Chapter 9
Nine
ALLETTE
FOUR YEARS LATER
An icy breeze cuts through the gap beneath the door as I stare at the marks on the brown wall. Four marks, one for each of the four winters Eason and I have spent in the human realm. The needle in my hand slips, falling onto the other sock in my lap, still dangling from the end of the thread. I should reach for it, but I don’t.
The hinges groan when the front door swings aside. Eason stomps in, two dead rabbits clutched in his gloved hand. Lately, he seems to be gone more often than not. I’m never sure when he’ll come back.
If he’ll come back.
I can’t figure out why he bothers. He is a handsome man and could’ve easily found himself a human wife in the village. A partner who isn’t broken beyond repair.
I’ve told him as much, and yet he always comes back to me.
I rarely venture to town. Every time I do, my traitorous mind conjures visions of my mate. Laughing in the square. Purchasing trinkets and food from the vendors. Dancing around the fire.
In this realm, the trees are my friends. The stones my confidants. The wind keeps me company, as if it knows I used to hold its power.
Not anymore though.
A Scathian’s power emanates from their wings.
And without my wings, I’m as empty as the hearth where Eason kneels.
“Dammit, Allette. You let the fire die,” he mutters, shoveling ash into the bucket before adding kindling to the grate.
I didn’t let the fire die. The flames, the light, the warmth were stolen from me by this wicked world.
The sound of a striking match makes me jump. Sulfur and smoke tickles my nose. Under Eason’s careful watch, what starts as a tiny flame soon becomes a crackling fire. The air around me warms, and yet I remain cold.
Eason stands, tugging off his gloves before clasping my arms in his calloused hands. “You’re freezing. Let me get you a blanket.”
“I don’t want one.” I don’t deserve to feel heat. Not when I’m as cold and dead inside as the two people I loved most. I’d warned Senan that we would be cursed if the stars didn’t approve of our mating bond. Maybe if I’d refused, he and Wynn would still be alive.
But I didn’t refuse. I selfishly took what I wanted, and those I loved paid the ultimate price.
“Allette…” Eason’s eyes do that thing they always do when I disappoint him.
I can’t take more disappointment. “I see your hunt was successful.”
Although Eason looks like he wants to say more, he collects one of the skinned animals from the crude table. “It was. I caught these and killed a small doe. If you dry the meat, that should be more than enough to last until I return.”
This is what my life has been reduced to. Drying meat and darning socks.
He kneels on the bowed floorboards and skewers the animal on the spit, hanging it low over the fire before adding a larger log.
The money he makes on night shift at the prison has helped us survive. Kept us warm and fed. I felt so guilty being a drain, I eventually picked up part-time shifts at the launderette. They taught me how to sew, and I’m not too bad at it. The head seamstress says my stitches are damn near perfect. In the summers, I help as a scullery maid in one of the larger estates when the owners move back in for the warmer months.
Just like Wynn .
My eyes start to burn.
Eason withdraws a small glass bottle from his coat pocket and slips it into my open hand. “Here. I picked this up on the way home.”
The bottle of black hair dye will keep my blue roots at bay. They don’t show beneath the cap I wear to hide my ears, but after what happened all those years ago, one can never be too careful. “Thank you.” I appreciate him so much.
I rise from my chair and bring the bottle to the small bathing room, somehow finding the strength to lift my gaze to the cracked mirror hanging over the sink. Dark circles surround my eyes. My cheeks appear gaunter than when I last checked, which must’ve been the last time Eason bought me hair dye.
There is no point studying my reflection for too long. I don’t need to see myself to know that hollowness has taken root in my bones. Flows through my veins. Beats in my broken heart. The bronzed tone has been leached from my skin, leaving me pale and almost gray. A living corpse.
Unlike Eason, whose skin has maintained its bronzed hue. Since he works mostly at night, he spends any free time he has outdoors, catching every bit of sun in an attempt to refuel his magic. But we’re too far away from its heat, and truly sunny days are few and far between.
I set the dye on the edge of the sink and reach for my comb. My wrist grazes the cork at the top, knocking the bottle off kilter. I try to catch it, but I’m not fast enough. The glass shatters on the ground, blackness spreading like ink across the floorboards.
“Allette?” Eason calls. “Is everything all right in there?”
“It’s fine!” Tears clog my throat as I stoop to clean up the glass. The dye costs a small fortune, and we have no extra coins to waste. How could I be so bloody careless?
I scoop the broken bits and open the window to throw them out, but no matter how hard I scrub, the stain on the floorboards refuses to go away, much like the dark stain of regret upon my soul.
I turn the tap to wash away the dye on my hands. My eyes catch on that silver scar running down my palm, a constant reminder of my foolishness. Inky streaks twist like blackened tears down the drain. By the time I return to the living area, the smell of roasting meat has replaced the damp mustiness that lingers in the cottage.
Eason’s gaze rakes from my tear-stained cheeks to my disheveled hair, his lips pressing into a tight line. “You didn’t do your hair.”
“I’ll dye it later.” I hate lying to him but can’t find it in me to confess that I’ve wasted so much money. Not that I think he’ll get angry. I’ve only seen him angry a handful of times. Thankfully, his frustration has never been directed at me, only at the logs he splits for the fire.
My knee bounces beneath the rickety table as we eat dinner in silence. I used to enjoy silence. Now it seems so empty.
Eason splays his wide palm on my thigh, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “Someone will come through tonight. I can feel it.”
He said the same thing last year, and the year before that. And he has been wrong every single time.
Despite the fire, I can see my breath when we curl onto the bed tucked into the corner, covered in a quilt I stole from someone’s clothesline. Eason settles at my back, his solid arms holding me tight against him. I must fall asleep at some point, because before I know it, Eason is shaking me awake, telling me it’s time to go.
What if we didn’t go to the portal? What is the point in torturing ourselves? Should we give up and accept our fate?
No, no. We must try. Because of my recklessness, Eason has been damned to this realm as well. For him, I’ll try until the day I no longer draw breath.
I slip out of bed and pull on my warmest gown. My lone black cloak falls past my black cotton skirts. I drag my wool hat over my ears. The thick wool socks I mended cover my clammy feet as I slip them into boots that have seen better days.
After stuffing our pockets with the coins we’ve saved through the years, Eason and I traipse through an inch of snow to wait in the forest within sight of the standing stones.
I search the sky for light, but there is none. No stars either. Only a thick layer of clouds.
Eason builds a fire, and we huddle close. The first year, we went without in case the flames deterred the fae and nearly froze to death. The second, he insisted on it. Now, it’s become part of our yearly routine.
The wind shifts, blowing thick smoke toward me, burning my eyes. My mind drifts to another fire, one that marked the beginning of the end. My lungs seize as I stare at the writhing flames, my head growing lighter, my vision blurring. Forcing my eyes closed, I focus on my breathing the way Eason taught me until the knot in my chest eases and I can inhale fully.
Please let someone come through. Please .
I’m not sure who I’m begging. The stars only seem to listen when they feel like it.
Eason drags a thick slice of bread from his pack, offering me half. I’m not hungry but take it anyway to give my hands something to do. “What time is it?”
His watch glints when he removes it from his pocket. “Half one.”
Someone should’ve come through by now. Still, we wait, just as we have the three autumns before, the icy air stinging our throats until the sky begins to lighten with the birth of another dawn.
Eason’s gloved hand curves around my knee. “We should go back.”
“Only a few more minutes. Please.”
His light brows come together, a wrinkle forming between them. “Remember what happened last year.”
Last year, it had been raining, and I caught something the humans call “pneumonia.” I spent the following weeks bedridden while Eason nursed me back to health. For some reason, he is determined to keep me alive when all I want is to curl up and sink into the earth for eternity.
Although a protest builds in my throat, Eason is right.
No one is coming for us.
Silently, we make our way back to the cottage. When I struggle to untie my frozen boots, Eason kneels, props my shoe on his knee, and works the laces free. We both change out of our damp clothes and into the ones left hanging in front of the waning fire. As if we’d known all along that we would return.
The peach wash of dawn makes its way through our moth-eaten lace curtains as we lay back down, him holding me as my tears soak into the rough pillowcase.
Eason’s wide palm lands on the thick scars on my back, hidden by my shift. When I flinch, he relocates his hand to the top of my arm. “Please don’t cry, Allette. Maybe next year someone will come.”
The tender kiss he presses to my temple stirs nothing but guilt. I turn my face and listen to his breathing catch when his lips graze my cheek. His grip loosens, allowing me to twist around and rest my frigid hands on his warm chest, corded with muscle from endless hours of training.
He kisses me then, hesitant and sweet.
My mate is gone forever.
My life, my home, are both out of reach.
I need to focus on what I have.
So I squeeze my eyes closed and kiss him back.
Eason’s sword and belt clatter against the tabletop. I watch with my heart in my throat as he continues gathering his belongings, packing them into a canvas rucksack.
He glances up at me, his eyes filled with regret. “Widow Mae will be here in an hour.”
If this realm is hell, then Widow Mae is a demon whose sole purpose is to torture me. “How many times must I tell you: I do not need a babysitter.” I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a few weeks.
Eason sighs his same weary sigh, his mouth bracketed with displeasure. “You know the dangers in this realm. What kind of man would I be if I left you all alone to fend for yourself?”
The kind of man I need. One who trusts me. Who believes in me. “What is Widow Mae going to do if we’re attacked? Tie them up with her scarf?”
Closing his eyes, Eason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Will I speak to the warden about having one of the other guards fill in for me?”
Is he mad? Transporting prisoners to Dullen pays four times his usual wage. And with me being laid off from the launderette, we cannot afford to lose more money. I should be grateful he is willing to work so hard for us instead of giving him a hard time. He is only worried about my wellbeing.
“No, no. It’s all right.” I swallow my displeasure and pin what passes as a smile to my lips. “Mae and I are sure to have a wonderful fortnight together.”
He tugs on his gloves and heaves his pack over his broad shoulders. “I’ll actually be gone for three weeks this time.”
Three weeks minding my elderly neighbor. I can’t wait. “I’ll be lonely without you.”
Eason brushes back the chestnut strands that have fallen into his eyes before slipping on the wool hat I knitted. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It rarely does. “And I’ll be lonely without you. But the good news is, when I return, I should have enough saved for a larger house.”
A larger house means more cost to heat and furnish. More emptiness when he goes away. There is only so much emptiness I can take. Besides, there is no guarantee that his job will remain steady. We’d be better off saving our coin in case of a rainy day.
And in this realm, it’s always raining.
“We have everything we need,” I say.
Eason’s wool glove grazes my chin before he bends to give me a soft kiss. “I love you, Allette.”
I care for Eason and enjoy his company more than I enjoy anything else in this forsaken place. But love? I no longer have the capacity for love. If the little I have left to give is enough for him, then he can have it.
“Be safe,” I say, kissing him once more.
He grabs his sword, steals a final kiss, and leaves me all alone.
I ease onto one of the dining chairs to finish the mending but end up staring at the marks on the wall instead. My grief is like a leaden weight tied to my limbs, dragging me to the bottom of the sea, waiting for me to drown.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four .
Years in the human realm.
My fingers idly swipe at my scarred palm.
Four years without my mate.
I can’t keep counting. Can’t keep holding on when there is nothing left to cling to. Rising to my feet, I snag the damp cloth next to our breakfast dishes and scrub those marks until they’re no more.
Perhaps this is what I need to move on. A clean slate. Some time alone to learn how to live again.
And that begins with leaving this house. The day looks fine, and these four walls are doing nothing to help clear my head. Plus, I need hair dye. Tugging on my mop cap and cloak, I fish out a few coins from our stash beneath the mattress and throw open the door?—
Only to find my stooped neighbor on the other side.
This woman has the worst possible timing.
I step aside and usher Widow Mae into our home. Her brown cloak reeking of pickling spices and cloves. Instead of continuing to the rocking chair where she usually sits, Mae squints up at me through milky eyes, her ever-present plaid scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and chin. “Where are you off to?”
“Just bringing in more wood for the fire,” I lie.
Her crinkled lips flatten. “It’ll be dark soon. Best to stay inside and get it in the morning.”
She can’t be serious. It’s barely past lunch. Still, I know better than to get into an argument with the woman. I’ll have to slip out when she is taking one of her many naps.
After two hours and three cups of tea, it’s clear Mae has no intention of sleeping. All she wants to do is talk about how wonderful Eason is and knit another scarf. Her own son passed away a long time ago, and she thinks of my partner as a surrogate child. Which is sweet…until she starts giving out to me because I have yet to give him children.
“You should give him sons. At least three,” Mae says, the large knitting needles clicking and clacking as she churns out another perfect row of tight loops.
I used to dream of children once—little ones with raven hair and silver eyes. Senan would’ve made such a wonderful father.
My throat constricts, making it almost impossible to swallow. Mae continues on, but I can’t handle her underhanded slights about not being good enough for Eason.
I already know I’m not good enough.
That’s why I’ve turned down every one of his four proposals.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I excuse myself and escape into the privy. The moment I step inside, that smudge on the floor reminds me of the hair dye. It’s the perfect excuse to leave, only the thought of having to explain anything to Mae sounds too exhausting.
My gaze catches on the murky gray light streaming through the pane of glass.
A smile touches my lips.
Looks like I’m going to climb out the window.
Beating hooves drum behind me as a horse and cart tear up the lane. I barely get out of the way before the driver blows past, splattering my cloak with muck. I want to shout and rail at him, to tell him to slow the hell down before he kills someone. Instead, I bite my lip and keep quiet.
Don’t draw attention to yourself .
That has been Eason’s first rule ever since the attack. A rule I’ve followed to the letter.
Eason and I have lived a few different places over the years. First the inn, just until we got our bearings. Then Eason rented a tiny apartment above the butchers. After he saved enough money, we moved to the cottage at the edge of Mae’s property.
The only reason we can afford the place is because Eason helps the elderly woman with odd jobs around her house.
I continue onward, avoiding the village square by taking back alleys to the apothecary.
A woman stands outside the blue and white storefront, surrounded by baskets of dried herbs and small vials of various tinctures. One of them has a label claiming the list of nonsensical ingredients wards off bad spirits. Perhaps it would work on Mae.
“Only five coppers,” the woman says with a gap-toothed smile.
Too bad I have no money to spare. Back in the basket it goes. “Do you have any hair dye?”
She nods toward the shop. “Just inside, next to the counter. While you’re in there, be sure to grab yourself a mask for tonight’s Samhain festival.”
My heart skids to a halt.
Did she say tonight’s festival? That can’t be right. “The festival was last night.”
The woman’s mousy brown hair flutters when she shakes her head. “Nay, lass. Samhain is tonight.”