Chapter 35: [35] The Ghost in His Blood
The square exploded with the joyous chaos of liberation.
Shouts and laughter crashed into weeping cheers. Mika’s father swept her into a wild spin, her giggles lost in the roar. An old woman, her face cracked with joy, flung her fishing net skyward where it hung for a moment like a bizarre constellation before falling back into the celebrating mob.
He was still catching his breath when the town swarmed him. Hands clapped his shoulders, jarring his aching ribs. Someone shoved a bottle into his hands, and he drank without thinking.
The cheap spirit scorched his throat, but the burn was a welcome relief. It was better than the phantom taste lingering on his tongue—the ghost of Hardy’s essence.
Children ran between legs, waving makeshift flags made from colorful scraps. A group of fishermen hoisted each other onto their shoulders, forming a human tower that swayed dangerously.
A flash of mismatched hair caught his attention—red and white, bright as a banner. Raven. She maneuvered between the celebrating islanders, her blue eyes fixed on him with an intensity that silenced the noise around him.
"You did it," she said when she reached him. "The bastard’s finished." She glanced over at Hardy’s crumpled form.
"We did it," he corrected.
We? What a joke.
She couldn’t feel it. The slick film that coated the inside of his skin, the phantom taste of ozone and iron on his tongue. It wasn’t a snake coiled in his gut; it was worse. It was a poison that had become part of his blood, a low, discordant hum beneath the noise of the celebration. A quiet wrongness that was no longer on him, but in him. Waiting.