He took his bleeding cut and smeared it over her arm like he was washing down a board for chopping meat. There were so many notes in the streaking red, crimson glisten and thinned rust.
The rabbits had been clinical, no different than a surgery or stitching. Neat. Planned.
This was birth.
His fingernails scraped a pattern over her stained skin, and the whispers were an invocation. With each syllable the smell of old ash rose around them, and her body froze as if bound by invisible rope.
‘Mihály...’ Even her jaw felt the pressure. Nothing about this was holy, and as the dead scent crawled down her throat and stopped her protests, she gagged.
The knife on her forearm drew a sharp slice. It was like pledging herself to the Church, she told herself as her fingers dug into his thigh. Ceremony and faith, real stars above instead of dying magic below. It only felt wrong because she was scared, and that was her own weakness.
‘Steady now.’ He jammed his thumb against the cut, opening it wide, as white pain sent her shuddering. ‘You have to be open to her. Let her in. Otherwise, she can’t stay. Say yes, my dear.’
The pressure on her head released to allow for the tiniest nod.
A buzz like locusts vibrated in her ears, under her skin, shaking her to the teeth with unnatural, discordant notes.Something cold moved on her exposed skin and hooked, more like the slide of slick leather than delicate spectral hands.
Her chest jerked upwards outside her own power and she groaned. His free hand slapped over her mouth, stifling any sounds, and the panic of drowning set in, her gasps against his palm like the desperation for air. This was wrong. This was no ghost. This was a thing she’d seen in old books and nightmares, and...
The darkness set on her wound like a suckling babe on a breast, ice filling her veins. Every scream was stoppered in her throat as the Shadow found a home. It laced itself inside, thin as a razor blade, cutting as a garrotte. And everywhere it settled, she felt its hunger. Notes of bile and copper filled her mouth, and her heartbeat felt sluggish. The sound of each pulse was far away, like it was beating from the bottom of a pit.
‘There,’ Mihály whispered, freeing her mouth and pushing the raw edges of the wound together. ‘There, my sweet. I’ve saved you now.’ There was wonder in his voice. He bent close, lips on her bruised ones, his breath and falling tears the warmest thing on her.
She jerked away from the kiss, legs bracing with an urge to stand. ‘Mihály,’ she managed through chattering teeth and what felt like a hand on her mouth, ‘what did you do?’
‘It might be uncomfortable for a moment.’ His breath had a far-away hiss as she pushed herself up, balance coltish. She felt heavy and dissolving at once, and the pressure of the ground under her feet was unnerving.
‘Mihály . . .’
‘Hush, Evie.’ He struggled to his own feet, right hand clamped to his forearm. She couldn’t quite stop the blood dripping down her arm, watering the grass with rich rain.
Do I sound like Evie?she wanted to say, but there was too much pressure in her head, under her skin, in her lungs.She pitched forward and he caught her, her back becoming a compress as he locked his arms around her. She forced herself to push away enough to raise her head and meet his eyes. ‘Mihály. I’m not...’
She had just enough consciousness to watch his expression change before her eyes rolled back and everything went dark.
?
She woke in front of a fire, wrapped in furs. Dimly, she recognized the small and bare space as Tamas’ house, and the angry voices behind her as Mihály and his mentor. She raised her hand to look at it in the red-tinged glow. It looked as it always did, scars and all. When she put it against her cheek, it was warm. Everything seemed as it should be, though her dress was filthy with dirt and her arm throbbed.
‘You didn’t do anything except send her into shock, which even you should have known enough to recognise, and cut yourself and her in a garden likely filled with fertilising pig shit. What were you even thinking?’
‘I didsomething. Evie is gone—’
‘If she was ever there, you delusional, arrogant—’
Csilla pulled herself up, the movement cutting off the argument. There was hope in Mihály’s indrawn breath, worry in Tamas’s. They were in the house, but she couldn’t tell how many hours had passed. She’d been unconscious long enough for Mihály to call for a second opinion.
‘I’d like some water,’ she said, voice cracking with the words. Her throat was raw, strange since she remembered not screaming. Her old scars ached in a way they hadn’t since she was very young.
‘Evie,’ Mihály tried, but she shrunk back before he could reach for her.
‘Csilla.’ She meant the word as a slap, and by his recoil, it hit. But it wasn’t entirely enough to deter him; he knelt by her side and after a moment she leaned against him, grateful for the firm support.
‘You don’t feel any different?’ Helookeddifferent. His skin was sallow, dull, but his eyes were clearer than they had been.
She shook her head. She couldn’t even say it wasn’t the outcome she’d hoped for. Maybe it was her fault; Evie had sensed her doubts and refused to make a home in Csilla.
‘I feel ill, but not different.’ She ran an experimental hand down her torso. The strange cold and hunger were gone, a nightmare evaporating in the dawn light.
