Cass
Dells was still on his feet an hour after Cass had been sure they'd have to drag him the rest of the way.
Not only was he upright, boots planted firmly on the path, but he was still walking. His gait had stiffened, like he had rocks in the heels of his shoes, but he didn't allow the flares of pain to streak across his face.
The boy lacked many things, but his strength and willpower were ceaseless. Cass expected it was somewhat conditioned: the Lost Forest could smell weakness, and Dells had managed to stay alive centuries inside of it. Which meant he'd learned how to live without it.
So Dells led the group on, like his shoulder hadn't slipped further from his collarbone, like the blood gushing from his spine and streaming down the backs of his legs wasn't his own. And Cass followed behind him, like he didn't see it. If he pretended it wasn't there, maybe the hidden eyes of the Lost Forest - watching them, always watching - would gloss over it too.
It seemed like another hour had gone by before Dells finally stopped, turning to the rest of them with a shallow sigh. "It ain't much, but..." he started, then gave an awkward shrug and gestured toward the structure between the trees. "Well, you know the rest."
Home.
Cass squinted through the trees. Dells's cottage, made from the same black bark that made up the Lost Forest, blended in with the rest of the stifling darkness so completely it was near invisible. If Cass stared long enough, forced his eyes to see through the shadows, he could almost spot it.
Home.
He shifted on his feet, feeling like he was stuck in an arid world, hoping the mirage shimmering at the edge of the horizon wasn't a trick of the light. But Dells watched it too, the light etches of a frown at the corners of his mouth. A drawing half finished. Cass wondered if it would ever be. It always seemed like some piece of Dells was missing.
The cottage sat between two trees, black, with shrubs spilling out from the strips of boarding on the slanted roof. There was one door, barred and centered at the front of the house, but Cass doubted it was the only way out. Undergrowth had begun to creep up the sides of the house, squeezing through the boards like a starving python. Some of the wood had chipped, splintered into jagged points from the weight of the vines.
A murmur came from behind him. "This is a shithole."
"Cove," Poe said, "be polite."
An irritated sigh. "My apologies. This is quite the shithole."
But Dells wasn't hearing him. Cass could tell by his empty stare, the way it had snagged onto the door and hung there for a moment longer than it should have. He strained to reach over his head, stretching stiff fingers toward the leather strap wrapped around his back. With a gentle step forward and a quick tug, Cass slipped one of the knives out of the strap. He pushed it into Dells's hand.
Swift pops crackled through the forest as Dells cut through the locks on his door, snapping one after the other, like breaking bones. Then he stuck the toe of his boot underneath the frayed edges of the wood, kicked his knee up, and shoved the door open and walked inside.
The exterior of the cottage might have been ominous looking, but for a teenage boy who lived alone in a monster-infested forest, Cass had expected the interior to be far worse than it was. With the soft rustle of leaves interwoven within the broken boards of the roof, and the warmth that had soaked into the sand covered floor, it could almost pass for cozy. The Lost Forest had smelled like mold and wet mud, and though Cass hadn't seen any pots or hanging baskets, Dells's place carried a different scent: wildflowers.
YOU ARE READING
We Walk As Wolves
Teen FictionRaised by his missing mother's macabre bedtime tales and the streetlights of London, England, Cass knows all too well what kind of things lurk in the night. He also knows they're just stories. Up until London's shadows start turning corporeal, bari...