Behind me the thing screamed.
“Edward!” I called. But the rush of the stream drowned my words. I struggled out of the stream, slipping on the mud. My fingers clawed at the soft bank. The twisting thorns along the side tangled in my hair, grabbing at my dress, carving their mark into my arms. The island had its claim on me. I tore at the thorns with my bare hands, feeling stings of pain but not caring. The island wasn’t going to make me its prisoner.
A vine of thorns snapped back and struck me across the face. I stumbled into the water, gasping for breath. I took a shaky breath.
If the island wasn’t going to let me through to Edward, I’d find another way. I moved with the stream, fast as I could, following its winding bed. The water would wash away my scent, I realized. There’d be nothing for any animals to follow.
Except Edward’s trail.
I tried to tell myself he’d be fine. He was stronger than he looked. He was a survivor.
I stopped to catch my breath. For what felt like hours I stood, listening, hearing nothing. Whatever had been pursuing us, I’d lost it. I sank into the water, letting it soak me through, and mixed my tears with the stream water of the island.
LATER, I FOLLOWED THE twists and turns of the stream until my feet were numb. I found a gnarled stick to use as a crutch for my left foot, which bled from a gash on the toe. My thoughts grew more frantic with each hobbling step forward. I listened for the dogs, to find my way back to the compound. It would mean facing Father, swallowing back my disgust and disappointment and fear, but at least I’d be alive. Why hadn’t he told me the truth about the deaths?
What else might he be lying about?
One way or another my whole life had led to this moment, to him, and now I had nothing. I couldn’t return to London. I couldn’t even be sure about Montgomery anymore.
It was useless anyway. I was hopelessly lost and hadn’t heard the dogs for hours.
The stream turned, and a rotting footbridge with a handrail blocked my progress.
I stopped, surprised. A bridge meant people. This one clearly hadn’t been used in years, but it was far enough from the compound and old enough that it couldn’t be my father’s doing. I glanced through the woods, wondering who had built it and if they were still alive—and if they were dangerous. All I could hear was the trickle of water and wind in the trees.
I climbed out of the stream. The ground here was softer, and I followed it cautiously until I broke out of the jungle into a grassy clearing.
A cabin sat decaying in the middle of the clearing.
I stopped.
My feet didn’t dare go any closer, though I knew there might be something useful inside. I tried to remember what Father had said about the island’s previous inhabitants. The Spanish who built the fort. The Anglican missionaries. Father said they’d all gone—what exactly had happened to them he’d neglected to say.
I circled the cabin cautiously. The soft blades of grass felt like down feathers on my bruised feet. A support beam had collapsed and the roof sagged on one end. The tin roofing was rusted and eaten away in places. No one could live here now, but the previous occupants might have left an old pair of shoes. Maybe a knife. I’d settle for a strong board with a rusty nail—anything I could use as a weapon.
I hobbled toward the cabin. The wooden steps had long ago rotted and collapsed. I set my stick aside and pulled myself onto the bowed porch. The soles of my feet left bloody prints on the rough old boards, which protested under my weight as I crossed to the doorway. The door hung open a few inches. I only had to push it a little farther.
The hinges groaned, sending gooseflesh over my skin. I peered inside. The interior was as dilapidated as the outside. It was sparsely furnished—a low table, a wooden bed frame. No sign of inhabitants. I stepped inside but felt a tug at my skirt. With a shriek I ripped it away, but it had only caught on a nail in the doorframe. A snag of dingy fur was also caught on the nail.
My throat tightened. Just because the cabin had been abandoned by people didn’t mean some wild animal hadn’t taken up occupancy.
A wild animal . . . maybe one that was killing the islanders by clawing their chests. I glanced around the clearing, looking for signs I was being watched. Not a blade of grass rustled. I slipped in anyway and closed the door behind me, breathless. There was a crude wooden latch attached to the door that I fumbled to twist closed.
Sunlight poured in from rusted-out patches in the roof, throwing puddles of light on the room. Dust danced in the hazy air.
My breath began to calm. I was alone, I told myself. I cleaned the cabin’s one dirty window with the edge of my sleeve. Outside there was nothing but empty porch and my walking stick leaning against a post.
On the table was a nub of tallow candle and a grimy green bottle filled with dust and the petrified husks of flying insects. I spied a cupboard in the corner and twisted open the latch. The door came off in my hand, and a heavy, rusted wrench spilled out at my feet, just missing my toes. I jumped back, my heart in my throat. Several more tools tumbled out with a dull crash of metal. I stooped to look. A claw-headed hammer. A railroad spike. A rusted pair of shears. My hand closed over the shears. Though the blades were dull, they could be used as a weapon. I slipped it into my pocket.
I turned to the bed and sucked in a quick breath. The remnants of a straw mattress and old quilt were matted with thick yellow fur. Something had made a den out of the bed—some animal. Images jumped to mind of a savage beast with claws big enough to slice a man open.
I fumbled with my skirt pocket and pulled out the shears. With my other hand I touched the quilt, hesitantly. The fur felt gritty and rough against my fingers. I didn’t belong here. Some creature did.