Though she was a half a head shorter than I was, I could feel the power rolling off of her in waves.
“Leave,” She said, her voice so terrible and powerful that it made me shudder. “Be gone from this place, demon!”
I stared at her, stunned by her sudden appearance. Who was this woman?
Then, to me, she said, “For the love of all things sacred, don't just stand there with your mouth open! Get the bloody cross!”
I blinked, snapped out of my shock. The cross. Where had it fallen?
I took several steps forward, moving back in the direction I'd come. The right side of my body throbbed in pain with every step I took: my elbow still felt like it was encased in fire and my knee burned every time I took a step. I didn't remember landing on it, but apparently I had.
I let my eyes trail over the ground, looking for any hint of gold on the ground. I could feel Niram's cold eyes on me, but I didn't look at him.
“Kendra,” He said, his voice suddenly soothing. Reasonable. “Please believe me, you're making a mistake. You are not the hero in this story. If you return with your brother, you will set in motion events that will harm a great many people. Innocent people.”
I ignored him — it — and continued searching. But, for the barest instant, my eyes flicked to Niram, almost of their own accord. There was a strange expression on his face. He looked almost desperate.
Ignore it, I told myself. He's a demon. He lies.
I looked away before I could make eye contact again.
Then, my gaze landed on a glint of gold. The cross. It had somehow flown into one of the raised flower boxes and gotten tangled in some kind of stubby bush that looked a little bit like a pine tree in miniature. The tiny glint of gold shone from one of the deep gray branches.
Niram was standing right in front of it. Of course he'd known exactly where it had landed. And of course he'd be guarding it.
“It's there,” I called to the woman, pointing to the glimmer of gold in the bushes. I hesitated, “Should I—”
“Yes, please do,” Niram said silkily, interrupting me. I didn't look directly at him, but I somehow knew that he was leering at me.
“Lovely,” The woman said from behind me, crisply enunciating every syllable. I fought the urge to look at her. I didn't want to take my eyes off of Niram. “And, please, allow me.”
Behind me, I heard her mutter something under her breath.
The cross unwound itself from the branch as though invisible fingers had grasped it. Then it gently sailed across the fountain towards me. I reached out with my left hand to grab it.
I was never going to get used to that.
“Kendra,” Niram said again, his voice seeming to settle inside of my mind. He took a step towards me. “Put down the cross. This situation isn’t what you think it is.”
“He lies, girl!” The woman behind me said. “Banish him!”
I put every ounce of my fury, my pain, and my will into my words, looking directly at the demon. “LEAVE!”
Something started in my heart, a sensation not unlike burning, but without any pain. It flooded me with warmth. It moved down my arm and into my hand. The cross seemed to focus it down to a pinpoint and, with every ounce of my being, I directed it at him.
The effect was immediate. Surprise and alarm flashed across Niram's face. I finally glared right into his cold black eyes. For the barest instant, he no longer looked looked like the handsome stranger he'd transformed himself into. Instead, he looked like Gwydion as an adult, staring at me with hate-filled eyes.
And then he was gone.
I stared at the spot where he'd been standing. The fire in my palm subsided, leaving me feeling cold and worn. I lowered my arm to my side and drew in a ragged breath. We were alone.
I turned to face my savior. The graveyard was still and calm around us. The woman was standing between two vaguely humanoid piles of ash, watching me steadily. The look on her face was colder than I expected, and appraising. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She looked vaguely like a strict and disapproving nanny.
“Tell me,” She said briskly. “Do you practice idiocy, or does it just come naturally? You're quite good at it.”
“I—what?” I stammered, shocked. “Who are you?”
A dark smile flickered across the woman's face. “I am Emily Rode, Queen of the Witches.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Queen of the Witches.
“You're from the original coven,” I said, staring at her.
“Well, the original coven to settle here,” Emily said briskly. “Our lineage goes back centuries further than that.”
According to Rory, she and the rest of her coven had founded Hollow Hill. The only reason this place existed at all, was because of her. More importantly, the only reason I still existed was because of her.
“And you're royalty?” I felt stupid asking, but I had no idea how witch power dynamics worked. What was the proper etiquette for addressing a witch queen? Should I curtsy?
“In the human sense, no.” Emily said briskly, managing to sound very much as though she were humoring a small child. “A Witch Queen is the most powerful witch of her generation. Once selected, they are obligated to guide and protect their coven.”
A silence passed as that sank in. I wasn’t really sure what to say next.
Then I remembered something. “It was you,” I said. “You've been following me.”
Emily arched an eyebrow, “Well yes,” She said. “I've been following you since you got here. Since your guide obviously isn't up to the task, I decided to lend a helping hand. You're quite welcome for that, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I said quickly. “I'm grateful, of course. But...” I trailed off.
“But you'd like to know why I chose to help you?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Rory made it sound as though he and I were alone here. Except for the demons. How are you here?”
“Demon,” She corrected. “There’s just the one.”
I nodded, though I remembered the sea of black eyes staring at me from the funeral home, I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. I hoped she was right.
A wave of dizziness passed over me. My arm was steadily throbbing with fire. My shirt hung around me in tatters and blood was still oozing from my abdomen. I swayed on the spot.
“You very nearly died, you know.”
“I’m aware,” I said dully. “I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”
Emily studied me for a long moment, her eyes stopping on each of my wounds. A strange sensation swept over me, a kind of pins and needles sensation. Then, without another word, she stepped closer to me and held up her palm. She started to mutter something under her breath.
I took a step back, startled. “What are you doing?”
“I’m helping you,” Emily snapped. “You won’t make it much further in your current condition. Hold still.”
She resumed her incantation. And, though I felt suspicious of her, I held still. I was more than a little bit curious about what she was doing. And besides after seeing what she had done to the zombies, even if I had wanted to run, I doubted I’d make it very far.
After a long moment, she dropped her hand and looked at me expectantly.
“All done. How do you feel?”
Experimentally, I moved my injured arm. There was still a small amount of tightness in my elbow, but the pain was gone. I pulled my ripped shirt up and checked my stomach. There were three long red lines where the zombies had scratched me, but the wounds were already closing up.
“That’s incredible,” I breathed. “Thank you.”
Still, though Emily had helped me, I felt an instinctive wariness of her. Her appearance was too strange, too inexplicable. It was far too convenient.
“You don’t trust me,” She said. “A bit insulting, but it’s probably for the best.”
I stared at her, my unease
solidifying. Was she some kind of mind-reader?
“Emily, I’m grateful, but I’m still confused. What are you doing here? How did you even know I was here in the first place?”
“Let's walk,” She offered. “I imagine you're on a bit of a schedule.”
Panic flooded into me. With everything that had just happened, then with Emily's appearance, I'd forgotten all about Gwydion and why I was even here in the first place.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “Gwydion!”
I held out my hand, trying to feel for the magnetic pull, the hint of warmth that connected me to him. For a heart-wrenching instant, I could feel nothing, just the biting chill of the underworld against my skin. Then, so faintly that I feared I might have imagined it, I felt it at last: the pull against my skin and a flutter of heat. It was impossibly faint.
I was running out of time.
Emily watched me wordlessly, but I knew that she missed nothing.
“I have to go,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
“You have to go? By yourself?” Emily exclaimed, sounding surprised. “And just what do you think you'll do the next time that creature animates a hundred dead bodies to tear you limb from limb?”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. She wasn't wrong.
She must've seen the look on my face, because she smiled. “Well, then. The day's not getting any younger, is it? Lead the way.”
We started walking in the direction of the pull. I kept an eye on the disturbed graves as we passed, but nothing stirred. I was suspicious of Emily's sudden appearance, but I also felt immensely relieved that she was walking beside me.
“So,” Emily said after a long silence had passed, “This Rory of yours told you that you would be alone here, apart from him. And the demons, of course.”
“He said that we’d be alone here,” I confirmed. “He must have been mistaken.”
“About a great many things, no doubt. But no, he was quite correct.”
“Please don't tell me you're a demon. I'm not sure I'm ready for this night to get any worse.”
“Hardly,” She said, grinning at me. It transformed her features, lightening them. For a moment, she could have been any girl and not the ghost of a powerful and long-dead witch. “Normally, you would be on your own here. Apart from your guide, that is. However, being me has it's advantages.”
“Such as?” I asked, eyeing an open grave just off the path. A tiny part of me wanted to peer into it, to see if it really was an open grave or some kind of endless underworld pit. I quelled the urge. With how my night was going, I'd probably fall right into it.
“Well,” She said, gesturing. “I'm here, aren't I? In your version of the underworld.”
“It's my brother's underworld, actually. I think.” I was pretty sure that's how Rory had said it worked.
“Well, that's a relief.” She said, gesturing around us. “I wasn't going to say anything, but it's not particularly inventive, is it?”
“Isn't it pretty much the same everywhere?”
“Oh heavens no! Every witch gets their own special underworld. It's constructed specifically for their trials, each a separate world unto itself. The actual underworld is quite different. Nicer, actually.” She sighed, “So you're here in your brother's underworld. How on earth did you manage that?”
“Rory brought us here,” I replied. “This is my brother's — Gwydion's — trial. Not mine.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” Emily asked softly. A note of pain entered her voice. “Not every witch intends to be one, you know.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, alarmed by her change in tone. I looked at her. She was focused on something in front of us, her face inscrutable. “I thought being a witch was strictly an opt-in thing.”
“Usually it is something one goes about in an intentional fashion,” Emily admitted. “But it needn't be so and it isn't always. The ingredients for a witch are quite simple when you get down to the brass tacks of it.” She listed them off on her fingers, “First you come to the underworld, you undergo a series of trials to test your will, and then you leave a piece of yourself behind and take a piece of the underworld with you in its place. It's all quite simple, really. And, like most things, the end result doesn’t depend upon your intentions.”
I shrugged, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold that was still creeping steadily into my bones. “I'm just reliving the same tests he did.”
Emily gave me a skeptical look, “I find it interesting that the underworld gave you passage in the first place.”
“I told you, that was Rory.”
“He must be quite the witch, then. Apart from a claiming ritual itself, the only spell I know of requires a plea to the Queen of Elfame — the Goddess of the underworld — for admission. It takes a full day to perform properly. And it requires a rather substantial offering of some sort in return.”
“Offering?” I said, alarmed. “Like a sacrifice?”
“Well, that's certainly one possibility. It would need to be an offering she couldn’t turn down.”
We passed out of the graveyard. Abruptly, the path changed around us. More fog and darkness. An empty, endless road stretched out into the darkness ahead of us.
“Charming,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “I'll be glad to see the back of this place.”
Just then, another door materialized in the path. I recognized it as the front door to the Stewart household. Looking at it, I felt a pang of longing. I wanted to go home. For an instant, I was overcome with the childish urge to throw myself into Mrs. Stewart's arms and have her tell me that this was all just a nightmare.
“Well, then,” Emily said, sounding faintly surprised. “That didn't take long at all. Where do you suppose it goes?”
“It's the door to the house where I grew up.”
“I wonder if it will be your memory or your brother's memory?” Emily mused.
I shot her a dark look, “It'll be his. Obviously.”
“Only one way to find out,” Emily said, nodding toward the door. “Open it.”
I reached forward, then hesitated. My fingers brushed the cool metal of the door handle, but I drew my hand back like it might burn me. The last time I'd passed through a door, I'd gotten separated from Rory. How did I know that the same thing wouldn't happen again?
“Emily,” I said. “Are we able to pass through the door together?”
“We should be able to,” Emily said, “But nothing about the situation at hand is quite right. If we get separated, you must destroy the symbol that holds the memory together. It can be anything, but it will be the symbolic heart of the memory.”
“Destroy it how?”
“Almost any way you like. Sometimes it's enough to just change it somehow. Other times you must destroy it beyond repair. You'll know the difference when you see the symbol.”
“Cryptic. Just enough information to keep me guessing. I like your style.”
That’s how I had escaped the first memory. I had removed the cross from my mother’s neck. The cross had symbolized the memory to me, the wrongness of knowing that my mother would be wearing it forever, even though she had never once worn it in life.
Emily arched an eyebrow and nodded to the door again.
I sighed, then turned and grabbed the door handle. I pulled it open.
The door opened onto the foyer in my family home, a room I had walked through thousands of times. I was expecting to see a room through the freestanding doorway, so it didn't surprise me as much as it had the first time. Still, it wasn't something that you got used to.
I stepped through the door. Emily followed me through without incident. I felt a mild alarm that she was able to follow me so easily. What had happened to Rory? Why hadn't he been able to follow me just as effortlessly as Emily?
I really had been Niram behind him. That was the only explanation.
The foyer was brightly lit and cheerful. A dark-stained
slab of wood hanging the wall read 'Stewarts' in thick wood-burned lettering. Coats hung from hooks that had been screwed into it. It had been Gwydion's sophomore wood shop project. It was actually quite well done, except that the lettering was a bit crooked. Gwydion had given it to the Stewarts for Chrismas. Mrs. Stewart had practically cried when she opened it. Below it was a vaguely eastern-looking black lacquer bench that was nearly one hundred years old. Mrs. Stewart's guilty pleasure was antiques. A tall and narrow ceramic vase with a blue and brown glaze stood in the corner, beside a full-length mirror hanging on the wall across from the bench. The vase contained tall knotted sticks covered in silver glitter, probably courtesy of Mrs. Stewart's other guilty pleasure: Pottery Barn.
I avoided looking at myself in the mirror. I didn't need to see my reflection to know that I was covered in dirt and gore that was rapidly becoming crusty. It was more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. I was dying for a change of clothes. And a shower.
I paused and it took me a moment to realize that nothing was happening.
I exchanged a look with Emily. She gave me the barest of shrugs.
Then I heard it, my own voice coming from the dining room. I sounded young and upset.
“Gwydion, just wait,” the younger me was saying, plaintive.
I followed the voices into the dining room. A younger version of myself had her hand around Gwydion's wrist. His hair was shorter than it was now, and his face was smoother than I remembered it, much closer to child than to the man he would someday become. His free hand was clutching a single duffle bag. It didn't even look like it had been packed all of the way.
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