by Kate Hall
When they’re almost finished with their meals, Rudy says, “I was thinking about becoming a psychiatrist.”
Mom drops her fork. “You want to go back to school?”
Rudy elaborates, his voice gaining traction the way it does when he’s excited. “I was looking into online programs. That way I can....fix myself. And then maybe look into getting my doctorate. Like Dad.” He adds the final part to gain Dad’s favor. Dad has always wanted his children to go into elite fields—that’s why he’s so proud of Jasmine, and so disappointed by Gabby. “There’s a great program in St. Louis, so if I wanted to try on-campus classes again, I could do that.”
Dad’s chest puffs out with pride. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll see what I can do.” Of course Dad, neurosurgeon extraordinaire, would have connections to all the best programs in the city.
The rest of the meal is electric. Dad’s eyes glisten with excitement while he plans out loud, and Rudy seems less tired than before. The meal has him less grey, a bit of color coming to his face. Gabby laughs at a joke Mom makes about all the men in this family being the same, and the trip back to the mental health center is charged with happy energy. Maybe, finally, things are going back to normal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sarah
GABBY AND ALEX BOTH HAVE STUFF GOING ON after school, so Sarah takes an Uber home on Wednesday, using the account that Elizabeth set up for her. She would’ve taken a cheaper Lyft, but Ubers have more protection spells built in to the app for riders and drivers. Her driver’s name is Todd, a burly, stoic man that reminds her a bit of a bulldog.
“So what do you do in your free time?” Sarah asks. “I mean, when you’re not driving.”
She isn’t sure if it’s customary to talk to your Uber driver, but his profile does say that he’s known for his conversation skills.
From the rear passenger seat, she can see a thin smile come across his face. “Crochet.”
That surprises her. He looks more like he beats people up in dark alleys or does mixed martial arts. Maybe avenge his murdered family and/or dog.
“My boyfriend says I’m terrible at it, though,” he elaborates.
She laughs and says, “I’m sure that’s not true. I’ll bet you’re the best crocheter in the Midwest. Are there competitions for that? If there are, you should enter.”
He barks out a laugh, which does nothing to ease the bulldog appearance. “Probably. But I won’t quit my day job just yet.”
“Which is driving?”
He shakes his head. “I’m actually a defense attorney, but I got this gig to save up for a vacation to Tokyo. Public attorneys don’t get the best pay. I’m gonna propose to my boyfriend while we’re there.”
“That’s so exciting!” Sarah says as they pull into the driveway. She hops out and hands him her last five dollar bill, noting that she should probably get a job over winter break.
“Have a good day!” he says with a smile, going around the circle drive and pulling out.
Sarah hasn’t been completely alone in a long time. A sense of calm surrounds her, seeps into her. It’s a perfect afternoon—the leaves are just the right mix of gold, orange, and red, and the air is warm but with a slight breeze. She breathes in the scent of fall and starts walking. Everything feels so normal today, like nothing could go wrong.
She hasn’t walked through these woods since she found the dragon egg, but the moment she steps over the line and into the copse of trees, a sigh tumbles out of her. The egg is tucked safely in her fireplace, incubating like any other school day, so a short walk can’t be that terrible of an idea.
The days are getting shorter and shorter, so the light is already beginning to wane golden through the leaves. She listens for the stream, and, when the faint bubbling catches her ears, she starts walking. When she finds it, she removes her shoes, rolling her slacks up past her knees. She abandons her bag and shoes by a tree and treads lightly into the icy water, sucking in a breath as the cold stabs up her legs. Another moment after adjusting, though, the movement of water over her feet and between her toes is calming. She used to do this as a kid, explore her parents’ property and play in the creek that cut through the middle.
She listens to the stream and watches for creatures—on her walks throughout the summer, she would often see deer and birds, and, on special occasions, she might see a griffon or a wood sprite. Today doesn’t disappoint—far downstream, she spots a shining white creature, pale as the moon and just as bright.
She approaches slowly, careful to not make any noise as she wades through the soft mud of the creek bed. When she gets closer, the form is more clear to her. Not thirty feet from her, a unicorn drinks from the stream.
She slips on a stone slick with algae, making the tiniest of splashes when she catches herself, her button-up shirt soaked to the elbow, and she cringes. The unicorn lifts its head slowly, its ears pricked forward in calm curiosity. It’s unlike any wild animal she’s ever seen. Instead of bolting at her presence, it watches her. At its stare, she crumples to her knees, her uniform soaked through with frigid water as she’s thrown into a memory.
THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD.
Helen led the unicorn out of the stable, onto the grass near where Sarah was standing. At that point, it stumbled and fell backward in an attempt to rear away from Helen. The ground beneath its body was churned up as it kicked and squirmed, but it couldn’t stand back up. Sarah reached for it, her hand shaking as she thought of ways to help. What in the world had happened? Had Helen heard the screaming too?
“Get the fuck out of here,” Helen shrieked, her eyes wild. She was looking at Sarah, but her face was wrong. Her hair was out of its usual braid, whipping wildly around her. There was something wrong with her eyes, but Sarah couldn’t place it in the shadows.
Sarah looked at the unicorn. “What’s wrong with it?” she begged, her eyes filling with tears. Its head lolled toward her, the horn digging into the winter-hardened ground. Its eyes were so wide that the whites were showing, and a high-pitched whine escaped through its throat.
“Get away from it!” Helen screamed, pulling a knife out. Instead of forcing Sarah away, she began to carve a symbol into the unicorn’s neck.
No. Not Helen. However, through the blood, there are more markings, symbols that shouldn’t be there.
Sarah wanted to throw up, to run away, but the unicorn was screaming again, and the horses in the barn were calling and kicking at its pain. She stroked its face, sobs bursting out of her. “Stop it!” she screamed, not making any move toward Helen. Instead, she just kept petting the unicorn’s baby-soft fur. “You’re hurting it!”
Helen ignored her and started another symbol. There were now five down the entire right side of the unicorn’s body. They were carved deep, and even in the dark, Sarah could see the muscles moving separately underneath the skin. She wanted to throw up.
At that point, Dad came running out of the house. Helen twisted toward him, knife in hand, but he thrust his hand out, and a blue spell threw her to the ground, binding her in place. He threw the knife away from her, toward the porch. Mom ran outside then, and, as Dad dragged Helen away from Sarah and the unicorn, Mom collected Sarah in her arms and took her to the truck.
After disappearing into the house with Helen for a moment, Dad came back out, his shoulders shaking. He took the unicorn by the lead and coaxed it up, helping it shamble toward the trailer. When it was loaded, he got into the driver’s seat and sped out of Helen’s farm as quickly as possible.
SARAH GASPS WHEN THE MEMORY RELEASES HER. The unicorn is still watching her, so she stands on shaky legs and walks toward it, her feet splashing through the shallow creek. Toward the middle, it drops, and she sucks in a breath at the cold that is suddenly up to her thighs, but she continues across. The unicorn does not move.
When she reaches it, the unicorn tosses its head, letting out a gentle nicker. She reaches a hand out, now standing in ankle-deep water and shivering. If she moves one more s
tep, she’ll be able to reach the creature, but she’s also wary of the two-foot spiral horn protruding from the center of its forehead.
“Hello,” she whispers. The unicorn stretches its head out to sniff her fingers, and it tosses its head, lifting its lip in the air, a very horse-like motion for such a mystical creature. “It’s okay,” she says, keeping her voice low. “I won’t hurt you.”
The unicorn prances back as she continues to move forward, tossing its head once again, this time a bit too close to her outstretched arm for comfort. She drops her hand. It trots in a circle around her, its head leaning slightly toward her. The icy water splashes her when it trots through the creek, but she doesn’t move as it regards her. After a moment of circling, it turns on its heel to trot around her the other way, and she sucks in a sharp breath.
All along its right side are scars. Not scars from living in the wild, though. Unicorns are hardy creatures, and nothing but a traumatic injury could leave a permanent mark. These scars are familiar, five symbols carved into the side years ago by a demented woman.
It survived? The unicorn was never found after the wreck—the aluminum trailer had been wrapped around a pole, and the main door had been ripped off from the impact. She’d assumed that it had stumbled off and died.
“It’s you,” she whispers.
The unicorn stops its parade and drops its head, closing its eyes. This, unlike the tasting of the air moments ago, is not the behavior of a horse, let alone one that’s lived in the wild for nearly seven years. She walks over to it, her body shaking, either from the creek water seeping into her bones or the revelation of the unicorn standing in front of her.
Her mind replaces “revelation” with “miracle.” She reaches out and traces the scars on the unicorn’s hide, and it shivers at the touch but doesn’t run.
“What happened to you?” she asks. She pictures Helen carving the symbols into its thick skin, but she has no idea what made that happen. Until that point, Helen had been a kind, compassionate woman who cared about nothing as much as she cared about her horses. That night, her eyes had been obscured in shadow.
No, not obscured.
Blackened. As the walls are torn down, the black eyes are visible, clearer than they’d been that night.
Demon, a voice whispers in her mind, the word sharp and glistening like a diamond. Sarah gasps and steps away. The unicorn turns its head toward her, placing its soft nose in her palm. Its nostrils flare, and the word is there again. Demon.
She looks into its eyes, but they don’t betray any other information. She asks, “She’s a demon? Is that what you’re saying? That Helen—“
The unicorn tosses its head, narrowly missing Sarah’s throat with its horn. She dodges back and nearly falls back into the water. It keens loudly, the whites of its eyes visible as it cranes away and then runs, disappearing into the fall forest.
It’s only then that the silence reaches her. The same absolute silence from the last time she was here, that unnatural emptiness that heightens her senses. She turns slowly, searching through the brush to find the culprit.
Here eyes skim over gold and yellow and red and brown, but there isn’t anything out of place. The only thing off about this moment is the absolute stillness of it. She walks away slowly, treading gently through the stream to avoid making a sound, all the while keeping watch over her surroundings. It’s not like her stuff is that far: her black satchel and shoes are obvious amongst all the warm hues.
It isn’t until she’s too close that the extra shape becomes evident. A figure in black clothes, crouched on the ground to inspect her things. The red hair blends almost seamlessly into the foliage, but when Helen turns toward Sarah, those black eyes are never ending pits, not unlike how she remembers her parents’ graves. Endless and enticing. She could dive into them and drown.
Air doesn’t come to her. Her lungs don’t work. An invasive calm tries to overtake her, but she doesn’t give in to it. Now that she’s waiting for something, the deceptive calm that had convinced her to come to the woods in the first place is obvious. This is something dangerous, burrs that dig into her clothes so that she can’t dig them out. If she gets any closer, Helen will have her.
She doesn’t wait for Helen to react before turning and running, abandoning her things.
As soon as the silence breaks, so does the spell, just enough that Sarah can breathe again. She hurries out of the stream and runs as quickly as she can. The walk hadn’t felt long, but the sun is already setting past the rolling hills, a blue hue coming over the forest. Her eyes won’t adjust enough for her to avoid all the thorns and branches trying to keep her there.
She weaves through the woods, running as fast as she can and ignoring the aching and stabbing pains in her feet as she sprints over brambles and rocks and whatever else is all over the ground.
One of her old blue ribbons catches her eyes, faded and subtle as it flaps in the breeze, but definitely there. She keeps running and searches for another, and then another until she can see the house ahead of her.
“It isn’t that easy,” a voice calls, too close behind her. She stumbles but doesn’t fall, picking up her pace even though her feet are killing her and her lungs are burning.
Electricity envelopes her, like the static before a storm. She made it. She’s home. Her feet slow.
Elizabeth is standing on the porch, phone in hand and eyes wild with worry.
“Elizabeth,” Sarah gasps. She tries to stumble toward her, but her feet just won’t carry her any further. She stumbles and falls, and when she tries standing again, she sees tiny streams of blood trickling down her calves. When she puts weight on her left leg, she crumples to the ground again, crying out. Whatever happened, it’s a miracle she was able to stay on her feet long enough to get past the barrier.
Elizabeth rushes over, putting her hands on Sarah’s face and swiping away her tears. “Let’s get you inside,” she whispers, her gaze hard over Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah turns her head to look, but Elizabeth’s hold is firm. “Don’t turn around. Just get in the house.”
Sarah limps over, careful to not put too much weight on her damaged leg. Elizabeth walks behind her, so she isn’t tempted to turn and see Helen watching, waiting. She must be standing there. The hairs on the back of Sarah’s neck raise, a warning.
Elizabeth helps Sarah to her bed, and the crackling fire grounds her back to reality. She’s safe. She’s safe she’s safe she’s—
“Stay in here. Don’t open the door, don’t look out the window,” Elizabeth says, her voice hard. Her green eyes burn into Sarah’s, so all she can do is nod. After casting a spell that turns the window black, Elizabeth runs out of the room, locking the door behind her.
The minutes tick by like hours as Sarah waits. Her phone is in her bag in the woods, so she has no way to know what’s going on, or how long it’s been happening. She keeps herself in her armchair, silent as the time sweeps forward with no sound from outside, so she only has her breath and her racing heart for reference. She should get a towel or something to staunch the blood coming out of her leg, but it’s already slowing. It will probably be a simple spell for Mark or Elizabeth to fix it.
The flames turn into embers, and, staring away from the fireplace, she loses track of whether her eyes are open, or if she’s breathing, or if her heart is beating. Her mind goes absolutely blank, her body numb to her surroundings, numb to her pain. A light starts to shift on the floor, separate from the dull red of the fireplace, but the movement barely registers. Before long, a gentle figure appears, lying on her back. Distantly, Sarah should recognize her, or maybe she should be concerned, but she doesn’t move. She just keeps watching as the light shifts and wavers.
The girl is gasping for breath, her hair covering her face. Something is very wrong, and everything sharpens, like the focus adjusting on a camera. The girl is wearing a St. Merlin’s uniform, chest heaving. Sarah moves her legs to go to her—at least, she tries, but her muscles won’t cooperate.
> There’s no sound as the girl drags in breath after breath, her limbs splayed out in all directions. A mark begins to make its way on one of her wrists, and her body starts to shake as she struggles against it. When she tosses her head, she looks directly at Sarah, her eyes pleading.
It’s Kendall.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sarah
THE WOODS ARE A LIVELY PLACE AT NIGHT. EVEN with the plethora of spells protecting the estate, the lights of faeries and creatures play through the trees, calling to those who aren’t looking for them. It’s cold now, but still, they dance. She can’t help but picture Kendall, whose body was twisted and carved into as though she’d been made of clay, her form desaturated in the dimness of Sarah’s room.
Sarah mentioned the vision to the police the moment they arrived, of course, and they found Kendall studying in her apartment with her older sister. She was fine. Safe, at least for now. And Helen has disappeared yet again. Elizabeth hadn’t found a trace of her when returning to the woods.
Sarah falls asleep in the armchair, which is pointed at the window so she can watch the magical lights of the evening—or is she looking for a sign of Helen? At least from here she’ll be able to see her coming. The fire crackles and lulls her into a restless sleep.
SHE’S BACK IN THE FOREST. THE ICY WATER SEEPS into her clothes, and her pace will make it hours before she reaches the unicorn just on the other side. Every time she gets close, she trips, the water dragging her down, down, down into impossible depths.
A strong grip pulls her out of the water, to which she’s thankful. When she reaches the surface, her eyes are met by the dull, gray eyes of Cynthia, a girl she’s only seen a few times before. Her arms are bleeding from the familiar marks carved into them—the same ones Sarah saw on the unicorn.
“Don’t kill me,” Cynthia begs, but she’s already far past dead. A maggot crawls out of her mouth, and Sarah pulls away, spinning around to run, when the unicorn enters her line of sight again.
