Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Oaklin decided there was really only one way to approach the girl they possibly used to murder people with: Bring food. Lots of food. Fortunately, there were plenty of leftovers from the previous day’s overprepared confessional picnic.
The ghost, as always, had opinions.
“Don’t you think that’s enough, Oaklin?” Granny asked.
Oaklin wasn’t sure how one could lean judgmentally against a wall, but Granny had mastered it. “Is it enough? I’m not sure. Maybe another crock of pickled beans? I can go see if the apples have started to ripen yet—”
“They haven’t. That heat wave will have set them back,” Granny said, as always managing to drop a valuable bit of knowledge in via nagging. “Truly, that is more than enough. You don’t know how far into the woods this ranger lives. Do you really want to be weighted down like a pack mule?”
Defiantly, Oaklin shoved the crock of pickled dilly beans into their pack.
It did tip the bag over from heavy to truly unwieldy, but they stubbornly kept their expression neutral as they slipped the straps over their shoulders.
“If it will get her to talk to me, then yes. I just… I don’t want her to… ”
“Oaklin. You’re bringing her fruit, tea, a fresh-baked loaf of bread, pickled vegetables, and all the baggage of your shared history. She will talk to you,” Granny said her voice gentling for her last few words. “Stop stalling and go.”
Oaklin stared down at their hands, at the deceptively soft red glow lining every knuckle and nail, then tugged on their gloves.
They didn’t completely cover the glow, but hopefully it would be enough to prevent any random passersby from noticing.
It was a risk, keeping the curse, but a necessary one.
If Oaklin were a paranoid ex-cultist living in the woods—which, to be fair, they were only a few trees shy of—they would want proof that it wasn’t a trap.
At least Dara would know they were telling the truth.
Oaklin blew out a sigh and shook all the tension out of their body, then nodded. “Okay. Here I go. Wish me luck.”
“Unnecessary,” Granny said, and then disappeared.
Gods, would it kill her (again) to humor Oaklin once in a while?
***
Oaklin set off, the summer morning sunshine just peeking over the horizon to warm their skin.
They’d left early primarily to avoid having their skin blazed right off their bones, grateful that the day of hiking ahead of them would be under tree cover.
Besides, who knew how far Dara’s camp was?
It might take the better part of a day to get there, for all Oaklin knew.
The forest’s magic would lead the way, but it couldn’t exactly provide details.
Daffodil joined Oaklin as soon as they set foot in the field, trotting happily alongside with her tongue lolling.
The company was nice; it kept Oaklin from spiraling too far into their own head, wondering what Dara’s reaction would be, whether she would even want to talk to them.
Besides, Daffodil was perfect. But once they reached the edge of the forest, Oaklin paused and crouched down in front of their beloved animal friend.
“Sorry, girl, but I think you should head back from here. The last thing we want is for Dara to get spooked and put an arrow through the best doggie in the world,” they said with a vigorous rub of Daffodil’s ears.
After a hearty “ba-ROOF!” and a few sloppy kisses, Daffodil trotted away as ordered, and Oaklin headed into the forest, opening their magical senses to the land around them.
Oaklin stomped through the underbrush and paused every few minutes to close their eyes, following tiny signs and whispers.
A patch of mushrooms, recently foraged from, their magic diminished.
A clump of weeds regularly trod upon several days in a row, seeking to expand away from the trail.
Eventually, at the edge of their notice, a new sensation: the tentative awareness of another person attuned to the land, there and gone again, so fast Oaklin thought they’d imagined it.
But it wasn’t until they were deep in the forest, a good two hours outside of Mossley’s Rest and seriously considering giving up, that they finally found the camp.
Through a gap in the trees, they spied a clear, calm lake.
And there, nestled just inside the woods next to the lake, was a little makeshift shelter.
It was cleverly disguised with brush and branches, but it was there, complete with a recently used firepit out front.
Dara’s camp. It had to be. Now, Oaklin just had to figure out how to approach without getting skewered.
“Dara? Are you here? Is this your camp?” Oaklin called, figuring it best to announce themself before getting any closer. “It’s Oaklin from the farmer’s market. I’d love to talk to you.”
There was no answer. Beside Oaklin, a frog leaped into the water with a splash that nearly startled them out of their skin. Oaklin staggered, dangerously close to toppling over under the weight of their bag, and forced themself to take a calming breath once they regained their footing.
“Calm down, you’re acting like a suspicious weirdo!” they muttered under their breath, then raised their voice again. “I come bearing gifts! Bread and fruit and veggies…you know…”
Oaklin trailed off. They were just talking to themself, it seemed.
A quick glance up at the sun—still early, they could wait around for a bit to see if Dara returned.
They’d been neglecting the farm for over a week, and there was a frightening amount of weeding to do, harvest to gather, fall crops to plant…
but a quick glimpse of their gloved hands burned the urge to flee right out of them.
Perhaps Granny’s wisdom was finally rubbing off, because for once, they managed to spot their own concealed intentions: This conversation with Dara was going to be hell, and a reason to avoid it would be very convenient.
Not today, Oaklin, they said to themself.
They’d come all this way. They needed to have this conversation. They would just have to be patient. It had been silly to expect Dara to be waiting at her camp to receive visitors. She lived in the forest; obviously she’d be out hunting and foraging most days. Not Oaklin’s best idea.
With renewed purpose, Oaklin strode toward the camp and unshouldered their bag.
They’d unpack the goods, then spend some time studying the magic of the plants around the lake until Dara returned.
Right next to the firepit seemed like the best place to leave the gifts.
Hopefully Dara would be back before dark so Oaklin wouldn’t have to leave it all unattended.
Nothing would stop a determined animal from getting into them, but at least the human scent around the camp would deter some creatures for a bit.
The only better location would be inside the tent, but that was a hard no.
One did not simply walk into a ranger’s shelter unannounced.
Oaklin began unloading the offerings they’d brought, hoping Dara would be home in enough time that they wouldn’t all be devoured by animals and bugs.
That done, Oaklin stood and turned to head back to the farm.
“Stop,” a voice commanded.
“Ahh!” Oaklin nearly dropped their empty bag as they came up short, the tip of an arrow pointed straight in their face.
Dara stood strong, feet planted and bow drawn, her expression hard—and then, after a beat, confused. “Oaklin? From the market? What are you doing out here?”
“Yes! It’s me! I just want to talk,” Oaklin said, gloved hands held up in surrender. They glanced up to make sure any escaping glow was washed out by the sunlight, then gave a sheepish grin. “I brought bread?”
The tip of Dara’s bow lowered, but only a fraction, every line of her body still coiled to strike. “I see that. What do you want to talk about?”
Oaklin couldn’t even be hurt at the wary caution shadowing every word.
They’d feel the same if someone they barely knew approached them after being outed.
With their hands still held above their head, they slowly tugged at the fingertips of their left glove until it slid free, revealing the red glow of their crimes.
The bow wavered in Dara’s hand, her brows shooting up to meet the wispy brown hair that had escaped from her braid.
“You? Oaklin…” From one beat to the next, Dara’s expression morphed from shock to disbelief right back to distrust. “No. This is a trick. Are you here to take vengeance? Did someone put you up to this?”
Oaklin slowly lowered their hands, pulling the other glove off in the process to reveal the full extent of the glow.
“I know you have some magical ability,” Oaklin said, holding their hands out for Dara to inspect. “Go ahead. Examine the curse. Take all the time you need.”
Dara gave Oaklin a long, side-eyed look, then summoned a white flash of magic so quickly Oaklin would have missed it but for the otherworldly glint left behind in Dara’s eyes.
She studied Oaklin’s hands with her enhanced gaze for a long moment, nudging them over with the tip of her bow to see the palms as well.
When she finally looked back to Oaklin, her eyes were shining for a completely different reason.
“Really?” she asked, her voice thick.
Oaklin nodded. “Really. Lior, Ryn, and Jules can all confirm it. I told them everything, and they told me what happened to you, and I…I just needed to…”
Dara fully lowered the bow with a faint, tremulous smile.
“My friend,” she said, slipping the unneeded arrow back into her quiver. “We have a lot to talk about.”
***
Dara’s camp was small and tidy. She had evidently spent a portion of her victim’s fund money on a fine tent dyed in subtle colors to blend into the forest and a set of brand-new camp cookware.
A life on the road, away from people. Oaklin had considered that path too.
A half-remembered early life of farming and community had been too strong a pull, but not a day had gone by that Oaklin hadn’t questioned their decision.
Dara and Oaklin sat and shared a meal, swapping cultish history and discussing the night of the festival.
The village really did run the Inquisitor off with orders to never come back, a fact that had stunned Dara even more than it had Oaklin.
However, it wasn’t exactly the lovely moment of solidarity their friends had made it out to be.
Dara’s voice cracked as she recounted the events.
“Sammy took me back to the tavern to let me stay the night under his protection, just in case anyone got any ideas. But…Sister Talla said some rather horrible things before that. She told me a woman here was killed by cultists two years ago, and I…I completely lost it.”
Tears filled Dara’s eyes, and she covered her face with both hands, muffling her next words. “What if it was me? What if I did it?”
An icy dagger of dread stabbed Oaklin right through the throat.
“Two years ago, they said?” Oaklin pressed. “Specifically?”
Dara looked up, brows knitted in pain and confusion. “Yes, at the Enchantrix’s fortress apparently. Why?”
The bottom fell out of Oaklin’s mind, plunging them into the flickering torchlight illuminating the outer walls of a fortress.
The cultist’s black robes are nothing against the frigid wind, and yet, they stand.
Arcane focus in one hand, dagger in the other, unyielding.
In some deep recess of their mind, their body protests, sending desperate signals that their fingers are frozen around these instruments of death.
Their hands ache and their tendons protest from clutching them tightly for too many hours.
Those signals are silenced. The cultist has one task.
Stand guard. Kill all intruders.
The world blurs as time skips forward in jagged, uneven bands and the guards rotate. Their watchmate changes, but their directive never does.
Kill all intruders.
Including the old woman kneeling before them, caught sneaking in.
“Please, just let me speak to him,” she says, her voice quavering with age, but not fear. “My name is Emiline Eire. I know he’s in there.”
The words are far from pleading. The woman sounds like she knows the script, knows what she should say, but would rather be tearing the cultist’s face off instead. Her lined mouth is hard as she speaks again.
“I’m unarmed. You can either bring me in there, or bring him out here, but all I want is to talk.”
The cultist does not reply.
They are not programmed to speak.
Their words would not matter.
If the Enchantrix needs to use this vessel to speak, only then will it speak.
Instead, their arcane focus flares with purple light as they cast a holding spell, then plunge the dagger into the old woman’s heart.
“Aaaugh!”
Her scream is cut off with a gurgle as they rip the dagger free, letting the woman fall to the ground.
Somewhere, in a tiny, horrified, huddled corner of their mind, a voice screams to finish it, to cast something stronger, to end the woman’s suffering and at least make it quick.
Instead, the cultist returns to their watch post. They are programmed to save their magic and effort for moments when it is necessary.
Mercy is not a necessity.
Oaklin surfaced with a gasp—and a deep sense of pure, absolute horror. They stumbled to their feet, eyes wild, bag forgotten on the ground next to the leftovers of their shared meal.
“I’m sorry, I…I have to…” they gasped, then whirled without finishing.
Dara leaped to her feet and ran a few steps after them. “Oaklin, wait! How can I help—”
But Oaklin was already gone, charging back into the woods—away from Dara, away from the vision, toward their warm and cozy house where everything was okay, where they would be safe…
Where the ghost of the woman they had murdered would be waiting for them.