Chapter Three
Witch.
The sound drags me out of sleep.
A scrape of breath against my ear, brittle, as if pulled out of a throat that doesn’t want to shape it. My eyes fly open. Heat slicks my skin. My heart pounds so hard it drowns the crackle of the fire.
Its glow pulses against the walls, low and red, throwing long shadows that sway with every shift of flame. The beam above me is exactly where it should be. The ladder. The box beneath the bed. The night pressing close to the roof.
I hold still, listening.
There—again.
A rattle, caught and released, like breath failing to decide which way to go.
"Mama?" I whisper.
The sound falters. Stops. The fire shifts, a coal collapsing with a tired hiss. My pulse counts the space between sounds.
"Mama," I say again, louder.
Nothing answers.
I slide off the bed and catch the ladder before my knees give, though my hands slip on the wood, damp with sweat.
The room feels altered—smaller, closer, shadows thick where they gather near the walls.
The rattle comes again—closer this time, or perhaps only clearer now that I am fully awake.
My chest tightens. A crack echoes in the fire cracks, making my pulse jump.
On the far end, the curtain waits.
It hangs heavy across her space, its folds unmoving. I stand before it, breath coming in shallow draws, my hand hovering inches from the fabric. My fingers close on the edge, and I pull.
Warmth spills out in a sudden rush.
Mama lies on her back, wrapped in wool. Her mouth is closed.
One hand rests open against her chest, the fingers loose, unmoving.
Her back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, her breathing even.
The firelight reaches only partway into the space, leaving the rest in shadow.
She does not stir, and for a moment, my heart stops.
Then, her back lifts. The wool shifts with it, falls again. Alive.
Witch.
The window flies open, wind slamming through the house, scattering sparks from the hearth, sending the flame guttering low. The curtain snaps hard against the wall. My hair lifts around my face as night rushes in, laced with storm and earth.
When I turn, the pasture looks back at me.
A wolf stands just beyond the fence, its body a dark cut against the grass. Yellow eyes fix on me, unblinking, catching the light and holding it.
My heart slams. The word echoes again in my head, tangled with the rush of blood and wind.
Witch.
No. Not this time.
I don’t think. My hand closes over a torch, my fingers burning as spark catches, heat blooming in my palm.
The door opens in an instant beneath my grip, and I spill out into the night, skirts soaking instantly, mud slick under my feet.
The flame throws wild light ahead of me, shadows leaping, breaking apart.
"Go!" I shout, the word ripped from my throat. "Away!"
I run harder, lungs burning, rain streaking my face, the torch hissing as water spits against flame. Grass tears at my stockings by the time the fence looms close. I scramble past it, heart hammering, eyes locked on the place where it stood.
The pasture lies empty.
Grass bends under the wind. Shadows shift and settle. The torchlight dances over churned earth, over trampled weeds, over silence.
There is no beast. No movement. No sound. Only my breath, tearing in and out of me, and the fire dancing in my hand.
Behind me, the trees answer the wind. Branches rub and bend, leaves whispering together as if scurrying to watch.
Anger flares, scorching and immediate. It steadies me. It keeps my feet planted.
I will not cower at shadows. I will not be chased back into prayer and waiting. Whatever this is, whatever has been whispering and watching, I will see it clearly—or I will see nothing at all.
I step forward—and the pasture falls away.
The trees rise around me, close and tall, their trunks slick with damp. The air shifts, cooler, heavier, carrying the scent of wet bark and earth. My torch gutters once, then steadies, its light swallowed quickly by the undergrowth.
My jaw tightens as I go, sounds spilling from me in a low rush.
Doamne miluie?te…
Ap?r?-ne…[19]
The words come woven, braided together—Mama’s prayers slipping into the old syllables Tata taught me. I do not untangle them.
Wet grass bends beneath me as I keep moving. Twigs scrape my ankles. I notice them only distantly, as if through cloth, my steps guided by something I do not name.
Somewhere along the way, a root twists over me, driving my gaze downward. My feet are bare.
Mud streaks my toes; pebbles press and slide beneath my arches—yet none of it hurts. The thought passes through me and is gone. The forest holds me close now, shadows folding and unfolding as I pass.
A croak, low and layered, folds over itself and fills the dark. I stop short.
Above me, the ravens cut across the sky in a dark spill, wings beating hard against the pale disk that grants them light. They pass low and fast, shadows tearing across the clearing, then vanish beyond the trees.
Then it comes again, close behind me. Too near.
Witch.
The space between us collapses as I step back, my shoulder meeting bark. The tree presses into my spine, rough and unyielding, the presence close enough that my skin knows before my eyes do.
Moonlight finds Its face in pieces, dark hair falling loose around it. A pale face, holding the cold light without softening it. Its eyes are deep, dark wells, fixed on me.
A long coat hangs from Its shoulders, cut in heavy lines I do not recognize. The fabric is rich and unyielding, holding its shape with quiet authority, unmoved by the wind that stirs the leaves.
It does not touch me.
Still, heat gathers between us, suffocating. I feel it along my throat, my wrists, the soft places where skin listens first. My breath stutters as it reaches me—earth turned deep and wet, smoke ground into cloth, something acrid beneath it that pulls at the back of my throat.
Blood.
The torch is gone. I don’t remember dropping it, yet my hands are empty, fingers now curled against the bark behind me.
It circles slowly, studying me as one studies flame, head tilting, breath quiet and even.
The space tightens with each step. I feel It pass behind my shoulder, feel the air shift where It has been, feel it close again when It returns to my sight, close enough that my breath catches.
It inhales, deep and deliberate, as though I am something to be learned by scent alone.
"You shouldn’t come back here."
The voice is low, smooth, threaded with something that coils beneath my ribs, slides along my spine, unhurried.
"Unless you want to be taken."
A tremor runs through me.
"What do you want?" my chin lifts without permission, before fear can stop it. "Why me?"
The eyes shift. Light gathers in them, faint at first, then brighter—red stirring beneath black, unreal, alive. It flickers once, embers drawn into breath.
"Because you called to me."
Its voice lowers, intimate now.
"Because you shine with all the things you pretend not to carry."
One hand lifts.
It finds my cheek first, the back of its fingers brushing skin already too awake. They trace the curve of my jaw, drift lower, following the line of my throat. The touch is cold, yet warmth spreads in a slow bloom where it passes.
It holds me there, light, almost careful. Its gaze does not match it. The eyes rest on my mouth, my neck, glowing with a hunger that feels endless. My breath catches as Its thumb slides to the hollow beneath my collarbone and gently presses there, feeling the quick throb of my pulse.
Lips hover near my ear.
"One day," they murmur, "you’ll beg me for what you fear."
The movement draws me closer, narrowing the space until Its breath spills warm across my mouth. I try to see more of the face, but shadow and nearness deny me. Something in me inclines forward, unbidden, as though drawn by a force that does not ask and cannot be refused.
Closer.
Fingertips drifts, slow and unhurried, grazing the rise of my chest. They linger there, press just enough for my pulse to betray me beneath them.
There is no stopping it. No hiding it.
My breath catches, shallow and unsteady. My lips part on a breath I do not recognize as mine. I search his face, drawn upward, wanting to see him fully, wanting—
He is gone.
The forest collapses into dark. Moonlight shatters, the moss at my back dissolving into rough wool as my body jerks awake. The fire burns low below. My shift clings to me, soaked. Heat floods my skin, low and deep, shame following it.
My teeth press hard on my lips, until the taste of iron rises, the sting meant to steady me. It fails.
My body will not quiet. My skin thrums, alive with the echo of his hands.
My mouth aches with a hollow that feels like hunger given form.
The sheets twist beneath my fingers. A pulse gathers in places I have never named, never needed to.
The sensation pools and pulses, wicked and wet, refusing prayer, refusing sleep.
I curl inward, trembling.
Sleep claims me again before I can resist it. There, in the dark behind my eyes, his hands find me once more.
I let myself collapse into them.