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She struggled beneath me, scratching at my skin. Snarling like a wild animal. She even bit into my thigh. I was horrified. The Ana I had come to care for was gone, unrecognizable. A monster. I cried out in pain but kept my arms steady as I slashed through the final thread.

When it severed, triumph surged through me. The glowing eye vanished, taking the shadows with it. Ana collapsed, her body limp.

“Quick, the holy water,” I called to Nikola.

But as he reached to hand it to me, the door crashed open.

I only remember the rest in fragments:

A scream. Ana!

Me, frozen above her, gripping the knife.

Marko in the doorway, his face twisted in horror. Antula, a step behind him.

And Nera—I thought of her then, bound to the pyre, the flames rising to consume her.

As Marko charged into the room, Nikola leapt to block him. In their struggle, the bottle of holy water shattered on the floor. Panic surged through me—Ana needed that. But Marko was screaming like a madman, threatening to kill me, calling me all sorts of vile names.

Nikola shouted for me to go, and I didn’t hesitate. I bolted down the stairs, out the back door, through the village. I’ve never run so fast in my life. I didn’t know if anyone was chasing me. All I could think of was the holy water. That Ana hadn’t drunk it. That Marko wasn’t supposed to come home.

And that I had—completely and irrevocably—failed.

As soon as I arrived home, I gathered as many things as I could carry, for there was murder in Marko’s eyes. I did not feel safe there, where he could easily find me. I needed to hide, though I wasn’t sure where. Then I thought of the bunja behind the cemetery. I sometimes rested there, when I needed a break from my foraging.

That is where I am now, writing this. Though it’s morning, the darkness inside this stone shelter makes it feel like eternal night.

I pray Nikola will defend me, explain to his father what truly happened, how much I tried to help Ana. I long to speak to him again, though the fear of returning to the village paralyzes me.

My soul has never been so tormented. One moment, I think I should go back to Lavender House, give Ana a fresh bottle of holy water. The next, I want to hurl myself into the sea and swim as far as I can from this place.

Please, God, let Ana live.

Twenty-Five

Magdalena

10 July 1895

Ana is dead.

I knew it in my heart as soon as I heard the church bells echo in the distance. A crazed madness came over me as I ran toward the sound. Sure enough, nearly the whole village was gathered at the cemetery. I hid behind some trees and watched as they lowered Ana’s body into the ground. Nikola and Marko were dressed in black, both standing solemnly beside Father Stipan as he read from the Bible. Dobrila was just behind, patting at her face with a handkerchief.

I wished with all my heart to go to Nikola, to hold him, to comfort him, to apologize for everything. But I thought it wiser to keep my distance. I said a prayer for Ana and wept long after everyone left. I will always remember her kindness. Her gentle touch. Not the monster she became during the exorcism.

Eventually, as darkness began to creep over the horizon, I decided to check on our home. Majko, it is awful, what they have done.

Our home is gone. Only a mound of rubble stands in its place. The smell of smoke hung in the air and the grass around it was singed black—I suspect it was burned down by Marko, in revenge for what happened to Ana. I didn’t think I could fit any more sadness in my body. I had grown up in that home. Healed countless people. It was where both you and Otac died. And now it was just a pile of rocks. What am I without that place? A lutalica, no better than a wandering stray. Now I truly have no place where I belong.

But the terrors did not end there.

For as I wound my way through the outskirts of town, back to the bunja, I saw Marko again with a group of men from the village. They carried torches, listening to him speak from upon a drystone wall. I caught a few words of his angry speech. He was telling them to carry iron and holy water. And that there would be a reward for my death. I say my, though he did not call me by name.

Instead, he called me a mora.

“The mora killed my wife,” he ranted. “She’s been feeding off her soul for weeks, and then I saw her sitting on my dear wife’s chest with a knife.”

This earned riled shouts from the crowd.