Matthew’s voice is low and steady. He knows these words the way she knows her mother’s.
“By day, the wall was just a wall. But at night, when the lines between shadow and source grew thin enough, it became a gate. A way from one world into the other. And the thing in the dark began to press against the stones. The center of the wall began to split and crumble, and the Priors knew that soon enough, the thing in the dark would force its way out.
“So they forged an iron door and mounted it over the cracking stone, to keep the darkness back. And for a while, it was enough. And then it wasn’t.
“One night, it escaped. The stone broke, and the iron fell, and it simply stepped into this world. Everywhere it walked, things died. It fed on every living thing, every blade of grass, every flower and tree and bird, leaving only dust and bones in its wake. It would have eaten everything.”
Matthew drags a finger along the turning sculpture until it slows and slows and stops.
“The Priors all fought, but they were still flesh and blood and it was a demon, stealing every life it touched. They couldn’t win. But they managed not to lose. They forced the creature back beyond the wall. Half the Priors held it there, and the others put the door back up. And this time, they soaked it edge to edge in their blood and swore that nothing would ever cross that gate without their blessing.”
Olivia looks down at her bandaged hand, remembering her cousin’s rage when she first cut herself. The way her skin split open as she pounded on the door, desperate to get free. Matthew’s bleeding palm as he pressed it to the iron and sealed it shut again.
He guides the model on its arc until the two houses face one another. As they come to rest, the metal rings align between them.
“It is still there, the thing beyond the wall, still trying to get out. It’s fighting now, harder than ever, not because it’s strong, but because it’s weak. It’s running out of time. Out of us. There must always be a Prior at the gate. That is what my father said. And his father, and his, and his. But they were wrong.”
Matthew lifts his head, and there is a defiant gleam in the dark of his eyes.
“It will not end until there are no Priors left. Don’t you see? Anyone can guard the wall. Mend the cracks. Keep it standing. But we are the keys to that prison. Only our blood can open the door, and that thing in the dark will do anything to get it from us. It will torture us, turn every dream to nightmare, bend our minds until we break or—”
He grits his teeth, and she sees his father on his knees in the grass, the gun lifting to his temple.
“As long as there is a Prior in this house, it has a chance. That is why you should never have come. It is strongest here, beside the wall. If you go far enough, perhaps it will not find you.”
Olivia swallows. Could that be true? No, it is a chance, perhaps, but not a promise. Her mother left, and still the darkness found her. And she is a Prior after all. Matthew may want to be the last, but he is not alone.
She shakes her head.
Matthew’s fist hits the table, the force sending the metal rings back into motion.
“You have to go!” he shouts, but she doesn’t. She won’t.
He folds forward, lank curls shadowing his face, and she sees something drip onto the desk. Tears. “It cannot be for nothing,” he says, throat tight. “I am so tired. I can’t—” His voice breaks.
Olivia goes to her cousin, reaches out a cautious hand, expecting him to pull away. But he doesn’t. Something in him breaks, and then the words spill out.
“It took my brother first.”
Olivia pulls her hand back as if burned.
“It was two years ago,” he says. “The darkness had never come for children. It always went for the older Priors. It was easier to get inside their heads. But it didn’t come for my father. It didn’t come for me. It came for Thomas. It drew him barefoot out of bed one night.”
That is why they strap him down, she thinks. That is why his wrists are bruised and his eyes are dark.
“He was still asleep when it led him through the house and across the garden and around the wall. He was only twelve.”
Her mind spins as she thinks of the boy she saw on the other side, the one curled at the bottom of the fountain. How old was he? His hair and skin looked faded, gray, but perhaps it was only a trick of the light, perhaps—
“I went after him, of course,” says Matthew. “I had to. He’d always been afraid of the dark.” His voice wavers, almost breaks. But he presses on. “My father wanted to go, but I said it should be me. I told him I was stronger, but the truth is, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of losing them both.” The breath catches in his throat. “So I went. And I saw the house beyond the wall. But I never went in. I didn’t have to. The door on the other side was soaked with blood. There was so much of it. Too much. Someone had painted the door with my brother’s life. Covered every iron inch.” He tugs at the bandage on his palm.