“Lillai. Lillai. Lillai,” Gran murmured, as if savoring the name on her tongue. “Lillai, child of Marko, is blessed by flame.”
“What?” Cam pressed his sister’s face into his neck, bouncing her again in a vain attempt to quiet her so he could hear Gran’s words.
“It will embrace her as it has embraced me,” Gran continued. “Lillai shall not burn, she shall have no fear of this fire, for it is friend to her and friend to me.”
“I said I’m going to leave…”
Gran screeched to the heavens and the fire answered in kind, roaring as it leapt from her hand and onto Cam’s body. I’d never seen anything like it. The flames were a savage beast, and they feasted on him—his clothes, his skin, his flesh. His once-fair skin puckered and turned black. His brows and lashes burned away, and his wolf-gray eyes seared shut forever. He thrashed, screaming in agony, staggering as if he could escape, but there was nowhere to go. The fire wanted him, and him alone, and it didn’t stop rampaging until he fell to the ground, thudding like the torches he’d thrown onto our vardo floor.
My heart hammered in my chest. My blood raced through my veins. I was afraid, but of what? Gran? The magic? Both? The air stank of scorched meat and burned hair, and the black smoke was even thicker than the night’s fog. Gran was close enough to me that I could see her beckoning, but it wasn’t me she called, but her fire. It returned to her hand with a hiss, the blaze shrinking enough to shimmy upon her palm.
“Rest well, my old friend. Until we meet again,” she whispered. The fire flared one last time, bright and brilliant like the sun, then winked away as if it’d never been there at all. Her eyes met mine over the coil of lingering smoke.
It was a challenge. It was a promise.
I wasn’t ready for either.
Inside the billowing smoke, an infant whimpered. Lillai was alive despite the inferno, and her parents shrieked their relief. They’d lost a son already—an unfathomable cruelty. To have to burn the possessions of two children in their mourning would have been Hell itself.
A strange wind stirred, harsh and foreign on such a still, foggy night. I glanced Gran’s way and noticed her whispering under her breath. She was calling the gales as she’d called them the night of the blood moon. Then it had been a tool to terrify. Now the wind revealed terror, but also mercy. With the smoke blown away, we could see one well child and one very dead one.
Cam looked like he’d been sculpted from soot. His body was blackened from head to toe, what was left of his face forever contorted in a scream. Clutched in his arms was a baby. Not only had Lillai been spared the worst of the flame, her white nightgown was free of ash. She was as whole as she’d been before the ordeal, save for Cam’s nick to her shoulder.
Cam’s parents collapsed beside their children. Myri pried Lillai from Cam’s arms and clutched her to her chest as Marko wept over his son’s body. Cam had been a murderous bastard—nearly twice so with the vardo fire—but at one time he’d been Marko’s greatest joy. Eldest boys were prized among the clan.
Gran nudged me with her cane. “Take an ear and leave them to their grief.”
“Now?” I looked around. Not only did we have an audience surrounding us, but Marko and Myri’s grief was palpable. Desecrating Cam’s corpse in front of them felt irreverent and wrong.
Gran didn’t see it that way, or she just didn’t care. She shoved me at them, her hand on the small of my back. I stumbled forward, but I stopped.
“I can’t,” I snarled at her over my shoulder. I never would have dared such insubordination before the blood moon, but I’d grown brazen since.
She didn’t seem to care about that either, peering at me from beneath her brows, her hands resting comfortably on her cane. “Do not go soft, Bethan. We are too far along. A third piece of five brings us closer to your diddicoy’s return.”
The reminder of why I’d agreed to these horrors in the first place was enough to spur me on, though I resented her for it with my whole heart. I edged toward Marko, the knife at my side cocked and ready. He lifted his face to me, and I tried to ignore the tears running down his cheeks.
“One thing. A small thing, and then you can put him to ground,” I said. I leaned forward, poising the blade above Cam’s black, shriveled ear. I kept expecting Marko to stop me, but he eased away to gather his weeping wife into his arms. The two of them turned their backs to me, shielding Lillai from my odious chore.
I knew then that they would likely never look upon me with kindness again. I was as good as dead to them, and forever unclean. They would not be the only ones, either; there were more than twenty pairs of eyes upon me. Still, no one uttered a word as I sawed the ear from Cam’s head. I’d forgotten the gloves, so I had to touch it. The severed piece was a revolting texture, a cross between a gooey date and a piece of leather, and I wrapped it in my shawl as I hurried back to Gran’s side.
For the first time since we’d started our dark business, I felt true fear. Fear that I’d damned myself for eternity, fear that my people would never accept me. But we’d come too far for me to abandon Martyn. We needed only two more tithes and he’d be restored. One more day and we could bring him back. I could hold it together until then.
I had to hold it together until then, for his sake.
Gran hooked her hand under my elbow and guided me away from the scene as our people floated to their homes like silent ghosts. We rounded our corner right as the elder Mikel was hammering an ill-fitting door onto the front of our vardo. Harvesting Cam hadn’t taken very long, but the chieftain had wasted no time assisting us. He probably hoped it would buy him favor with Gran.
“Drabarni. Bethan,” Mikel said, bowing his head in respect, but his smile never reached his eyes. He’d probably heard about Cam.
Or Tomašis. Or Brishen.
“Mikel. God bless you for fixing our door.”
“It’s temporary, I’m afraid. There’ll be a draft tonight, but I will send one of my sons over to right it in the morning.” He gathered his tools and turned to go.
“No, not tomorrow. The day after,” Gran called. “We will be too busy for distractions tomorrow.”
Either Mikel didn’t understand Gran’s subtext or he chose to ignore it. He sketched a bow that would have done a courtly gentleman proud, his hammer cocked to the side like a royal scepter. “Of course. Good night, ladies.” He retrieved his can of nails and strode off into the sweeping fog.
Gran waited for me to light the oil lantern and eyed the wooden frame. The door was crooked enough that I could wedge at least three fingers through the widest gap. “Of all the people to send, they send that one, the old buffoon.”
She sighed and returned her cane to the bucket by the door. “Your diddicoy looks well, outside of some smoky feet. That is good. Now you must prepare Mander’s cantrip so you can deliver the living dream before dawn. I thought we would have the full three days to complete our preparations, but I trust neither Wen nor the remaining boys. They will run. Of that, I am sure.” Gran pulled the dwayberry sprig and the tangle of dream yarns from the ceiling. She slid them before me along with Thomson’s straw pieces and Mander’s spit cup. “Tether everything together with a nightmare-drenched thread. It will make strong magic.”
She unwove a red yarn from the rainbow of colors, snapping two feet off and spooling it on the table. I glanced at the spit cup and frowned. It was black and sludgy with spent tobacco, and I didn’t want to touch it. Sensing my reluctance, Gran tsked and offered me a bristle brush with a wooden handle.
“You are so squeamish. Tie the straw to the nightshade. When it is bundled, brush Mander’s saliva over it. We will need one drop of blood to bind it to you so you may see what Mander sees, to share in his nightmare without suffering the affliction.”
I assembled everything as she’d instructed, making sure to fashion a handle out of the excess yarn so I could carry the totem without having to touch any spit. “Will anyone else see it? Thomson, I mean?”
“No, o
nly you and Mander. You must work hard for this, Bethan. Concentrate on the scarecrow’s finer details—what it looked like, what it smelled like. The more Mander believes in the vision, the stronger it becomes. I knew a Welsh witch who conjured dreams so potent, they were tactile and had scents. She taught me that the key to this enchantment is strong imagination.”
“If I’m concentrating on willing Thomson to life, how can I take my tithe from Mander? Won’t my distraction weaken the vision?”
She grinned at me, wide enough that I could see the chipped canine on the right side of her mouth. “The beauty of this spell is that once you milk Mander for his terror, his fear fuels the effect. While he is crippled, you can will the scarecrow to do your bidding—to hold Mander still so you can work.”
“I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t thrilled with the scenario. It felt like a lot could go wrong, like it was less certain than the roots. If the vision wasn’t strong enough, Mander wouldn’t be afraid, and if he wasn’t afraid, he wouldn’t hold still so I could harvest the fingers.
I glanced down at Martyn’s still form.
What choice do I have?
I dipped the brush into the tobacco cup and coated the nightshade. I took my time with the berries and papery flowers, ensuring that every part was saturated. I painted the straw last, and lifted the charm off the table to inspect it. The bundle swayed back and forth like a pendulum. Gran took it from me to give it her own examination, flicking it with the tip of her long fingernail.
“Good.” She nodded. “Now your blood.” She reached for me and I braced for another brutal slice, but instead, she pulled a sewing needle from her basket and poked it into the side of my knuckle. It was gentle compared to my previous bleedings. “Just a drop,” she said, rotating my finger and aiming the flow at the nightshade. Blood splashed down on the leaves before attaching to the fibrous yarn and staining it dark. “That is enough. If Silas’s ritual requires blood price, I will provide it myself. I do not want to overtax your body.”
She’d never alluded to the plan for Silas before, and I found myself hungry for details. I wanted to hurt him. The rest of the boys had been fodder—they’d been donors to the spell that would restore Martyn’s life. Cam’s loss was unfortunate, but we’d only reaped what he’d sown. With Silas, a sick part of me wanted to even the score. “An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind,” Gran once said to me, but for Silas, I was willing to accept that consequence.
Perhaps hurting him would lessen my own hurt.
“What plans do we have for Silas?” I asked, leaning across the table.
“Mander first, Bethan. I do not want you distracted when you conjure the vision. For now, it is time for sleep. Dawn comes quick.”
I sulked, but Gran paid me no heed. She put away our ritual supplies and hung the nightmare charm from a hook to let it dry. I crawled beneath my cold blankets, hoping my natural heat would be enough to keep the chill at bay. Behind me, Gran hung an afghan over the door and blew out the lantern. I could hear her shuffling back to her bed in the dark.
I fell asleep with chattering teeth, and when I woke hours later, it was even colder. Gran was awake already, humming. Her speaking voice was all rocks and razors, but her voice softened when she sang. It was still throaty, but there was a sweet trill to her high notes and a soothing vibrato to the low ones that made her pleasant to listen to.
It wasn’t even close to dawn yet, but warm light spilled through the vardo from a half dozen beeswax candles she’d lit upon the table. Normally she preferred oil lamps, but by the placement of the honeycomb pillars and the wooden collection plates beneath them, I had to assume there was a reason for her choice, but I was too tired to ask what it might be.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. My gaze followed Gran, and I wondered if she’d slept at all. She looked no worse for the wear, though; she was hunched over a swath of dark fabric, her sewing needle flashing as she stitched something into it. A fresh bandage encased her hand, matching my own.
“There is fog still—good atmosphere for your visit with Mander. I have a chore for you along the way, though,” she said. “It should be quick.”
I danced around on one foot as I pulled on one of my boots. The previous night’s smoke had polluted my hair, but there wasn’t much I could do about it beyond rubbing in a sprinkle of Gran’s talc. The stench of Cam’s fire would linger until the vardo and I both had a good airing out. “What is it?”
“Wen’s hat.” Gran lifted it up to show me, giving it a good shake to puff out the top to a proper muffin shape. “Leave it on his vardo step on your way to see Mander.” It hadn’t occurred to me until then that the chieftain hadn’t worn his hat since the blood moon. It was his favorite—he rarely took it off—and yet he’d been bareheaded for two days. I’d assumed he’d left it in the wheat field, where it had fallen off, but Gran must have snagged it. I wasn’t sure why she had repaired it for him. They were friends, yes, but her courtesy went above and beyond the usual.
“Why did you—”
“That is my business,” she said, cutting me off. Gran motioned at the stack of linen beside the washbasins. “Take one of the older aprons. Yesterday’s is unsalvageable.”
I chose a dark-blue apron that tied off around the neck and waist, faded flower embroidery decorating the neckline and the edging of the big pocket. It was far too festive for its business, but I didn’t want to ruin one of the better ones. I snagged my cat fetish, the chieftain’s hat, and the spit-covered totem with the strange tobacco odor. I was reaching for the knife when Gran motioned at me to wait. She pulled open the bureau drawer and rummaged around until she found a black steel hatchet. She offered it to me handle first.
“To take Mander’s fingers. Two ought to do. Silas can be the nose when it is his turn.”
“He has cut it off to spite his face enough,” I said. “It seems apt.”
Gran nodded and pushed herself up from the table to pull the afghan aside for me. “Be thorough. Be efficient. Most of all, be safe.”
I dropped the hatchet into the apron pocket and pushed past her. Before I got down the steps, Gran clapped a hand on my shoulder. I glanced back at her, and she leaned toward me to wrap a shawl around my body.
“Do not forget to leave the hat, and when you get to Mander, lure him out of his vardo. His parents ought not to be involved. They will not be able to see what he sees, and it will confuse them. Also, destroy the bundle after you are finished with the nightmare. That is imperative.”
“Why?”
“Because a nightmare is never a static thing. It is the same with all dreams, yes? It is their nature to change when you least expect them to. If you are not careful, the scarecrow could grow beyond your control. I would not have you a victim of your own conjuring.”
I didn’t want to consider what an unchecked Thomson could do. If destroying the totem meant I could spare myself that vision, I’d tear it into three thousand pieces. “I understand, Gran.”
Gran looped an arm around my neck and pulled me down to press a dry kiss to the top of my head. “Of course you understand. You are mine. The secret to magic is not the words but the steel of your will. And you, my daughter, are proving to be ironclad.”
Standing outside Mander’s tent in the early dawn, fog swirling around me, a cat figurine clasped in one hand and a nightmare bundle in the other, I wished I had more of the steel Gran talked about. Many things depended on me getting the living dream right, but I had so little information. “Strong imagination,” Gran had said. I supposed it was simply another exercise in channeling my will, but her instructions were even vaguer than they’d been with the roots I used for Brishen.
I didn’t like so much guessing.
I closed my eyes, sucking in the cold, wet air to quell my pounding heart. It was time to conjure a nightmare.
I lifted my hands and pressed my palms together, weaving my fingers. The yarn of the totem hung against the wood of the cat
fetish. I breathed deeply, searching for that still place where magic was born.
The early-morning quiet made it easy to fall into the lull—the only sounds were the creaking of a shifting vardo, the gentle shiver of wind on Mander’s window, and the trill of a hungry farm cat. I dropped my head, my chin touching my chest, and pictured Thomson as I’d first seen him. I remembered the grim, red-yarned mouth and the black-stitched eyes. Tufts of straw speared his floppy hat, and his burlap-sack head was tied off by a cord of fraying rope. Huge arms, huge legs, and patch-riddled overalls.
“Live for me. Be real, Thomson. Be real. I need you to be real,” I whispered. It became a mantra, imploring the scarecrow to rise from the tattered straw pieces twined around the dwayberry.
“Come to me. Help me, Thomson; please be real,” I pleaded.
My other spells built in intensity over time, but the living dream flared right away. The first thing I felt was a pulse beneath the skin. My eyes flew open as the flesh on my hands rippled, like something pushed at it from the inside. Then there was the heat. Warm became hot, and hot became agony. Blisters peppered my fingers and palms. A fat blister in the webbing between my thumb and forefinger burst open to seep fluid down my wrist. I gasped and clutched the cantrip, terrified dropping it would weaken the spell, but how it hurt! Tears rained down my cheeks as my skin boiled.
I was in so much pain that I almost didn’t see the green cloud. It spawned some feet away, massive and quickly expanding, its center contracting to the rhythm of my slamming heart. I stumbled back, my fear rising as the cloud grew wider and taller. The initial shape was a mishmash of lumps and hills, but the longer I stared, the more defined it became, until I could discern a head, arms, and legs. There was the tilt of a hat, and a spray of straw fanning out around the neck like a lion’s mane.
Thomson had come.
The magic flared hot one last time, and I groaned before it dulled to a more bearable thrum. The blisters receded into my flesh. The yarn stopped trying to burn its way through my palm.
The Hollow Girl Page 17