CH. 3 Out of the Dark, Into the Dumb
I climb the dusty stairs and head straight for Aunt Agitha's room. The door groans when I shove it open, releasing the thick scent of mint, basil, and my aunt's own unmistakable musk. She's only been gone a month, yet her smell still clings to the air like a stubborn curse.
If I remember right, she shared this room with my ma.
I don't recall my mother — not her face, her voice, not even her laugh — but sometimes, when I sneak here, I open her chest just to smell her clothes.
Her scent has faded, but it's still there, faint and warm.
Like a ghost that hugs instead of haunts.
The room is chaos. A crocodile's tooth, beads, feathers, bones, unidentifiable blobs in jars — Aunt Agitha hated cleaning and said Grandmama didn't mind clutter, so the habit stuck. I don't mind either. Dust is just seasoning for the eyes.
The chest sits at the far corner, buried under a small mountain of potion books.
I brush them aside, coughing as dust explodes into the air.
The lid creaks open easily — no lock, no secrets here.
My ma's black velvety cloak lies on top, soft under my fingers.
I smile as I lift it, and when the lid falls shut with a loud thud, it sounds like music.
Like the sound of chopping meat — a comforting sort of finality.
The cloak fits perfectly. Warm, heavy, smelling faintly of herbs and smoke. It's not yet snowing, but the chill's already creeping into my bones. I sigh, tug the cloak tighter, and head downstairs.
"Goodbye, Leonardo," I call. "Don't let anyone eat you."
A tarantula crawls near the door.
"Where are you going, Drew?" asks Vivi. Or maybe Gigi. Hard to tell — those two look identical, the little hairy minxes.
"To take a peek at the Prince," I say.
"What's a Prince?" asks another voice. Maybe Gigi this time. "Do you need it for potion? Is it tasty?"
"No, I'm not eating him," I sigh. "Just going to see what's wrong with him. My potion doesn't work."
"Okay, Drew."
"Bye bye, Drew."
I wave them off and swing my faulty door open — again — and step into the Dark Forest.
The path out is Skeleton Road, the one lined with clawing, bone-white trees. It ends where the pines begin, standing tall and ominous as if whispering ancient secrets. I glance back — my hut's already swallowed by the fog. This is the first time I've left without anyone beside me.
Doubt crawls up my spine like cold fingers.
Can I really do this?
But if I don't, how will I ever take over the world?
My heart flutters into a strange rhythm. For a second, I think I'm dying — how terribly dramatic — but no, just nerves. I adjust my hood and exhale. The mist catches my breath and curls around my feet like smoke. The road ahead seems to grin.
It's now or never, Drew.
I grip my cloak tighter and keep walking, ignoring the whisper of fear gnawing at my thoughts. I've lived among monsters all my life; the Dark Forest doesn't scare me. What lies beyond it — humans — does.
The wind changes, carrying a stench of rot.
Lovely.
The Dark Forest is home to all manner of beasts — the things that bump, bite, and burrow into nightmares.
My customers always follow my directions to the letter; otherwise, they end up as chew toys for the werehorses.
A fast death, really. The winged serpents are worse — they paralyze you from the feet up before letting you suffocate slowly. Delightful creatures, truly.
The trees groan as I pass, their gnarled limbs blotting out the moonlight. I curse myself for forgetting a lamp. The forest is ink-black, the silence broken only by my footsteps and the hiss of wind through dying leaves. But I know the way. Stick to the path. Take the shortcut.
Easy.
I reach a fork. One way is long but safe. The other — shorter, faster, but perilous.
I grin. "Let's live a little."
The air thickens immediately, heavy with the perfume of death and decay. The trees here are worse — trunks twisted like broken limbs, bark oozing foul pus. Skeletons hang from branches like ornaments, grinning at me in ghostly approval. I grin back.
Then — the sound of hooves.
"Food?" someone whispers.
"Foolisssh."
"Foood."
I stop. "I'm not food."
"It speaks," another hisses.
"It understands."
A snort to my left, deep and throaty — like a horse trying not to laugh. I don't turn. Aunt Agitha always said: Never look a werehorse in the eye.
"Witch."
More snorting.
"Blood useless. Flesh foul."
"Not food."
"I told ya," I say smugly.
They snort again, retreating into the dark. I smirk. Who's the snack now, huh?
I keep walking, meeting more creatures — all of them curious, all of them repulsed once they smell me. Witch blood is bad for everyone. Except mosquitoes, apparently.
Finally, I emerge into the Light Forest. The air clears.
The moonlight spills onto the ground, the leaves glimmer healthy and green.
It's disgustingly beautiful. The Light Forest is everything the Dark Forest isn't — alive, lush, smug.
If the two forests were an egg, the Dark would be the yolk.
Rich, potent, perfect. And I live right in its center.
My legs ache. My feet scream. Every step is pure torture. I mutter curses under my breath, mostly directed at that damn Prince and his stupid face. What was his name again? The corngirl said it — ah yes — Sorien. Prince Sorien.
"Hmph. Sorien." I spit the name like it's sour. "You'd better be worth my trouble."