Page 5

Silas mouths a silent prayer. "May his dreams be haunted and his sheets forever damp."

I bite my lip, stifling a laugh.

But then Ambrose stirs—just the faintest shift, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his breath catching once.

We freeze.

I don’t breathe.

Silas reaches out slowly, wraps his hand around my wrist, grounding me—and maybe himself. His fingers are cold. Damp. Slimy. I don’t care.

Ambrose exhales, deep and slow, and goes still again.

We bolt.

Down the hallway, back through the kitchen, into the garden like kids running from a crime scene, laughing breathless into the dark.

Silas flings himself into the grass, arms wide, chest heaving. I collapse beside him, my body aching and wet and humming with adrenaline.

"Best night ever," he says between gasps.

I turn my head, meet his eyes, and for a beat, the madness slips. The grin fades. What’s left is raw and stupidly soft.

"Thanks for making me come," I murmur.

He winks. "That’s the goal, baby."

I groan and shove his face into the dirt. He laughs against my palm, and somehow, that sound feels like survival.

Ambrose

I wake to the sound of something wet. It lands on my face with a slap—a weightless, slimy little hell-creature that sends every nerve in my body recoiling before my brain catches up.

My eyes snap open, and for one splintered heartbeat, I brace for something worse—something crawling out of the Hollow to peel me open from the inside. But no. It's worse than that.

It’s a frog.

A fat, mottled thing perched smugly between my cheekbone and temple like it belongs here. Another thump near my foot. A wet croak by my ear. The unmistakable ripple of movement against my leg.

I freeze, my breath slicing out slow and sharp, dragging my composure back piece by piece, because I already know what this is. This isn't an accident. This isn't the Hollow coming for me in my sleep.

This is Silas.

The frog shifts on my face, slick and putrid, and I swallow back the immediate urge to throw up. It hops off with a splat, and the second its cold weight is gone, I sit up—slowly, precisely.

My room is crawling with them.

Frogs on the dresser. Frogs in the curve of my discarded coat. A fucking congregation of them piled at the foot of the bed like they’re holding council over my corpse.

The stench is unbearable—muck and damp and something faintly sour that clings to the walls like rot.

My jaw ticks once.

I let the moment hang, let the weight of this stupidity settle like stones in my chest, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet in the swamp they've turned my room into.

When I stand, the frogs scatter. One vaults into the sleeve of my discarded shirt. Another thumps gracelessly against the wardrobe and slides down like a drunkard.

I should be furious.