When I’m back in my own body, Silas’s arm was wrapped around me, the taste of him on my lips. He was holding me still, chest rising and falling in tandem, and my nails were dug into his arm, tiny half crescent indents mar his skin.
“I-I there was—”
His face nuzzled into my neck as he stroked my hair, a calming touch as my mind shattered to what I witnessed. Blood. So much blood with someone in this vision murdered in front of his—her—my eyes.
Silas whispered, seductive and relaxing, “Shhh, you’re safe. Just sleep. I’ll be here for you to kill tomorrow morning. Just sleep, Little Dove.”
My eyelids fluttered, exhaustion calling as the strength from earlier faded quickly. I tried grasping on to stay conscious enough to dissect these visions. I drifted slowly and then, all at once, I fell limp in hisarms to be greeted in sleep by a woman’s voice in the depths.
Save him, Valeria. You are almost out of time.
Thirteen
I’d bury myself into the bowl of porridge or into scalding hot coffee if I could. When I awoke the next morning, Silas was gone, along with the mess of blood and herbs. The only convincing evidence of last night not being a dream was the silver knife on the nightstand and Silas’s nonchalant note.
I found this~
I focused on part of that night when the knife could have slipped from the bed covers. The more I retraced my thoughts on the matter, the more my cheeks burned. I slapped my face, compelled it was a dream—a hallucination in my lonely, confused mind. It would have explained the visions, hallucinations, and the clean floor, but it did not explain the wound.
Or lack thereof.
I took off the bandage this morning and discovered the marks Silas had left earlier were gone. Not even any faint scars to indicate the skin had been pierced. Overnight, the sickly hue had vanished, and for the first time in a while, my chest no longer ached. Silas’s blood had worked wonders, but there were more questions than answers.
Then there was the voice that puzzled me.
Save him.
I stabbed my spoon into the bowl with enough force to almost shatter it in two. The voice was a puzzle that did not make sense nor did the urgency of their message. Save who from what? Save Silas? What did he need to be saved from?—wasn’t it the other way around? At this point, I may very well have been crazy or slowly succumbing to isolation.
“Hard morning?” Ebony appeared, her eyes raised in a skeptical manner—or at least I think so. “Or a hard night?”
“I do not wish to divulge about last night.” I rubbed my head.
Ebony snickered. “Uh-huh, sure.” She held her hand up. “Say no more. Although, if you do wish to talk, I am happy to let you know I can keep a secret from you-know-who if you are worried about that.”
I sighed. “No, it’s not that. It’s—”
“Complicated. Believe me. I know that part perfectly well.”
I put the spoon down. There were no words to describe the feeling building in my chest and the confusion in my head. Months were passing by, and thelonger I was here, the more confused I became. Silas was a beast—a monster preying on poor, unfortunate souls and destroying innocent lives.
Yet—I had a hard time believing he was at fault. Am I wrong to judge him based on what little evidence was present? Silas had been kind if not a little rough, yet at the end of the day, I hardly knew him.
In all of this time, I had yet to figure out who the man was and the truth behind the name game in which I play night after night. If I wanted my freedom and to return to Endovier, I needed to find what it was he was hiding.
I needed answers.
I drank the rest of my coffee, collected my cloak, and headed toward Ayla’s cottage.
“What makes you think that it is the beast that is causing all the deaths in the village?” I asked as we wandered down the street.
The market square was busy in the early afternoon light. People happily bartered with each other—ignoring the darkness looming swiftly over their heads. Children ran through the streets, chasing after one another, squealing with delight. It was as if the village’s ignorance kept them blind to the true horrors stalking their neighborhoods at night.
Ayla picked up a squash, turning it over and inspecting the vegetable. “Who else would be causing such atrocities?”
“An illness, perhaps?” I pondered.
Ayla continued her inspection, handing me vegetable after vegetable to be placed in the basket. “Illnesses strike slowly and with cause—the deaths are swift and random. A mother can die in an afternoon, and her babe will remain unaffected despite sharing such a close quarter with one another.”
