Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

  Their voices raise in chant, their magic glows gold. They’re brightness stuns the shadows, creating holes that open and refill, open and refill. A shriek that is not unlike nails down a chalkboard screeches through the air and I clap my hands to my ears against the din.

  The witchfinder called the fairies useless things, but they are not. They have saved us before, and they are saving us again. They are so very strong.

  The darkness protests and fights, but it is driven from the house. I release my hold on the door and I back away quickly. I have splinters in my fingers and I am leaving little traces of blood on the black wheel handles.

  “Must reset the magic, the magic, the magic,” Arianna floats quickly down from the ceiling and she hovers at my eye level.

  “What do you need?” My intuition tells me that she’s asking for something.

  “Weak now. Against the darkness. We are weak.”

  “Tell me what you need,” I try to sound patient, but I am not patient. I am teetered on the edge of a grand canyon of impatience. I will fall into rudeness very soon.

  “A piece of power. A piece of you.” Arianna darts forward and touches my forehead gently.

  “What? I don’t understand?”

  “A memory or two,” she sing-songs.

  “Take what you need,” I say without hesitation.

  “Youngling memories, that is all,” she explains further, but I wave a hand.

  “I don’t care, take what you need and keep us safe.”

  She hesitates, then nods. Her small body and shimmer wings flutters forward again and she places both palms against my forehead. “I take from thee and give to me. Memories for magic before the age of three. I take from thee and give to me. Memories for magic it must be.”

  The sensation of her siphoning the memories from me is like the beginning tremors of a migraine above my right eye, but this is different because it doesn’t continue to build into blinding pain.

  When she flits away from me, the other fairies circle around her. They join hands and a fire burns brightly around Arianna’s body, so fierce that I fear she will burn into ash. The fire spreads, gold tipped in palest yellow, to the other fairies. As the light fades, they release each other and they repeat the protection of the house as they did before, pouring gold shimmering magic into cracks.

  “Thank you Arianna,” I breathe out as I watch the shadow beasts pressing against the windows, unable to harm us once more. “The protection magic doesn’t last then?”

  “No, not for long, not forever. Only for the time it decides.” She moves into an open cabinet and settles atop a smashed package of fudge cakes. “Tired, tired, tired,” she tinkles like bells as she lies down and closes her eyes. The other fairies follow suit, disappearing into their newly-acquired homes and hiding places.

  It is then that I can worry about the others—Jen, Archie, Hoyt.

  My eyes find my aunt first, who is sitting on the floor rubbing her neck; a raw red bruise is growing and tears have traced down her face. Archie is also on the floor, back leaned against the cabinets. Hoyt is trying to secure the back door, pushing a chair beneath the knob—though it is nearly pointless given the haggard condition of the entrance. We are safe for the time being also, because of the beautiful little fairies who are definitely not useless.

  Jon is… nowhere to be found.

  The others, preoccupied with the aftermath of the attack, do not notice when I wheel out of the kitchen. It is a small space, perhaps they should have noticed, but the mind is a funny thing… especially when it has been strained to points past intelligible reality.

  “Jon?” I call softly as I move throughout our small farmstead. “Jon, you’re still here, right?” What I think is—did the shadows get him? How could I not have seen? He was helping Jen. He was fine.

  The terrors of darkness and fog do not care for the dead. The witchfinder, for once, is a comfort in my head.

  So they wouldn’t have taken him?

  It is… unlikely.

  I finally find him and my heart skips a beat. He is settled in the furthest corner of the living room on the floor, his legs are tucked up against his chest and his head is lowered against his knees.

  “Jon?” I say his name again, soft and just a little bit wild. I’m beginning to think I’m a case of the ‘lady doth protest too much’, because my body and heart seems to know a truth that my head is currently denying.

  He looks up at me and I realize he is shaking. Full body tremors run the course of him, up and down. His eyes are bloodshot. And if his skin could be more pale, which up until now I’d thought impossible, it was. He was shimmering moonlight. That cool glow of icy blueness that could pass for white in a different light.

  “You disappeared,” I say, controlling my voice and not letting him see the momentary fear which had nearly arrested me. “I was worried.”

  “Thanks for being worried,” he responds gently.

  I roll further into the living room, stopping several feet away—which is as near as I can get whilst in the chair. There are too many things blocking my path to him. It’s funny, but the barrier between us makes me think about Hoyt, about how I thought there were so many obstacles between us—not the least of which was me being broken and him being… perfect.

  May the Lord strike me down before I have to hear another one of your mental melodramas of struggling love! The witchfinder yells in my head, his tone reeking of exasperation. If you were from my time, little witch, you’d be courted and married already with little choice in the matter.

  I roll my eyes. Well, you were from that time, fell for a witch, and ended up trapped in a forest. So, how about you give me a break.

  “He’s bothering you again,” Jon speaks, his voice unhappy. He doesn’t make it a question and I realize how transparent I must be. I wonder if I am so easy-to-read about other things. I bite my lip, weighing the possibilities. If everything I think is plain-as-day on my face, then I am sure I hurt people without meaning to. “Tilda?”

  I blink and nod to confirm. “Yeah, but nothing I can’t handle.” Because you’re a weak fraction of yourself, witchfinder. You can’t control me. You don’t have any real power anymore.

  So you think… It is an ominous thing to say.

  And I really hope he’s bluffing.

  “I don’t like that he’s in your head.” Jon gets up.

  “I don’t either. It’s not exactly a picnic.”

  “I keep feeling like I should apologize for something,” Jon sits down on the couch so that we can look properly at each other. “The thing is, I’m not sure what for. I’m always going to be the way I am. Life’s never been easy for me. I’m hard on people, harder on myself if you can believe that. I don’t do small talk or easy company. Your mom got me.”

  “Mom was good like that. She understood me too.”

  “You’re easy to understand, Tilda.” Jon presses his back into the couch cushion and takes a deep breath. He’s not said anything about the smelly sleeping bag underneath him. “I think maybe if you’d met me first, I’d be the one you like more.”

  “It’s not like that,” I protest.

  “No, it is,” he speaks casually, as if it doesn’t matter. “Your mom always said ‘my daughter is loyal, doggedly loyal. She has the same friends every year at school. She fights for them, stands by them when they are wrong. She never wavers. When she finds someone she likes, she grows attached and that’s that’.” Jon cocks his head to look past me towards the hallway that leads to the kitchen… where Hoyt is. “You met him first. You’re attached. Liking me isn’t enough to waver.”

  “Jon, we talked about this.”

  He holds up a hand. “No, I know that. I know I’m beating a dead horse here, because the thing is, you’re my Hoyt.” He smiles. “And just like you’re not really going to change, even though I think you can admit to yourself now that your feelings for me might be almost as strong as your feelings for him… my feelings for you aren’t going to change
either. I’ve been trapped for a long time. Meeting you in that forest freed me.” Standing up, Jon seems tall now, though he only has an inch or so on my height. He bends over, bringing his face nearly level with me again. He comes closer and I know I should back away, but his words have settled against my body like a velvet blanket, so warm and soft. And, yes, he’s right. I am attached to Hoyt. Hoyt is my person, in so many ways.

  Jon’s lips touch my cheek, the softest brush like rose petals falling against skin.

  When he pulls away, he is also my person. I can make room for him in a different way. When he leaves the room, I want him to come back. I remind myself that I can’t lead him on, not if I’m dead-set on being with Hoyt and not Jon.

  But my cheek tingles where he’s kissed.

  This is a memory I would not sacrifice to the fairies. Not ever.

  Wolf Demons

  I love the feel of my mother’s diary in my hands. It is come home again, bringing me back full circle to the moment I found it and my world changed again. I cannot say it was a good change, not now sitting in this kitchen surrounded by worried faces, but magical? Yes… it was absolutely magical and my mother’s words were the first real step I’d taken towards healing from the pain of the fire.

  Turn the pages slowly, let me read through your eyes. The witchfinder is back quickly when I call for him. He seems tired. I don’t know how I know that. It’s not as if I can see the fragment of his person yawning within my head. It must take such willpower and energy to hold onto the last piece of himself. Is he fading? Will he die before I can hold up my part of the bargain? Are you going to eventually open the book or shall I go hide in my corner of nothingness again?

  I’m sorry. I was just thinking.

  Yes, I heard. He responds sullenly.

  Are you then?

  Am I what?

  Are you… fading?

  I do not know. Again, I can tell how his lack of knowledge stings at him, like a sea of jellyfish converging on an unsuspecting swimmer.

  You can’t. We need you.

  Yes, yes. And that is the most important thing, isn’t it? That you need me. Now he’s sarcastic.

  Whatever. I open the book carefully; its pages are slightly damp from morning and evening dew. It is just as I remember. Only this time, each page is filled with writing overlapping writing. Layers of normal teenager thoughts mixing with layers of magical recipes and chants.

  “Wow,” I breathe out, marveling at how much more is here than was before.

  “What is it?” Hoyt asks and walks around me to peer over my shoulder. Jon is once again separated into a corner. Jen and Archie are sitting at the table drinking tea. They’ve both been in a daze since the shadow beasts attacked again.

  “Can you see all the writing?” I point at the page. “There wasn’t this much before. It’s like mom used… invisible ink for some of this stuff and it’s all appearing now.”

  “I don’t see anything except… well, like normal diary pages.” Hoyt reaches down and traces his index finger down the first page.

  “Oh,” I say, realizing that maybe that’s not so surprising. If it’s witch writing, then maybe only witches can read it. I’m about to turn the book around and ask Jen what she sees, but the witchfinder hisses in my head.

  So impressed by such a simple spell. If you want to walk, then keeping turning pages, little witch. I’m tired and do not have the patience for dillydallying.

  Sorry.

  I turn the pages slowly, one after another. It is well past the halfway point when the witchfinder nudges me to stop. Here, here we are. Oh, we will need a great deal of magic, I’m afraid. It was not so complicated when I was in the forest and could draw on your ancestral magic. So. Much. Power. He says the last words like a glutton at an endless buffet. I remember the depths of his evil with those three words. He still craves power. He would still kill me for it if he could. It is a roll of the dice, hoping that he cannot, in fact, killing me from within my own mind.

  Call the fairies. He instructs. They may be weak and useless, but we can conduct the power through them so that the magic does not overwhelm your weak skill.

  I’m not weak.

  Your magical skill is and I am surprised. You were with your mother long enough to learn more than you did.

  I swallow, feeling ashamed. Learning magic wasn’t the most important thing in the forest, witchfinder. My mom was back from the dead. All I wanted was to be with her.

  An appalling waste of time. He counters and I find him uglier than ever with that statement. I hate him.

  Just tell me what to do and then leave me alone. It’s an empty threat, because he and I both know how very much I need him. Without him, going into the woods will be impossible.

  ***

  The fairies are once again gathered in the air above us. I feel so guilty asking for Arianna’s help once again. She has barely rested and her eyes are only half-open. But we only need their tiny bodies and skill to act as our conduits. Through them, we can reach the ancestral magic in the shadow forest without actually entering that dreaded place.

  “We cannot call the magic, call the magic, call the magic. We need rest to be our best.” Arianna sings and the others chime in. “Our best, our best. Tis true we need to rest!”

  “I’m so sorry, but this won’t take long. And I promise you can sleep for as long as you need after.” I press my hands together in loose prayer form. “I’m so sorry to ask help of you yet again.”

  “For your mother, for your mother,” Arianna only says it twice, her little mouth opening in a wide newborn baby-style sideways yawn.

  “Thank you so much, Arianna.”

  They should be our slaves. The witchfinder sighs in my head. Bloody annoying beasts.

  You know, you call them useless and annoying, but it seems like they do a hell of a lot more than you, witchfinder. They’ve saved us from the shadow beasts twice and now they’re helping us do spells, because you are just a sliver of a person inside my head. Your power is gone. Whatever little bit of it was actually yours and not stolen from stronger, better witches.

  He doesn’t respond and I wonder if he’s thinking of terrible ways to make me die.

  I don’t want to ask him what to do next, not after I’ve berated him. I can do this. He’s already told me the basics. I look down at the proper journal page, using my magic to push past the layer of teenage drama and dig deeper into the cerulean blue ink of magical writing. “I call on the powers of my ancestral witches. I call to the soil where their bones rest. I call to the memories that sleep within trees. I call to the magic that belongs to blood of my blood to work on this body.” I reach upwards with my left hand and Arianna flies down to sit on my palm. Five other fairies join her, each taking the tip of a finger. The rest of the glowing stars flow down and dance in a circle around them all.

  “I call on the powers of my ancestral witches. I call to the soil where the bones rest. I call to the memories that sleep within trees. I call to the magic that belongs to blood of my blood to work on this body. Find me from the forest. Use these fairies to gather your will. I call on the powers of my ancestral witches. Find me from the forest.”

  Outside the house, a rumbling begins almost like an earthquake. The clean silverware drying by the sink begin to rattle. I am worried I have done something wrong.

  Like a sonic boom, glowing gold bursts from the woods. It balloons upwards like a mushroom cloud and then falls to earth to spread out in a great wave. It ripples across the meadow and hits the house. It pushes through tiny crevices and cracks that cannot be seen.

  The magic pours upwards, cresting and then splashing down onto all of the fairies and my outstretched hand and arm. It burns almost to the point of screaming pain.

  This is too much. The witchfinder is alarmed. You have no control, little witch. No control!

  The magic continues to stream from the forest and gather around the fairies and me. It assaults, shoving against my skin and forcing its way in
to my pores.

  I can feel it in my body.

  I can feel my blood boiling.

  Steam rises from me. I am earth-capped volcano about to erupt.

  It is too much.

  I tilt my head back and I scream.

  I scream and I scream and I do not think I will ever stop.

  And the fairies scream; they are wind chimes hanging in hell now, not beautiful things glinting in sunlight and singing like delicate birds.

  When it is over, Arianna is limp against my hand and the other fairies have all fallen to the floor. “Oh no.” Without thinking, I scramble out of my wheelchair and tumble to the floor, narrowly avoiding one of the tiny bodies whilst trying to keep Arianna safe in my hand. “Oh no,” I sob out again.

  Too much magic. Too little control.

  They can’t be dead. They can’t be. “You’re not dead,” I say out loud, settling Arianna’s tiny body gently on the floor next to her family. “You’re not dead,” I say again, more firmly. “This is wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They saved us.” I look up, finding all eyes on me, all faces concerned. “They saved us and I killed them!” I scream the last, trying to move backwards away from the unmoving bodies. I cannot look at them. I cannot face the graveyard I have created.

  And their deaths were in vain. I cannot feel my legs. I can feel no difference.

  I do not want them to be dead. They are not dead.

  You’re in denial, little witch.

  Tell me what to do!

  Even I cannot tell you how to return life. He does not sound sad at all. He is so matter-of-fact. I wish I could hit him. I wish I could hurt him.

  You say they’re useless, but they’re not. You’re the useless one!

  “I don’t accept this,” I say, holding out my hands with palms facing the fairies. “You are magic. You can’t die.” Even though my body is still broken, I can feel the humming of the new power beneath my skin, coursing through my veins like an intense drug. Magic is also about intent. Magic is also about the witch’s will. And I do not want them to be dead. “Live,” I breathe out. “Live again.” I call the magic, and I find myself offering up more memories. “I take from me and give to thee. Memories for magic before the age of three. I take from me and give to thee. Memories for magic it must be.”