Darkling (6 page)

After some time, his shoulders started to shake and he sobbed. I didn’t try to hug him as he cried. He had his pride and that would only push him away, so I held his calloused hand, his knuckles white. I sat with him until he was finished.

Then he squeezed my fingers and muttered something about checking on Lady. I waited until I couldn’t see him anymore then headed back to the field. Scarlet was waiting for me, sitting on a bale of hay on the rim of firelight. She watched me intently as I sat down beside her.

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t think spirits have to be dead for you to hear them,” she whispered.

I blushed and smiled at the same time. Scarlet hugged me and kissed the top of my head. She smelled like apples.

I wake up from my own drool staining the pillow and coating my cheek. The fire has died down to ash and its dim embers are the only light in the room.

Hobbling over to the window, I peer outside. I can’t tell if I’m looking at sky or trees which either means it’s day or cloudy night. What I miss the most about mornings are the birds. I loved to lie in bed, toasty beside Scarlet, and listen to their songs. Are there any birds left?
Certainly not here. Draven snuck portions of his meat to Lady whenever he could, yet even so, she died.

Limping over to the fireplace, I find some small branches on the hearth. After prodding the embers, the fire comes to life and I sit beside it, using the light to examine my ankle. It’s swollen and purpling but I’ve seen worse. I just wish it would heal faster.

The house creaks and at first I think it’s the man returning, but it’s just the wood settling. Here on the hearth, it’s hard to imagine that this is the same house that tormented me yesterday. Or at least, what feels like yesterday. For all I know, it was two or three days ago.

The hours slip past and I grow restless. I keep my ankle elevated and the fire burning, but I am hungry and bored. The bookcase beside the desk is full of books, and if I could read, I could entertain myself for days and days in here. Part of me wants to get this over with and leave the room. Look for the dead woman and help her leave this place to see if she takes the Bringer with her. But the young man told me not to leave the room, so I stay.

I feel like it has been a full day by the time I hear any movement in the house. The stairs begin to creak with footsteps. One after another. My pulse picks up, making my ankle throb as I worry it’s her. Then the doorknob turns and I see a white shoulder entering. I actually smile in relief. He has come back, and with him are two dead, skinned rats.

“I’m so hungry,” I say.

He skewers a rat and begins roasting it in the flames. “They’re both for you.”

I’m once again struck by how much I enjoy looking at his face. He is concentrating on cooking so I feel free to stare for several moments. The hollow of his cheeks suck in a little, as if he has lost any trace of baby fat. That’s not surprising. With the hunger in our woods, all of us have. “What’s your name?”

He blinks as he looks to me, his lips parted in surprise. “I… I don’t know.” His voice is soft but firmer than before.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve been here so long that I’ve forgotten.”

“So you do live here?”

He nods. His dark hair is straight, for the most part. A few strands have fallen into his face. I’m tempted to brush them away to better see his eyes but keep my hands to myself.

“Why didn’t I see you earlier?” I ask.

“Earlier?”

“I explored the whole house when I got here.”

“Not the whole house.”

Fair enough. In the darkness I could have missed a cubby or a servant’s entrance. “You must be very lonely here all by yourself.”

He stops rotating the rat. I’ve never seen a grown man look so much like a wounded little boy. “I am so lonesome.”

I rest my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. He is cool. He must’ve been waiting a long time in the cold to trap the rats. “Why are you sad?”

“You will leave,” he whispers.

I catch myself watching the reflection of the fire in his eyes for far too long. I will leave. Yes, I will.
And go back home. To my family. How could I have forgotten that? “You live with the dead woman?”

He nods.

“And the creature? That walks on walls?”

He nods again, a thin line forming between his brows.

“My friend Megan used to wake up to weeping when no one was there, so I spent the night. The spirit of her grandmother was trapped in her sorrow. She thought her daughter was ill. So I welcomed her into me and showed her that her daughter was well. There hasn’t been any weeping since. I could do the same with –”

“It’s too dangerous.”

I don’t have it in me to argue at the moment. “Why don’t you leave?”

He sighs and pulls the first rat out, inspecting it. The scent of the warm flesh and sizzling grease make my stomach contract. I’d put the whole thing in my mouth if I could. But it isn’t done enough so he sticks it back in.

“How can I go anywhere,” he says softly. “When I don’t even have a name?”

“Then I’ll give you one,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. A name is so quickly on my tongue that I wonder if I’ve been waiting to say it all along.
“Tristan. I will call you Tristan.”

He slowly smiles. “Tristan,” he says, trying it out. “It suits me. You’re welcome, Willow.”

“No,” I say with a smile. “It’s thank you.”

He chuckles. “Yes, thank you, Willow.”

His charm is so childlike that I find myself forgetting the darkness when he is beside me like he is now.

Just then, there is a bang down the hall as the chained door starts rattling.

T
ristan leaps to his feet, his shoulders stiff as he stares at our door.

My palms are pressed against the hearth, ready to move if I have to. “What is she?”

“Angry.”

The chained door stops banging and I smell something burning and hastily grab the cooked rat out of the fire. “I don’t understand,” I say.
“Anything. This house. Her. You.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “I must go.”

I yank myself up onto my good foot. “No, you mustn’t. Not till I have some answers.”

He shakes his head, his eyes helpless. “I cannot linger. I’ve tarried too long already. She is coming.”

I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stands on end. “Why?”

He blinks several times, studying the floorboards, as if listening to something distant. “I think she means to kill you.”

“What?” I snap.

“You upset her.”

“But she was whispering. When I first got here, I heard her. The only spirits who whisper are the ones that want help. That want to let go.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to let go of anything, that’s the problem.” He gasps and grabs at the left side of his chest, as if he’s been hurt.

I take a wobbly step forward, holding onto the mantle for support. “Tristan?”

“I have to go,” he chokes out. I can’t tell if he’s trying not to cry or if he’s having trouble breathing. He grabs something from his breast pocket and presses it into my palm. It’s icy cold. “You should be safe here. I have claimed this space. She cannot form inside. Don’t let her in.”

“What’s happening?” I shout.

He pivots to face me, his hand still over his heart. For the first time, his eyes glimmer with something dark. “She’s hurting me.”

I can sense that she is still in the room at the end of the hall, behind the chained door. She’s gaining strength but can’t yet affect me. So why can she affect Tristan?

“How?”
I ask, then shake my head. “Get away from her. Out of the house. Far away.”

Tristan gasps again and his knees nearly buckle. I reach out to steady him but he shoves my hands away. “I can’t,” he chokes out.

“You can!”

“I’m her prisoner,” he shouts. “She has attached herself to me. She…” The most horrible choking sound comes out of his throat instead of words.

Tristan fumbles with the knob and I am so unsettled by the noises he’s making that I don’t try to stop him. He slams the door shut behind him and I hobble over and listen. I look at my palm. He gave me a skeleton key. His footsteps echo as he runs, heading for the stairs. He makes it halfway down then stops. Why did he stop?

The tightness in my chest returns and I know she is back.

Thump
.

Footfalls echo in the hall outside my door as she walks down it, heading for the stairs.

Thump.

Heading for Tristan.

I want to scream at her to leave him alone. I want to shout at him to run. But I don’t understand what’s going on and he does. Anything I do might make it worse for him. So instead, I lock my door with the key.

Thump
.

The heaviness gets worse as the corpse passes my door. Her footsteps are on the stair, slowly descending.

Thump.

They pause where Tristan stopped.

For several moments, all I can hear is my own breathing.

Then he screams and it’s so tortured that I shriek in response. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I lose my balance and fall. His scream morphs into a dying moan, like he has no air left. Then it suddenly cuts off.

I lie on the floor, a cold sweat on the back of my neck and chest. Over my rapid breaths, I can’t hear anything.

Then they’re back.
The horrible footsteps.

Thump. Thump.

At first I think they’re continuing down the stairs, and then I realize with a jolt that they’re coming back up. They’re moving faster now, too. They’re already in the hall.

I scoot backwards, towards the fireplace. The thumping stops outside my door. I don’t dare blink in the silence that follows. The fire hisses and snaps. It squeaks.

No, it’s not the fire squeaking. It’s the doorknob.

The brass fixture is slowly turning. My eyes dart to the burnt rat. Yanking it off the skewer, I hold the thin spear in front of me. The doorknob continues to turn. I scramble to my feet, my ankle burning. There’s a click and I’m worried the latch has been released. The doorknob stills. Relief floods me. She has hit the lock. Tristan was right. She can’t get in.

I lower the spear, but just then, the door bangs so loud that I scream again. It keeps on banging, rattling so hard in its frame that dust falls from the ceiling. I drop my weapon and cover my ears, falling to my knees, as if that would protect me.

The banging ceases and as I pull my hands away from my ears, I hear the rustle of fabric, then the thump of her footsteps as she heads back towards the stairs.

Red light comes through the thin crack at the bottom of the door. She must’ve lit the lamps and candles again. Why would she even care if they glowed? She can’t see, anyway. At least, she has no eyes. Maybe she uses the lights as bait to lure prey like me into the house.

Climbing back to my feet, I sit on the hearth once more. I add more wood to the fire, even though it doesn’t need it. I need it.

What did she do to Tristan? The memory of his screaming makes me feel sick to my stomach. What if she killed him?

It is some time before I have the nerves to do much of anything, but I force myself to eat the burnt rat. Skewering the other, I cook it for later. I should take it and run. Get as far away from this place as possible. The front door may be locked but I could break a window. And then there’s wherever Tristan hides. Maybe there’s an exit there.

Tristan
. I can’t leave without him. I’ll have to convince him to run away with me, if he’s even still alive.

I’ve never heard of a spirit having the strength to imprison someone before. Then again, I’ve never heard of a spirit inhabiting its corpse, either. What’s she feeding off of to get the strength to slam doors and light candl
es? To bind me with iron force?

Then it hits me. It’s Tristan. I don’t know how or why but she must be siphoning off his life, like a leech. She keeps him prisoner so that she can continue to stalk about as a carcass in a gross mockery of life. Many are afraid of death, but to be satisfied with living as a corpse, torturing someone for energy, is beyond my comprehension.