The yellow paint on the butcher’s home used to look so bright, but now I see the chipped and peeling paint, and I notice how faded the color is. The lampposts used to seem like a beacon in the night, and now they are barely bright enough to lead the way. In the distance, the Gilded Lands glitter just as they always have, as if that’s where the brightness in the Shadow Lands went and the Gilded Ladies steal whatever brightness the Shadow Lands can muster and tuck it into their bosoms.
A thought has never angered me more.
No one is around as we emerge. I glance toward Nero for a moment, worried about how his white body shines in the low light, but it’s dark. He appears more like a ghost than anything else.
For once, there doesn’t seem to be any last-minute field tenders rushing home after being forced to work longer in the fields with no extra pay. Everyone is settled in for the night. I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or if it’s a warning of how badly things have gotten since I left.
“Stay close,” Grim whispers, his voice barely loud enough to carry to our ears.
We move silently through the Shadow Lands, sticking to the shadows that are in abundance. It has always bothered me that the Gilded Lands call us the Shadow Lands, as if we’re too dim to deserve any light. Almost as if done purposely, the sparse lanterns cast more shadows, proving their point, when really, all it would take is better lanterns to make a difference.
I don’t have any plans on stopping. We have our agenda—get in and get out with none the wiser—but as the house I grew up in comes into view, I stumble to a stop, my heart beating hard in my chest.
It looks sadder now. Before, it had been the only option, but now I see the leaking roof, the way the front wall pitches forward as if it will fall any day now, and the grime coating the wood panels. It’s never looked as pathetic as it does right now, but still, it was once my home.
“What’s wrong?” Grim asks, his eyes following the direction of my gaze. “Is there something wrong with that building?”
“That’s it,” I whisper, my voice rough. “That’s where I grew up.”
Six sets of eyes focus on the house and take in the dismal appearance, and I can feel their shock and anger, but none more so than Zee.
“This was your prison?” he asks, his eyes hard with anger. “This is where your father sleeps?”
Razcorr shifts. “Father? Is he a good man?”
I realize some of them don’t know my story, don’t know what the Shadow Lands are like, but I can’t find the words to describe it, not right now, not when faced with that reality.
Luckily for me, I don’t have to explain it.
“No,” Bracken snarls. “He beat and starved her.”
“He kept her from learning,” Krug added. “Tried to snuff out her flame.”
“She sacrificed herself to the hunt to save her sister, and her father laughed,” Nero adds.
With each word, Razcorr’s eyes harden, and I see hatred in his gaze that reflects my feelings. My father is all of that and more. He’s terrible, hateful, selfish, and childish. I want him to suffer, but it isn’t part of the plan.
“This man tried to hurt my mate before she ever found her way to us,” Razcorr rumbles, his voice low enough for us to hear but not carry. “I say we make him suffer.”
Grim straightens. “For once, I agree with you, gargoyle.”
I watch as five monsters move toward the small house, and I don’t stop them. When fingers thread into mine, I turn to look at Bracken, who stands beside me.
“You’re not joining in?” I rasp out. There’s pain in my throat, and past that, deep in my soul, there’s fear too, and I hate that. I hate that I can still fear the man. I hate that I have all this magic in my veins, and I still flinch at the thought of his belt.
“If I go in there, Goldie, there will be no mercy,” he murmurs. “If I go in there, I will leave only death.”
Despite all my pain, Bracken understands I don’t want them to kill my father. I want him to suffer. Death would be too quick, but I cannot dish out that punishment myself. My trauma is too deep.
But my monsters? They will do it for me.
Bracken leads me toward the run-down shack, and I stop in the entryway, staring into the dimly lit room, where Krug holds up my father by the back of his neck. Despite there being no noise outside of the house, it’s clear they have already roughed him up. Blood drips from his mouth, his lip is split, and there’s a nice cut above his eyebrow that will turn into a black eye. I can only imagine what the rest of his body feels like and how many ribs he might have broken.
Tomorrow, I hope the field manager comes and forces him to work despite his pain, the same way he forced Kai and me back into the fields after he beat us.
“Should we kill him?” Razcorr asks, drawing a large blade. My father stares at the sword, and relief flashes in his eyes, but he won’t escape his fate so easily.
I shake my head. “No,” I say, and he jerks, his eyes trailing up to me. He hadn’t even realized I was there before I spoke, but when he sees me standing before him, healthier than I’ve ever been, his eyes widen. “Let him suffer.”
