The knot hadn’t dared to stop at either of the two rivers they’d passed. Her white-blonde hair was still red at the tips with blood. Romy felt sure the ringing would go if she could get rid of the rest. She swore the smell of the blood’s stench was still there, reaching her in the heat of the day.

And how could her knot forget what she’d done when Romy was still drenched in the evidence?

Every one of them had killed. But, it seemed, killing a human was different.

* * *

Phobos woke her at first light the next morning. He thought he did, anyway. Romy hadn’t slept. Just closed her eyes and attempted to hold herself together.

“You and Elara go wash,” he said. “We’ll go after.”

The promise of being clean was the brightest point of the last four days.

Elara stood on the bank next to her ten minutes later

Instead of a deep pool, the waterfall emptied into a shallow area dotted with boulders and stones. At most, the water looked knee deep, the bottom clearly visible and crocodile-free.

Elara shed her clothes in excitement and with a soft yelp, splashed her way into the small pool. Hesitation tugged in Romy’s system. The bloody strands of her hair were a red blur in her peripherals.

In a few minutes, a dripping Elara climbed back up the bank, frowning at the fully-clothed Romy.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

How did Romy tell her that she didn’t want Elara to see the water running red? That she was worried she was about to lose it? Romy didn’t know if she could control her reaction to the sight.

“I. . . ,” she started. “Would you give me a moment?”

She avoided Elara’s heavy stare.

Romy scratched at her forearm where small dried flecks of blood dotted her tanned skin. “I need a moment.”

A small hand lay on her arm. Romy surprised both of them by jerking away. But she couldn’t help it. The sensation was like splinters of wood shoved under her fingernails.

Sad, sparkling hazel eyes met her own. “I’ll see you back at camp,” Elara said hoarsely.

Romy waited until Elara was out of sight before peeling off her grimy garments. She’d changed her clothing at Jimboomba, too. This wasn’t the stickiness of blood; it was the stale sweat of walking eighteen hours a day in the savage heat.

She picked her way across the boulders, neck hairs rising at the cold spray from the waterfall.