“He saved your life, Edward. Don’t you dare insinuate—”
“Don’t pretend this has anything to do with me! It’s never had anything to do with me. If it was me lost in the water, you’d never ask Montgomery to risk his life to find me.” But before I could sputter a response, he ducked under the boat’s rim, into the bright world outside the cavern of the upside-down boat.
I was alone. Water swirled between the folds of my dress, legs dangling helplessly like bait worms into the deep, cold part of the ocean. Montgomery might be down there, a watery corpse, just below my toes. Edward had every right to feel hurt, but hadn’t I also a right to care about Montgomery? He’d been with me forever, tucked into the hollows of my heart, lodged like a precious secret they’d have to cut out of me. And now he might be dead.
The worries churned inside me, trying to take shape, trying to find a voice. I squeezed my eyes, wanting to scream. To release the terrible knot of emotions that preyed on my soul.
I loved him.
The words came to me like a crashing wave, and I almost lost my grip. The sharp pain in my side loosened, turned into a low, constant throbbing instead. I’d fallen in love with Montgomery. Edward had read it in the worry in my face, and it had added yet another scar to his collection.
The water around my toes grew colder. I squeezed my eyes closed and ducked under the edge of the boat. I was underwater only the space of a breath, but it was long enough to make my lungs burn. And then my head broke the surface into the dazzling sunlight. I gasped for air. Edward guided my hands to the wooden rim of the boat. The world was shockingly bright. Seawater stung my eyes. I looked everywhere, trying to take in everything at once. The mangroves, the beach, the sea.
“He’s a good swimmer,” Edward said, a grudging softness in his voice. “He must have made it to shore. I’m sorry—for yelling.”
I had to blink to make sure I’d heard him correctly. The blood still trickled from the cut on his forehead, finding the path of his scar and following it to the sea. It would attract sharks, I realized. And anything else drawn to the smell of blood. “That’s all right,” I muttered.
“I’m going to try to flip it,” he said. He shoved the edge underwater, and the other side popped up with a rush of water that brought me to my senses. I helped him flip the boat until it slammed against the waves right side up.
Edward heaved himself into the boat, balancing carefully, and helped me in after. The feel of his cold hands made my insides tighten with guilt. All I could think about was another man, yet he was still helping me. Water poured down my face, out of my clothes, but the guilt didn’t drain away.
We paddled to the dock with our hands. Progress was painstakingly slow and full of worries that at any moment something might grab our exposed fingers. Each second that passed was another second Montgomery might be clawed, slashed, stabbed—assuming he hadn’t drowned. I tore at the water until at last the bow collided with the dock. Edward tied the lead rope to one of the piles, and we climbed out. I spun in a circle on the dock, scanning the water, the beach, the tangled line of trees.
“There.” Something dark in the sand caught my eye. I raced down the dock, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the ache in my muscles. My dress clung to my legs, slowing me down. Edward’s footsteps echoed behind me. My feet sank into the deep sand, and I froze when I saw I was treading on fresh footprints.
Edward wiped the water and blood from his face, breathing hard. “What is it?”
The sand in front of us was rough and disturbed. Footprints led from the shore into the jungle. About every five feet was a dark spot. Blood.
I pressed my hand into one of the footprints.
Still wet.
Which made it easy to count the unusual number of toes, the abnormally large size of prints that could only belong to beasts. The sun beat down, burning our salty skin.
“Look, there’s a smaller set of prints,” Edward said.
I found the ones he was looking at. Smaller boot prints, the size of a man’s. I realized the drips of blood were heavier around these tracks.
Panic rose again. “He’s bleeding.”
“That means he’s alive,” Edward said. “And he’s walking. They weren’t dragging him, at least.”
A strange cry came from the ocean behind us—a seal’s guttural bark, only more high-pitched. But the sea looked so calm. I shivered.
“The footprints end at the jungle,” Edward said. “I don’t think we can track him any farther.”
“We can’t,” I said. “But my father can.”
WE RAN AND RAN along the rutted wagon road, the jungle a blur, feet aching.
The front gate was open. They’d been waiting for us.
We slowed to a walk. My body was spent. My dress clung to my skin—hot, salt-stained, damp with sweat. Edward’s face burned with sun and exhaustion. The road from the beach to the compound had been achingly long. With each pounding step, my panic had transformed to anger.
The beasts had taken Montgomery. Father owed it to us to help get him back.
In the garden, we found Balthasar kneeling to replant the few delicate tomato seedlings he’d been able to salvage. My heart twisted coldly at the sight. Life couldn’t just continue. Alice’s ashes still floated on the wind. Montgomery was God knew where, dead maybe. The monster was out there, lurking, waiting.
“Don’t bother, Balthasar,” I muttered. “There’ll be no one left to eat them once the monster finishes with us all.”
“That’s not true,” Edward said.
“Yes it is!” The chickens scattered at my yell. “You know it is. And it’s Father’s fault.” I grabbed Balthasar’s shirt. My fingers left streaks of dirt on his collar. “Where is he?”
His lips fumbled. “The laboratory, miss.”
I felt Edward’s hand on my shoulder. I let Balthasar go, and he slunk away like a wounded dog. Good. He was right to fear anyone with Moreau blood—we were all a little mad.
I stumbled to my feet, wiping the dirt off my palms. I’d thought the island was driving Edward mad, but maybe it wasn’t his mind the island had polluted, but rather my own.
Edward’s hand tightened. “Juliet, think carefully. He locked Montgomery in a cage. Why would he help us go after someone he hates?”
“He doesn’t hate him,” I said, stumbling away. “He loves him like a son.”
The latch to the laboratory door was just like the others—deceptively simple, a symbol of Father’s arrogance. I slid my fingers into the special holes and squeezed, bristling at his vanity. No locks—he thought himself indestructible.