by V. E. Schwab
The branches snap beneath her bare moss feet as she steps forward from the glowing woods. She breathes out and the wind picks up hard enough to bend everything down, to make the world bow. The grass presses flat to the earth, and even the forest seems to lean. I can’t hear anything but the white noise of it and the witch’s voice.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. I shrink back, but Cole is standing straight. His eyes are as dark as the witch’s, swallowing the light from the forest.
“We have to get the child!” I shout to him over the wind. We step forward, and another gust of wind rushes against our backs, but it breaks uselessly like water on rocks when it meets the forest and the witch. She inhales, and the wind howls around her, amplifying her words so that they surround us, seeming to come from everywhere.
“DON’T YOU DARE DISTURB MY GARDEN,” she booms. The sound echoes through the world, and then falls apart, breaking into hisses and howls.
Cole tightens one arm around me, never letting his eyes stray from the moor-made thing that is the Near Witch, and he looks paralyzed; but then his eyes narrow, and the wind surges at our backs again. His free hand flies up, and the air behind us pours over our heads and fills the space between the Near Witch and us like a wall. It blows so hard that the world beyond the wind is distorted, rippling. Then the Near Witch lets out a sound between a growl and a laugh, and just like that, the wall breaks and slams into us, throwing us back onto the grass.
In that moment the trees go black again, and the moon reclaims the sky, and we are left in the valley by the darkened forest, with the moon full and bright overhead. Cole breathes heavily beside me.
“What just happened?” I whisper, pushing myself to my knees and helping him up. His arm wraps tightly around me, but now I worry it’s as much to hold himself up as to keep me close. His eyes meet mine, and then he kisses me, and it isn’t cool and smooth, but warm and desperate, and afraid. Not just afraid of the witch, but of what he’s done. He presses his mouth to mine, as if he can force normalcy and humanity and flesh and blood back into himself, and erase the image of the Near Witch’s eyes, which were the mirror image of his own.
And that’s when we hear the cracking sound again, the one that followed us over the hills. Footsteps. Heavy boots at the top of the hill. Cole tears his lips from mine, and we both look up. I see the glint of the rifles before I meet my uncle’s eyes. Otto. Bo. And Tyler. We are all as frozen as the trees and the rocks around us, staring at each other. I see my uncle’s grip on his gun tighten as his eyes make their way from me to Cole. Tyler curses, the sound spilling down the valley. I have never seen so much hatred in his eyes. His blond hair glows white in the moonlight, but his blue eyes look black from here. I can feel his gaze as it winds around the contours of my body, taking in the way it fits with Cole’s. Five people, all waiting for one to move. The three men on the hill stare down at us as if we are deer. It happens all at once.
Otto’s gun catches the moonlight as he lifts it.
Bo cocks his head.
Tyler steps forward.
Cole’s arms tighten around my waist as he brings the side of his face to mine and whispers, “Don’t let go.”
Before I can ask what he means, the wind picks up around us, whipping so fiercely that the world once again begins to bleed away. The grass flattens as the gust tears up the hill toward the men with such force that I find myself waiting for the sound of impact, the crash, but there’s only the whistling wind filling my ears and Cole’s voice weaving effortlessly through it.
“Run.”
And then we’re plunging into the forest.
* * *
Branches tear at our cloaks and sleeves and skin as we weave through the trees, trying to skirt the edge of the forest. Half-rotten roots curl up from the ground. I keep my fingers on Cole’s arm, running as much by feel as anything, letting his motions ripple through me, my feet finding the spaces left by his.
We keep the clearing to our left, and the deeper forest to our right. The center of the forest is black and cold and quiet. Every time I begin to veer toward it, remembering the little-girl-shaped shadow and the five bone fingers, Cole forces me back to the rim of the trees.
“I haven’t bought us much time,” he calls back. “Who knows how long… the wind will hold.” He sounds breathless, and I feel him begin to thin beneath my fingers, turning to something more like mist than skin.
“Cole,” I say, tightening my grip. He slows enough to look back at me, eyes shining.
“I’ll be all right,” he says, reading the worry in my eyes. His arm feels solid again beneath my touch. “But we have to hurry.” We set off, my lungs burning, skin buzzing from fear and cold.
“Matthew must have told them!” I say.
Behind us, branches snap underfoot.
The men are in the forest. I glance back, but all I can see are black branches, the moonlight slanting in on our left. I stumble and fall back a step, my hand sliding down Cole’s arm, his wrist, until our fingers are knotted. Men’s voices echo in the dark. Growing softer. They have taken a path deeper into the woods.
Cole turns suddenly left, and we break through the trees at the edge of the forest. The moon is high and bright again, showering the moor in light, exposing everything. Including us.
We make a break for it, up the hill, everything in me burning, desperate for air and rest. When I think my lungs and legs won’t make it, the wind picks up, presses against my back, urging me on. I reach the top of the hill, Cole’s fingers still twisted in mine, and risk a glance back at the forest below, at the three men just surfacing again. Before they look up at the hill, we’re gone.
* * *
The wind is at our backs, all the way home.
We don’t stop at the sisters’ house, don’t talk, only run, needing every ounce of strength to make it. Only when my home comes into sight do we stagger to a stop, the wind dissolving into a frightening quiet. I sink to the ground, gasping, and close my eyes as a kind of world-tipping dizziness takes over. When I open them, Cole is kneeling beside me. He bows his head, trying to regain his balance. When he looks up, he is ghostly pale.
“You’ve got to get away from here,” I say. “They saw you. They’ll think we’re hiding something.”
“Check on Wren,” he says, and only then do I remember the small dark shape as it slipped into the forest. I turn to the house. The bedroom window is open, and my heart plummets through my stomach. I can see the curtains billowing in the room I share with my sister, can see clear through to the back wall where the moon is casting shapes. I am there, at the windowsill, faster than Cole, fighting the urge to cry out to Wren in the darkness. I bite back tears and panic as I launch myself over the sill and into the room, clumsy and loud.
And there she is.
Tucked deep within her nest of blankets. I cross to her and my eyes catch on the charm at her wrist, still smelling of earth and something sweet. I say a silent prayer to Magda and Dreska. Cole reaches the window breathlessly, and I lean out. Concern flickers in his eyes, but I meet them with a small nod and an exhale. He glances back, over his shoulder.
“How many children are there in the town of Near?” he asks, leaning against the window.
“At least a dozen,” I whisper. “Why?”
“One of them was not as lucky.”
23
Wren’s chest rises and falls.
I watch her sleeping form and think of the silhouette at the edge of the forest, and of the haunting wind song. I imagine it coaxing a child’s eyelids up, drawing small legs from beneath the covers. Urging the half-sleeping form out into the pitch-black night.
I turn back to the window, where Cole is waiting. In the distance, a bird takes flight, disturbed.
“You have to—”
“I know. I’m going.” And the way he says it is so final, and the panic in my eyes must be clear, because he brushes his thumb over my fingers on the sill.
“Wait for me. I’ll come back,”
he says, tired and pale. He looks numb, lost. His hand falls away from mine. “We’ll make everything right in the morning.”
There are footsteps somewhere in the dark, and I peer out past him.
“Cole, go,” I warn, but when I look down, he’s already gone.
I retreat into the room, pulling the traveling cloak from my shoulders, the boots from my feet. I peel the covers back beside Wren, and as I curl up in the warmth of the bed, I feel the cold seep from my skin for the first time all night.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper to the moonlight and my sister’s form, as sleep slips beneath the covers with me. “Tomorrow we’ll make everything right. Tomorrow we’ll go back to the forest and find the witch’s bones while she sleeps. Tomorrow I’ll find the children. Tomorrow…”
I fold myself deeper into the blankets as the wind picks up, and beg for sleep to bring the morning faster.
* * *
The thing about bad news is this:
All bad news might spread like fire, but when it takes you by surprise it’s sharp and hot, gobbling everything up so fast you never have a chance. When you’re waiting for it, it’s even worse. It’s the smoke, filling the room so slow you can watch it steal the air from you.
In the morning. Words I cling to, waiting for dawn to come. I blink, and time passes in strange, awkward jumps, but the sun won’t seem to rise.
I find myself watching as the dregs of moonlight make circles on the ceiling. I stare up at them, up past them, waiting for the night to pass, trying to make sense of everything, unable to hold on to anything as my mind slips in and out.
My eyes flick to the window.
One of them was not as lucky.
But who?
Dawn is just reaching the edges of the sky. I give up on the idea of sleep, pull myself from the bed, and wander down the hall. A candle burns in the kitchen. My mother is there, pouring tea.
My heart sinks when I see a familiar round woman sitting in a kitchen chair, wringing her large hands.
Mrs. Thatcher reaches for the tea my mother offers. She herself made the cup; you can tell by the way her fingers fit perfectly into the ripples. She does not cry, like the others, but sits and drinks and curses. She hardly notices the burned edges of the roll she eats, or how hot it is. I make myself silent against the wall, as my mother stops her baking and comes to sit with Riley’s mother, cradling her own mug.
“Fool, fool,” Mrs. Thatcher mutters, and she reminds me of Dreska when she says it, only younger and much larger. “I told him to just put it up, to be safe. But he’d have none of it.”
“Put what up?”
“That damned crow. Jack wouldn’t have it. Said it was a silly thing for silly people with silly fears. And look now!” The cup hits the table with almost as much force as my uncle’s when he rants.
“We could have used all the luck we were given. To guard against who”—her eyes flit to me—“or what, is taking these children. I’m not saying it’d fix things. Not saying the crows could keep that boy safe, but now…” She finishes the tea, but this time sets the cup down silently, the anger bleeding into sadness at last. “Now we won’t know.”
My mother reaches across the table and takes her hand. “It’s not too late,” she murmurs. “We’ll find him. Lexi will help find him.”
Mrs. Thatcher gives a heaving sigh and pushes away from the table.
“I’ve got to get back,” she mutters, and the chair groans as she stands up. “Jack’s been in a fury for an hour, raving and causing a storm. Out for blood.” Her eyes find mine. “I warned you. Where is your friend now?” She shakes her head. “If he’s got any brains, he’s long gone from Near.”
“Come,” says my mother. “I’ll walk you home.” And with that my mother leads Mrs. Thatcher out into the chilly morning.
Where is Cole? His promise echoes back to me. Wait for me. I’ll come back. My hands begin to tremble, so I clench them into fists. I should go before Otto has the chance to come and stop me. I should go and find Cole so we can get to the forest. I don’t want to go back alone, even in daylight. Where is he? What if he’s hiding? What if he needs me?
Wren wanders sleepily into the kitchen, her hair already smooth. I pat her head—a simple, thankful motion. She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. It’s not a child’s look. It’s sympathetic. Poor old sister, I can picture her thinking. Old is old to a child. I might as well be Magda or Dreska. Poor Lexi, losing her mind. Thinks the boy speaks wind and burns down villages. Thinks the Near Witch is stealing children. Thinks she can stop any of it.
“Wren, where do you think your friends are?”
She studies me. “I don’t know, but they’re together.” She sighs, crossing her arms. “And they don’t have to stay inside.”
I bend to kiss her forehead. “It’s turning cold out anyway.”
Out in the yard, sounds are rising, climbing on top of one another. The tense quiet in the house is suddenly replaced by a clamor of voices and shuffling feet. Otto’s and Mr. Drake’s and Mr. Thatcher’s and Tyler’s and a handful of others’ who have gathered. But one of the voices is soft and smooth and airy, and it doesn’t fit with the dry, rough anger in the others.
Cole.
I push myself from the chair and hurry out into the yard just in time to see Otto thrust the butt of his rifle into Cole’s chest, sending him to his knees.
The wind picks up right then, not so much that anyone else can tell. But to me, it’s like he’s gasping. I feel the war of pain and temper in the air, and I can see in his jaw the desperate attempt to keep a level head. He tries to stand, but Otto’s fist connects, and he stumbles back to the tangled ground. The wind erupts.
“Cole,” I cry out, and shoot my uncle a deathly glare. I run toward them, but a form appears in front of me, and I collide with flesh and bone and blond hair and a sharp smile.
Tyler wraps his arms around me, pinning my body against his. The wind howls.
“Now, now, Lexi,” he says, squeezing me. “Don’t be like this.”
I try to push back. He’s strong. I remember when he was a wisp of a thing, no taller than me. Now his arms encircle my chest, press their own lines into my skin.
“It’s your fault it’s come to this,” my uncle adds. “You should have listened.”
“Come on, let’s go inside,” Tyler says, casting a backward glance at Cole’s bent form on the weedy ground. He’s pushing himself up unsteadily, and Tyler tugs me, practically carries me backward, toward the house.
“Let go,” I warn, but he only smiles that sickening grin. And there’s something in his eyes, something worse than that cocky smile. Anger. Hate. He’s always thought my resistance was a game. But he saw me, last night, in Cole’s arms. He understands it’s not that I wouldn’t pick anybody. I wouldn’t pick him. His grip tightens, and I try not to wince.
I warned him, I remind myself, as my knee connects, making a satisfying crack. Tyler gasps and staggers back. Cole is on his feet again, holding his chest. I run toward him, but then arms come from behind, wrap themselves around my neck, and I can barely breathe. I fight Tyler’s hold, but the angle is awkward, and instead of freeing myself, I only make it worse.
“Lexi, stop,” coughs Cole, straightening. He rubs his chest, looking not at my uncle or even at me, but at the dirt at my feet. The wind is dying back, little by little.
“Don’t be ridiculous, girl,” growls my uncle, his hand landing heavily on Cole’s shoulder. Cole looks as if he might collapse beneath the weight of that hand, but his eyes don’t move from the patch of dirt.
There’s a strange, weary resignation in my uncle’s eyes, and all I can think of is Matthew shaking his head and saying that the Council did what they thought was necessary.
“We just need to talk to him,” Otto says.
“The hell you do,” I spit.
“He should have stayed away,” Tyler whispers to me, his breath against my cheek. “He should have run when he had a chance. But Otto knew he
wouldn’t. Otto knew he’d come back.”
And then, to the gathered group of men, Tyler speaks, loud and clear. “Last night I witnessed this stranger leading a child into a forest on the eastern moor.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and everyone there knows it.
“You see, Lexi,” says Otto, cold and even, “Tyler says he saw him. And so did I.”
“He led the child into the darkness, and came out alone.”
They’re all lying, so bald and open.
“This is absurd. You know that’s not what you saw. Let him go.”
Cole’s eyes level on me. He forces a thin smile.
“I’ll be fine. The bones, Lexi.”
“Don’t you say her name,” growls Tyler, but Cole seems to see only me.
“Set things right,” he says.
There’s something off in his eyes. He’s trying to look strong, trying to assure me that it will all be okay. Even now, that’s what he’s trying to say. But there’s a fleck of sadness in his eyes, a hint of good-bye, or I’m sorry. I don’t know what, exactly, but I know I don’t want to decode it. The wind sinks back beneath the moor, as weary as Cole. Something he said comes back to me.
I sometimes wonder what I would do if anyone had survived the fire. Would I have confessed and let them punish me? Would that have eased anyone’s pain?
