Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

  In the house beyond my prison—a place I have avoided over my last three days of freedom with deliberateness—she’d lived and I’d watched. She wasn’t one who could have freed me, yet she fascinated me still.

  Before escaping the forest, it had been so long since I’d seen a woman with clear vision. A real woman, not a pale figment of my imagination or some too-real apparition conjured by a spiteful fairy. My mind goes back to Arianna, the miniscule troublemaker I’ve left trapped in a tree. Trapped for eternity, thanks to the help of one of the dark ones. Perhaps I should see some parallel there—that I used magic to ensnare another creature like I was ensnared.

  The difference was that the meddlesome sprite deserved what she got. I hadn’t. I’d only been doing my duty as a Christian. Find the evil. Slay the evil. That’s what I thought I was doing. I remind myself. She warped my mind, made me see what wasn’t there.

  And the evil always resided within womenfolk. Men were too sensible.

  Women.

  Remember. It wasn’t all true. They weren’t witches. Shaking my head, I clear the visions there, the evil sneaking in. I’ve been able to separate myself from the darkness that’s lived within me for so long, now that I’ve escaped the confines of the forest. I am not something that should live in the shadows. I am not the evil in the world.

  I am not.

  I breathe in again as the artist passes my table once more. She has placed one of the papers on the front door of the building she’d approached. A man was already outside looking at it and removing it. From the distance, I can make out the generalized features of a face and a large word printed in bold: MISSING.

  Looking away from the man crumpling the paper into a ball, I see her place another paper on a pole. She is near enough that the smells of her float back to me like an airborne nectar, an ambrosia worthy of an angel’s table. I stare at her as she walks away. I do not need to turn to do so, I simply call on the sight and there she is—the whole of her in my mind’s eye. As I take another sip of espresso, I watch her open a car door and place the remaining papers on the front seat. Tilda’s face. I cannot help the smirk that snakes onto my mouth as I think of the girl who has taken my place in purgatory.

  Power tingles in my fingers.

  My magic now.

  The door is closed now and she is walking even further from where I sit, far enough that I could not see her with my physical eyes even if I wanted to.

  Reaching out to her with more force, tendrils of magic floating and stretching to where she walks, I taste how she is feeling. It mingles with the coffee and I do not dislike the combination. She is… upset. There’s a hint of anger there and desperation also. I recognize, with some degree of satisfaction, that it was my actions that have caused her to feel this way. Reaching further, concentrating harder, I look into her mind and I see troublesome images of the awakened witch—the young girl with such power. So powerful that she was able to yank the magic back from me during my very first hour of hard-won freedom. It had only been for an instant, but it had been long enough to make me fear… and wonder what she’d done with the magic. Because, when it was back to me, it would not betray the secret. It would not betray her. It belonged to her by right.

  She’s called the power back to her three times more since that initial drawing. I feel what she is doing—studying the way I once studied in my desperate pursuit of power and freedom. How long will it be before she finds a way to defeat me? To reverse what I have done?

  Fear that I would be sent back to that prison in the trees—to live as less-than-a-man moving in the shade, to only observe the outside world in spirit, so transparent that I could not even feel wind on my face—was like a poison in my mind. And then those I tortured… I do not think that, if I am forced to return to my cage, I will survive.

  So I will not go back to that.

  I will kill myself first.

  But no. Cowardly. Not the answer.

  Killing myself would release the magic and break the binding spell that held it to me. And if the spell was broken, then the magic would return to its rightful owner. So there was only one solution. Be stronger than the girl. Stay alive.

  I’m snapped back to the artist by her voice whispering in my psyche. She is arguing with someone and standing in front of a long, high desk in a corporate-looking building with lower ceilings and fluctuating, harsh lighting. I refocus, bringing the picture of her back into full clarity.

  “You have to organize a search. She’s been missing for three days. Three days. Do you know how far she could be now if someone took her?” The petite woman hits her palms against the tabletop of a desk.

  “She’s legally an adult. You have no proof that she didn’t just pick up and leave.” The man she’s speaking with is trying to be patient. She deserves his patience and the little tinge of irritation in his tone makes me angry for some reason.

  “Are you mental?” I jump, nearly spilling the remnants of my drink as her palms slam into the tabletop. I am feeling her so keenly, more so than I expected to. I’ve forged a tenuous link between us by delving into her emotional state and it is affecting me. It is making me see her, really see her. She is not a beauty like Elisabeth’s true form was, but she is attractive in her own way, lovely in her own way. “She’s paralyzed. She can’t walk. She can’t drive. How far do you think she could get on her own?” She’s almost screaming now and the man behind the counter is staring at her with wide eyes. Two other men are walking up behind him. Back-up. Back-up against the distraught woman.

  “Ma’am, you need to stay calm. Officer Pollack is right. You don’t have any proof. Now, we’ve put out a BOLO on Matilda, reached out to nearby counties. We are taking this seriously.”

  “Don’t call her Matilda. She doesn’t like that. She doesn’t.” The artist’s voice crumples and I can feel how she is sinking inward within herself, the feelings collapsing her heart.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We are taking the matter of finding your niece seriously.”

  “But I told you she disappeared into the woods near our house. That’s where we should be looking. We need to search the forest. It’s in the forest.” The artist’s voice sounds tired up until that last sentence. When she mentions the it in the forest… when she mentions me… I hear fear.

  “What’s in the forest, ma’am?” The officer’s irritation is gone. I see through her eyes for a split second. I see the way the man’s eyebrows stich closer together. There is concern for her wellbeing; there is understanding. There is sadness. I jump out of her consciousness and into his. He is thinking how attractive she is, how much he’d like to find Tilda and take away the worry she wears on her shoulders. Beneath that desire is another thought—that he would ask her out, if the circumstances were different.

  My lips form a frown. I do not like that he thinks of the artist this way. I concentrate and return to her mind, leaving his behind.

  ‘Ask her out’. Things have changed so much since my day of courtship.

  The artist shakes her head, wipes her forehead with a quick movement—her fingers come away slightly damp. “Not it… Tilda. We have to find Tilda. If we wait too long…” There’s a pain growing in her temple, sharp and unyielding. I know what it is. Her mind is trying to remember things she was made to forget. Her reality is shifting. And that is something I too have caused. For a quickly-passing second, I feel guilt. But then it is gone.

  I need to exit her, leave her be. The longer the magic touches her, the easier it will be for her to break the barrier and find the memories that lie already so close to the surface of her reality.

  “Can I get you a refill, Sir?”

  “Ma’am, why don’t you sit for a moment? Maybe some water would help.” A tall man is leading my artist to a nearby chair. In seconds, a second man settles a cool cup of water into her hands. The temperature difference between her cup and my mug begins to pull me out of the sight.

  “Sir?” And then I can no longer see her or feel the cold warri
ng with the hot. “Sir?”

  “What?” I ask it curtly. I’ve not completely acclimated to being fully back in the café instead of observing her.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to know if you’d like another refill.”

  My eyes move to take in the squat woman with the large mole and messy ponytail. “No. I’m done. Thank you.”

  “I’ll bring the bill then.” She turns to leave.

  “No, Miss.” I wave my left hand quickly beneath the table and mutter a few choice words under my breath, nearly inaudible so there is no chance she will overhear or, if she does, my swift speech will be unintelligible. “I’ve already paid what I owe.”

  Twisting at the waist to look back at me, she seems confused. They’re all so easily confused. “I didn’t bring you the bill already, did I?”

  I glance down at my empty cup. “You brought it with this refill. Would you like me to show you?” I shift as if to retrieve a wallet from a back pocket. In truth, I have no wallet and no money. Who needs worthless paper and coin when magic is limitless?

  “No, no of course I did. I’m sorry.” She turns from me and I can see how she is shaking her head slowly, trying dislodge the discomfort that my invasion into her psyche has caused. It will take her some time, a half an hour perhaps, to become her own self again. She won’t remember me though—my face, my behavior. So I will come again tomorrow, a complete stranger, to drink and eat for free. I have done this daily since the evening of my escape. This method is also how I have dressed myself in modern clothes. I debated cutting my hair- going with what seems to be the norm now for upstanding men my age, short cropped and neatly styled. But I have also seen men with long hair, wearing it tied in the back like I once did. So I could not chop it off. I feel it would have made me feel naked… or lesser.

  “Do you feel better now, ma’am?”

  I am thrown into her surroundings again, but this time it is not of my own volition. I should be in complete control. The sight should only come when I call it. That means she is meddling. Yet… I do not believe it is the weakened and aged fledgling alone. She knows so little of magic, of power and summoning and sight. Someone is aiding her. And, by the taste on my tongue, the residual flavor left behind by a foreign persona invading my aura, I know that it is another descendent of Elisabeth. One that is in spirit form.

  There is something else flitting about my subconscious, but the sensation moves so quickly that its origin eludes me.

  “No. How could I possibly feel better? She’s my responsibility. It was my job to keep her safe. God, what would Heather say? I’m always in my own world. I should have been more observant. I should have watched her like a hawk.” She cradles her face with her hands, sobs shaking her shoulders.

  A large hand touches her shoulder. “Sometimes, even the best parents find themselves in unexpected and terrible situations. You can’t beat yourself up. You’re doing everything you can.” I feel the warmth of her small smile as if it is beaming like the sun down upon my bare skin. Even though it is a very little gesture, a barely-there display of emotion, I know that my artist has taken his kind words to heart. It does not do much to quiet the worry in her head though.

  A flash of pain pulls me to the café and I realize that I have balled my hands into such tight fists that my nails are marking my palms. I instantly go back to her. And his hand is still touching her. My artist.

  It is only then that I realize that I have been using ‘my’ to describe her. I have possessed her with my words. I do not like these feelings. I do not want these feelings.

  “I have to find her, Officer Wheaton.”

  “Is there anyone you can call to come and get you?”

  “No one I want to call.” A quick flash of mental images shows me an older couple, the man’s arm resting across the woman’s lap as they sit on a couch. They are both reading and both resemble the artist in some way… although… No, the likeness is not strong, only expected- like I am seeing similarities because you expect to. These are the artist’s parents. It’s strange to see them. I probe further, bringing the realness of them into me. Yes, the mother is a descendent of Elisabeth. And then it strikes me. The difference between the artist and her mother, between the artist and her deceased sister.

  “Let me drive you home then.”

  The man’s words snap me away from the revelation that was building. Jealousy ignites like wildfire within me. It’s ridiculous, to feel this way. But then again… I’ve observed her from the shadows since she was a child. She used to play in my prison, prancing about with total abandon—unlike the other one, who was never allowed past the fence line.

  I shake my head, a violent jerk that threatens to unsettle the coffee from my stomach. These feelings… these emotions are like venom. I did not fight for my freedom to lose it to some less-than-extraordinary woman. I will not give into baser instincts. I am superior to normal humans in every way. I will continue to act like it.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is soft, transparent petals floating on a breeze. Officer Wheaton is closing her door, even bending down to make sure her skirt is fully tucked into the vehicle. She is looking at him like she is seeing the world around her, after being blind for too long. My fingers flex, forming a fist and then releasing. I perform the action again and again, before I realize what I am doing.

  And then she is grabbing at her throat, gasping for air, the man is wrenching open the door again to assess her condition.

  Once I realize what I am doing, I still my hands, I pull myself out of the sight, and I am awash with guilt for a second time. I’ve hurt her. And she’s what I would have once considered an innocent, despite her connection to those I hunt and hate.

  Standing from the café table, I walk away with stunted steps. I feel weak. What keeps me free is being drained away again, stolen back for long enough that I can hear the call of my cage. It wants me to return, only the vibrating power I am siphoning as my own keeps the siren scream at bay.

  In the distance, I see her standing, leaning against his car. His hand is once again on her shoulder. At that moment, had I had complete access to Elisabeth’s bloodline magic, I would have killed him.

  With a wave of my hand, a muttering of words, a flash of crimson light that only I would see…

  I’d kill him. Because I want her. Ridiculous. I am ridiculous. She is not worth even a lingering gaze, let alone murder in her name.

  I make myself focus on something else, anything else except her. Unfortunately, my gaze falls on one of her paintings displayed in a small shop window. I remember the painting vividly; there is no denying it is her creative spark on canvas. I’d hovered in the corner of her studio and watched her paint it. Large strokes. Quick strokes. Deliberate strokes. Whites, purples, and greens. It is the field beyond the house. The field that, in all of its beauty, further separated me from life for so long.

  Of course, all of my memories as a shadow are tainted with a fog. When I’d watched her work, lovingly moving the natural-fiber brush smeared with thick oils across the canvas, it had been unfocused. Like walking through the world with a vision impairment and no glasses. It had taken such effort to leave the forest in spirit. But once Tilda had arrived, I’d found a renewed strength. A new motivation. I hadn’t felt that way since her mother had been my pawn. That game, however, I’d lost.

  I stare at the colors. They have drawn me in and do not wish to release me.

  The initials along the bottom of the portrait are J.M.C.

  I had heard her name once, when she’d strayed too far into the forest. Her father had stood at the edge of the fence, calling loudly. His yell had threaded through the trees, disturbed the light and dark spirits so that they flitted in great, undulating, monochromatic masses. Like birds moving through the sky, creating dark clouds of ever-changing shape.

  Jenissa. Her last name was Clarke of course. But her middle name… I found myself wanting to know it, desperate to know it.

&nbs
p; This need, much like the table at the café, it reminds me that I am finally alive again. I can see in technicolor. In high definition.

  A car starts. His car, not hers. I refuse to look back at her as they drive away towards the house beyond the forest. I refuse to look back, but I send tendrils of the magic I now contain towards her and I urge her to forget about the thing in the forest, the thing she thinks she fears. I do not want her to fear me. So I make her forget.

  Untouchable

  -Tilda-

  Mom tells me how long it has been since I became a prisoner.

  And then I forget.

  Everything here seems an illusion.

  Arianna is flying above my head, creating ever wider circles and giving off sparkles that light the air, so bright that they seem to drown out the sun rays filtering through the trees. It is scary in the forest, scarier than I could have imagined only a short time ago, but seeing the fairy flying was something joyful within the terror.

  “Focus, Tilda.”

  “How am I supposed to focus with Arianna doing cartwheels?” I huff out, stamping my foot because I’m tired of how bossy Mom is being. Another thing that is making my time in the forest feel like an eternity. The funny thing is, I would have given anything to have my mom back, alive and bossing me around, not too long ago. God, I still want her back. But not here. Not now. Not like this. A ‘ghost’ who’s trying to ram magical knowledge down my throat like a prescription drug that’s necessary for me to live more than six months to a year.

  “Arianna, could you please rest for a while? It seems you’re a distraction.” Mom looks up at the fairy, flitting about like a cocaine addict, and smiles softy. “Yes, you are beautiful,” she says, as if replying to something the fairy has said, but hasn’t actually said.