The wood groans. Another splinter finds the meat of my thumb.

  The snow falls in heavy, wet clumps. It settles on heads and shoulders, turning neighbours into white statues. They do not blink. Their eyes are wet stones in the grey light.

  The trust in them is a hook. It digs into my chest. It pulls.

  "Don't." I cough the word up. "Don't look at me like that."

  The worship stutters. A man lowers his hand. A woman blinks. She looks into my wild eyes, and her smile dies.

  Rory steps forward, breaking the line. He sees the vibration in my hands. The way I claw at the wood.

  "Easy, James." A smile cracks his frozen face. "It's over. You did it. Breathe, mate."

  I cannot. My chest locks. A fist of muscle squeezes the air out, refusing to let it back in.

  I stare at him. His face is open. Defenceless. The urge to scream run burns in my throat. It stays there.

  "I had to close it up." The paper makes a sound like a small bone breaking. "The cracks. If you don't seal them, the whole house collapses. You know that."

  I lean over the rail. My voice cracks, too loud in the dead air. "We have to keep the important things safe."

  My eyes search the crowd. A hundred frozen faces.

  "Even if it means leaving everything else outside. You understand, right? You'd all do the same."

  Rory frowns. He gives a small, shivering nod.

  "Aye," he says. "We're safe now. You kept us safe."

  The horn blows. It cuts the air. A low, gutting note that vibrates in the teeth.

  Rory flinches. The smile slides off his face.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I didn't keep you safe, Rory. I locked you out.

  The horn dies. The air still shivers. From the treeline, a dark stain bleeds across the white snow.

  They move fast. The snow does not slow them. They move with the terrifying certainty of men who know these streets.

  The crowd splits. A violent parting of bodies. They make way for the black cloaks.

  One mounts the steps. The wood sags under his armoured weight. He stops inches from me. The smell of wet iron hits the back of my throat. I see the number on his collar: 8.

  He looks at the wreckage. Reginald, flattened against the deck. Ursula, motionless in her filth. Gwendolyn, shivering in thin robes.

  "Three," he grates.

  He turns to me. He holds up both hands. Ten metal fingers, cold against the grey clouds.

  "The order is ten."

  The crowd shifts. Unease becomes noise. "Ten?" A woman shouts. "What does he mean, ten?"

  His hand drops. It rests on the pommel of his sword.

  "The ledger is light," he says. "Fill it. Or we burn the square and take what we find in the ash."

  The Collectors move. Black wool and iron seal us in.

  Gwendolyn scrambles up. She tries to straighten her spine, to wear the authority she lost.

  "The Pact," she cries. Her voice is shrill, vibrating with panic. "I am an Assessor! The rules say one per season! You cannot take ten!"

  He doesn't turn. His arm snaps out. A backhand.

  She hits the wood hard. She gasps, a wet, sucking noise. Her hands fly to her jaw. It sits wrong on her face.

  The villagers shrink back. "James!" A woman screams my name like a prayer. "Do something!"

  I plant my feet in his way. My legs are water. I search the mask for eyes. It is an empty room.

  "Wait."

  Behind me, a rasp of armour. "He speaks to The Brute. Futile."

  "You aren't like the others." The words scrape my throat. "I can see you thinking."

  The Brute freezes. The curve of his mask warps my reflection into a scream.

  "I don't know who you were," I say. "But you were a son. Someone here loved you. Don't do this."

  A low, dry sound rattles in his chest. A laugh that sounds like something breaking.

  "Loved?"

  He leans in. The smell of rust is overpowering.

  "I remember the day I was taken. I remember screaming. I screamed until my throat bled."

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  He scans the crowd. His head jerks. Bird-like. Predatory. His focus snaps to the forge.

  "And I remember him," the Brute whispers.

  Ward goes still. His fingers dig into the wood of his hammer.

  The Brute points an armoured finger at the blacksmith. "I remember him hammering at that anvil. Harder. Louder. Drowning me out so he wouldn't have to hear me beg."

  Ward's face goes slack. He looks at the anvil as if it has betrayed him.

  The Brute straightens. "Now I'm returning the favour," he says. "Silence for silence."

  His finger finds Evangeline. Then drops to Pip.

  "The Pact is dead. Meat is meat." He nods to his men. "Small ones count as half. Start with him."

  A Collector advances. His gauntlet locks around Pip's arm.

  Evangeline screams. A high, tearing sound. It obliterates thought.

  My world narrows to that cold iron on my son's wool coat.

  I stare at the list. It shakes in my grip. The names smear into a single, jagged line.

  "Wait!" The word tears my throat. "I have the names!"

  I thrust the paper into the air. "I have the ten. Exchange. An exchange!"

  The Brute raises a hand. The Collector halts. The iron claw remains clamped on Pip's arm.

  "Read them," the Brute grates.

  I scan the faces. They stare back. Hopeful. Blind.

  I find the next name on the list. "Grace." It comes out as a croak. Too quiet.

  "Louder," the Brute growls.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. "Grace!"

  Two Collectors advance. They cut through the crowd.

  Grace blinks. A small, confused smile touches her lips. "James? It's okay. Tell them it's a mistake."

  Gauntlets close on her. She shrieks.

  I refuse to look. My eyes burn holes in the paper. "Peter. Anna. Maud." The names tumble out. I say them like inventory. Not people.

  "James?" A man yells. "What are you doing?"

  I spot Billy. He stands alone. His mother's spot in the crowd is empty.

  "Billy," I say.

  The crowd gasps.

  Two names left. The ones I skipped. The ones I couldn't bring myself to say.

  I look at the black wound in the paper where I fought my own hand. "Rory."

  Rory's arm drops. The fiddle hits his leg. He stares at me. Silent. The trust in his face solidifies into something dead.

  Just one more. The charcoal is thick here. Pressed deep.

  My eyes drift to the forge. They stop at his boots. I cannot look higher. I cannot see the face of the man who taught me to use a hammer.

  I read the name. "Ward."

  My head is too heavy to lift. I am paralysed.

  A shout breaks the spell. The sound of a furnace door kicked open. "NO!"

  I look. Ward is running. He covers the ground in three strides. He lifts the hammer. The hammer that has rung through this valley for over thirty years. The hammer that keeps Greyhollow standing.

  The Brute doesn't flinch. He accepts the charge.

  Ward brings it down.

  The impact rings through the bone of my skull. My jaw aches with the vibration.

  The silver caves in. A deep, ugly dent where a cheekbone should be.

  Ward heaves. His arm shakes from the impact. He steps back, readying the hammer again.

  The Brute doesn't fall. He doesn't even sway. The damaged mask just stares back at Ward.

  "Loud," the Brute grates.

  Movement. Too fast to track. A slash of silver against the clouds.

  Ward is mid-swing. He stops.

  He stands rigid. The hammer slips from his fingers. It lands in the snow, a soft, muffled impact that shakes nothing.

  Ward blinks. He finds my eyes. His mouth opens. No sound.

  A thin red line appears on his throat.

  It opens.

  His head slides. It falls from his shoulders, hitting the slush with a wet, heavy slap. It rolls once. The eyes are wide, staring at the grey sky.

  His body stands. Then the knees buckle. He collapses into the slush.

  His blood hits the snow and hisses. The fury he kept bottled up for forty years escapes, a red fire spilling across the ice.

  I watch. I do not move. I do not breathe.

  The Brute stands over the body. Steam rises from the open neck.

  "One short," a Collector says.

  The Brute kicks Ward's boot. It barely moves. "Meat is meat. Drag him."

  Two Collectors grab Ward's ankles. They pull. The neck paints a thick, red line through the slush. It divides the village in two.

  The head sits alone. It faces the forge, staring at the work left undone.

  Mrs. Miller bends at the waist. She empties her stomach onto the snow.

  I look at him. At what I did. The bile comes up. Hot. Sour. I force it back down. I don't deserve the relief.

  Iron cuffs snap open.

  Two Collectors advance on Gwendolyn. She attempts to stand tall. Her foot lands near Ward's head. She sees it.

  Her knees fail. She drops into the slush. They pull her. Her grey robe becomes a sponge for the red.

  The grey heap on the platform shifts. Reginald lifts his head. He sees the drag marks. "Gwen!" He scrambles on all fours. He claws through the bloody snow, desperate to reach her.

  "Wait! I'm here! Don't leave me!" He clutches the sodden hem of her robe. He presses the fabric to his cheek.

  A Collector yanks him up. Shackles him. He weeps as the chain pulls him back, inches from her fingertips.

  Two Collectors surround the black rags. Ursula. The iron clicks shut. Her head lolls. She is weightless in their grip.

  Rory steps forward. He reaches for her.

  A backhand sends him sprawling. He skids in the blood, stopping face-to-face with Ward's severed head. He freezes.

  His knuckles are white on the fiddle's neck. A Collector rips it free.

  Wood and string explode against the railing.

  Rory watches the wood splinter. The light leaves his eyes. He offers his hands. He ignores me.

  Then he opens his mouth. I flinch, waiting for him to scream. To curse me.

  It does not come. He closes his mouth. He bows his head. He walks.

  Ursula looks back as the chain pulls her. The weeping hole of her mouth widens. It is a smile. She got what she wanted.

  Grace does not go quietly. She thrashes. Manic. "The posters!" She screams at the sky. "I took them down! I was good!"

  The chain tightens. Her scream goes high and thin. It shreds the air. They pull her into line.

  Peter and Anna stand together. Quiet. Peter holds out his wrist. Anna holds out hers. Their fingers lock between the iron.

  They step over the red trail. They do not look down at the blood. They look only at each other.

  They drag Maud. She doesn't see her husband sobbing in the snow. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the clouds. "We're going into the light," she babbles as her hem drags through the gore. "We're going to the light."

  They grab Billy. He throws a punch. Clumsy. It skids off the breastplate. He kicks. He fights with his mother's anger.

  It takes two to pin him. They bind his hands. He glares at me, spitting blood. "Traitor."

  The march begins. Chains rattle. Then fade. The fog swallows them. The silence that follows is heavy.

  The villagers back away. They retreat into the shadows of their eaves, pressing themselves against wood and stone. Their eyes are fixed on me. They look at me like I am a rabid dog that has finally snapped.

  Doors close. Bolts slide shut.

  I stand alone. My hand goes slack. The wind takes the paper. It lands in the slush. The paper drinks the blood, drowning the black names in red.

  I look up. Evangeline is there. Frozen. She looks at the trail. At Ward's head. She crushes Pip against her. Hiding his face.

  I saved her. My hands shake so hard I have to clutch my shirt. They're gone. She's safe.

  Evangeline watches the prisoners vanish. She turns to me. Her eyes are dry. Hard. She pulls Pip behind her. She puts her body between us.

  "Evie," I breathe.

  "You think you saved me?" She doesn't blink.

  I nod. "I did. You're safe."

  "You didn't save me," she says. "You just left me here alone with a monster."

  She steps back. Into the shadows. Pulling Pip with her. She grips the door handle.

  "Get away from my house." Her voice is dead.

  She goes inside. She closes the door. The sound is sharper than the Collector's horn.

  My gut twists. Violent. Hungry.

  I clutch my stomach. Something uncoils inside me. It pushes against my ribs. It feels like a weapon sliding into a sheath.

  The pressure builds in my skull. A whisper in the bone.

  You are homeless. You are friendless.

  The thing inside me gives a sudden, eager pulse.

  You are ready.

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