2. Chapter 2 #2
I hunched over, the better to see through the fogs hovering a few feet off the ground. Something white waited at the tree line of the wood. Whatever it was had the shape of a crouched human child, but it couldn’t be a child. All our children were tucked up in bed, ears full of wax.
“Please,” the creature called. “I’m cold.”
I felt a tug.
You feel no such thing, It said. They can’t sway you. They could beg all night and it wouldn’t affect you. Your mind is mine.
My heart isn’t yours, I said, attempting to match the ice in Its voice. It may be a ruse, but that thing sounds like a desperate child. I can’t help if it affects me.
It did not deign that worthy of a response.
I crossed the lane, my cloak billowing around my feet, my hand clutching its folds closed to conceal the gore lurking beneath.
A vein of light wormed around the edges of the windows on the Warren cottage, beckoning me home.
No sooner had I approached then the bolt flew back and hands appeared, trying to pull me over the threshold.
I dodged them and slammed the door behind me.
“You’re late!” Margaret’s apron was a nest of wrinkles as she twisted it between her hands.
“Have you any idea how worried we were?” She made to pull me toward her, crush me into her chest for one of her warm, enveloping hugs, and it pained me that I could not accept one tonight.
She would be painted with blood if I did.
I skirted her, averting my eyes so I didn’t have to see a hurt look cross her face. “I’m sorry. I was late leaving the manor, and then I tried to visit the baker. It seems he shut up shop early. He didn’t answer the door. I have nothing for dinner. There were no leftovers from Lord Fletcher’s.”
A heavy pause fell. When I chanced a glance into her bright black eyes, Margaret was peering at me in mild concern. “You look pale. Peaked. Are you well?”
“My blood is up. From being out there so late. I didn’t want to come home empty-handed.”
“Dinner isn’t more important than your life,” she said, as sternly as she would have to her own children. “Why is your hair wet?”
“Sweat,” I muttered, a guilty hand jumping to my hairline. “I was running all over the place trying to get back.”
“Manage your time more carefully, Des. I haven’t had such a fright in years.”
I nodded mutely. I could think of little else to do.
“Are you sure you’re well?” She squinted, moving closer. Too close.
“I’m fine. I just want to lie down. Is Livvy in our room?” I was already backing out of the entryway.
“Yes. Are you hungry?” She offered me the ghost of her usual smile. “Would you like me to knock something up? We had to eat without you. The children were hungry.”
“I don’t need anything,” I said, so quickly I knew it sounded rude, and turned my back on her baffled face.
I hurried through the tight hallway, still clutching my cloak. The children called out a greeting as I buzzed past their room and shouldered through mine.
Livvy hurtled for me as I shut the door, my back pressed against it. “Where have you been? It’s dark out!”
I let my cloak fall open so she could see what hid beneath. She clapped a hand to her mouth, moving closer like a sleepwalker, and it seemed ages passed before she dropped her hand and found her voice. “What happened?”
“I have to get rid of It,” was all I could say. “It killed John Dale. I have to get rid of It. I want It out. We have to tell Father Hull. I need help. It’s not a…benign infestation anymore.”
I had been able to hide my affliction all these years simply because It had had no real interest in forcing me to do anything.
It had offered snide comments and taught me things out of sheer boredom, ultimately little more than a rude roommate.
It had hijacked my mind, stolen my privacy, and I had been as cooperative as possible throughout the ordeal.
I had not fought with It, made things difficult.
Live and let live, It had said, and I’d acquiesced.
And now It had marooned me in a heady fog so as to commit murder, leaving me to bear the consequences alone, and offered no assurances that it would not happen again.
Really, It huffed. The man would have raped and murdered you. A thank-you would be nice. All those dead girls and it’s me you’re angry with.
And why did you keep silent, then, if you knew a murderous, raping baker lived among us?
Why did you not come to me with your suspicions so I could have gone to Lord Fletcher?
He would have listened; he cares about his people.
If you’re right, John Dale killed his only daughter and blamed those creatures from the wood.
I had no proof until tonight. Your wrist is sore. Why would your wrist be sore? He grabbed you. Us. You weren’t falling over. You weren’t standing before an oncoming cart. Why would he have grabbed you so suddenly, and hard enough to leave a mark?
“Stop!” Livvy hissed, shaking me by the shoulders. “Stop talking to It. Talk to me. Des! Look at me.”
I did, after a fashion, gazing into the splintering depths of her chestnut eyes. Surrounded by voluptuous, curved lashes I had always envied, they were brown with gold veins, a fan of bronze around the pupils. Frightened but focused.
“Father Hull isn’t here,” she said, slow and shaky, cords in her throat quivering. “He’s been called away, they told us tonight at church. It may be a while before he returns.”