CHAPTER 2
My cottage is not far,but the walk down the hills feels like it takes three times as long as normal. When I see that familiar thatched roof, the wattle and daub walls that were freshly patched last summer, I let out a heavy sigh of relief. We made it.
I open the latch with my elbow and enter the almost completely dark, one-room cottage. Behind me, I pull a crimson, silken rope over the door latch, draping it haphazardly. The silver bell at the end chimes softly—the sound of old, protective spells engaging once more, and a mechanical warning should anyone force entry.
My only light is the angry embers that still smolder in the hearth, waiting for me to return and stoke them into a flame. I settle my new companion on Grandma’s old bed—mine is in the loft—and leave her there, heading to the fire. The first order of business is to get heat. She’s not going to warm up if we’re nearly able to see our breath, even indoors.
Crouching by the fire, I rest a palm on the mantle. “Folost?”
The flames perk up in response. They almost take the shape of a face, white-gold eyes shining at me before they flicker away.
“We have a guest.” I tilt my head toward the bed.
One tongue of flame rises, swiveling over toward the bed. It seems to lean out from the hearth, as if trying to get a better look. The small lash of fire vibrates with excitement, or agitation… Grandma was always better at reading the moods of the little fire spirit than I was. Excitement was the correct assumption, it’d seem, as the embers spark to a roaring flame, enough that I rear back as the wave of heat that radiates out from it smacks me across the face.
“Glad you’re excited for company.” It’s a bear when Folost is feeling moody. The whole cottage is freezing until he can be convinced to come around again. It made mourning Grandma’s loss all the harder when the house was frigid each lonely night.
As I move away from the hearth, I swear I nearly hear a response:Special company, indeed.I halt, glancing back at the tiny spirit. Everything seems normal.
Shaking my head, I head to the wash basin in the opposite corner of the room, at the foot of Grandma’s bed. I hear that many houses in town have a science called plumbing these days—running water on command. A novelty that seems almost as magical as living among the spirits of the woods. As for me, my mornings are spent gathering water from the well. Luckily, I didn’t go through it all and don’t have to venture outside. I’d rather not disturb my protective wards tonight.
My hands pause in the water, a cloth gripped tightly. The eyes of the lykin still bore into me. A chill drags its finger down my spine and I fight a shiver, looking to the door. The rope and bell are still in place. Undisturbed. If the lykin were able to find a weakness or break in my barrier, they would’ve by now.
I wring out the washcloth and return to the bedside. My fears are confirmed. My guest has gone from frozen to burning up.
“Folost, that’s enough,” I whisper with a glance to the hearth. Nothing can heat the cottage like Folost when he’s determined.
Two golden eyes appear in the roaring flame, narrowing at me slightly. I narrow my eyes in return. The fire dims, but only slightly.
“It’s all right,” the woman says with a soft sigh. “I’ll grow accustomed soon enough.”
“Don’t exert yourself. Rest.” I finish dotting her brow with the cloth, removing the thin sheen of sweat from her cheeks and neck. The movement is all too familiar. It was only a week ago that Grandmother died. “You’re safe here. The lykin didn’t follow us from the woods.”
“Safe.” She says the word with disbelief as her eyes scan the cottage. They land on the chime slung over the door handle. On Folost with a warm little smile. “So it would seem.”
“Are you…” I struggle to find the words. In my small area, everyone knows of me. And they’re kind enough. But those from distant towns—even from the city—are wary of witches. Or even disbelieving of them entirely. The ancient magics are long forgotten from this land and those who keep their ways alive are growing more and more cloistered out of fear of misunderstanding. But she was in the woods, a place where regular humans shouldn’t be able to venture. The wolf king was hunting her. She can clearly see the markers of a witch. It would be nice to not be so alone… “Are you a witch, too?” I ask, before fantasies of a companion can overtake me.
She brings her attention back to me. Those all-black eyes of hers are like hollow pits. Deep enough to swallow me whole.
“I am not.”
“Then how were you in the woods?” If there is a weak point of the barrier somewhere, I should know and fix it quickly, before the wolf king can exploit it. Humans should grow more and more discomforted the closer they get to the woods—driven to turning around before they can enter.
“I am of a magical sort, though not a witch,” she says softly.
“What?” She now has my sole focus. “Fae? Elf?” Perhaps the stories of their pointed ears were wrong.
She shakes her head.
“Vampir?”
More shaking.
“You said you were not a lykin,” I remember.
“I am not.” That rejection is firmer than all the others.
“Then…”
