***
The hunger returned with a slow burn in the pit of his stomach. He left her shivering and silent in her cell as soon as he felt the ache. The monastery would lessen the effects of the curse if he did not push its limits. It was a terrible thing that his one hope for breaking the curse was also his greatest temptation and greatest peril.
His steps were muffled as he walked the width of the monastery: at the west end was the kitchen. The floor had been swept clean when he first made his residence in the place. Now, it was slightly dusty with misuse and a family of mice had made their nest in a potato sack in one corner.
The pantry had been filled with meats and breads and pies when he had first come. They had molded with time and he had been forced to remove them. He couldn’t stand the stench of rot, half-dead though he was. All that was left now were some large sacks of rice, a couple bags of stubbly potatoes, a bowl of dried apples, and a small bag of sun-dried raisins.
He stared down at the fare. He had once sat down to night-long feasts. Now, an entire banquet-hall of food would not have satisfied the hunger which plagued him. He lifted one hand, ignoring the tightness in his chest, and picked up the bag of raisins and the bowl of apples. They were not a feast, hardly even a decent meal, at that, but they would be enough to feed her for a time.
He turned, food in his hands, and left the kitchen.
She was asleep when he opened her cell, balancing the food in one hand and unlocking the door with the other. It was the first moments before dawn and her fright had left her weak and exhausted from the night’s terrors. There was not much time left to hunt; he would have to go down to the cellar soon. The aching burn of the monastery’s stone floors against the bottom of his feet was nothing compared to the golden glare of the sun.
He walked towards her slowly, clenching his teeth against the burn that rose at the smell of her. He stopped a little ways from her and it intensified. Pain and fire seeped through him until he didn’t trust himself to move any closer. He set the bag of raisins on the floor alongside the bag of apples and turned, meaning to leave before the hunger could betray him.
“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you kill me?” Her voice was rough, but clear.
He stopped, rigid. “I told you already,” he said, his voice strained. He heard movement and turned slowly.
She pushed herself up to sit on the cot with her back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her chest, and shook her head. “No,” she said, “you haven’t. You told me the girls your men fed on died. You said my mother cursed you to this existence. You haven’t told me why you didn’t just kill me.”
He stared at her. She was right. But she did not know the whole story. Anyone who did not might ask why he did not take his revenge. If the deed he’d done had been any less malevolent than it was, he might have considered himself justified.
He did not. He might have once. He did not now. Nearly a decade had passed since the act which had changed his life—all of their lives—forever. And he was not the same man he had once been. “I was not in possession of a conscience the year the curse came upon me. I was wealthy and young, and I was the son of a lord with power. I see now that he was pitiless in his rule, although at the time, I admired him. He was my father; I did not realize I could have worshipped him less. He died and the lands, wealth, and care of my younger brothers were left into my hands. And I became, to the people who lived under my rule, the image of my father.
“I went out after that and took, from the villages, a young woman. She was about the same age you seem—and I kept her. I did not know and did not care that she had a sister who would miss her. She got with child and died in the birthing, and the babe along with her,” he paused, forcefully ignoring the hunger which leaped up as Anne sucked in her breath, and waited for her interruption.
When there was none, he continued. “Her sister appeared, the very moment she breathed her last, surrounded by power, and magic, and light. She cursed me and all who had been with me the day I took the girl, to the existence of wraiths. The curse—the hunger—snapped around me, my brothers, and my men.
“The last thing we heard before the bright shine of the sun caused us to flee were her words, ‘You will live under the bondage of your hunger until you are able to master it—and until a girl shows to you what you did not show to this one, my sister.’” He lifted his head to look her in the eye. “So you see, I had done ill enough to your mother, witch though she was. I had done ill enough to afflict us all.”
She stared at him, silent.
He stood for a moment, wanting to hear her incrimination, her judgment, her disgust—but the hunger turned into an agonizing pain. He turned abruptly and left the cell, locking its door behind him. There would be no time to hunt. He could feel the air, it had warmed with the risen sun. He strode quickly to a place where he would be safe from the light, the burn, and the pain.
Anne sat trembling, eyes fixed on the door as he left. Her trembling eased as moments passed and it seemed he would not return. It was replaced by a slow tightening of her chest. There were so many things her mother hadn’t told her, so many things Anne hadn’t known or understood.
The silence was absolute and after awhile she lowered her gaze from the door to the food placed on the ground a little ways in front of her. She moved wearily, easing off the cot and hunching down to gather it up. Holding it to her chest, she climbed back onto the cot and began to eat.
The apples were dry and wrinkled, but the raisins tasted as they should. The tightness in her chest began to intensify and she fought against thoughts of her mother. Would there be a fire in the hearth right now? Would a pot of soup or stew be bubbling above its fiery heat?
She leaned her head back against the wall, staring upward, the tightness in her chest suddenly accompanied by the ache of unshed tears behind her eyes. She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been so taken with the stupid topaz bracelet. The herd was either dead or scattered and it was her fault… and her mother… She swallowed. Where was her mother now? Was she looking for her? Searching?
She felt sick all of a sudden and pushed the food aside. Her mother was probably out there looking for her and that, too, was her fault. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her head in her arms. Her mother had not told her all the things she had heard from Wraith this night…and he had brought back memories of that year. Strangely enough, while she remembered many things about that time, her mother’s sister was not one of them. She couldn’t remember her mother’s sister at all. That year had been the worst in her life: Her father dead in a hunting accident, and then her mother turning dark and moody and strange. Then, all of a sudden, they were leaving with no explanation as to why.
Much later, she understood the deaths in every village they settled in were connected with their subsequent departure. Some time after that she realized they were being followed by whatever caused those deaths. The very worst part, if he’d spoken the truth, was that he—the creature who’d been their nightmare for the last seven years—was her mother’s own creation. Her mother was just as responsible as he for the deaths of all those girls.
Hugging her knees, she lifted her head and stared up at the window. Golden rays of light were falling through. Out there, somewhere, her mother was looking for her.
Lena bent down and sought his trail, brushing the fingers of her hands against grass, dirt, and stone. The beating of her heart picked up, a constant warning against the dwindling of time. If he had managed, somehow, not to consume Anne the night just past, she would be safe for the day until darkness fell. But each subsequent night would be worse.
Lena found the faint pulse of her magic, twisted and darkened by the black magic she’d used all those years ago. Keeping hold of her magic was difficult; once a thing of light, love, and peace—it had rejected her after the casting of the curse. She held only the barest of abilities now unless she chose to sink all the way into darkness to acquire power. She shuddered, her sk
in prickling against the thought. The dark, once used, tempted the caster forever.
Wearily, she straightened and glanced toward the low hills where remnants of their herd still wandered. The dark edge of the forest lay just beyond the slopes. She pressed her lips together, her stomach sinking with fear. He would have taken Anne as far away from sunlight as he could.
Lena shrugged her small pack up her shoulder and began following the faint line of her tainted magic towards the hills and into the forest.
Time was running out for them all.
To be continued in Dreams Both Real and Strange II...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
K.W. McCabe is a Californian transplant to Minnesota. She lives there with her family where she tries very hard to stay warm in all the snow. She has loved fairy tales, Sci-fi, and fantasy all her life, and has been writing stories and poems of that nature since she could first spell. She has worked, in the past, as a library assistant, a baby sitter, a counseling hotline intern, and as a case manager. She maintains that art and writing can only be done when inspired, and inspiration comes from a sufficient amount of laziness. Currently, she is working on Dragon Kin.
Contact her at:
https://kwmccabe.blogspot.com
https://twitter.com/#!/kw_mccabe
https://www.facebook.com/#!/kywmccabe
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