*
I’ve finished the carving of the knife. I would love Gabriel to see it but I know that will never happen. I stand and look back toward the cottage and I want to scream with frustration at the unfairness of it all. No one can ever be a friend to me like Gabriel was, and he’s been taken from me, like they take everything, and I want to kill Kieran and all of them. But I know if I kill Kieran now the Hunters will be after me again and they might catch me, and then there’d be no one to help Annalise. For her sake, I have to be cautious.
I make my way back to the cave.
It’s dark and I’m almost there, approaching it from along the hillside, when I see a flickering flame. A small campfire.
Could it be . . . ?
I stop. Then move ahead. Slowly. Silently. Staying hidden in the trees.
The fire is in the cave mouth. There’s a small ring of stones with burning branches inside and a coffeepot standing on one of the stones.
But who made the fire? It can’t be Gabriel, can it? Maybe hikers? Not Hunters, surely? They wouldn’t have a fire or a coffeepot. There’s no buzzing, no mobile phones. Not fains. Probably not Hunters either.
Could it be Gabriel?
He loves coffee.
A movement in the cave. A man’s dark shape.
Gabriel?
But this silhouette looks shorter, stockier.
It can’t be a Hunter, can it? There’s no buzzing and there’d be two of them—or twenty . . .
Shit! Who is it?
The man comes out past the fire. He looks toward me. It’s dark. I’m standing well back in the trees. I know he can’t see me.
“Bloody hell, mate,” he says. His accent is Australian.
I wonder if there are two of them and he’s talking to a friend who’s still in the cave.
But he walks slowly toward me . . . Hesitantly, but straight toward me.
I’m frozen, not breathing.
He comes a step closer. Then another. And stares at me. He’s four or five meters away, a silhouette against the glow from the fire. I can’t see his face but I can tell that he isn’t Gabriel.
“Bloody hell,” he says again. “I thought you were dead.”
He’s definitely talking to me. He must be able to see in the dark. I don’t move, just stare back.
Then, sounding more nervous, he asks, “You’re not dead, are you?”
Nesbitt
My knife is already in my hand as I step toward the man, grabbing his jacket, using my momentum to push him to the ground and kneeling on his chest, the blade at his throat.
“OK, mate, OK,” he says. He sounds more irritated than afraid.
“Shut up!” I snap.
The blade of my knife is pushing down on his neck but only the flat of it so it won’t cut. I scan around to see if he’s alone. I think he is but he could have a friend. I see nothing but the dark shapes of trees, the fire, and the coffeepot.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I just like being in the great outdoors?”
“Don’t suppose you’d mind me cutting your tongue out if you can’t tell the truth?”
“Crikey, mate. Just having a little joke, a bit of banter.”
I push the knife into his neck so blood dribbles out. “I can cut it out from here, I think.”
“Nesbitt—the name’s Nesbitt. And you’re Nathan, aren’t you?”
I can’t decide if confirming this would make any difference but I don’t think it’ll help so I say, “What are you doing here, Nesbitt?”
“The boss sent me.”
“Sent you to do what?”
“Run an errand.”
“And the errand is . . . ?”
“A private matter.”
“A private matter that you’re willing to fail to carry out because you’ll have your tongue cut out, your innards made outtards, your—”
He flips his body, jerks my arm away, and grabs me. He’s bigger than me, much heavier, and strong too, but I break his hold and roll from him to my feet. He’s on his feet too now: he’s faster than he looks.
He says, “You’re quick.”
“You’d be quicker if you got into shape.”
He frowns. “Not so bad for my age.” He slaps his belly. “And you’re not so bad for a dead kid.”
I stand more upright, feigning relaxation. “Where did you hear I’d died?”
He grins. “I didn’t hear you’d died. I saw you.”
“You saw me? Dead? What? In a vision or something?”
“Vision! Nah. You don’t remember, do you? Well, I guess you weren’t in a fit state. You did see me, though, but . . . you called me Rose, which I—”
“What? You saw me when I was injured? You were in the forest too?”