COME, THE DARK: (Forever Girl Series Book Two)

by Rebecca Hamilton

  This is it. This is what my life has become.

  Either I stay and fight or keep trying to go back. What if Tess is right? What if every time I try to go back, I’m just wasting time? What if I waste so much time I lose Anna altogether?

  I glance around until I’ve spotted another. If I’m stuck here because of these Morts, then I have no choice but to get rid of them. I focus on making all the motions one—making contact with the Mort and locking my fingers into its skull. This time, a static shock snaps me into place.

  This one—a child with shadowy wings, perhaps born Ankou—makes no effort to escape. It’s almost as though she has been waiting for me. A white light glows from her body, and there’s a shift inside my stomach. She’s meant to live again. Her intended future surrounds me. I’m not in the field anymore. I’m with a weeping woman—another Ankou—in a small nursery, my hands on her head, though she is unaware of my presence. She clutches a small blue bear to her stomach and leans forward, her mournful wails echoing through the room and in my ears.

  I look up, taking in the cream-colored walls and the red and blue sailboats painted in a border along the ceiling. The powdery, soft scent overpowers the air in the room, and it feels as though my lungs are constricting. A patchwork quilt hangs over the rail of a crib.

  An empty crib.

  There is a knowing in my stomach that hits me as hard as though it is my own child missing from that crib, and I try to step back, but I’m stuck. The woman’s grief flows through me, or perhaps the grief is my own.

  Once the Mort spirit has taken life in her womb, I am back in the field, tears streaming my cheeks. She’s lost her first child, and nothing can heal that. But now there is a new spirit—a new life—growing inside of her. A new life meant to replace the old. But hearts just don’t work that way. I wish I could take comfort in knowing not all Morts are evil, but even that knowledge cannot fix the brokenness inside of me.

  I rub the tears away roughly and lean forward, resting my hands on my knees. My stomach empties into the grass. Tess and William jog over and each puts a hand on my back.

  “You okay?” Tess asks.

  I nod, straightening, and then walk away as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. That’s traveling? It felt as unnatural as it is, falling through time and space like that to move a spirit where it belongs. And yet, at the same time, once I had done it I felt as though it was something I had done every day of my life. It was as easy as breathing, only much more unsettling.

  William’s heavy steps follow, but I sense him stop a couple feet away. “I know it’s hard.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Your body will get used to the traveling,” he says. “You did good.”

  But I haven’t. I’m not like him. I’m not completely selfless, completely devoted to saving the lives of total strangers. My admiration for him certainly fuels me when I’m feeling weak, but in the end, I’ll never be as strong as him. For Anna, though, I will try.

  I take off again, to a Mort far off toward the open horizon but near the south edge of the forest. This Mort resists. She tries to push her way into me. My fingertips ache with an icy burn, but I feel the flickering, the spark. I feel this Mort and me between time and space. It tries to show me another host to move into, but I know. I know just as William said I would. Through the hazy film of their projection, I see the field. I see the darkness radiating from their core.

  They’re staying here, and they will die tonight by my hands.

  Heat stirs inside of me, but I feel the cold of the Mort spirit still trying to push its way into my body. Then I see it, I am watching it happen to me. I’m outside my body, and my body is trying to pull me back, but the Mort is pushing me away. My hand outstretches toward my spirit, but I see the Mort’s claw-like fingers trying to take form around my heart.

  My strength fades. I see myself—my body—holding Anna. I don’t know if it’s my dreams of holding her or my fear of her being in someone else’s arms, but I’m filled with anger.

  The Mort is trying to influence me! Trying to get me to give up my body so it can take me over...trying to trick me into thinking I’m with Anna now.

  There’s a jolt, and my spirit snaps back into my body. The energy at my core rockets through me and into the Mort, and, just as I witnessed Tess do earlier, we convulse. My power, driven by hatred, terrifies me, as though it is I who is evil. But I don’t stop. I don’t let go until I take this Mort from a spirit to a pile of black particles.

  I killed it.

  I shove the thought away. I’m not a murderer. They were already dead. And if I hadn’t moved them, they would have killed somebody else.

  These are the things I will tell myself from now on—the things that will make me believe I am not actually a killer. That I’m not as evil as I feel.

  The silence is sudden. The calm in the field around me only serves to magnify the panic in my chest.

  “Now what?” I ask, looking up.

  The field is empty. Even the trees seem horrified, large knots twisted into their bark like melting faces.

  “Tess? William?”

  They aren’t in any direction. The tar-black particles seep into the ground and dissolve. I lean forward to take a closer look.

  Something whiffs past my ear. An arrow hits the ground in front of me. I jump to my feet and spin around. Nobody’s there.

  Where did that arrow come from?

  A stinging pain starts in my shoulder, followed by a wet trickle. My dress is torn at the shoulder, as is the flesh beneath, pale white split open to dark red.

  I dart off, ignoring the pain, thinking of Tess and William. I’m completely off balance, but I stay focused until I stumble through space and come out on a path in the forest. It’s darker here than it had been in the field, but my Ankou vision grants me clear vision. Two unfamiliar figures—large men without shirts—pin William and Tess to the ground.

  They are not Morts.

  I am staring but not focusing, one hand holding my arrow wound to try to slow the bleeding. The events unfolding before me—William and Tess hadn’t warned me about anything like this, about any possibility of being attacked or dealing with anything other than the Morts. A cold wave rolls through my stomach, and a weight sinks in my chest. The moment feels more real than life itself, and at the same time, feels as though it’s happening a million miles away. A dream, a nightmare.

  No one seems aware of my presence. I could walk away. I would be safe—I would live—but would I be able to return to Anna? Could I forgive myself for abandoning such noble people? William and Tess don’t deserve to die.

  The cold night air chills the blood between my fingertips, and my hands feel sticky, and I know I am going to need some help patching up this arrow wound. Help that William and Tess would give me.

  Help that I would give them.

  Without William and Tess, I will never make it through the trials of my calling. I’ll never move the Morts fast enough to return to my own time and place.

  If I die, though, I definitely won’t make it back to Anna.

  The skin of William’s attacker glistens alabaster-white in the bright shine of the moon, his blond hair cropped short and a shadow darkening his jaw. Thick, inky lines mark the side of his neck with something reminiscent of the letter ‘F’, but the lines that should be horizontal slant down, and the ‘F’ faces the wrong direction. The attacker tries to grab William by his throat, but he’s determined and fierce and claws at the man’s face.

  Tess struggles against a man with dark tanned skin and long black hair that’s tied back with a thin strip of cloth. He has the same marking on his neck as William’s attacker. He has her on her back, all of his weight on her, his knees digging into her forearms beneath him. Bile rises into my throat. The unease comes from somewhere deeper than fear; it comes from an inexplicable hurt and anger—a familiar feeling, though I can’t place it exactly.

  How am I supposed to decide who to help—William, Tess,
or myself? William wouldn’t even have to think twice. He would never leave someone else to die just to save himself. But I’m not him. I’ll never be anything like him. But Tess is practically still a child. Would she try to save me if the situation were reversed? I honestly don’t know, and yet, at the same time, it doesn’t matter. It would kill me to see her die.

  Tess manages to free one of her hands and punch the man in his temple. He tumbles to her side, and she pounces on him, her dark braid whipping into her face and then falling in front of her shoulder. She digs her fingernails into his cheekbones, right below his eyes, and tar-like fluid seeps out of the wounds on his flesh. Right now, everything about her looks strong. Even her fingers. The look of determination in her eyes is enough to kill, but she doesn’t count on that. She reaches back beneath her cloak and pulls out a wooden camping stake.

  My gaze darts back to William. I should do something, but I’m every bit as selfish as William said. I can’t risk death to save them.

  The attacker lands a punch to William’s gut, and William’s head lolls to the side. Blackish-purple blood seeps from his nose and over his lips. Something tugs at my heart and in my stomach. I shake my head, feeling the apology on my lips but unable to speak. He’s going to die if I don’t do something, but if I risk my life to help him, I’m risking Anna’s life as well. I can’t let my inexplicable connection with him get in the way.

  William shakes his head as though warding me off from even considering it. He doesn’t want my help. He wouldn’t hold it against me, in life or death, if I did nothing to save him right now. But if he dies, his death will be on my conscience forever.

  William’s attacker brandishes a silver dagger from his boot and starts to dig it into William’s side. Where William’s shirt has ripped open, I see purple-black vein-like lines spreading over his skin, away from the dagger’s wound. I can’t just stand here any longer. I cannot live in this vulnerable place, I can’t go through this alone.

  I rush forward and tackle the shirtless man. I swing my fists at him, but I can’t feel the impact of any of my blows. I swing at him unseeingly, furious that his presence has forced me to this. Furious that he is standing in the way of my returning to Anna.

  The back of his hand hits my cheek with a force that creates an instant numbing sensation. I try to crawl away, but he grabs my leg and pulls me back, the forest ground cutting my knees, shins, stomach, and the side of my head.

  I claw at the dirt, my fingernails scraping over stones. They catch a large rock, and I cling to it until it lifts from the ground. I grasp it with both hands, twist onto my back, and sit up, holding the rock over my head and then slamming it down into my attacker’s scalp. There’s a crack, and the attacker stumbles. William, standing behind him, whips the blade of a large sword across his neck, decapitating him and covering me in a spray of black blood.

  I’m not as disgusted as I would have expected. Instead, the bloodshed has ignited both a physical and mental hunger in me.

  Tess is sitting with knees tucked to her chest beside a dead man and a blood-stained wooden stake. Her blood-soaked clothes hang from her body—stretched, ripped, dirty. I can’t move or speak—only stare dumbly at the scene before me, the dead men lying there. They don’t dissolve away like the Morts do or like the Cruor would.

  I tell myself I only saved William and Tess for their help in getting back to my daughter. It cannot have been for any other reason. Yet I know this is a lie.

  My focus unwittingly shifts back to William. Though his face carries the dirt and bloodstains of a warrior, his expression is gentle, perhaps even regretful. I want to run to him and wrap my arms around him and bury myself in his chest. But I don’t move. I’ve acted foolishly to risk my life tonight. I can’t allow myself to care about anyone, to get torn between worlds. I need to protect myself for the world I belong in. My world. Anna’s world.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  William drops the sword and it clangs against the rocks embedded in the forest terrain. “Cordovae,” he whispers. “You’re bleeding.”

  He touches my cheek, and I wince. When he pulls his hand back, there is blood on his fingertips.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. His attention drops to my wounded shoulder and then away. “There was another attacker?”

  I nod. “He ran off. I didn’t see him.”

  Tess’ face snaps up, eyes wide. “There’s only one reason he would run off.”

  William hisses, shaking his head and cutting her off. He leans against a tree, hand cupping the wound on his side. The vein-like marks are spreading, but all I can do is step back, step away.

  “Iron-poisoning,” he says. “We need to get back to the cabin.” He levels his gaze at Tess. “They’ve come.”

  January 1692

  Back at Tess’ cabin, I sit on the edge of a cot, clutching a woolen blanket around my shoulders. Though we are away from our attackers, I am still sick with fear, as if at any minute they might barge in.

  “Take off your chimes,” William demands. Tess and I hand ours to him, and he shuts them in a drawer. “We don’t need to draw any attention to ourselves right now.”

  After that, he sits by the fire, silent. No one says a word, and neither Tess nor William seem as though they want to hear a word, either. But I have questions. Lots of questions. If we’re not trying to attract and destroy Morts, does that mean our mission is on hold? If so, for how long? What does that mean for me?

  The fire casts a golden glow that makes the room’s otherwise unnerving darkness more bearable, and the warm, musty air and scent of burning wood is almost comforting. Closest to the cabin’s front window, a cobwebbed spinning wheel crushes a second pea-shuck mattress on the floor. The linens are scuffed with dirt. I doubt anyone sleeps there.

  I’ve just finished a large drink made of nightshade and monkshood, a perfect blend of poison to help an Ankou recoup. Tess’ boots peek out at me from under her medieval dress as she stitches my wound.

  Her unique scent of lemon and lavender soothes me. She’s been gentle enough, though each pass with the needle pinches. Perhaps adrenaline numbs the pain, or maybe it’s the horror of William healing himself. Though watching makes me queasy, I can’t help but stare as he cuts away his infected flesh and cauterizes the wound with the red-hot fireplace poker.

  The stench of burning skin makes my stomach churn harder, yet I’m helplessly fixated on his otherwise perfect, unmarred body. My eyes remain pinned on the fine but dark hairs on his chest that tangle together and run a line down his stomach. It scares me that the thought of him keeps distracting me from Anna, and guilt pangs deep in my gut that anything or anyone could have that effect on me. But when I’m with William and Tess, I don’t feel nearly as lost in this world. I don’t feel nearly as far from my child.

  Impossibly soon, William’s skin has regenerated.

  “He’s part Cruor,” Tess whispers, which I suppose is an explanation intended to help me understand the rapid healing he experiences that Tess and I do not. But I don’t fully understand what Cruor are. I never bothered to ask—never saw how it was of any relevance before now.

  “Why doesn’t he just drink some nightshade?”

  Tess chews her lip. “He’s allergic. May be part of being a dual breed.”

  I swallow, but my throat is so tight that I’m suffocating. It takes some effort, but I find my voice. I don’t ask the question I want to ask—the question about William being part Cruor, or what being a dual breed means—because it doesn’t feel like the most important question right now. “Who were the people who attacked us back there?”

  Tess inhales through her nose. “You saw their markings?” she asks, indicating the clear skin on her own neck where theirs had been branded. “That was the Ansuz, reversed. It’s a rune that represents misunderstanding and the power of delusion. Those that carry the mark are known for their manipulation magic. They are a prideful kind of Strigoi who have pledged their allegiance to the Maltorim. Do not un
derestimate them. They have offered their servitude to their natural enemy, and only those with grandiose delusions would ever do such a thing.”

  People who had betrayed their own kind? I don’t ask why anyone would do that. Mankind does it all the time. I’ve always considered it a sign of weakness or fear, though right now I find it hard to see the men who attacked us as driven by anything other than blind fury.

  “And the one that ran off?”

  Tess frowns. “To alert the Maltorim of our location, I’m sure.”

  “Tell me more about the Strigoi and the Maltorim then.”

  Over the course of the next hour, Tess explains to me in detail about the Strigoi. They are the elemental race of water with an ability to change their essence from a human appearance to animal. Most are good, here to hunt the Cruor, which I come to learn are, in majority, bloodsucking monsters—earth elementals originally meant to purge the evil from mankind. So much for that idea. William is one of the few exceptions, but he is also part Ankou, and perhaps that is what sets him apart.

  As Tess describes the Maltorim, her tone is dark and heady. They are a preternatural council comprised mostly of Cruor, thought by some to be messengers of the Universe. But rumor is they are not the true messengers—they are imposters with self-serving agendas who have brainwashed the masses of elemental races.

  The rest of what Tess says sweeps by me, unabsorbed. I know all I need to know to get by, to do what I need to do and get out of here. Remembering the specifics are better served to people who plan to stick around. Like William.

  The silence that falls on the room makes my skin itch. I drum my fingers on a nightstand. Then I pick up the little wooden box that’s sitting there and examine it. I wind a small metal piece at the bottom.

  “What’s this?” I ask Tess. I’ve never seen anything like it before, not in this lifetime, though I seem to know the word for it: music box. I open the lid, and sure enough, a song begins. The first few notes are almost familiar.