We Walk As Wolves

Chapter 19

Dells

Dells was ready to hurl himself against a wall. 

He was used to the calm night brought, regardless of the things in it, the silence that habitually settled over the forest once the moon rose. But the Lost Forest was slowly turning into the Lost Daycare, and kids, evidently, took forever to shut their mouths and settle down. 

After a few hours, Cass had finally been able to gather all of the savages into the den, but then they had started to gallop around the room like a herd of colts who had just figured out they had legs. With their screeches and howls, the monsters would be waiting at Dells's front doorstep like it was the new restaurant on the block.

Excellent meals and remarkable carryout, Dells would tell them. Come right in. 

But he figured Cass wouldn't tolerate the idea. So, instead, he'd bribed the savages with a few broken blades he'd dug out of an old box under the table. Cass had stared at him like he'd given the kids loaded guns and told them to use each other as target practice, but the blades had eventually quieted them down. Most of the tips were ruined, and the handles were shredded and inoperative, but the savages seemed to enjoy them. 

Dells didn't care if it made them happy, he just wanted them to shut up. 

If that meant cutting each other to ribbons with a dull blade like Cass had expected, Dells would leave them to it. But the walk from the village to the forest and the constant, incessant need to howl like half-witted barbarians must have worn them out. Dells guessed it had taken less than thirty minutes of fiddling with the knives before they had started to fall asleep. 

He'd waited, stood in the hallway with his head against the wall until Cass had curled up on the floor with the others, before finally escaping back into the main room on unsteady feet. 

He managed to wrestle himself out of his vest and boots before stumbling forward, catching himself on the edge of the wooden table with a shaking hand. The voice made a subtle attempt to slip back into his head. 

Pain. Feel it - 

No.

He tried to push the black mask away, tried to erase the image of the wild grin that had lured him to the Island in the first place. He ripped at the strands of his hair, relished the hot sparks that shot through his skull. A pain he could control.

The leather straps slid against the broken flesh on his back with every breath, the weight of the knives impossibly heavy. He tried to shrug out of the holsters, but thick knots of pain spiraled from his shoulder and shot up to the top of his head, pricking at his nerves like honed claws. 

He paused, shifted, trying to gently twist his body so he could reach around his ribs and loosen the straps. But once he began to pull himself out of them, the pain sliced back through his spine, curling up around his shoulder in a blistering flare. He released the leather with a muffled groan, sinking down until he could rest his forehead on the cool wood. 

Sweat dripped through his hair, trickling down his forehead like blood. He pressed a hand to his skin, just to make sure it wasn't. Seemed like he was bleeding out everywhere else. 

Then he felt the eyes. 

They weren't monstrous, but they weren't kind either. The stare burned the back of his neck, his blood thrumming with a searing warning. He whirled around, raised a knife. 

Well, he tried to. 

His body buckled and he stumbled, caught his weight on the edge of the table and nearly stabbed himself in the thigh. The knife clattered to the ground, went skidding across the floor with a shrill rasp.