“Hello?” I called out against my better judgement. No answer. I moved closer and called again, louder this time. “Hello!”
The second call sparked something in the shadow, its head tipped to the side and it turned in my direction. From the size and shape of the figure I could only guess it was a woman but the way her head rolled forward and back slowly - the jerky footsteps and moans that escaped her - unsettled me.
I swallowed, trying to will moisture back into my dry throat. “Do you need help?”
The woman shifted toward me, each step becoming more defined, more determined, and every nerve in my body screamed at me to run. I tried, Daeus-knows I did, but there was something familiar about the woman I couldn’t quite grasp. Her body was thin and worn, her clothes tattered and filthy, and as she came into view the top of her ruined dress was covered in blood. Too much of it. I stepped back, my body finally responding to the alarms going off inside my head, and the woman reached out, begging, pleading. Something tugged at me then, a sudden cord wrapped between us and I couldn’t bring myself to flee. Instead I caught the woman’s coarse hands in mine and felt every callous; every scar. Light touched us and I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just any woman I was staring at: it was…me. Within seconds the other Ava covered my eyes against the shame of her broken state. It was the last thing I recalled before the pressure lifted and I was alone again.
Something hit me then, something sharp that sent pain searing up and down my arm. Before I could react it started to rain. It made no sense; the sky was perfectly clear moments before yet there it was, cool and wet—
Wait, not cool; hot with a sickening smell.
I lifted one of my hands to see it dripping red as droplet after droplet of blood spattered my skin and carved a path downwards. I was right before, the sky was clear, but the stars above me ran red and wept onto the ground beneath. My other hand stung, drawing my attention back to it and I went cold. A deep laceration ran from my thumb to my forearm and I thought back: the warmth; the stars; when I’d lifted my hand to them before they’d reacted like broken glass, drinking in my blood as a quill takes ink. My lips trembled and a few dull moments passed before the shock subsided and I screamed as my skin began to peel and rot from the wound. The pale, flimsy rind melted into the earth before a new one formed underneath, smoother and stronger than the skin I had. My cries filtered into whimpers as the new layer bled clear: it was perfect. My awe was short-lived as a fresh scream ripped through my throat. The beautiful new skin glowed bright and steamed like a rod in a blacksmith’s fire, and it burned. It burned.
I CHOKED ON my own ragged breathing as I shot up from the clumsy straw mattress, my arms draped over my knees. Night after night it was the same thing. My dreams left me sick and fearful as I relived the feeling of burning flesh over and over. The healer in town said that recurring dreams were unnatural. ‘Mental uncertainty’, he’d suggested, ‘an imbalance in the purity of one’s soul’ or ‘a foretelling of things to come’. Even if magic still existed, what would the dream be suggesting? That I was crazy? Yes, I’d believe that.
The dusty light of morning had started snaking its way through the surrounding trees and I looked for the burnt-out lamp, huffing as I pulled it toward me. Bone dry. The oil jug was downstairs too. Straw rustled as I slipped my feet over the bed and onto the creaky, old floor. I shuffled toward my dresser, my slippers nowhere in sight, and cursed the icy floor. Even though the seasons changed, the cold still clung to the house most of the year, making it damp and musty. The shoddily-made drawer opened with a stutter and I rummaged for whatever candles lay within, until my fingers closed around one and a box of matches. The match sparked across the rough stone wall and I held it to the candle; its wick fizzled and cracked, and light bathed the room once again.
The muslin curtains hardly resisted as I drew them back to open the window. Compared to my room, the air outside was clean and biting against my skin, and I pulled on a pair of dark trousers, a plain work shirt and my usual boots before heading downstairs. The dogs greeted me in their own way; whining and licking my hands until I unbolted the door, throwing it open for them. Beneath the sink the wicker basket crackled as I pulled it out, letting the weave stretch after its lengthy rest. I was especially careful to avoid lighting it with the flickering candle. As for Roan, I’d given up checking on him for the morning chores. If he’d slept at all he’d definitely be hungry but it was difficult to predict since his loss. Some days he acted like himself, but most of the time he was a complete stranger to me.
A dizzying pressure erupted suddenly in my head and the candle slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor and spraying the stone with melted wax. I pressed my hands into my skull as it started to split, the feel of it sending me to my knees.
No, this can’t be happening. Not two attacks so close together.
I reached out and pulled myself toward the sink. Water, I needed water to soothe my burning skin…but something moved outside the window: a shadow dark as the night sky in my dreams. It pressed its horrid, flat hand against the glass, and I watched in terror as its body became more solid and breath fogged the window.
This cannot be real. It can’t beA creature crashed into the kitchen and I shrieked, tearing my eyes away from the window. My heart beat erratically as a fat, ginger cat stretched out on the table.
“You stupid little-”
I stopped myself before the obscenities could rain out and grabbed the cat by its scruff, throwing it out the door. It landed with a thump and scarpered, hissing fiercely as it ran. I mumbled under my breath reaching for the fallen basket and splattered candle, glancing quickly at the window. Nothing was there.
Perhaps I was going mad after all.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SUN HAD kissed most of the buildings in Wetherdon when I entered the kitchen again. Despite the disruption of the previous night, the chickens had produced a substantial batch of eggs, enough to sell at the Post and enough to sneak a few for breakfast. Roan, wherever he was, certainly couldn’t turn down the opportunity of a runny yolk even if he was in a foul mood. I placed the packed basket into the sink and rinsed them with water from the tank, cleaning off any feathers, dirt or straw that clung to them.
“I thought the saying went: ‘don’t put all of your eggs in one basket’,” a gruff voice sounded behind me. I jumped, for the life of me, and crushed an egg between my fingers. “But then, you never were one for old wives’ tales and warnings.” Roan skulked away from me and took a seat at the kitchen table.
“Good morning yourself,” I said, shaking egg from my hand. “I’ve got something that might wipe that frown off your face.” I held up one of the newly cleaned eggs.