Chapter Six #2
Terror beats against the inside of my chest. It tangles with something darker, heavier.
The wanting coils through me, slow and deep.
It draws my body toward him in small, helpless movements.
I cannot pull away. I do not move. I stand caught between the urge to flee and the deeper pull that keeps my throat lifted, my fingers locked around him, waiting.
Before his mouth can close the distance, something tears loose inside me.
A bright, violent surge that floods my limbs and finds my hands.
Light spills outward. It moves through me in a silent rush, white and blinding, thick as breath in winter.
The room shudders. The basin rings against the wall.
The door slams open as if struck from within, and he is hurled back through it, his body lifted and thrown into the storm.
He hits the ground outside hard enough to shake the threshold.
The wind rushes in, cold and wet. Rain lashes across the floor. I stagger back a step, my lungs dragging in air that burns.
For a moment I can only stare. He lies sprawled in the mud beyond the doorway, dark hair plastered to his face, pale hands braced against the earth. For a moment he does not move. Then he turns onto one elbow.
Blood slips from the corner of his mouth.
It runs bright against his jaw, washed thin by rain.
He looks down at it, almost curious, before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.
Then his eyes lift to me, meeting mine across the distance.
The red has dimmed, banked low, but there is no fury in his face, no snarl.
His mouth curves slow, almost tender, as if I have shown him something he has long been waiting to see.
My gaze drops to my hands.
They tremble in front of me, fingers still splayed, skin humming with the echo of what passed through them. I turn them slowly, watching the firelight slide over my palms. They look the same.
"Raveena?"
I flinch and turn. Elena stands at the foot of the ladder, hair tangled around her shoulders, eyes wide and unfocused with sleep. My mother’s curtain has shifted. I hear the scrape of her feet against the floor, the soft confusion in her breathing.
"What is happening?" she calls.
I turn back to the doorway.
Rain lashes the threshold. The yard beyond lies empty, churned mud and dark shadow. The door hangs open, shuddering in the wind.
There is no body on the ground. No blood in the mud. Only the dark, swallowing what it holds.
Elena clutches the ladder post, knuckles pale. Mama’s hand presses against her chest, fingers trembling where they grip the fabric of her shift. They both stare at the open door, at the rain sweeping across the floor.
I draw breath.
"It was the wind," I say. The words scrape my throat raw. "It pushed the door open. A stray dog must have come in. I startled it."
"A dog?" Mama repeats.
"Yes." I nod too quickly. "I chased it out."
Wind drives another spray of rain across the threshold. I step forward and pull the door closed, the wood meeting the frame with a dull thud. I drop the bar into place and lean my weight against it for a breath longer than needed.
My heart beats high in my throat.
It was no dog. The weight of him lingers against my back. The scent of rain and moss clings to my skin. I feel the press of his chest, the shape of his hands. He stood behind me. He spoke my name without speaking it. His mouth hovered at my skin. I felt the shape of his teeth.
I let him in.
I do not remember lifting the latch for him. I do not remember inviting him with words. Yet he crossed the threshold. He stood inside our walls.
This was no dream. I called him. In sleep. In longing. In that place beneath my ribs that opened when his mouth hovered at my throat.
The fire cracks steadily behind me. I turn back toward them, forcing my shoulders to ease.
"Go back to bed," I say, gentler now. "The storm woke us all."
Mama murmurs something about storms and wandering animals. Elena climbs back toward the loft slowly, glancing down at me as if I might vanish if she looks away.
The room quiets again, as I stand alone before the hearth.
The storm does not loosen its grip. It thrashes at the roof, claws at the shutters, rattles the walls as if testing their strength.
The dreams.
The bundle burned at my door.
Irina’s blood.
The sheep drained in the fields.
His mouth at my throat.
God tests the faithful. The words rise through me with quiet certainty. Trials come to cleanse. Temptation comes to measure the strength of the soul. The devil prowls where vigilance falters.
I see the shape of it now. It has been unfolding for days, each sign laid down carefully, waiting for me to look. When I pressed my hands to his chest, something answered. Light moved through me. I did not call for it, I did not shape it. It rose on its own and cast him out.
My pulse slows.
If he can cross the threshold, then he can return. He can stand over Elena as she sleeps. He can part Mama’s curtain. He can bend his mouth to any throat in this house.
A strange calm spreads through my chest. It tightens around my fear and holds it still.
He came because he was sent. Because I was meant to see him. Because I was meant to stand between him and what he would take.
And he bled. He can be cut.
The trembling in my hands fades as I move toward the hearth and kneel. The silver knife rests where I left it, wrapped in cloth. I unwrap it and hold it in my hand. The blade catches the firelight and answers it in a thin line.
Silver bites what is unclean.
I know this.
Scripture binds what prowls in darkness.
I know this too.
I press my thumb along the flat of the blade. My skin prickles at the memory of his touch. My throat aches where his breath lingered.
He smiled when I struck him. He believed I would not finish it. A small laugh slips from me before I can stop it. It sounds thin in the room. I bow my head and murmur the words I know, the ones that steady the air around me. My voice does not shake.
God sent a sign.
I will not turn from it.
I will end this.