Chapter 17: The Promise
The rain hadn't let up. It sheeted down, turning the world into a cold, gray wash. Jace’s boots sank deep into the sucking mud with every step, the weight in his arms a constant, terrifying reminder of how little time they might have left. Kate trembled against his chest, a violent shiver that had nothing to do with the chill. Her skin, pressed against his neck where her head lolled, radiated a heat that felt unnatural, dangerous. Each shallow, rasping breath she took scraped against the bruised mess of her throat.
Don’t leave me, Jace. Please...
Her whisper, raw and broken, echoed louder than the storm in his skull. He’d felt the desperate clutch of her fingers on his arm, feather-light but carrying the weight of utter dependence. The sight of her pinned under the killer’s corpse, the knife jutting obscenely from his skull, was seared onto his retinas. He’d hauled the heavy, stinking weight off her, the sucking sound as it came free making his stomach clench.
"Never," he’d rasped back, the word tasting like mud and iron. He’d pressed his forehead to hers, a clumsy gesture, feeling the frightening heat radiating from her skin. "I'll never leave you." A promise carved from bone-deep exhaustion and something else, something raw and unfamiliar that tightened his throat.
Now, carrying her felt like hauling a fragile, feverish bundle of twigs wrapped in sodden wool. Her right arm, the one with the small constellation tattoo hidden under filthy, soaked bandages, dangled limply. The bandages themselves were stained a muddy brown, but beneath that, he knew, was the ugly, weeping wound from the boathouse, the source of the sickly-sweet odor of infection that cut through the rain's petrichor.
He stumbled, his bad shoulder shrieking in protest at the jolt. Agony lanced down his arm, making his fingers tingle. He bit down on a groan, tightening his grip as Kate whimpered softly. "S'okay," he muttered, the lie tasting sour. "Just a root." He scanned the endless, dripping trees. Towering pines swayed under the wind's lash, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the bruised sky. He had no compass, no sense of direction beyond the desperate need to get away from the hollow tree and the corpse cooling in the mud. Henry's cabin. It was the only fixed point in this drowning world. Had to be north. Or east? Panic fluttered, cold and sharp, beneath his ribs.
"Jace?" Kate's voice was thready, barely audible over the downpour. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused. Raindrops beaded on her eyelashes. "S'cold... so cold inside."
"I know, Kate. I know." He adjusted his grip, trying to cradle her head more securely against his shoulder. Her fever was a furnace against his rain-chilled skin. "We're getting somewhere dry. Warm." Another lie. He didn't know where they were. He shifted direction, aiming for a slightly less dense patch of ferns, hoping it meant higher ground, a path. The mud dragged at his boots relentlessly. "Remember Henry? Grumpy bastard with the shotgun? He's got a fire. And whiskey. Bet he's got the good stuff hidden."
A ghost of a smile, fragile as a moth's wing, touched her lips. "Henry... hates... my tea." Her breath hitched. "Said it tasted... like dishwater."
"He's got no taste," Jace grunted, forcing lightness he didn't feel. He sidestepped a fallen log slick with moss. "His loss. We'll make him drink a whole pot when we get back. See how he likes it." He was babbling, filling the terrifying silence with nonsense, anything to keep her conscious, anchored to him.
Her head lolled against his collarbone. "Tired, Jace... so tired..."
"Hey." He jostled her gently, terror spiking. "No napping. Not yet. Stay with me, okay? Talk to me. Tell me... tell me about the stars." He nodded towards her bandaged arm. "The ones on your arm. The constellation."
She was quiet for a long moment. He thought she'd drifted off. Then, weakly: "Lyra... The Lyre... Orpheus’s harp... Fell into the river... when he looked back."
He remembered the story. Orpheus losing Eurydice. Don’t look back. The irony wasn't lost on him, staggering through hell with his own Eurydice burning up in his arms. "Why that one?" he asked, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.
Her voice was fading. "S'pretty... Shone bright... in the dark. Like... a promise..." Her fingers twitched weakly against his soaked shirt. "Always... wanted... to see the real ones... away from the city lights..."
"We will," he promised, the vow scraping raw. "We get out of this... first place we go. Mountains. Desert. Somewhere the sky's so big it hurts to look at." He pictured it, a desperate lifeline: endless black velvet, stars like shattered diamonds. Her quiet awe. The image was almost painful in its fragility.
He pushed through a curtain of dripping ferns, thorns snagging on his jacket. The ground sloped downwards, treacherously slick. He slid, fought for balance, Kate gasping as the movement jarred her. He hit a patch of exposed rock, his boot sliding sideways. He went down hard on one knee, the impact jolting up his spine. He managed to twist, taking the brunt on his hip and cradling Kate tight, shielding her from the worst of the fall. Mud splattered his face. Agony exploded in his knee and shoulder.
He knelt there for a moment, head bowed, rain pounding his back, gasping. Kate was trembling violently, a low moan escaping her. "Sorry," he rasped, the word thick. "Slippery bastard."
He gathered himself, pushing back up, every muscle screaming protest. He scanned the slope below. Through the relentless gray curtain, through the swaying, dripping trees... a glimmer. Faint. Yellow. Steady.
Not lightning.
Light.
His breath caught. He blinked rainwater from his eyes. There. Down the slope, nestled among the pines. A square of warm, golden light. A window.
"Kate." His voice cracked. "Kate, look!"
Her head shifted weakly. "Wha...?"
"Light," he breathed, the word a prayer. "A cabin. Henry's cabin. See it?"
She squinted, her fever-bright eyes struggling to focus. A tiny, disbelieving sound escaped her. "Is... is it real?"
"Real as this goddamn rain," Jace said, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. He tightened his hold on her. New strength, born of pure, desperate hope, surged through his exhaustion. He started down the slope, planting his feet carefully, deliberately, ignoring the shriek of his shoulder, the throb in his knee, the way his lungs burned.
The light grew brighter, resolving into a small, sturdy log structure. Smoke curled weakly from the stone chimney, instantly shredded by the wind and rain. The porch light was on, a beacon in the drowning dark. He could see the dark shapes of the rusted truck, the chopper under its tarp. Salvation. Almost.
He hit the flatter ground near the edge of the clearing, his boots squelching in the deep mud churned by their earlier flight and Henry’s truck. The front door of the cabin was shut. No sign of the old man. The shotgun blasts... had Henry made it back inside? Was he even alive?
"Henry!" Jace bellowed, his voice raw and ragged, shredded by the storm. "Henry, open up! It's us! It's Jace and Kate!"
He staggered the last few yards towards the porch steps. Kate stirred in his arms, her eyes fluttering open again, fixed on the light. "Home...?" she whispered, confusion and fragile hope warring in her voice.
"Almost, sweetheart," Jace murmured, his own voice thick. "Almost home."
He took the first step onto the creaking wooden porch, relief warring with a fresh spike of fear. What waited inside? Safety? Or another kind of darkness? The door remained shut. The storm screamed around them. He shifted Kate's weight, ready to kick the damn door down if he had to.
The porch light above them flickered once, twice, then held steady, casting their rain-lashed shadows long and distorted against the cabin wall. He took another step, the worn wood groaning under his weight. The warmth radiating from the cabin wall was a physical ache against his rain-chilled skin. Kate’s shivering intensified, a violent tremor running through her slight frame.
"Henry!" he shouted again, his voice cracking. He raised a boot, aiming for the latch. "Open the goddamn door!"
Before his foot could connect, the door jerked inwards with a protesting squeal of hinges. Henry Fillmore stood silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the cabin's interior. His weathered face was etched with deep lines of pain and exhaustion, starkly pale beneath the porch light. He leaned heavily on the doorframe, his right arm bound tightly to his chest with a crude sling made from a torn plaid shirt. Dark blood stained the fabric over his bicep. In his good hand, held low but steady, was the double-barreled shotgun.
His eyes, sharp and wary despite the pain, scanned Jace, then dropped to Kate in his arms. They widened fractionally, taking in her pallor, the mud and blood, the terrifying stillness beneath the shivers. His gaze flicked past them, searching the rain-lashed darkness behind them, the shotgun tracking slightly.
"Took ya long enough," Henry rasped, his voice like gravel. His eyes locked back onto Jace, intense, demanding. "The other one?"
Jace met his gaze. The image of the knife hilt protruding from the ruined eye socket flashed in his mind. The heavy, final slump of the body. The unnatural stillness. He shook his head once, a short, sharp movement.
Henry’s jaw clenched. A flicker of something grim – satisfaction? Relief? – passed over his face. He lowered the shotgun’s muzzle towards the floorboards. His eyes softened minutely as they returned to Kate. "Bring her in," he ordered, his voice rough but lacking its usual bite. He stepped back, holding the door wide. "Get her by the fire. Now."
The wave of relief that washed over Jace was so potent it nearly buckled his knees. He stumbled across the threshold, the sudden, enveloping warmth of the cabin hitting him like a physical blow after the icy rain. The familiar smells of woodsmoke, stale coffee, and Henry’s cheap tobacco wrapped around them, a stark, almost shocking contrast to the decay and petrichor outside.
He crossed the small room towards the stone fireplace where embers glowed. He lowered Kate onto the worn rug in front of the hearth as gently as he could. She immediately curled in on herself, her eyes drifting shut, a soft, pained sigh escaping her lips. Her skin, in the firelight, looked translucent, waxy. Terrifying.
Henry kicked the door shut, the boom echoing, and threw the heavy bolt. He leaned the shotgun carefully against the wall, then moved stiffly towards Kate, his face tight with pain from his own wound. He knelt beside her, his good hand going to her forehead. He hissed at the heat radiating from her skin. His fingers, surprisingly deft, began carefully unwrapping the soggy, filthy bandage on her arm.
Jace sank to his knees beside them, the last of his strength deserting him. His shoulder screamed. His hand throbbed where he’d grabbed the knife blade. Mud and rain dripped from him, pooling on the worn floorboards. He watched Henry’s face as the old man exposed the wound. Henry’s expression didn't change, but the deepening lines around his eyes spoke volumes.
The wound was angry. Red streaks radiated from the puncture marks, stark against Kate's pale skin. The flesh around it was swollen, tight, and weeping a thin, yellowish fluid. The constellation tattoo was distorted, almost hidden by the inflammation. It smelled faintly putrid, even over the woodsmoke.
"Infection's deep," Henry stated flatly, his voice devoid of inflection but heavy with implication. He glanced up at Jace, his eyes hard. "Boathouse water. Full of crap. And mud." He shook his head, a sharp jerk. "Need medicine. Strong stuff. My kit ain't gonna cut it."
Jace stared at Kate’s face, so still against the rug. The firelight played over her features, highlighting the dark smudges under her eyes, the unnatural flush on her cheeks. The stars... like a promise. His own promise, Never, echoed hollowly in the sudden, stifling quiet of the cabin, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. The killer was gone. They were inside.
But Kate was burning alive from the inside. And Henry’s grim pronouncement hung in the air like a death sentence.
He met Henry’s gaze. The old man’s eyes held no pity, only the bleak certainty of someone who’d seen death come in many slow, ugly ways. "How long?" Jace asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Henry’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked down at the ruined arm, then back at Jace, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. "Depends. Hours? Maybe a day? Without help..." He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
The warmth of the cabin suddenly felt suffocating. The storm outside sounded like a relentless siege. The killer was dead, but the real fight, Jace realized with a cold, sick dread that settled deep into his bones, had only just begun. Kate’s breath hitched, a fragile, wet sound. Her fingers twitched on the rug. Searching. He reached out, his muddy, bloodied hand covering her smaller, burning one. He squeezed, gently. She didn’t stir.
He kept holding on.