by A. J. Vrana
“No clue,” he chuckled nervously. “She’s always been a bit abrasive, I guess. Since I’ve known her, that is.”
“Not the voluptuous goddess!” Crowbar rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about the heap of limbs lying unconscious on the floor. You know, your friend, Miya?”
Mason mouthed, voluptuous goddess, then stuttered, “She was like this when I woke up.”
The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. What exactly had he woken up from? One minute the universe’s secrets filled him up, stretching his every mortal fibre until he burst at the seams. The next, they were gone, leaving him with a gaping void in his chest. Yet he couldn’t deny that he felt better with that emptiness inside him.
Mason threw his hands up in defense when he saw Crowbar about to skewer him. “I performed a physical exam, and she’s perfectly stable. Nothing’s wrong with her body.”
“This is all so weird.” Crowbar shook her head disbelievingly. “I know you’re hiding something, man. You all are. And where’s Kai? The dude just vanished.” She gestured to Miya. “He was a wreck just like this one.”
Mason’s face flooded with heat at the mention of Kai. The memories and insults still haunted him. He’d been permanently scarred after witnessing the carnage Kai had wrought that night in the cabin. Even with their guns, the mob was a herd of sheep, and Kai was the wolf among them, whetting his teeth on their blood and meat. Mason had underestimated the danger Kai posed; he was a magnet for destruction—volatile and without empathy for those who didn’t stir his affection. After nearly losing his life, Mason had no interest in putting his throat against the blade a second time.
“What?” Crowbar goaded. “You got a crush on the guy?”
“What? No!” Mason’s voice garbled in disgust. “He’s an ass—”
“Hole! Hole!” The slur was cut short by a piercing squawk. From under the window well, a dark shadow bounced atop the backrest of a worn booth. The corner was scantly lit by waning sunlight that spilled through the steamy tavern. “Hole! Hole!” the intruder hooted.
Mason felt the hairs on his neck go static. His heart hammered in feverish anticipation like some primal part of him had become tethered to the creature and its master.
“Is that a crow?” the frazzled bartender asked.
“Raven,” Mason corrected, clearing his throat. “It’s a raven.”
“Well, whatever it is, how the hell did it get in here?”
“Same way all the lost ones do,” a voice rasped from behind them.
Mason whirled around in time with Crowbar’s startled gasp. There, after three long years, stood the old man from the redwood. His slicked, silvery-black hair shone like an oil spill, and his cavernous eyes tugged with glee as he offered them an eerie, doll-like smile.
“What the fuck!” Crowbar jumped back.
Gavran’s lips cut wider, his teeth jagged as broken glass. He pointed to the window. “They come through the door.”
The raven chortled and beat its wings, then glided to Gavran’s shoulder where it found its perch.
“That’s not a door, Gavran,” Ama’s voice echoed from the rear. She looked worn, shadows like bruises clinging beneath her eyes.
“Did you find who you were looking for?” the bartender asked cautiously.
Ama didn’t respond, her attention fixed on the old man.
“I am not found,” Gavran tutted, then sank to the floor. “I am that which finds.” His tone softened, the final syllables dragging his voice into a low, unsettling whine, like the trill of a dying animal.
His lifeless smile contorted into a pained rictus; it hurt Mason to watch. The shine in his inky irises dimmed, flickering between black and grey as the raven on his shoulders twitched and let out a heart-wrenching screech.
“She’s gone,” Gavran muttered, and only then did Mason realize the whirr in the old man’s throat was the sound of grief, seeping out when it could no longer be contained. He peered up at Ama. “I must find her.”
“Can you?” Ama asked.
Gavran’s head canted and clicked, then juddered as he turned back to Miya. His knobby hands brushed her cheeks—fingers stiff and curled like claws. Despite the rough callouses marring his weathered skin, he grazed Miya’s brow with the tenderness of an anguished parent. The lines in his face—long and sharp like the edge of a blade—cut deep as chasms. They betrayed his age and the bittersweet warmth of a reunion come too late.
“I may not return,” he said at last.
For the first time since knowing Ama, Mason saw her falter. Her expression collapsed like the air had left her lungs. He’d seen this look on every person he’d told what they most dreaded hearing: someone they loved was going to die. Ama stifled it better than most, but if there was one thing Mason knew well, it was the pallor of raw sorrow.
“No,” she revolted, meekly at first, then with defiance. “No, you can’t!”
Gavran’s fingers still hovered over Miya’s face. He seemed content next to her. “So many memories,” he sighed. “Windows and gateways to so much suffering.”
“Which is why you can’t—I can’t,” Ama’s voice broke, and she pressed a palm over her mouth. Mason caught a slight tremor and a suffocated whimper as she clamped down hard on the rising flood. Ama was a proud woman; she never showed her cards. She was warring with herself, trying to keep every hair in place. Mason wanted to tell her to stop—to let herself feel before it was too late, before she’d regret losing what precious time remained for a meaningful farewell. He wanted to, but he didn’t dare. Drawing a deep breath, Ama took a moment to compose herself, then tried again. “I’ve been with you all my life. We always find another way.”
Crowbar’s fingers curled around Mason’s forearm, squeezing where the Servant’s mark had been. From his periphery, he saw moisture prickling her eyes. Was she choking back the questions? Letting the impending sacrifice soak into her all-too-fresh wounds?
Loss hung in the air like a looming threat, potent and unyielding.
Gavran’s free hand wobbled towards Ama’s. He grasped her fingers, his eyes dulling like fog caked over asphalt. “Worry not. I am never far.” He smiled like a ghost on a quiet battlefield, the gesture belying all the mirth and mischief Mason had come to know him by. Then, he said, “Nothing in the world ends, little wolf. It only changes, like water to mist, like bones to dust.”
Ama clutched his hand and nodded. She didn’t seem convinced, but the old raven had taken the fight out of her with his gentle conviction. Her arm shook as she released him, and she scooted back like the distance might quell the pain. Her shoulders caved in as she lowered her gaze, thick silvery tresses obscuring her face. Like a child abandoned to the rain, she shuddered, her silence punctuated by an occasional whimper as she succumbed to silent tears. With nothing left to say, Gavran eased himself to the floor, his movements slow and stiff.
His neck creaked like an old hinge as he turned to Miya. “I have come to fulfill my promise, Dreamwalker. But for that, you must first be found again.”
The room fell silent. Gavran’s eyes—black holes to another plane—slowly drifted shut. The old man went still, his lips parting as delicate breaths came and went like the final embers of life. Yet they persisted, steady and immutable.
Gavran had descended into the dreamscape.
“This is her fault,” Ama growled, jolting Mason and Crowbar from their stupor. Anger steeled her sadness. “None of this would’ve happened if not for her meddling with Kai…” she trailed off, the armor chinking as she struggled to displace the blame. “And if not for me. If not for my arrogance…my selfishness…”
Crowbar was shaking, each tremor passing into Mason’s arm like a sympathetic vibration. There would be no lying to her now—no half-truths or cleverly disguised rationalizations.
“Who are you talking about?” Crowbar asked, and Ama finally looked up, her eyes ablaze like a thousand hells.
“Rusalka,” Ama hissed, the name surely meaningless.
/>
“Why don’t I go make some coffee?” Crowbar released Mason’s arm, then headed towards the kitchen. “Looks like we’re in for a long night.”
When the doors swung shut, Mason stepped over the dreamers. “Rusalka isn’t what she seems, Ama.”
Her expression was distant and forlorn, but she engaged him nonetheless. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw her,” Mason blurted out, eager to speak his piece before Crowbar returned. “I know…everything.”
This caught Ama’s attention. A spark of sunlight returned to her eyes, her fiery stare ensnaring him.
“When she attacked me, she was trying to get to the Servant—the truth demon. She wanted information. But the Servant gives nothing away for free.”
Ama squared her shoulders to him. “So, she gave away a piece of her own truth in exchange for one she wanted.”
“Yes! And because I was linked to that parasite, everything it extracted from her found its way to me.” Desperation and terror caught on his tongue. “I know her whole history. I know what she wants.”
“And what is that?”
“Retribution. She wants to hurt the man who hurt her, but she can’t because he’s dead. Instead, she keeps re-enacting the same scenario using other people as her puppets—people who’re in love, who think they can trust each other. She worms her way into their heads, exploits their insecurities, then has them commit the same crime that was committed against her. It’s the only thing she can do because her own revenge is impossible.”
“But why Miya?” Ama demanded. “Why Kai?”
Mason’s jaw clenched. The horrifying truth invaded him against his will—the labyrinth of dark forest, the shallow river gashing through its knolls.
“She wasn’t always an implacable monstress. She was once someone quite different, someone far too close to home.” Mason’s palms were clammy with sweat as he shifted his weight. The words were stuck in his throat, fighting their way back down as he tried to force them up. “Rusalka was a girl from Black Hollow.”
II
THE HOLLOW THAT BURNED BLACK
28
Kai
The air where Rusalka had torn through the veil was thick with foreboding.
Transitioning from Black Hollow’s dark woods to Louisiana’s bayous had been seamless. In the dreamscape, distance had no meaning; how the environment morphed around Kai hardly mattered when he had a scent trail to follow. One minute, he was tracking Rusalka’s blood through pines and maples, and the next, he was wading through opaque swamp water. Velizar had tried distracting him with his yammering, but Kai’s sense of smell never failed him.
Rusalka’s tracks ended at the Grey Gnarl, leaving Kai with one option: to return to the physical world.
Thanks to his nemesis, he could peel back the curtain and step onto the other side without Miya’s help, but would she be there to anchor him, or had she returned to the dreamscape?
It didn’t matter. Velizar had promised he’d be safe.
Kai had to find a way to end Rusalka before she possessed someone else. Once she was gone, he could apologize to Miya—that is, if he got the chance.
What would he tell her about Velizar? That everything she’d sacrificed to get rid of Abaddon was for nothing?
Dread pooled in his stomach like gasoline spilling over a freshly burnt match.
You’re getting ahead of yourself. First, he needed to subdue the rotting mermaid, but if the blade didn’t cut, what good was he?
Velizar’s question pricked his conscience. Had anything really changed?
Was Kai still a monster—a destroyer—lifetimes after he’d destroyed his brother? Was he no different than the scum who made Rusalka?
Kai shook away the thought. He placed his hand on the slippery tree trunk, the bark soaked in Rusalka’s slime. He was done with this place.
So quick to use my gifts.
“You offered them up,” said Kai. “I paid a hefty price for the all-access pass.”
Now, now. You didn’t think I wanted inside your head just for the fun of it, did you?
“I lived with you for years. I think I know what I’m in for.”
Velizar chuckled. I am not Abaddon. My purpose isn’t so…violent. I’m quite sentimental, really.
“Save it,” Kai snapped. “I’m losing time.” He ground his palm against the elm and focused on what awaited beyond, yet no matter how hard he willed it, he saw nothing—no doorway, no parting mist, no tunnel through space and time.
He had no idea how to work the gates between realms. They were knots, tangled too tightly for him to understand.
Kai dropped his hand. “How does this work?”
I can show you, Velizar cooed, if you’ll do your brother a favour.
“Haven’t I done enough?” Kai kicked at the dirt around the bottom of the tree when he couldn’t stamp out his frustration.
I wish only to speak, Velizar reasoned. To tell you my story.
His story? Kai didn’t give a flying fuck. He hated this place. He hated the eerie lake swimming with algae and the fog eating its way over the water, closing in like a shroud. He hated how dead the island felt. Soil everywhere pulsed with life, and when he stopped to pay attention, he felt the vibrations between his toes. But here was different. The land around the Grey Gnarl was dry as a scorched roast, all the juice sucked away by Rusalka’s vampiric tree. The silence was even worse. No matter how he strained to hear that frail heartbeat, he was met with cold stillness. It was like his feet weren’t even on the ground.
“You’re trying to win me over,” Kai realized. “Is this your messed-up way of reconciling?”
Perhaps. Kai felt him waver. Even gods wish to be understood.
“What’s with the sudden purge?” Kai sneered. “Spectral brain tumor got you reflecting on your sins?”
I’m not the only one who ought to reflect on his sins. But the matter is simple: a willing host is superior to a resistant one. Co-existence. Symbiosis. The better you understand me, the better we’ll get along.
“How fucking quaint,” Kai deadpanned, now having dug a half-foot pit in front of the elm. “Is this where you convince me the Dreamwalker is evil incarnate, and you’re a saint who martyred himself?”
No, he grunted in disapproval. I wish to apologize.
“What?” Kai’s voice betrayed his surprise.
The Dreamwalker came between us. Instead of cutting her out like the cancer she is, I lashed out at you.
“I thought you said I was the one who put the knife in your back.”
You were, but only because she’d gotten to you first. You couldn’t have known better.
Kai narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like you’re calling me stupid.”
Not stupid, Velizar hummed. Perhaps only a bit…impressionable. Impulsive. Kai could feel him smiling, mouth and teeth stretching across his ribs. Am I wrong?
Unnerved, Kai scratched under his shirt where he felt the severed grin burn against his skin, but his fingers didn’t cooperate. His left hand shuddered, pulling away as though repelled by something behind the itch.
Velizar wasn’t wrong. Impulsivity had gotten Kai up shit’s creek more than once. He didn’t put it past himself to royally screw up and leave a trail of destruction. It was the reason he was forced to flee Washington—the how and why of his entire existence in Black Hollow. Yet it was also the force that propelled him to Miya. Without his temper, they never would have found each other.
Weak logic, Velizar chided, reading his mind. A series of events strung together is not a case for causation. You, of all people, should know that. You don’t believe in fate, remember? What was it you used to say…?
“Fate is the beginning,” the words sprang from Kai’s lips without his say-so.
Ah, Velizar sighed contently. Already finishing my sentences.
Disgust crawled up Kai’s throat. Fighting to keep his cards close, he glanced down at the hole he’d carved out. He wished he could bury all the m
onsters in it, but for that, the grave would have to run far deeper. “So, between me and the Dreamwalker…”
I will always hate her most. It was her fate to die, but she manipulated you into interfering. You grew soft, forgot your duties. It was your role to destroy and to reign over chaos so that I could create.
Create what? His riddles were worse than Ama’s.
Nothing as superficial as life, said the spirit. Despite the humidity of the swamp, a chill seeped into Kai as Velizar’s next words rattled his insides. Fear. Obedience. Order.
“I don’t get it.” Kai hated that he was interested—that he was trying to understand. Why was he trying to understand? “What was I supposed to be destroying?”
Those who disobeyed. Those who strengthened chaos, giving her a realm to sow her poisonous seeds.
“That makes no damn sense,” said Kai. The legend—the beginning of it all—mentioned no gods of creation and destruction, of chaos and order. It was just a story about a girl who could walk through dreams and an injured wolf she met in the woods—Kai, apparently. Above all, it was a story about a pants-shitting town that turned their fear into hatred and cast out what they didn’t understand.
Yes, brother. That is the tale humans remember. It is a…partial version, but it is not the one gods and spirits remember. There can be many iterations of a story, and a story is never told the same way twice.
Kai hated how Velizar heard everything, but he kissed his teeth and bowed theatrically. “Enlighten me then, god of creation.”
The Hollow was not always in the New World.
“Places don’t move like ethereal farts.” Except for the damn willow tree. That green bastard turned up wherever it wanted to.
But the people move. And they take their gods with them. The Hollow’s cradle was an ocean away, in a craggy forest that sits on the suture between east and west. I was the ruler of those people, he claimed unironically. And you, dear brother, were the black wolf—the monster in the woods that kept the villagers in check. The itch returned, invisible teeth scraping against Kai’s abdomen. You were there to clamp your jaws around the necks of those who disobeyed me.
