She glanced at Tobias, who sipped his viscous drink with an expression that was difficult to read. Had anyone ever defiled him? Mrs. Ranulf wouldn’t approve of the direction her thoughts were taking…
“A couple more things before you go,” said Mrs. Ranulf with a nervous smile. “We don’t let our children have cell phones, as we believe they are a distraction from learning and socialization. I have told your parents we would take care of you like our own. So I will need to collect those. But you will be able to use our house phone to call your parents each week.”
And there it was. The blood cult theory was back in play.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thomas
Thomas dipped a piece of stale bread into the smear of pig lard on his wooden plate. It shouldn’t have tasted as good as it did, but on his empty stomach, it was glorious.
He sat on a three-legged stool in the center of a dark cottage in the forest. A fire burned in the misshapen fireplace, and iron basins lay on a table next to the hearth. Tanned animal skins and dried bundles of rosemary and thyme hung overhead.
Tobias’s father, William, eyed him from across an uneven table, a pitcher of beer between them. He had to be about thirty-five, a little over a decade older than Thomas. A few rays of sunlight pierced chinks in the cottage’s walls, illuminating William’s chiseled features. He was a glimpse of Tobias’s future—his golden skin a mirror of Tobias’s, his dark hair peppered with a few flecks of silver.
Thomas took a sip of weak beer and sopped up another smudge of lard with his bread. He and Celia had been left behind after the brief battle in Maremount, though Celia, for all her betrayals, was probably eating goose at a gold-laden table with her royal cousins.
“Whose home is this?” he asked, looking around. The room had an earthy smell. “Tobias showed me where you lived in the city, above the bakery. The whole neighborhood was wet cinders and rubble.”
“A lot of the houses outside the city, the ones in the Tuckomock Forest, were abandoned. Like this one. Either abandoned, or Rawhed slew the inhabitants. The fields outside lie fallow.” He continued peering at Thomas, his chestnut eyes twinkling with curiosity. “There aren’t many here who look like you.”
“No other black people?”
He shook his head. “None. You said you’re trained as a fighter. Boxing, was it? But in your home, you’re also a teacher?”
“That’s right. Well, I’m a graduate student. I study New England folklore. To be honest, I thought Maremount was just a legend until a few weeks ago.” If he were very honest, he still wasn’t sure that Maremount was real. Since the terrorist attacks had begun, this was his first quiet moment to puzzle it over. The most likely explanation was that his family curse had finally infected his mind.
He’d been acting like his mother and grandfather recently, staying up until four in the morning every night on an insane mission to save the world. Panic clenched his stomach at the thought of a slow descent into madness. I traveled to another realm, one ruled by magicians. It was exactly the sort of thing his mother would have said during one of her episodes.
A small part of him hoped he had gone mad. That would mean that all those lives he’d taken during the battle—strengthened by the spirits of the unjustly killed—none of it was real. It meant he had nothing to atone for, no blood on his hands. And why couldn’t it be a fantasy? People had all kinds of psychoses. There were people who believed they were shapeshifters.
Staring at the nicks in the old oak table, he took another bite of bread. “Clinical lycanthropy.” Did I say that out loud?
William swallowed a sip of beer. “Beg your pardon?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I just—I’m trying to get my head round everything. One possibility is that this is all real. The other is that I’m having a psychotic episode.” The words sounded almost distant, as if someone else were speaking for him. “Did you know there’s a mental disorder where patients believe they can transform into animals? That’s clinical lycanthropy.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Only I’m seeing other people transform.”
William shifted in his seat. “You’re used to a scholarly life.”
“The mind’s ability to tell itself stories is a powerful thing. There are people who have convinced themselves that they’re already dead, or that they no longer exist. Cotard delusion, it’s called.” Thomas fiddled with his silver watch absentmindedly. How was it possible to believe you didn’t exist? And yet it had happened to him when he’d fought the Harvester.