3. Chapter 3
3
Chapter 3
Bronwen
The cool night air clawed at my throat with every ragged breath. The metallic tang of blood, faint but unmistakable, mingled with the earthy scent of damp moss. My lungs burned, the searing pain spreading through my chest as I pushed forward. The shadows between the trees shifted and warped, as though they were alive, watching me with unseen eyes.
The briers scraped at my legs, their sharp thorns tearing through the fabric of my skirt and biting into my skin like tiny needles. My foot caught on an exposed root, and I stumbled. The ground rushed up to meet me, the impact jarring my bones as I slammed into the cold, damp earth. My hands stung, the rough texture of the forest floor cutting into my palms.
When I tried to push myself up, a searing pain twisted through my ankle. A sharp cry escaped my lips, and I bit down hard, trying to stifle the sound. The joint throbbed with every attempt to move, the ache spreading like fire. I was trapped, pinned to the ground by my own body’s betrayal .
The silence around me felt deafening. No rustling leaves. No chirping crickets. Just the pounding of my own heart, loud and unrelenting in my ears.
Then it came—a blur of motion in the corner of my eye. A cold breeze stirred the hair at my neck, carrying a faint metallic scent. The creature was fast, too fast, slipping through the shadows like smoke. My pulse quickened as I scanned the trees, my eyes darting desperately for any sign of it. A shiver ran down my spine. I wasn’t just being hunted—I was being toyed with.
I should have left Sarah’s house sooner. I’d stayed longer than I should have, caught up in her sister’s poetry reading, and now I was paying the price. Sarah’s mother had begged me to stay the night, but I promised to make it home before sunset. The sun had just disappeared behind the trees when I’d started my walk, but somehow, this one was already out.
The hand that gripped my chin was as cold and unyielding as stone. It forced my head upward, and my gaze locked onto eyes the color of fresh blood. They gleamed with malice, their intensity pinning me in place. The faint scent of iron wafted from his breath, sharp and bitter, as his cruel smile widened.
“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing, a contradiction that sent every instinct in my body screaming.
Before I could recoil, his fangs flashed in the dim light, sharp and glinting like a predator’s. They pierced my neck, and a cold, searing pain erupted at the point of contact. It spread quickly, like ice shattering through my veins, numbing and paralyzing. The pull was overwhelming, a sensation so strange and consuming it left me breathless. My limbs felt weightless, detached from my body as the world tilted and spun.
I tried to push him off, but his strength was too much. My vision blurred, my body trembling. The world faded, and the darkness swallowed me whole. It wasn’t a quiet darkness—it felt as if the shadows themselves were alive, pulling me deeper into their grasp.
I woke with a jolt, gasping for air, my chest heaving. My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of the nightmare I couldn’t shake. My hands instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around me, a futile attempt to shield myself from the lingering dread.
No. No, no, no.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
But it felt real. Too real. The weight of the vampire’s hand on my chin, the piercing sting of his fangs as they broke my skin, the way my body froze as his cold breath brushed my neck—it was all burned into my memory. My mind churned, replaying the scene with agonizing clarity. And his eyes—those blood-red eyes—were unmistakable. I’d seen them before.
It was him. The vampire that marked me.
I clenched my fists beneath the blanket, trying to ground myself, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. I thought I was safe, but the nightmares had begun.
Was it just fear playing tricks on me? Or was this the effect of being marked? My thoughts spiraled, each question heavier than the last.
A cold sweat broke out along my neck, and I wiped it away with trembling fingers. I wasn’t even sure who I was in the nightmare. When I’d fallen, the skin on my hands was lighter than my own. What did that mean? Was I losing control of myself completely? The thought sent a shudder down my spine .
I glanced at the bed beside mine. Adar was still fast asleep, his breathing slow and steady. At least I hadn’t woken him. The last thing I wanted was to see the worry in his eyes, the same worry I saw in Mama’s every time she looked at me yesterday.
Adar’s words echoed in my mind, cutting through the haze of fear. He had been training me, reminding me of skills I had let slip in his absence. When he left to join the Legion, it was like a piece of me had been torn away. I had felt abandoned, betrayed, and for a long time, angry. But now, I understood. He left because he had to. Because Papa asked him to. The perfect son, doing his duty once again.
He wanted someone on the inside, to learn their routes, when they went out into the night, their methods, and anything that could help protect the coven.
Although there wasn’t much of a pattern to when or where they went, when Adar was with them, he could sense the magic that radiated off witches and was able to steer the Legion in the opposite direction.
I now understood that he didn’t choose to leave me, he only did what was asked of him. The perfect son in every way just doing one more thing to appease Papa.
Still, it didn’t make the loneliness any easier to bear. All that was left for me to focus on was the hollow, aching pull deep within me. It gnawed at me day and night, a constant reminder of what I was. An abomination. Defective.
A siphoner.
The words the coven whispered about me had etched themselves into my soul, but no amount of cruelty could dull the truth: I needed magic. Without it, I felt like a ghost, half-alive and half-empty .
I knew my brother felt it too. I saw it in his eyes whenever he used magic. The pull, the temptation, the way it made him feel stronger, more powerful. He fought it, though. He had more restraint than I did. He could go weeks, months, without giving in. But I couldn’t. I needed it.
It made me feel alive in a way nothing else ever could.
I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the images of my nightmare gnawing at me. The bed creaked as I shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
***
The needle’s sharp end pierced the skin of my thumb. I hissed, dropping the pair of pants I’d been working on all morning onto the floor of Mama’s small sewing room.
Rolls of cloth, some new and others frayed from years of use, were stacked neatly against one wall, their colors muted in the dim light. A wooden worktable sat in the center of the room, its surface scattered with half-finished garments, spools of thread in every color, and delicate lace trims waiting to be stitched. The faint creak of Mama’s rocking chair added a soothing rhythm to the space, blending with the soft rustling of fabric as she worked.
Mama let out a quiet laugh before covering her mouth to attempt to hide it before I noticed.
“What?” I asked, slightly annoyed that my pain was amusing to her.
Mama chuckled quietly from across the room. “You can dodge a sword but not a needle,” she teased, her voice warm and light.
I shot her a glare, but the smile that tugged at my lips betrayed me.
Mama had sewn three dresses in the time that it had taken me to finish the pair of pants I had been working on for a week. She was right: I was not a skilled seamstress, but I always helped her any chance I got. With all of the action and fighting I enjoyed, time with Mama seemed to balance me.
She sat gracefully, her small frame barely making a dent in the cushioned chair. Her long, curly black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her tan skin and dark eyes that held an effortless warmth. She always wore a pastel-colored dress, the soft hues complementing her gentle nature perfectly. Every movement she made was fluid, delicate—so distinctly feminine that it almost felt like she belonged in a world untouched by hardship. But I knew better. I knew the strength behind those steady hands, the quiet resilience that had carried her through the years without magic. And despite everything, she still radiated elegance, as if nothing could steal the grace she carried in her very bones.
Though with the warmness and love she had always given me, I felt immense guilt when I looked at her. Her steady hands with a needle were the same that once summoned fire with a whisper and a flick of her wrist. A witch without magic—because of me. Because of us.
Mama hesitated for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly before she steadied herself. “I have something for you,” she said as she walked to the trunk she kept under the window of her sewing room.
She pulled out a new pair of pants, just like the ones Adar wore while we trained yesterday: black with some sort of holster on the right thigh, except there was one thing different about them.
They were exceptionally smaller than anything my twin could fit in.
I jumped up as excitement rushed through me, my heart pounding with gratitude and disbelief. Pants were a rare gift for me—something practical, something freeing. But I could only wear them at home, and the few pairs I owned were threadbare and patched beyond recognition. But these . . . these were new, untouched by wear, and tailored just for me.
“Oh thank you, Mama!” I wrapped her in my arms.
“You should wear them when you are out at night,” she said softly, her voice steady but tinged with an edge of unease.
As I pulled away, I noticed the way her fingers lingered on my shoulders, as if reluctant to let me go. Her gaze was heavy, filled with a mixture of pride and fear that made my chest tighten.
“What?” I asked, unsure if I had misheard or if this was some kind of test.
“Winnie, I know better than to try and stop you. Even if part of you is like me—content to stay close to home—you’re your father’s daughter, too.” Her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “You’re just like him. You’d walk into fire if it meant proving yourself. And nothing I say could stop you from doing what you want.”
I stared at her, my throat tightening. “Mama—” My voice was barely above a whisper, guilt pressing against my ribs. “I’m sorry for how I told you everything. I shouldn’t have said it out of anger.”
Mama’s expression softened, and she reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’m not mad, Winnie. I needed to know. I just wish your father hadn’t kept it from me.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, guilt still pressing heavily against my ribs.
Her hand lifted to my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. That you’ll come back.”
The weight of her words, of her quiet acceptance, settled over me. I nodded, unable to speak. Her dark eyes searched mine for a moment longer before she released me and turned back to her sewing.
The door creaked open, and Adar stood in the doorway, his wide frame filling the space. His smirk was cocky, as always, and he had a turkey leg dangling from one hand like it was some kind of trophy.
“Finished being useful for the day?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
He took a slow bite, exaggerating the motion, before leaning lazily against the frame. “You’re welcome, by the way. That barn didn’t fix itself.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you’re here to gloat, you’re wasting your time.”
“Who said anything about gloating?” He gestured for me to follow, his smirk widening into a grin. “Come on. Time to see if all that sewing has dulled your reflexes.”
I hesitated, glancing at the pile of mending beside me, but the challenge in his eyes was impossible to ignore. He knew exactly how to needle me, and I hated how easily it worked.
I glanced at Mama who gave me a small nod.
“Fine,” I muttered, rising to my feet. “But don’t cry when I beat you.” I brushed loose threads from my new pants. If I was going to train, I was going to wear them. They were made for this.
Adar chuckled, already heading out the door. “Big words, little sister. Let’s see if you can back them up.”
“I am older than you!” I yelled at his retreating figure.