Shana Abe - The Sweetest Dark

And for just an instant—with his lips peeled back and his knuckles clenched white and Chloe’s voice a high, keening cry in his left ear—that sly thing within him welled up strong and demented, compelling his hands to let go.

But he didn’t.

They came to rest not two inches from an ancient rowan tree growing bent in a meadow, one that surely would have smashed the chassis and maybe them as well into shiny tinfoil had they spun any farther.

It took more than three hours to change the tyre. He’d discovered the jack broken and had to push the Atalanta across the meadow and over to a drainage ditch so that the wheel might hang free, but without anyone to help—his lady guests had withdrawn to the shade of the tree to dab at their foreheads with handkerchiefs—it was slow going.

It took nearly another hour to drive back; the girls insisted upon stopping at the nearest farmhouse to tidy up before returning to the school. The farmer’s wife had offered water and cider, and they’d all accepted both.

By the time they reached Iverson again, tea was done.

He found out later from the housekeeper that Miss Eleanore Jones had attended after all.

Nuts.

Letter dictated and signed by Rue, M. of L., dated August 3, 1808

My darling girl,

You’re sixteen. I’ve counted the years until this day, felt them pass in my marrow, each minute creeping, each second a fresh bleeding ache. How I long to be with you during this time. You’ve no idea what’s to come, and those with you now have no real way to prepare you. Not as I could. I knew the moment I first cradled you in my arms how strong you were going to be. How different. Our blood is thinning, and there are not many born such as you. Perchance that’s a blessing; I truly don’t know. But what I do want you to know, the very first thing, is that it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt so very much that you will wish you could die.

You must not die. Not yet.

When it first begins, you’ll feel a sense of tearing within; I can think of no better word to describe it. Tearing. Renting, your skin from muscles, your muscles from bone. It will be a pain at once so exquisite and so horrifying that it will devour you whole. And it will be swift. You won’t even have the dubious relief of opening your mouth to scream.

You will no longer have a mouth.

Nor eyes, nor face, nor limbs. You will no longer have a human body. You will exist as nothing but smoke and pain.

I require that you hold on to one single, final thought during this agony: I will live.

Without it, every bit of you, every last lingering essence, will merely evaporate. Your parents will have nothing left to bury.

I wish I might be there for you when it happens. I wish I might be a better guide for you, my beloved girl. You are my great-great-grandchild. You have my husband’s eyes. And yet I remain trapped, old and blind, at this miserable distance, countries away, mired in my worry.

The first Turn has destroyed so many of our kind. Do not become one more early death.

All my love,

–Rue

I walked along the outer walls of Iverson, looking for other doors, a cracked window, anything that might let me slip back inside without having to brave the flock of girls that still jostled about the main entrance. I walked at first without really seeing where I was going. I just needed to get away. The memory of Armand’s cold, empty eyes followed me like a cloud above my head.

There were no other unsecured entrances, but I found several windows out of reach and four oddly elfin wooden doors set back deep in stone arches. These were so small I’d have to stoop through them and so old the wood had blackened. They were also locked.

By then I was very much alone. I no longer heard anything but a solitary blackbird way off, testing out the notes of an amorous invitation. And the wind through the branches of the oaks and elms, a low rustling sibilance that swirled around me in a language I almost understood.

Still no drumbeat of the sea.

I discovered why soon enough. I’d been walking and walking, and even though the day was brisk, I’d begun to perspire. I reckoned I’d covered about a half mile of wall by then, or so it seemed. When I looked up, I saw the tip-top of what might have been my tower past the crenellations; the diamond window was still open. I was squinting up at that, wondering idly if anyone had ever thought to scale that high—a medieval prince, perhaps, determined to steal through the window to claim his princess—when I rounded another corner and found myself at the end of the isle.

The forest cut short. The sea was visible but far away, a sparkling smudge against the horizon, dusky flecks of boats sprinkled upon it. The ground I’d been treading tapered from grass to rocks, lots of rocks, until that was all there was. Huge tan and cream boulders sloughed down a cliff, strewn along a beach far below.

The bridge to the mainland stood on dry, spindly legs. There was no seawater beneath it, only sand laid out in ripples.

I stopped, confused. I closed my eyes and opened them again.

No water.

The brownish-gold sand surrounding the island gleamed with isolated puddles. Silvery shimmers bent the air above each, fairy air, dancing in mirage.

I edged closer to the rim of the cliff. The scent of earth and brine washed up and over me, raw in my lungs. My first step upon the nearest of the boulders roused it into a growling hum.

I set my teeth. I would ignore it. I’d come all this way, and I wanted to see the beach. I wanted to climb down there and dig my fingers into that sand, because it looked damp to me. And I had seen the water last night. It was not another delusion.

My boots were sturdy but not especially meant for climbing; the soles had worn slick. As I crept down, long strands of hair blew across my eyes, stuck in my lashes. My fingers groped for purchase among the pits and crags.

Still, I was halfway down before I fell. It was simple, stupid. I had my weight on a loose stone and then I didn’t. The stone pushed free of the pile and I was careening backward and downward with a hand still clenched in my skirt, too astonished even to shriek.

There was a second of suspension, that tiny fraction of time when you’re weightless and doomed and you know that everything is about to crash down hard and hurt—but then an unyielding force cinched around my shoulders. I was yanked back to the rocks, arms and legs flying.

I landed against something soft, something that gave a grunt as we hit the boulders. I heard the stone that had slipped smacking end over end down the pile, loosening others, a showery rainfall sound that ended with wet thuds against the beach below. But even all that was nearly drowned beneath the song of Jesse, who held me fast against his chest.

I didn’t have to twist around to confirm it. The strange bliss of his touch was already spreading through me, so sweet and acute I might dissolve with it. I tried to jerk free, and his arm cinched tighter, a stranglehold at the base of my neck.

“Don’t be daft, Lora. Unless you’re ready to fly.”

Not mute. I tugged at his arm with both hands until it relaxed slightly.

“Let go,” I choked out.

He did, slowly, his palm dragging flat along my collarbone until he gripped my shoulder—oh, heavens, so sweet—holding me steady as I wobbled upright and inched around to face him.

As soon as his hand fell away, the bliss subsided. I was aching without it, angry without it. Our shadows mingled down the rocks like lovers still entwined.

So, this was Jesse:

Colors, brilliant and glimmering. Music. A good height, and a country boy’s tan and muscled strength. An easy, inviting smile and eyes long-lashed and green as sultry summer. He was probably just seventeen or eighteen but already beautiful in that severe way men sometimes could be, and I knew exactly why Malinda and the rest followed him with their eyes even while they disparaged him with their words. If Armand was the darkened ruby, then Jesse was pure, vibrant gold. His hair was gold, and his skin was gold, and his touch lit gold inside me, a torch that burned still in places I’d never considered.

The fiend in my heart had come awake, as well, basking in his song. It radiated hunger, keen as a bayonet blade.

What I felt was rather more like … agitation. Or fear.

“It’s a long fall,” Jesse said. “Worse at low tide.”

“Thank you,” I managed, begrudging. Then his words sank in. “Is that what this is?” I motioned to the beach. “The tide is out?”

“The tide rides high, and we’re an island. The tide pulls low, and we’re one with the mainland again. You could walk there from here, if you wanted. But you’ve only got a few hours. Then you’d have to take the bridge back, or else swim.”

“You do speak.” It came out as an accusation.

“When there’s someone around worth speaking to.” He turned about, began to scale the boulders behind us. Big hands, callused hands, going from rock to rock. “It’s too dangerous here, Lora. Come with me.”

I stood for a moment, debating, but even as I thought about climbing down instead of up, a new shower of rubble broke free below. The combined song of the boulders rose in pitch, sounding remarkably like an alarm.