Chapter 24
Henry didn't die that night.
He should have.
The thing that wore Olivia's face tore open the ground beneath him—roots lashing like serpents, shadows pressing in like drowning—but something in him refused.
Not yet.
Not while Lila was still screaming his name.
Not while the world still smelled of her.
He had grown used to pain. To ghosts. To the echo of James's laughter, Olivia's old smile, the weight of everything they'd lost. But nothing prepared him for the agony of this slow unraveling.
Because this time… the pain wasn't just his.
It was shared.
It was hers.
It was Lila's.
—
They escaped into the woods, bleeding and breathless.
Lila held Henry upright, arm around his waist, his shirt soaked in red and something darker—something not entirely blood. His ribs were shattered. He winced with every breath, but it wasn't the wounds that made him groan.
It was what was moving inside them.
"I'm fine," he lied.
"Don't," she choked out, clutching his shirt. "Don't pretend."
He looked at her. Pale. Frantic. Her hands trembling. "I'm buying you time."
"For what?"
"To end this."
She shook her head violently. "No. Not without you. We end it together."
But Henry's body was failing. Not just breaking—transforming.
Veins across his neck pulsed black. Like ink threading beneath the skin.
From the roots.
From Her.
—
They found an old chapel deep in the forest. Collapsed roof. Ivy-choked pews. Dust and bones and hymns left to rot.
It felt safe.
But only for a moment.
Henry leaned against a broken pillar, coughing into his fist. Lila watched as something in his throat rattled, wet and hollow.
He pulled his hand back.
Black.
Not blood. Tar.
He didn't look at it. He just said softly, "She's in me."
"No," Lila whispered. "We can cut it out, we can—"
"It's not in my body." His voice cracked. "It's in my memory. Every time I think of Olivia. Of James. Of what we lost—she tightens around me."
He gripped his head. "She feeds on remembering."
Lila fell to her knees in front of him. "Then forget. Let it go. Let me carry it."
He smiled faintly. "You always did. You carried all of us."
Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Don't say goodbye."
"I'm not." He touched her hand. His own was shaking. "But I can feel her climbing up. I won't be me much longer."
Then—his voice broke. Really broke.
"I'm scared, Lila."
And she shattered.
Because Henry had never said those words.
Not when James died. Not when Olivia vanished. Not even when the ground screamed beneath their feet.
But now—his eyes wide, filled with a boy's fear, not a man's resilience—she saw him begging.
Not for life.
But for her to remember him right.
—
That night, Lila did everything she could.
She read old prayers.
Sang Olivia's song, even though the notes cracked in her throat.
She kissed Henry's temple, again and again, whispering: "You're not her. You're not hers."
He smiled weakly. "Thank you… for saying my name… without fear."
Then the black climbed to his eyes.
He spasmed once. Twice.
Then… still.
But he didn't scream.
Not a sound.
That made it worse.
Because it was quiet.
Gentle.
Like sleep.
And Lila—Lila sat beside him until dawn, her hands cradling his cooling face, refusing to cry because grief would feed Her.
Refusing to scream because silence hurt more.
But when the sun rose and lit the edges of the ruined chapel…
She let one tear fall.
One.
And when it hit the ground—it hissed.
And the stone beneath her feet whispered:
"One down. Two to go."