Chapter 3
Shadows touched my skin, fine as silk.
They slipped behind my eyelids, wrapped their soft hands around my neck, and slid like a lover’s fingers through the length of my dark hair.
Tonight they felt relentless. Needy. Hungry.
I breathed in, guiltily relishing the familiar pull, and breathed out, letting my breath tumble through the air in a silent scream.
It didn’t matter that I took the elixir—they came regardless.
The short visions. The glimpses of dreams.
A beautiful man silhouetted against a raging, endless sea.
A flash of silver, rot, and ruin.
A castle of writhing, living darkness.
The pull on my skin dwindled, dissolving like smoke, just as the fog in my ears faded into Elliot’s snores and the buzz of an insect under our dresser.
I groaned in disgust, fully awake and aware of my traitorous body, and settled back into my pillows.
Pressing my palms into my eyes, I focused on their weight instead of something rising sickly sour from the pit of my stomach.
I had allowed the dreams to coax me under.
Willingly let them twist and seduce me like a fool.
And maybe I was.
Because, at this rate, the Shadow Bringer would surely devour my soul by sunrise.
One more Corrupt to the holding cells.
A traitorous girl with a monstrous heart.
Good for her to die so that her family might finally be free.
I turned to my side, dragging my hands down my face as I tried to quiet the voices of every Norhavellian who would surely condemn me if they knew the truth of what I’d done to Eden.
Elliot slept heavily in the bed next to mine, chest rising and falling at rhythmic intervals.
His face was mostly relaxed—though an eyebrow was slightly scrunched—and the threadbare leg of Chester the cow, his favorite keepsake from toddlerhood, peeked out from underneath an elbow.
Lumpy wool stuffing threatened to spill from Chester’s seams, and his once-bright button eyes were now a bit dull, but Elliot still treasured him.
Crskkk. Crskkk.
I stilled.
A misshapen form scraped at our half-open window, clawing at the glass in jagged swipes. I jolted out of bed, stubbing my toe on a wooden board.
“Maker, that hurt,” I grumbled.
I took a deep breath, trying to snap free from my negative thoughts. I needed to ground myself in reality, not lose myself in another fantasy. The shadow was merely a branch. A branch, for Maker’s sake.
“Esmer?”
Elliot peered at me through the shadows. His hair, as dark and wild as mine probably looked, curled around his ears in a disheveled halo. He appeared small and possibly too warm under his heap of blankets, but the pile helped him feel safe, veiled from the prying eyes of monsters and humans alike.
“Sorry, Elliot. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right. Better you than a demon,” he said half-heartedly, trying his best to lighten the mood and defuse our fears. He pulled at his blankets, positioning them strategically around his slim shoulders as he let out a yawn. “But now you owe me a chocolate. Maybe even two.”
My mouth lifted into a smile. “I’m sure Istralla will have plenty of chocolate for us.”
“We’ll have chocolate every day,” he said, returning my grin.
We both knew we didn’t have the gold needed for regular indulgences, but it was fun to bask in the possibility.
Decadent confections, clothes that weren’t thinning from too much wear, a comfortable home by the sea, fresh seafood, bottles of elixir—it seemed like an unreachable dream.
A beautiful, unreachable dream. His smile faltered as his attention shifted to our window, where a leafy branch was still scuffling against the glass.
“Need to keep that shut. Don’t want birds flying in and taking my eyes. ”
“That’s a strange thing to say. Are you having dreams, too?” I instinctively bit down on my tongue. He couldn’t know I was having dreams. No one could know.
Elliot squinted at me. For a moment, I thought he registered my confession.
“No, I’m not having dreams. Though it’s nice of you to worry about me,” he said with another yawn, covertly pulling Chester into a hug. “I’m going back to sleep. Busy day tomorrow. Especially if chocolate is to be involved.”
“Are you certain you’re fine?”
“I’m certain,” he mumbled, reaching for the elixir at his nightstand. He tilted it to his mouth, but no liquid came out. “Hmm. Thought I had some left.”
“Here.” I handed him my vial, which still contained a dreg of the amber liquid. “I should check on Father first and see if he needs anything. He’s probably still sitting on the porch and watching the woods.”
“You think he’ll be out there all night?”
I nodded. “He always keeps watch when the season is drawing to a close.” I wrapped my dark red cloak around my shoulders, covering my nightgown, and tied it loosely under my chin.
It was a modest, plain garment despite its velvet fabric—as were all my clothes—but it would provide some comfort against the midnight chill. “Be glad it’s only for one more night.”
“The Corrupt really are getting bad. You don’t think…” He paused, chewing his lip. “You really think we’ll be able to leave? Won’t the villagers be mad? What if a Corrupt finds us before we can—”
“No,” I said firmly. Convincingly. “They can’t hurt us. Not with Father watching.”
“Good. Father’s brave.” Elliot settled into his blankets, content. “And so are you.”
The unexpected praise landed like a rock in my chest. I wasn’t worthy of it.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, swallowing the rising lump in my throat. “If anyone’s brave, it’s you.”
Elliot laughed, pulling Chester under his chin. “Maybe you’re right. Because you don’t like bugs, I guess. Fish, too. You hate fish eyes. And baths. You must really hate those, because you always smell like—”
“Since I’m clearly so flawed,” I began sarcastically, gesturing to the dim clearing beyond our window, “perhaps you should be helping Father instead of me.”
I expected Elliot to laugh or make another joke. Instead, he started to get up.
“Oh no, I was just kidding,” I said quickly, watching as Elliot’s face fell. The lump in my throat was becoming harder to ignore. If I stayed much longer, I’d succumb to it. “Keep warm in bed. I’ll be back soon.”
“All right,” he said. But he wasn’t looking at me; his gaze had fallen to his feet.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Elliot answered, crawling back into bed. “You’re the brave one, after all.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
I left our room before he could see me cry.
Nothing about me was brave or admirable. A single tear slid down my face. I hastily wiped it away, willing the lump in my chest to shatter like an egg. If Elliot knew what I’d done to Eden, would he still look at me the same?
Downstairs, I noted that our home was heavy with darkness.
It roved through the air like a coat of thick, oily paint, spilling into the kitchen, the gathering room, and the hallway to both the apothecary and my parents’ bedroom.
It curled around the furniture in wide, suffocating sweeps, turning our haphazardly packed trunks into wide-shouldered monsters that seemed to grow larger the second I looked away from them.
Even the paintings appeared distorted; human subjects were suddenly headless or gape mouthed and screaming, and landscapes displayed pitch-black water and murk where forests should have been.
Focus, Esmer.
Boots. I needed to find my boots. They should have been just around the corner, but everything was indiscernible in this lighting. I reached forward, grasping for what I thought were my boots, but the dark shadow, once boot-like in shape, shifted away as if it were nothing but dust.
I turned another corner, but I was too hasty; my toe caught an uneven floorboard.
My knees smacked against the ground, a corner of the wood snagging my nightgown and pressing a razor-sharp line into my skin.
I hissed in pain, cursing lowly enough that my parents wouldn’t hear.
I probed the wound, flinching when my fingers met something wet through a tear in the gown.
A dark, low chuckle sounded just behind my neck.
I spun around, heart racing, but there was no one there. I strained, listening intently for another laugh, but nothing came. Just silence and the sound of my own racing heart as I quickly found my boots, laced them tight, and headed outside.
Father was sitting on the porch in his favorite rocking chair, taut and straight-backed even while dozing.
The wind was strong, coaxing the chair to sway and ringing the string of bells tied around our property.
It was a miracle the chair had lasted through the years, splintered as it was.
I always thought it strange that the most trivial objects could last for decades while the people who owned them never had the same luxury.
They grew sick, frail, and old while an object remained perpetually itself.
Broken and faded, maybe, but never dead or dying.
I leaned against the house, considering.
Father looked exhausted. He reminded me of a cracked, overburdened glass, leaking water when no one else was around.
Maybe it was the row of torches circling our property, flickering under the strength of the wind and casting the lines in his face with deep shadows.
Shadows like the markings of a Corrupt.
Like Eden’s eyes—