It was hard to distinguish what was coming from the wraiths and what was Tristan, but Dylan felt as if she was being attacked from all sides. Her face stung, her hair was being pulled until tiny clumps ripped their way free of her scalp, and she couldn’t breathe as Tristan’s arms were painfully tight around her middle. She stumbled, one foot catching on Tristan’s leg as he fought with her, and felt her weight dropping down to the ground. The wraiths cackled in delight and for the first time Dylan realised what she was doing; what she was risking.
Her life. Her time with Tristan.
How long had she been out here? A minute? Maybe a few seconds more? That would have to be enough. Abruptly she stopped fighting against Tristan and allowed him to drag her back towards the safe house and the burning light of the fire.
For the second time, Tristan slammed the door closed. He leaned back against its weight, gasping, trying to quell the panic that was sending his pulse out of control. Dylan had stumbled to the middle of the room and he could feel her eyes on him. He kept his gaze straight ahead, though, trying to rein in his anger.
“Did they make it?” she asked quietly.
“What?” He whipped his head round and glared at her.
“The toddler and her ferryman. Did they make it? I thought… I thought if I created a distraction…”
Tristan gaped at her. “Is that what you were doing? Sacrificing yourself for a complete stranger?” His voice rose in pitch and volume. “Dylan!” Words seemed to fail him and he lapsed into silence.
“Did they make it?” she repeated, her soft tone a gentle rebuke.
“Yes,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
A timid smile crossed Dylan’s lips. The gesture only aggravated Tristan further. Their survival would be justification to her; proof that she had done the right thing. He gritted his teeth.
“Never, ever do anything like that again!” he ordered. “Do you realise how close you were to being taken?”
Dylan hung her head, finally repentant. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, shaking now, more afraid of his anger than she’d been of ceasing to exist. “I just had to do something. I couldn’t let someone else be taken too.”
Her eyes blurred with tears before she could see Tristan’s expression soften.
Chapter Twenty-nine
It seemed to Dylan that Tristan’s anger was slow to fade. He sat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the cottage, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze firmly directed at the fireplace. The one or two tentative stabs she’d made at conversation had been closed down before they could begin and she’d retreated to the narrow, uncomfortable bed. She lay on her side, her arm the only pillow, and stared at his silhouette.
She wasn’t sorry. Some of the guilt she’d been carrying around since the poor woman had been set upon through Dylan’s carelessness had lifted. She could never bring that soul back, she knew, but at least her presence here had done something good. And she hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t been taken. So really, Tristan had nothing to be angry about, she thought.
But Tristan wasn’t angry. Staring into the pit of the hearth he couldn’t feel the heat of fury, just the cold lead of doubt and uncertainty. He was worried. They were halfway back to the train, had already overcome the most dangerous obstacles, and none of them had been enough to convince Dylan to stop, to give up this reckless endeavour and return to the safety of her new life beyond the wasteland line, where she’d be safe. He wondered why he wasn’t arguing with her; why he was letting her drag him further and further away from where she was supposed to be. The answer was obvious, and it aggravated him even more.
He wanted her to be right.
Weakness, that’s what it was. He was weak, giving in to her, letting himself hope that at the end of this journey they just might get to be together. Weakness. And tonight it had almost got her killed. But looking over his shoulder, taking in the way she stared at him, her eyes wide and defiant, her whole body crying out for comfort, he knew he didn’t have it in him to tell her no. To take control and force her to follow him. He could, he knew. He’d done it before in those early days.
He could; but he wouldn’t.
Tristan sighed and stood, shoving the chair aside with his foot. “Is there room on that thing for two?” he asked, wandering over to her and pointing to the rickety bed.
Dylan smiled at him, her expression saturated with relief, before she scooted back to the wall, making just enough space for him to spread out. When he lay down beside her their bodies touched from head to toe and he had to grip her waist or risk toppling off. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Her smile widened and a blush tinged her cheeks.
“I really am sorry about before,” she whispered. Then she grimaced slightly and rephrased. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”
Tristan smirked wryly. That wasn’t the same thing at all. It was probably the only apology he was going to get, though.
“And I won’t do it again,” she added. “I promise.”
“Good,” he grunted. Then he pressed his lips gently against her forehead. “Rest,” he murmured. “We’ve got a long way to go tomorrow.”
He shifted on the bed, turning to lie on his back, and pulled Dylan onto his chest. She nestled her head into his shoulder, smiling to herself. What would Katie say if she saw her now? She wouldn’t believe her. If she and Tristan did make it back, that was going to be one hell of an MSN conversation. Then after that, at school. She tried to imagine Tristan sitting beside her in class, writing an essay, watching the paper aeroplanes fly overhead. What would he think about the idiots at Kaithshall? Dylan could picture his horrified face. She laughed quietly, but refused to explain to Tristan when he lifted his head to eye her curiously.
In the morning, a thin veil of mist hovered over the wasteland, hiding the highest of the peaks from view. Tristan didn’t comment on it, but pulled the long sleeves of his jumper down to cover his arms. Then he looked at Dylan. Her T-shirt was thin and ripped in places. It wouldn’t offer much protection against the bite of the cold morning air.
“Here,” he said, sliding his arms out of the sleeves. “Wear this.”
“Are you sure?” Dylan asked, but she was already reaching for it. Gratefully, she yanked the heavy fabric over her head, pulling the arms down until they covered her hands entirely. “Ooh, that’s better,” she said, shivering a little as she felt the warmth from his body heat against her skin.
Tristan grinned at her, his eyes raking up and down her body. She smiled back impishly, knowing she probably looked like a child in a grown-up’s clothes. The jumper was ridiculously big for her, but it was cosy and, as she dipped her chin down to warm her nose against the collar, she realised it smelled of him.
“Ready?” he asked.
Dylan eyed the nearest hill, its top was still hidden by the low-slung cloud, and nodded her head morosely.
They walked steadily, climbing throughout the morning. Though the swirling fog lifted, retreating further up into the sky, it didn’t completely dissipate and so the day stayed cold. Despite Dylan telling Tristan she would take the lead, he forged a path for them. He had to; Dylan had no idea which way to go. She tried to think back to making this journey the first time, marching in the opposite direction. Had she known yet that she was dead?
She was surprised when her eyes picked out something familiar, something she did remember.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, stopping suddenly.
Tristan walked on two more paces then halted, looking back at her curiously.
“What?”
“I know this place,” she said. “I remember.”
A meadow. Filled with lush green grass and dotted with wildflowers in purples, yellows and reds. A thin dirt track wound elegantly through the heart of it.
“We’re nearly at the safe house,” she said. And sure enough, as soon as the words were out of her mouth she lifted her head and there, just beyond the pasture, was the cabin. The little wooden cabin where she’d learned why she had been the only
one to crawl her way out of the train carriage.
Though the sun was hidden, the light was still strong and for once they didn’t have to rush. Instead Tristan seemed content to amble along, his fingers wrapped tightly around Dylan’s. The path was really too narrow for two people to walk abreast, but as their legs gently brushed against the wildflowers, delicate scents bloomed up to perfume the air. It was picture perfect, like a dream.
That thought nudged something at the back of Dylan’s memory. Another dream, walking hand in hand with a handsome stranger. The last dream she’d had before all of this insanity had started. The setting was wrong: the heavy dampness of the forest replaced by the tranquil exquisiteness of the meadow, but the feeling, the sense of happiness, of completeness, was the same. And though the man in the dream had never really had a face, Dylan knew instinctively that it had been Tristan. Had her mind had some inkling that all of this was going to unfold? That it was meant to be? Destiny? That seemed impossible, but still…
“You know, I have a theory,” she said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment.
“Go on,” Tristan encouraged, just a hint of wariness in his tone.
“About what happened when I crossed the line.”
“Uh-huh,” he prompted.
“Well, I think…” She clasped Tristan’s hand a little tighter. “I think I stayed in the wasteland because that’s where I was meant to be.”
“You’re not meant to be here,” he replied very quickly.
“No, I know that.” She smiled at him, refusing to be put off by the frown on his face. “But I think I was meant to be with you.”
Silence followed this revelation. Dylan didn’t look at Tristan again to gauge his reaction, but stared around her, drinking in the beauty of the scene. She was right, she knew it. And with that certainty came an inner peace, a contentedness. She suddenly felt at home here, a place where she had no right to be.
“You know, it’ll be funny,” she mused, speaking to cover Tristan’s continued silence, not wanting to hear his denial, if that’s what he was thinking.
“What will?” he murmured. He dropped her hand, but lifted an arm to wrap it round her shoulders, fingers playing with a rogue lock of her hair.
Dylan found it hard to concentrate over the chills that ran across her skin and raised the hairs on her neck, but Tristan twisted his face to hers, waiting for an answer.
“Being normal again,” she said. “You know, eating and drinking and sleeping. Talking to people. Going back to my old life, pretending this never happened.” Then a thought occurred to her. “I… I will remember won’t I?”
Tristan took a moment to answer, then she felt him shrug.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’re trying to do something no one’s ever managed before. I don’t know what will happen, Dylan.”
“We’re trying to do something no one’s ever managed,” she corrected.
He didn’t say anything, but she saw his lips twitch, a hint of a frown about his brow.
Dylan sighed. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t remember. It would be much easier to go back to being a pupil at Kaithshall, a girl who fought with her mother, who had to rub shoulders with the idiots in her neighbourhood. She couldn’t imagine herself doing any of those things now.
Maybe it would be better.
Then she realised that there was one thing she needed to remember. She turned her head and caught Tristan watching her. His expression made her wonder if he could read the thoughts flashing through her brain.
“I will remember you,” she whispered.
She wasn’t sure if she was reassuring him, or herself.
Tristan gave her a sad smile. “Hope so,” he replied. Then he kissed her, lowering his head and brushing his lips against hers. As he pulled away, she realised he had something in his hand, cupped gently between his thumb and forefinger. A flower, its delicate stem almost bowed with the weight of the vibrant purple petals. “Here.” He slipped it into the thick folds of her hair. “It brings out the colour of your eyes.”
He trailed his fingers down her face as he dropped his hand, and Dylan blushed furiously, her cheeks scarlet. Tristan laughed at her and grabbed her hand again. With gentle pressure, he urged her a little faster towards the cabin. Just in case.
That night passed far too quickly as far as Dylan was concerned, and yet, at the same time, not quickly enough. She wanted to savour every second with Tristan, but she worried that every time they stopped like this, he would try and find other ways, other arguments, to convince her to turn around. He was in a good mood, however, laughing and joking and, though Dylan wasn’t entirely sure it was genuine, she couldn’t help but be swept along. He even convinced her to dance with him, singing a tune – just slightly out of key – as there was no music bar the whistling and wailing of the wraiths, shut out from the cabin in the cold and dark.
She was surprised when the light began to change outside, but as soon as it was obvious that dawn was on the way, she started to harass Tristan, eager to get going. He took his time, though, stamping out the last glowing embers in the grate, brushing up rogue piles of ash with his shoe. Then, even though there was no more reason to delay, he refused outright to let Dylan sweep open the door before the sun peaked over the first of the hills, far out to the east.
“Can we go now?” Dylan moaned when at last rays of light poured through the cabin’s windows.
“All right, all right!” Tristan replied, but he was smiling at her indulgently, shaking his head at her eagerness. “Used to be I couldn’t get you moving in the morning. I had to just about drag you out of the door.”
Dylan grinned at him, remembering how she’d pouted, whined, complained. “I must have made your life a bit of a misery at first,” she admitted.
He laughed. “Misery is maybe too strong a word. Nightmare, perhaps…” He trailed off, and winked at her.
“Nightmare!” Dylan left her sentry post by the door to shove jokingly at his arm. “I’m not a nightmare!” Then she turned and looked outside, at the unending hills of the wasteland that waited for her. “It feels easier going this way, though. Like going downhill.” She shrugged, went back to mock glower at Tristan. “So get moving!”
Dylan’s enthusiasm lasted until about halfway up the first hill. Then the burn set into her calves and a stitch erupted deep in her left side, stabbing with each gasping breath. Now, though, Tristan seemed to want to push on and he pretended to be deaf to her complaints and constant pleas for a break.
“Remember how long it took us to get to the cabin last time?” he barked when her moaning at last broke through the final layer of his patience. “The wraiths caught us and I almost lost you. We have a long way to go, and this was your idea,” he reminded her.
Dylan made a face at the broad width of his shoulders, sticking her tongue out. She wasn’t really looking forward to the final safe house, either, because she remembered it as a total wreck: no roof, and only one wall still standing tall. It was also the last real obstacle between them and the tunnel and Dylan knew, she just knew, that Tristan was going to use this as a last chance to talk her out of it.
She wasn’t wrong. As soon as they were safely ensconced in the safe ‘house’, the wraiths no more than whispers chasing on their heels, thanks to the ruthless pace Tristan had set, and the fire was crackling merrily away, he sat down opposite her and fixed her with a very serious look.
Dylan sighed inwardly, but kept the emotion off her face.
“Dylan…” Tristan hesitated, chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Dylan, there’s something wrong.”
She pursed her lips, repressed a growl. “Look, we’ve already gone through this. You promised you’d give it a go. Tristan, we’ve come all this way. We can’t go back now, not without—” She broke off. He’d held up a hand to halt her in her tracks.
“I don’t mean that,” he said.
Dylan went to pick up where she’d stopped, but then she frowned,
blinked. “What then?”
“There’s something wrong… with me.”
“What do you mean?” She stared at him, eyes wide and suddenly nervous. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.” He breathed out a slightly shaky breath.
“Do you feel sick? Are you ill?”
“No…”
But he was hesitant, unsure. Ice solidified in Dylan’s stomach. “Tristan, I don’t understand.”
“Look at this,” he said softly.
He lifted his T-shirt, revealing his abdomen. At first Dylan was distracted by a thin trail of soft golden hair running downwards from his belly button, but she quickly saw what he was talking about.
“When did you get that?” she whispered.
He had a raw red gash running in a jagged line down his right-hand side. The skin around the wound was puffy and inflamed and surrounded by shallower gashes.
“The other day, when the wraiths were attacking you.”
Dylan gaped at him silently. She hadn’t thought her actions might hurt Tristan, but seeing him wince as he shifted on the seat, he was clearly in pain. How had he managed to hide this from her for a whole two days? Was she so self-absorbed that she hadn’t noticed? She felt sick at herself.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That’s my fault.”
He lowered his shirt, hiding the injury from her. “No.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Dylan. It’s the wound.” She stared at him, not comprehending. “It’s not healing,” he explained. “It should have disappeared by now. Even when I was attacked before it healed within a few days. But now… it’s like I’m… I’m…” He grimaced.
Dylan just continued to look at him, astonished. Had he been about to say human?
“And that’s not all,” he went on. “When I l-left you,” he said, tripping over the phrase, “When I went to the next soul, to Marie, I didn’t change.”
“What?” Dylan mouthed, but no sound came out.
“I stayed like this, this shape exactly.” He paused. “That’s never happened before.”
Ferryman Page 25
