Chapter 28 The Turning
THE TURNING
Iknew I'd fallen far, that my body had come to rest twisted on the rocks near the river's edge.
I could hear the roar of rushing water close but I couldn't move.
Blood trickled from a fresh wound on my head, a maddening sound—drip, drip—onto the stones below.
The pain was there, but somehow distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
The night pressed in, black and endless.
Somewhere nearby, something stirred. A bear, perhaps.
Or a wolf, drawn by the scent of my blood.
I could not cry out, could not lift a hand to defend myself—my body was too broken.
Was this what Buna had seen in the smoke, the death and destruction she warned of—that I had caused by being foolish enough to love Caius?
I surrendered to the thought of teeth in my flesh, of my end, and prayed it would be swift. Closing my eyes, I let go.
A cold presence loomed, leeching the last warmth from my dying body. Even with my eyes closed, I felt it edge closer—the air itself alive with charge, every nerve ending across the surface of my skin prickling with dread.
And then—new pain. Sudden and excruciating. Fangs piercing the hollow of my neck. A wolf. Yet no scent of animal filled the air, only cool breath against my skin.
The last bit of warmth that existed in my body, the last bit of my life force rushed through my veins, then was pulled away, drained until the fire inside me turned to ice.
I remember being lifted, pulled from the rocks, my body cradled as if weightless. My name, a voice low and insistent, and a hand brushing the blood-matted hair from my face.
An angel of death, come at last to claim me.
Then—blood on my tongue. The tang of iron and copper.
But not my own; I knew it instantly. A whisper pressed against my ear, faint at first, muffled as though through heavy wool.
Then it grew, louder, clearer, tearing through the silence until it filled me whole. A command. Irresistible. Inescapable.
“Drink.”
Warm blood pooled in my mouth and snaked down my throat—I thought I'd choke, but my weakened body had no fight left; my muscles lay slack and unresponsive.
Then, with a sudden cough, I dragged up a scrap of strength and tried to pull away, but the source pressed harder to my lips and the command came again:
“Drink.” And I obeyed.
For an instant I soared; then the musky smell of wet horse yanked me back, and the voice—gentle, vaguely familiar, and inside my head now—decreed, “Sleep.”
I woke with a start in a bed draped with fine linens.
The room was dark, save for a shaft of sunlight streaming through a crack in the window casement—so bright it stung my eyes.
I tried to sit up but my body hurt too much.
It wasn't the pain of broken bones—it was worse.
It was the agony of them knitting back together.
Severed ends groping for their mates, reaching through torn muscle and sinew, fusing, binding, forcing themselves whole again.
Tendons, once shredded, coiled back around their rightful joints, twisting tight until my body was made anew.
The wound in my belly—the one carved by a blade driven so deep the hilt had pressed against my flesh—stitching itself closed again, inch by agonizing inch.
I screamed—raw and unending—unable to make sense of what had been done to me or what was happening now. Then a voice, a whisper close as breath: “Hush, child. That will only make it worse.”
I turned my head as slowly as I could. Draped in shadows, a man sat. He rose from his chair and came closer to the bed. I did not know his name, but I knew his face. The man from the glen.
A fine woolen mantle trimmed in fur—a garment made for outside wear—was draped across his shoulders as he lowered himself gently to sit on the bed. His skin gleamed, dark and smooth, and his eyes—black at first glance—were veined with silver, shifting like stars in a night sky as he moved.
He lifted a hand toward me, slow and deliberate, each finger glittering with rings of gold and silver. The gesture was measured, coaxing—like one might soothe a frightened animal. His mouth curved in the faintest smile, a kindness I hadn't glimpsed when we first met, and wasn't sure I could trust.
“My child,” he murmured, his voice heavy with an accent I couldn't place, stroking my hair as though I were some pet.
Revulsion surged. I jerked away, pain rippling through me, and I gritted my teeth.”I am not your child!” I spat, the words sharp with indignation.
“Aren't you?” he replied, eyes glinting with amusement, but his lips did not move.
He was back inside my head again now, I could feel him burrowing in, turning over my thoughts to find the truths buried beneath.
“I'm the reason you have a second chance, Magda. To rise out of your life of poverty, to be something greater.”
I tried to remember what Buna had taught me, to shield my thoughts from him, plant a thought as a distraction, but I was so tired, and the pain was so great.
“I hear the old woman…she holds sway over your thoughts.”
“Stop!” I screamed.
His smile vanished, turning cold, and I felt his grip on my mind slide away—a hood slipping from my head.
Somewhere in the house servants moved: the soft scrape of chair on stone, the rustle of a broom, and outside the window a bird trilled from a branch.
What ought to have been muffled and far-off instead pried at my nerves, ordinary sounds made savage.
Each note burst in my skull, bright and dagger-like.
Despite the pain that came from moving, I clutched my ears, desperate to shut it out.
I looked to the man, desperate for explanation, but his expression was stern.
Minutes or hours passed—I couldn't tell—then he stood again and spoke, this time aloud, his voice low and flat. “You need rest, and to finish healing.” And then, almost an afterthought, “…You'll need to feed soon.”
Feed.
The word landed odd and cold in my ears.
Sleep sounded appealing; exhaustion tugging at me like a child seeking attention.
He slid into my thoughts again, gentler now—a careful pressure that soothed like a lullaby.
Desperate thoughts of Dani and Anca fought for a foothold in my mind, but it clashed and lost against the force he possessed.
For the time being, sleep became my master.