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Dirt filled my mouth when I tried to scream.
I clawed up. Hit wood. The board groaned. My throat made a wet scrape that burned all the way down.
Something heavy lay across my legs. Bodies, maybe. Two of them. My lungs kicked, begging for air that wouldn't come.
Then my hand punched straight through the wood.
I froze.
My fingers had gone through like the board was nothing.
Dirt dropped into my face. Panic took over. I grabbed the broken edge and pulled. My arm came free. Three sharp cracks and the hole widened. I shoved myself through and rolled onto my back.
Cold ground. Rust and dead grass in my mouth. I tried to breathe.
Nothing.
I waited for my chest to rise.
It didn't.
No breath. No burn. Just the fire in my throat and the empty pull under my ribs.
I touched my neck.
No pulse.
The sky was black. Stars everywhere, too many, too sharp. I blinked up at them while my brain caught up.
The tunnel.
That was the last thing. A blast. Rock breaking. Men shouting in Mandarin. Dust so thick I couldn't see my hands. Somebody grabbed my coat. Somebody yelled for the lamps.
Then the ceiling came down.
I'd been working the railroad. Hauling timber where the track would run west. I remembered stone crushing wood. I remembered falling. A boy from Hunan screaming for his mother even though she'd been dead for years.
After that, nothing.
I sat up.
The hunger hit me.
Not normal hunger. I'd known that kind. Twelve hours on half a steamed bun. Going to sleep angry enough to chew leather.
This was different.
My teeth hurt. My gums felt swollen. Every part of me wanted to bite down on something warm.
I was sitting in a pit. Broken boards. Torn blankets. Lumps under the dirt.
A mass grave.
They'd buried us.
I looked down. A wooden crate, not a coffin. The lid had collapsed. A pale hand stuck out from one corner, fingers black with mud.
I crawled away.
My knees worked. Arms worked. My left shoulder—crushed under the tunnel—moved without pain.
That should've scared me.
Instead I smelled blood.
I snapped my head toward it.
Sweet. Thick. Fresh.
My mouth filled with spit.
I pressed both hands over it.
"No," I whispered.
My voice came out rough. Too loud in the dark.
A few yards away, somebody stood beside the grave.
A woman.
Dark coat. Long dress. Both covered in dust. Pale hair tied back. She held a shovel in one hand, a lantern in the other.
The flame cut across her face.
She was watching me.
She didn't look surprised. That was the first bad sign.
The second was the blood running down her wrist.
A narrow cut across the back of her hand. The smell hit me again.
My vision sharpened. I could see the red line from ten feet away. I could see her pulse.
One. Two. Three.
My fingers dug into the dirt.
The woman lowered the lantern.
"You're awake."
I didn't understand the words. I understood her tone.
Not fear. Not relief.
Assessment.
Like she was checking whether a tool still worked.
I stood. "Who are you?"
Her eyes moved over me. My torn clothes. My hands. My face. She looked at the hole in the crate. Back at me.
"You speak English?"
I shook my head.
"Damn."
I knew that word. Men on the crews used it every day.
I pointed at her wrist. "Blood."
That word I knew. One of the foremen had taught it to me after a fight over rations.
Her mouth tightened.
She wrapped her hand in cloth. It didn't help. The blood smell stayed bright and sharp in my nose. I could hear her heartbeat now.
Count it.
My body leaned toward her before I told it to stop.
She saw.
The shovel came up between us.
"Don't."
I raised both hands. "I don't—"
My stomach twisted.
A sound came out of me. Low. Ugly. Not a growl, but close.
The woman took a step back.
I took one forward.
The dirt shifted under my boots. My head swam. Her pulse filled the night.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I could smell the heat inside her. Almost taste it.
Her face changed.
There. Fear.
She dropped the shovel and reached inside her coat.
I moved first.
I crossed the space so fast the lantern swung. My hand caught her shoulder. Her coat felt soft. I opened my mouth.
She slammed her palm into my chest.
The impact threw me backward. I hit the side of the grave hard enough to break another board. Wood snapped. I dropped into the pit and landed on top of the dead.
A normal person would've screamed.
I sat up.
Nothing hurt.
The woman stood at the edge, hand still raised. A thin red mark crossed her palm, like she'd slapped stone.
"What are you?" she asked.
I understood one word.
What.
I scrambled out. "I'm Qin Sheng."
Her eyes narrowed.
I pointed to myself. "Qin. Sheng."
"Qin Sheng," she repeated. Her accent bent the sounds, but she got close.
Then she pointed at me. "You're like me now."
I shook my head.
She pointed to herself. "Me."
To me. "You."
She tapped two fingers against her throat. "Same."
I glanced at her wrist.
The hunger tore through me. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth clicked.
She noticed.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "That part."
I backed away. "What did you do?"
She didn't understand.
I pointed at the grave. At myself. At the sky.
Dead. Buried. Awake.
Her expression went flat.
"You died three nights ago."
I stared.
She spoke slower. "Three. Nights. Ago."
I knew three. I knew night.
I held up three fingers. "Three?"
She nodded.
Then she dragged one finger across her throat.
I understood that.
Dead.
My knees almost folded.
The tunnel had killed me. The grave had held me. Somehow I'd climbed out without lungs, without a heartbeat, without pain.
"No," I said.
The woman watched me argue with the world.
"No. I'm alive."
She didn't correct me.
That was worse.
I turned and stumbled to a dead pine. Grabbed the trunk. My head spun.
The bark tore under my fingers.
I looked at my hand.
Splinters had pushed into my palm. I pulled them out. The holes closed before blood could form.
I laughed once. It sounded broken.
The woman came closer. "Listen to me."
"I can't understand you."
"No, you understand enough." She stopped six feet away. "You're hungry. You need blood."
The word landed in my bones.
Blood.
Her pulse jumped.
My head snapped toward it.
She went still.
I saw her throat move when she swallowed.
The hunger decided for me.
I lunged.
She caught my wrist. Her fingers closed with terrifying strength. I twisted, kicked, drove my shoulder into her chest. She barely moved.
"Stop fighting me!"
I couldn't.
Her blood was right there. Warm. Close. Alive.
I pulled her hand toward my mouth.
Her eyes flashed pale gold.
The world tilted.
She shoved me down and pinned both my wrists above my head. Her knee pressed into my ribs.
I screamed at her in Mandarin.
She answered in English. "You bite me, I break your neck."
Maybe I didn't understand every word.
I understood her face.
She meant it.
Her wrist was inches from my nose. The cut had opened again. One bright bead of blood slid across her skin.
My sight blurred. My teeth lengthened. I felt them push through my gums.
The woman cursed.
I turned my head so hard my cheek scraped dirt.
"No," I gasped.
Her grip tightened. "You need to feed."
"Not you."
She understood that.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Her pulse kept beating beside my face.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I could smell the dead under the ground. Old blood. Rot. Dirt. None of it helped. The only thing my body wanted was the living blood under her skin.
I jerked one hand free.
The woman reached for it.
I bit down.
My own palm split between my teeth.
Pain exploded. Hot and sharp. I tasted my blood and the hunger crashed into it. I kept biting.
The woman stared.
Blood ran over my tongue. My fingers shook. My body tried to swallow faster but I forced my jaw closed on my own hand until the craving backed off.
The wound sealed.
I pulled my hand from my mouth.
The woman released me and stood.
I stayed on the ground, breathing out of habit even though I didn't need to. My teeth slid back. My throat still burned but the worst had eased.
She looked at the blood on my palm.
Then at me.
"Good," she said.
I pushed myself up. "Good?"
"You chose yourself over me."
"I chose not to eat you."
"Same thing."
"No." I wiped my mouth. "Not same."
Something almost like approval crossed her face. It vanished fast.
She crouched beside the broken crate and pulled out a small leather pouch. Folded papers. A silver coin. A strip of black cloth.
She tossed the cloth to me.
I caught it.
"Wrap your hand."
"My hand is fine."
"It won't stay fine if someone sees what you can do."
I looked at the cloth. "Who sees?"
"Everybody."
The answer came too fast.
I stood. "Where are we?"
"Nevada."
I knew the name. One of the crew bosses had said it drunk. Nevada. Mountains. Gold. Americans.
"Railroad?"
She nodded toward the dark hills. "Westbound crews. Mining camps. Towns full of men who shoot first."
I pointed at the grave. "They buried me."
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Men who thought you were dead."
"I was dead."
She gave me a long look. "You're gonna have to stop saying that."
I wrapped the cloth around my palm. "What am I?"
The woman picked up her shovel.
"Like me."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight."
She turned away.
I stepped in front of her. "Wait."
Her eyes dropped to my face. Up close she looked younger than I'd thought. Not young. Just untouched by the cold and hunger that marked everybody who worked the railroad.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Edith."
"Edith what?"
"Crowe."
I repeated it badly.
She didn't laugh.
"Why did you dig me out?"
Edith glanced at the grave. "I didn't dig you out."
My stomach tightened.
"You did."
"No. I came to check the bodies."
"Why?"
She looked toward the dark line of trees.
For the first time she seemed worried.
"I was looking for someone else."
"Who?"
Edith didn't answer.
A horse whinnied in the distance.
She turned sharply. Her fingers closed around the shovel handle. I heard something else a second later.
Metal striking metal.
Men moving through brush.
More than two. Maybe four.
Edith's face went hard.
"Get down," she hissed.
"What?"
She grabbed my shoulder and shoved me toward the trees. "Now."
I stumbled forward. "Who's coming?"
"People who'll kill you twice if they see what you are."
Voices carried through the dark. English. Rough and loud.
"—saw the lantern—"
"—fresh dirt, I'm telling you—"
Edith's hand tightened on my arm. Her pulse was fast now. Steady but fast.
She wasn't afraid.
She was calculating.
"Can you run?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Then run."
She let go and turned back toward the grave.
I grabbed her wrist. "What are you doing?"
"Buying time."
"For what?"
Edith pulled free. Her eyes flashed gold again in the lantern light.
"For you to figure out you don't want to be here when they arrive."
The voices got closer.
"—Crowe, you hearing me?—"
Edith went still.
One of them knew her name.
She looked at me. For one second her face was unreadable.
Then she said, "Go."
"Where?"
"Anywhere that's not here."
I didn't move.
The bushes thirty yards away rustled. A light appeared between the trees. Then another.
Edith stepped between me and the lights.
"Go," she said again. Quieter this time. Almost gentle.
I should've run.
Instead I asked, "Who are they?"
Edith's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"People I used to work for."
The first man stepped into the clearing.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. He carried a rifle and a torch. Behind him came three more. All armed. All watching Edith like she was a wolf they'd cornered.
The tall one stopped at the edge of the grave.
His eyes moved from the broken crate to Edith.
Then to me.
"Well," he said slowly. "Look what crawled out."