchior. He stood before him, dripping in waterlogged clothes from the hips down.

  He extended a hand towards him. Ira had been gesturing so wildly just seconds before that for a moment, Melchior, though he was doing it again--but his brain clicked on in time to take his hand before he rescinded the offer.

  Ira pulled Melchior to his feet. He was glad for the help. He swayed. His ankle was weak beneath him. Ira grabbed his face, pulling him closer to look at the blood trails painted down his neck. Melchior rested his palms on Ira's wrist. He tried to smile, but Ira glared at him with moon-wide eyes. Ira mouthed something. Melchior winced. He looked at his shoes.

  I can't hear you.

  He choked on the words, the same way he choked on the river spray. Ira took Melchior by the chin, pulling his eyes up to meet his gaze. Ira nodded. Melchior didn't really know what it meant, but Ira's grabbed his hand and began pulling him along the riverbank.

  They were going back towards the cliff. Melchior thought he was going to be sick. Ira had seen him. He had nothing to say--he couldn't even if he wanted to. So he bowed his head and limped behind him. Ira placed their backs to the falls and their front to the forest, with the pond between them and the Beast.

  Ira tapped his shoulder, and Melchior looked at him. He held his arms out from his chest and mimicked a bow being pulled. Melchior nodded. He fit his weapon in his hands and strung the arrow.

  And they waited.

  Melchior could feel the tremor of it in his feet. The lake began to shake. The trees swayed. And finally, the Beast poured into the glade. The creature was twice the size of an elephant, with a gray flat face only disturbed by minivan-sized tusks and glowing white eyes. It shambled forward on stumpy legs, made for crushing mountains.

  Ira released the string of his invisible bow--and Melchior fired. The polished pine glimmered across the lake, rushing as quick as the river. It shattered against the chest of the Beast. Ira drew his next arrow, and Melchior followed suit.

  Eighteen left.

  The Beast lifted its head, revealing a gaping pink maw. It must have screamed, Ira winced at Melchior's side. He looked at him, tracing the line beneath his jaw with his gaze. Ira glanced back at him and shook his head. He mouthed that he was fine. He gestured with his chin back towards the Beast.

  Melchior hefted his bow and stared across the water. The Beast charged. Ira released--Melchior's arrow shattered against the Beast's tanker-wide skull. The air shook, and the mountains shivered. And the Beast stepped into the Kaaterskill basin.

  Seventeen.

  The steam exploded forward, curling off the bubbling surface of the lake. The Beast tilted its tusks to the stars and wailed enough to send quivers through the clouds. Ira released. Melchior's arrow shattered against the wrinkled cheek of the Beast.

  Sixteen.

  The creature lurched forward, sinking another limb into the boiling water. It tumbled, sloshing forward on its chest. The water splashed up over the river bank. Melchior didn't flinch, not even as his skin began to prickle beneath the mist.

  Melchior drew his bow. He stared into the wailing mouth, and he fired. His arrow disappeared behind grinding tusk, lodging in the ridged roof of the Beast's mouth. It surged forward, sinking further into the pit.

  Fifteen.

  Ira tapped Melchior's shoulder. He pointed at his eye, and then the Beast. Melchior nodded. He strung his bow and turned his attention into tracking the glowing white eyes of the Beast. He exhaled over his knuckles and let go. His arrow flew across the lake--striking the Beast in its wide eye.

  Fourteen--

  The Beast slumped forward, falling into the water. A geiser of steam filled the Kaaterskill. Melchior reached for another arrow. Ira grabbed his wrist, stilling him. He squeezed, pressing trembling fingers into Melchior's bandage.

  Melchior froze, turned to ice beneath Ira's touch. And then Ira was slipping away, falling to his knees. Melchior fell with him, pulling him into a tight embrace against his chest. He could feel the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes and sunk beneath the soothing waves of it.

  And that was how they stayed. Melchior didn't know for how long. They sat at the river bank, watching as the Beast sunk further and further into the water, burning and bubbling until nothing but foggy white steam remained.

  Ira leaned into his chest. His eyes began to drift slowly shut. Melchior might have laughed if he didn't look so pitifully exhausted. He held him. Even as he began to fall asleep. He was too scared to move, to wake him, to face the new day full of new questions. Questions he couldn't answer. After all, he said he wouldn't lie. If Ira asked him what he was, he wouldn't like what Melchior had to say.

  He pressed his forehead against Ira's hair for the first time in his life, enjoying the heavy scent of lavender. And he sat, for countless more moments. Until the scratch on his cheek began to close. Until the burns covering his ankle began to disappear, as if they'd never existed at all.

  . . .thump. . . thump. . .thump. . .

  And he listened to the sound of Ira's heart.