She braced herself, ready to bolt the second he was distracted enough. She would run to whatever she was meant to find, but until that moment she stood frozen, her heart racing, her eyes refusing to blink lest it be a catalyst for Phillip to direct his rage. She counted—one, two, three, four—in the hope the counting would keep her steady.

The whispers returned, a slow build cresting into a cacophonous harmony. “Do you hear that?” Mira asked.

“Of course I hear it. The whispering—it won’t stop.”

Mira called to Phillip but he had stopped listening. His hands swatted at the air around him. “Get away from me! Get away! I can’t see!” he howled, but Mira couldn’t see anything, only Phillip as he scratched and clawed at his skin. His nails dug deep into his flesh, hard enough to draw blood, but he didn’t stop. He scratched at his eyes, pulled on his clothes, ripping the fabric, revealing his pale skin underneath. He scratched until reddened streaks marked his chest and arms, but still he wouldn’t stop.

In horror, Mira watched as Phillip continued to damage his body. Nothing he did seemed to be enough to stop whatever he believed was attacking him. He shouted again, but this time the words came out in a garbled gasp. Worn out from his efforts, Phillip fell to his knees, succumbing. He loosened the grip of his gun and it fired as it hit the ground.

Blood pooled around Phillip’s body as he lay silent and still. Far off, Mira heard the rumble of men as they gathered together and headed toward the sound of the shot.

XXVII.

JESSE FOUND MIRA shortly after he heard the shot. He stumbled to her from the brush and froze when he saw Phillip’s body. He turned his head when he first saw it, horrified, but looked again, as if to be sure of what his eyes showed him. Mira thought he was going to vomit as he leaned forward, but he put both hands on his knees. “What happened? I turned around and you were gone.”

The whispering had long since faded, ending as soon as Phillip hit the ground. The ghosts had come for him because he’d refused to see how his history, and his life, were just as entangled in the roots of this place as their own.

Mira thought of the woman. Marceline, her ancestor. Without her, she would never have known her story, the way in which she was tethered to this land. Also, without her she might never have known what Phillip had done to Celine.

“Marceline led me here.”