by A. J. Vrana
Beneath the shallow veil of human costuming, the potent scent of bitter loneliness lingered, yearning to be tended to. Miya turned away and let the kitchen doors stall shut behind her. She’d overstayed her welcome, but she’d seen enough to know that Crowbar and Ama would be all right. They’d found each other, and they were perfect.
49
Miya returned to the bar, picked up the stray blanket, and spread it over the old man’s body. As the fabric contoured to his form, he melted away, leaving the quilt flat against the floorboards.
Gavran-the-raven perched on a beer tap and squawked.
Miya glanced at him and frowned. “Magic trick?” she asked, then drew back the cover to reveal a pile of dust. The body had disintegrated. Without Gavran feeding it his lifeforce, it’d decayed at an exponential rate—as if making up for lost time.
“Saves me the cleanup.” She shook out the blanket and reached for a broom and dustpan nestled in the corner.
Now alone with her thoughts, Miya’s mind spiralled like a cyclone, her newfound memories battering away at her clarity. How was she supposed to feel? Nothing about her had really changed; she was still the same person. Her name was Emiliya Delathorne, daughter of Raymond and Andrea Delathorne. A once aspiring journalist and depressed university student turned Dreamwalker. The last three years were still at the forefront despite what Gavran had shown her. Although she’d acquired all of Kali’s memories, they felt distant and murky, like a penny at the bottom of a dirty pond. They gave her information and understanding, but they didn’t change how she felt. The remnants of those experiences—even before she’d recollected them—had made their mark long ago. The only difference now was that she knew why.
Kali’s impact had always been there; it’d only been silent until Miya pulled back the layers of time and space, and she finally heard the screams.
Gathering up the remains of Gavran’s shell, Miya carefully poured them into an empty jar she’d found under the counter. She didn’t know who this body had once belonged to, but she knew it was a child of the Hollow—someone her former self had likely known. Even if Kali would’ve wanted the ashes of every last villager scattered to the wind and whisked from memory, Miya couldn’t bring herself to want the same. The bone-dust in her hands may have no longer belonged to Gavran, but they were a tangible piece of her past—her history. They deserved some care.
“How kind you are, honouring your hated dead,” a voice sneered from behind.
Miya jolted around to find Rusalka standing at the end of the bar. She looked…different. Her sultry, shark-eyed stare now dithered with a strange mix of ire and uncertainty. Her confident posture faltered, her shoulders drooped, and her chest heaved with laboured breaths. Pieces of her were sloughing off as beads of slimy swamp water speckled her sagging grey skin.
Miya set the jar aside. “I was just thinking about you. Thought I’d have to find you myself.”
“I felt you calling with that cloying heart of yours,” said the demoness. “But I was on my way, regardless.”
“You must be strong, manifesting like this,” Miya observed. “Most malicious spirits can’t stray too far from their victims when they cross over to this plane.”
Rusalka’s pale blue lip wrinkled into a grimace. “I’m not most malicious spirits. I’m Rusalka.”
The dream stone tickled Miya’s collarbone as she shifted her weight. It was warm again, its lustre having returned with the Dreamwalker. “That’s not your real name, is it? Rusalkas are folklore.”
“So are you.”
“Is that why you took the name?” Miya asked. “You didn’t want to be bested by the fable that killed you, so you became one?”
The melting woman smiled. “Rusalkas are terrifying creatures. There are different versions, of course, but my favourite is the woman who’s drowned by her lover, then returns to lure men to their watery demise when they wander too close to her resting place.”
“Makes sense,” said Miya. “It’s what happened to you. You’re from Black Hollow. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it.”
She bared her teeth—each one pointed. “Your apologies do me no good, Dreamwalker. You lived, weaving your way through the ages until you could safely return while others died. Others like me.”
Miya lowered her gaze. She knew it wasn’t her fault, yet the gnawing in her gut wouldn’t stop. She took a deep breath and faced the shadow of her legacy. “When?”
“October 1948.” Her lip quivered, and she gasped, milky vapour fogging the air in front of her. “The water was so cold.”
“What was your name?”
“Yvette.” She scoffed. “They made sure to skew the record. My dear husband was a decorated military man. They couldn’t have that stain disrupt public perception of our brave war heroes!”
“I don’t understand—what exactly did they report?”
“A tragic accident,” she spat. “Poor, foolish woman wandered too far into the woods and slipped on a rock. Cracked her head open and drowned in the river.”
“Shit,” Miya whispered.
“Of course, they couldn’t resist insinuating that I’d been spirited away by you. That story became especially popular when my murderer took his life,” she sighed, “apparently from the grief!”
“You killed him.”
“What?” She seemed aghast. “No! If I’d killed him, I wouldn’t be here!” Her anger shook the chandelier. “He killed himself! Out of genuine grief!” She began to tremble, her seaweed hair writhing like snakes. “He didn’t deserve to grieve…he had no right!”
Miya’s eyes widened with realization. “This isn’t just a vendetta, is it? You wanted justice…an arrest, public outrage, a corner of a newspaper page—anything.”
“Instead, he died a hero. A tragic victim of his wife’s selfish meandering.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Miya, her throat tight. “I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but you’re not alone.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?” Rusalka mocked. “The pain of other innocents doesn’t ease mine!”
“Then why do you do it?” Miya took a step forward. “You drive people to kill other innocent women!”
“Because the pain is all I have now! It’s all that keeps me here, and I will not lie down and succumb. I will not be remembered as a hapless girl or a victim, even if I am not a survivor. Revenge is the only liberation from victimhood, the only reparation for not surviving.” She smiled grimly. “Don’t you know how to stop a rusalka? You must kill the one who made her.”
Miya shook her head. “I can’t do that. Your husband’s been dead for decades.”
“This is true,” she feigned consideration, tapping a finger against her chin. “But there is another who shares responsibility. The one who pulled my husband’s fragile strings.”
“Abaddon.” His name still tasted sour.
“That monstrosity,” Rusalka hissed. “How many women have died because of him? How many had no relation to the Dreamwalker but lost their lives being mistaken for her—a mistake that wouldn’t have mattered if not for Abaddon’s cruelty and malice!”
Miya curled her hands into fists, clenching and releasing as she mulled this over. “What if I take revenge for you?”
“How?” Rusalka huffed, sounding bored. “Abaddon is gone…again, because of you.”
“But the First isn’t,” Miya countered. “I saw him with my own eyes. I bargained with him. I won.”
This seemed to pique Rusalka’s interest. “Go on.”
“You’re right. This is all because of me, and I should be the one to end it. So, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go back to finish what I started.” Miya lifted the dream stone from her shirt and dangled it for Rusalka to see. “I can drag spirits to the in-between. I can kill them. And I’ll do this for you under one condition: You leave Kai alone. You leave me alone. You disappear from our lives, and you never hurt anyone again.”
Rusalka bore holes into her, digging for a tra
p. “And why not simply take me to the in-between and be rid of me?”
“Because Velizar is still the root of the problem.” Miya dropped the pendant. “Besides, you’re a vengeful spirit. Something born from violence can’t be put down by it.” She locked eyes with her enemy. “I’ll do as the folklore says. I’ll avenge you.”
A slow, sensual smile spread across Rusalka’s face. Her pallid tongue darted out, and she licked her lips. “You have a deal, Dreamwalker.”
50
KAI
Kai was done with propriety. Done with what little concessions he’d made for humanity’s delicate sensibilities. As he stumbled towards the underbelly of Orme’s Rest, a passerby gawped at him like he needed an exorcism. Maybe he did.
“Fuck off!” Kai roared, his voice layered with Velizar’s. Grabbing either side of his head, he tugged his hair and keeled over as the throbbing returned. This was nothing like Abaddon. Kai thought he would’ve been able to handle it. He’d handled it for years.
You were wrong. I am not Abaddon. I am pure.
Kai drove his fist through the downpipe of a nearby building, breaking the bottom clean off. It clanged into the gutter, the racket splitting his skull. He was so close. He could smell her—that rotting bitch.
Forcing himself upright, Kai wiped the sweat beading across his brow. The air was sticky, sweltering—like breathing in fumes. His vision was bleary, shapes melding into one another. Colours bled out of objects like ghostly auras. Squeezing his eyes shut, he followed the smell of death, decay, sick, and swamp all the way to The Mangy Spade.
The walls closed in; he was in the alley. When his hand brushed over the laminate glaze on the tavern doors, he knew he’d made it.
Kai opened his eyes to the king of spades welcoming him home. Pushing through the entryway, he stepped inside.
Still dimly lit, the orange glow of the chandelier faltered as he approached. There, sitting atop the bar, was Ama, her silvery-white mane cascading over her shoulders as she leaned back on her palms. Her legs were crossed, foot twitching as she narrowed her gaze on him.
“Where’s Miya?” The words came out like gravel, scraping his throat on their way out.
“That’s none of your concern,” said Ama.
Kai scanned the empty establishment. Rusalka’s stench was strong, but she was nowhere in sight. “Is she with Crowbar?”
The bridge of Ama’s nose rippled as a fearsome snarl erupted from her lips. “You will keep away from them. Both of them.”
“I don’t have time for your shit!” Kai flung a nearby chair. It skipped across the dining room before crashing into a corner booth. “Can’t you smell her? She’s been here!”
“Yes,” said Ama, sliding off the counter. “She has. I figured you wouldn’t be far behind.”
She was poised for a fight. Kai knew she didn’t trust him—not after all his fuck ups. He couldn’t blame her, but his singular focus was finding Miya. He didn’t give a damn if the white wolf was here to protect her. He’d tear right through her if he had to.
The pain was suddenly gone. His legs felt strong, and the gutting migraine had faded to a trilling calm. Velizar had loosened his hold.
Kai made his way to the bar, eyes trained on the kitchen doors. He could smell Miya on the other side—faint but familiar.
Ama glided in front of him, barricading his path.
“You’re in my way.” He placed a hand on her shoulder to move her aside.
She grabbed his arm with viper-like speed. Yanking him towards her, she swung her elbow and struck him across the jaw.
Stumbling back from the surprising force, Kai braced against the bar top. She was stronger than she looked.
Spitting out a glob of blood, he straightened and wiped his mouth. “Fine,” he growled, then flashed her a shit-eating grin. “I’ve always wondered how this would go down.”
Ama snorted, shaking out her hand. “Disappointingly.”
Kai didn’t wait for another quip. He lunged forward, forearm to her neck. Shelves collapsed and bottles tumbled as he pinned Ama to the wall and drove a fist into her side. He felt her muscles tense against his knuckles, the blow landing softer than he would’ve liked.
Offering little more than a grunt of displeasure, she reached up and grabbed a bottle of Jack, then smashed it over his head. Pelted by shattered glass, Kai turned away only to feel her previously dangling feet dig into his chest. With one kick, she launched him into the counter, and he swore he felt his ribs crack. Breath hitching, he shambled back, but he barely had a moment to regain his senses when two small hands found his shoulders, and Ama’s knee hammered into his groin.
Kai doubled over. Before he could gasp a lungful, she clasped his chin between her thumb and forefinger and forced his eyes to hers, their amber glow mocking him.
“Did you think this was going to be a fair fight?” she seethed.
Impotent rage coiled around Kai’s throat as he choked back a strangled cry. He heard Velizar’s laughter—that cold, blood-curdling sound that rattled his core. It wound up every bone and coursed through every vein. His body felt like living fire, and his arm—that godforsaken left arm—began to move on its own. It snatched Ama’s wrist like a bear trap.
Kai opened his mouth, and the voice of Velizar spiralled out with his own. “No.”
Otherworldly power surged through him. Twisting Ama’s arm like it was a twig, he wrenched out of her hold and dragged her to the floor. Rolling over, he nailed her down with a knee to the gut. He saw the alarm on her face as realization soaked in: she no longer had the advantage, and with Velizar’s strength compounding his own, the ferocious white wolf was reduced to a whining pup.
It felt good, and Kai hated that it did. His fingers curled around her neck without his say-so. He could feel her pulse fluttering against his palm, driving him into a frenzy. Every predatory nerve twitched with an overwhelming urge to kill. Yet something inside him screamed, No, no, no. There’ll be no coming back from this.
It’ll be a new era.
“Kai.” It was Ama, her voice strained as she fought against his hold, nails clawing at his hand. “Fight…it.”
“Why should I?” Kai snarled. “What’s the point? I’ll never be free of this!”
“Coward!” she choked, but his grip only tightened.
He didn’t want it to end like this. Ama may not have been his friend, but she was a comrade. Even now, the two of them shared the same goal: to keep Miya safe.
End her.
I can’t.
You can. And you will.
No, Kai rebelled, but his fingers only sank deeper, until he could feel the curve of her jugular and see the bruises colouring her flesh.
Kai looked into Ama’s eyes—always warm and full of life, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Even now, she was fearless, confident that she’d get her way.
For the first time since knowing her, he hoped she was right.
51
MIYA
A loud crash echoed from the dining room, followed by Gavran’s ear-piercing screech. Jarred, Miya dropped her glass on the kitchen floor, water pooling around her feet. Crowbar had gone to buy cigarettes after refusing to return home at Ama’s behest. The white wolf had tried bribing the bartender with promises of Sunday brunch and pricey mimosas, but it was no use.
That left only one person in The Mangy Spade.
Squeaking the tap off, Miya blasted towards the front of the tavern. She could see the black blur of wings from the corner of her eye as Gavran followed suit, just as he had lifetimes ago.
He caught her shoulder and tugged her back as she was about to reach the doors.
Rush into danger…stupid. Sneak! Sneak! he squawked in her mind.
Miya slid to the wall and peeked through the round, greasy window just inches from her face. She couldn’t see much, but there were bottles strewn across the bar top—some broken, others whole. Then, she heard his voice.
“Why should I? What’s the point?
I’ll never be free of this!”
Kai.
Desperation and despair laced his angry roar. Miya’s heart twisted, but before the anguish could tear it from her chest, she threw herself through the doors.
The dining room was a mess of shattered liquor bottles, far worse than what she’d spied through her peephole. The brass chandelier swung like a squeaking metronome, threatening to unlatch at any moment. Blood smeared the floor, the crimson streaks guiding Miya through the bedlam until her eyes fell on Kai and Ama.
They were locked in a death match, their focus broken by the interruption. Kai tore his gaze from Ama, his shock palpable. It was the first time he’d seen Miya since their parting in the hotel room.
His face was cut open with glass embedded in the gashes. Blood trickled over his lips and speckled Ama’s cheek. The lines on his forehead smoothed as he drank Miya in, but his eyes were as red as his wounds—a shining mural of unspoken emotions, ugly ones that didn’t have words to describe them.
“Miya.”
Her name sounded like fire in his throat, burning him raw.
“Get off her!” Miya commanded, taking a threatening step towards him. Gavran beat his wings as he hovered in the background, crowing at Kai.
Kai’s face rippled into a snarl, his words spoken through clenched teeth, “I…can’t…”
Miya saw it then—the hand around Ama’s throat. It was shaking, fingers twitching like he was losing control. Wisps of charcoal smoke wafted around each digit, painting his skin a necrotic black. Kai was struggling to keep his hand open while something tried to force it closed.
“He’s fighting it,” Ama said between gasps. “But it’s too strong for him.”
Kai whirled his molten glare on her. “I’m the only thing keeping you alive!”
“Well, excuse me…if I’m not…grateful!” She writhed under him, trying to lift her hips and dislodge him.
Before Miya could react, Gavran dove towards them, talons scraping Kai’s face. Miya could feel his intentions as though they were her own—distract, bad arm swipe up, free Ama.
