His words are a nerve cut clean. Ten names. Ten lives.

  My boots punish the path.

  Thump. Drag.

  Thump. Drag.

  The wind bites, a row of sharp, invisible teeth against my cheek. The branches are knuckles of dead wood, reaching for my face.

  I will have to stand on that platform. I will have to look them in the eye. I will have to choose.

  My fist clenches. My fingernails dig into my palm. The pain is a small thing. Something real to hold onto.

  My eyes trace the line where the mud meets the starless sky. A flat, black horizon. The world is still, gutted by a single sentence.

  There is no cure.

  My tongue feels thick. A dead weight in my mouth.

  I had a weapon. Nora. But she is gone. Erased.

  Maximus saw James and saw a broken tool, easily discarded. He would have seen Nora and felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

  The presence in my skull expands. The Voice. It is watching this. Enjoying this.

  You did this. You whispered in my ear. You made me erase Nora. You wanted him to see me as a pathetic, broken thing.

  No answer.

  The space where Nora's warmth used to be is a clean wound. Scoured. Empty.

  But the other one.

  Eli.

  He lingers.

  A phantom limb that still aches five years after the amputation.

  Why him? He is dust. He should be gone.

  I unclench my jaw. I uncurl my fingers. The face in my palm is a cold fact. Light as ash. An obscene thing. I cannot walk into Greyhollow holding this.

  Ahead, something white lies half-buried in the path.

  A bone? No. Too soft.

  I stop. I approach.

  My good knee finds the sucking mud. My fingers dig into the cold filth, closing around fabric. I pull. The mud releases it with a sick, wet pop.

  A shirt. Small. The fabric is a tattered ruin, gone thin with time and rot. A single letter, a C, is stitched into the collar with a careful, uneven hand.

  My thumb traces the uneven stitch of the C. Once. Twice.

  I wrap the cold, dead skin in the cold, dead cloth.

  The drone of the insects ceases. A new sound replaces it. A wet, dragging scrape. The sound of something heavy being pulled over sharp rocks.

  It shuffles from the fog. The Twisted One.

  The scar tissue on my stump tightens. The smell of my flesh burning fills my head. My leg. The one this thing took from me. The one my son has never seen.

  The need to end it is a sudden, hot sickness. To finish the work Nora started. This walking piece of rot will not take another step.

  My hand flies to my hip for the knife. It finds only empty air. Gone. Swallowed by the swamp.

  The creature shuffles closer. The drag of its flesh on the path is a countdown.

  It is coming. It will not stop.

  The creature's shadow stretches, a black stain that spills over my boots.

  My other hand grips the bundle. The cloth is damp. The thing inside is cold.

  My mind goes blank. There is no plan. Only instinct. My hands tear at the knot I tied. The shirt comes away, revealing the waxy, pale face.

  I hold it up, thrusting it forward.

  It stops. The human eyes in that monstrous head lock onto the face.

  It gets close. Too close. The heat of its infected flesh radiates against my skin. A limb rises, a mess of fused bone and weeping sores.

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  My muscles are stone. I cannot move.

  A sudden, whip-crack motion. It takes the face. Its fused fingers rotate the skin, a slow, quiet turn in the grey light.

  Then it tosses the face away.

  It lands in the mud with a soft, wet slap.

  But the shirt. The tattered cloth is caught on its claw.

  It notices.

  A brief, pained spasm contracts the muscles in its ruined face. Its eyes snap back to me, the shirt still held in its grip.

  I set my feet, ready for the charge.

  But it does not move. Not a twitch. Not a breath.

  The muscles in its neck bunch as its head tilts. Its stare goes through me. It is not on my eyes, my mouth, my face. It is looking past my skin.

  A deep, shuddering breath pulls the air between us into its lungs. It tastes me. Its human eyes sharpen. The pupils contract to hard, black points. The hairs on my arms stand rigid.

  Then it turns.

  It takes a single, pained step into the deeper tangle of the trees. It stops, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. The eyes find me again.

  It says nothing. It just waits for me to follow.

  I need that cloth. I cannot bring this naked horror into my home.

  I take a step. Then I see it. The face, half-sunk in the mud. My gut heaves.

  Leave it. Just leave it.

  But Evangeline's face swims into view. Her name, carved on a hundred grey stones. This thing in the mud is the price of her life. My weapon against Gwendolyn.

  A breath, held until my lungs burn. I kneel. My fingers lock, a knot of refusal. I force them open. They touch the cold, dead skin. I pluck it from the mud. I wipe it on my sleeve.

  I follow the creature into the trees.

  My knowledge of the woods is useless here. The trees are twisted into shapes I do not recognise. This path was not made by a man.

  The air grows colder. Sharper. The wind finds the gaps in my tunic. The first true frost is coming. I pull my collar tight.

  Each of my breaths is a cloud of white vapour, quickly torn apart by the wind. I watch the space before the creature's ruined mouth. The air is clear. Unstirred.

  The trees fall away. A clearing. A circle of black, barren earth. Not a single blade of grass. Not a speck of moss. A wound in the world.

  In its centre, a shallow pit of black, stagnant water.

  Not even a worm could live here.

  The creature stops at the edge of the circle, its body seized by a tremor so deep I can feel the vibration in the ground beneath my feet.

  A low moan escapes the ruin of its mouth. It looks at the dead water, then at me. Its human eyes have gone dull.

  Then it turns from me.

  It lowers itself to the black earth, the movement a slow agony. It pulls its broken limbs into a tight, fetal coil. Its eyes slide shut.

  A cold knot tightens around my ribs, squeezing.

  It has led me here.

  My eyes scan the ground. Stone. Branch.

  My two hands.

  It is waiting for me to choose a weapon.

  Even with its eyes shut, it watches me. The pressure of its waiting pushes down. The mud at my feet seems to soften, my boots sinking an inch deeper into the filth.

  Its chest is still. No rise. No fall.

  My eyes fix on the tattered scrap of cloth, pale against its dark claw. The only part of this whole scene that does not belong.

  My hands are empty. My eyes lock onto a stone, its edges sharp against the soft mud. One blow would be enough. It would be a kindness.

  My good leg moves. Then the other. I stand over it, a shadow falling on its curled form.

  The stone waits.

  My hand moves toward the stone. It freezes, inches from it. A man who carves animals for his son does not do this.

  I stare at the stone. At the creature. I do nothing.

  Then its eyes open. They see me. They see my empty hands. They see the stone, still a part of the earth.

  A sound comes from it. A soft, wet exhalation. The quiet, disappointed sigh of a child who's just been told 'no'.

  It rises from the black earth. It turns and walks. I follow its drag marks in the mud.

  The path ends at a rock face choked with hanging moss. The creature shoves the curtain of green aside, revealing a cave. A den.

  The air inside is damp, earthy. On the far wall, a piece of cured hide is pinned to the stone. A map. The landmarks are fantasies. Dragon's Tooth. Goblin's Pass. The words of a boy who believed in magic.

  In the centre of the cave, on a small altar of green moss, lies a wooden sword. It is snapped in two.

  The creature stands over it. It looks at the sword, then at me. It searches my face. I do not know what it is looking for. I do not know what it finds. But after a moment, it seems to be enough. It turns and shuffles to the back of the cave.

  It fumbles in a nook in the wall and pulls out a silver locket, dark with tarnish. Its fused fingers scrape uselessly at the clasp. A low, frustrated sound rumbles in its chest. It turns and thrusts the locket into my hand.

  I open it.

  Inside, a painting. Two boys. The same bright eyes. The same mischievous smile. Twins. The creature is still, watching me. Just watching.

  The two painted smiles stare up at me. I turn the locket, offering the faces to the creature.

  The creature plucks the locket from my hands. Its fingers curl over the portrait, extinguishing the two small lights.

  I reach forward. My fingers touch its arm as I ease the shirt from its claw. The skin is cold, unnervingly soft, like clay that has never been fired.

  It clutches the locket to the hollow of its chest. A long, weary breath rattles in its lungs. It turns away, folding itself into the darkest corner of the cave.

  The walk back is a blur. I am aware of the bundle in my hand. The texture of the damp cloth. The hard shape beneath it. With every step, its coldness seems to leech deeper into my bones.

  I push the door open and stumble inside. The warmth of the cottage makes my cold skin burn. My clothes are caked in mud. A fresh scratch weeps on my cheek. I am a piece of the swamp, brought into her clean home. I clutch the bundle to my chest.

  Evangeline rushes toward me, her hands outstretched. The fear in her eyes melts away. Her eyes find the bundle. A small, hopeful light enters them.

  "The burl wood?"

  Her hand reaches, her fingers brushing the damp cloth. I flinch, a violent jerk, yanking the bundle back to my chest.

  Her smile dies. The light in her eyes hardens, curdling into a sharp, suspicious glare.

  I close the distance. My hands clamp down on her arms. "Forget the wood. We have to go. Now."

  She recoils. Her voice is small. Frightened. "What are you talking about? Go where?"

  "South." My voice cracks on the word. "Just us. Pip. We pack a bag and we don't look back. We can be happy, Evie. I know we can."

  The suspicion in her eyes dissolves, leaving only a deep, sad pity.

  "Oh, James." Her whisper is a breath against my skin. Her hand comes to rest on my cheek. "You've been through too much. Running won't fix this."

  She looks toward Pip's closed door. "This is our home. Our life is here. We just need to heal."

  She thinks she is saving me. She is burying me alive.

  The strength drains from my arms. My hands uncurl. I let her go. I look at her, and the cost of her life is a cold, hard number in my head. Ten.

  This is the only path left.

  There is no other way.

  I make my face smile. A small, dead curve of the lips. "You're right. I'm just tired."

  I watch her walk away, the soft tread of her leaving a fading comfort.

  Then, there is only silence. And the list. The ten names I must choose before the sun rises.

  My hand finds the charcoal. It is cold as a bone.

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