The Hollow Gods (The Chaos Cycle #1)

Chapter 40

Chapter

Forty

Mason

Mason slipped in and out of consciousness. A woman’s voice echoed through his mind, incomprehensible but comforting. He knew this woman; he knew they’d met before. It wasn’t Annabelle or any of the villagers he’d come across. No, this voice belonged to an outsider. At one point, he heard her arguing with someone—a man.

She leaned close and whispered something in Mason’s ear. He didn’t understand what she was saying; he only understood that it was soothing.

Mason heard the man storm out, followed by another presence.

The woman’s voice grew murky. It was like sinking underwater. Everything from the surface grew dimmer until finally, it all went black.

When Mason awoke, his eyesight was blurry. He could tell from the size and shape of the room and the grimy wooden panelling that he was neither at Annabelle’s farm nor at the church. A pillow was tucked behind his head, and a scratchy wool blanket covered his legs and stomach. Taking a deep breath, the smell of wet lumber, dust, and wildlife filled his nostrils. Mason surmised he was in the woods, and this cabin must’ve been used by the villagers while they were on their search. He remembered blacking out—the reasons for which were unclear to him—but he figured someone found him and brought him here.

Mason rubbed his eyes, his surroundings coming into focus when he opened them again. The cabin was barren, save for the futon under him, a small nightstand, and a wooden table accompanied by two chairs. There was a small kitchenette with no appliances—just a few cupboards and a countertop with a portable element.

Sitting up slowly, Mason took his time adjusting. His legs were wobbly, but after giving them a good shake, he was able to stand and move around. The sun was setting. How long had he been out?

His memories of the previous night were like a dream—a vague, evanescent memory—but they’d felt far too real. There was the willow, the image of a girl, and then Gavran.

He’d also dropped the dream stone during the ordeal. After frantically patting down his pockets—all of which were now empty—Mason spun around to find the purple labradorite resting on the nightstand.

He didn’t remember it being there when he first woke up.

Scooting over, he picked up the rock and held it up to the light as if to authenticate it. All the patterns were there, and he could feel the faint but familiar scratch marks with his thumb. Sighing heavily, Mason slipped the stone back into his pocket, wondering why he’d grown so attached to it. Perhaps it did help anchor him.

He could hear murmurs outside—voices speaking to each other around the periphery of the cabin. They sounded completely human, and in that moment, nothing could have made Mason happier. He figured they were volunteers who’d stayed behind to care for him. It was embarrassing, and he would likely have to explain himself—who he was and what he was doing there—but he was too grateful to feel bashful about it now.

There was still a shred of humanity left in this forsaken labyrinth, and it was waiting for him outside.