Demon in the Whitelands

by Nikki Z. Richard

  Samuel reached for the door’s handle. He didn’t want to argue.

  “Let him be,” the sheriff said calmly. He gave a nod in the direction of the mirror. “Don’t be soft, Samuel. Stay alive.”

  “Thank you,” Samuel said.

  “You’re family,” the sheriff said with a mumble. “No need to say thanks. Get your ass out of my jeep.”

  Charles sank into the seat, crossing his arms. “You’ll come back,” he said stubbornly. “You’ll have to come back. When everything settles down. Promise me, Sam. You will come back.”

  Samuel gave a reluctant nod before hopping out of the jeep. It was best for him to do nothing and not to look back. The groan of the engine faded as Samuel opened the front door to the cabin. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the cabin’s darkness. He went to the fireplace and started a fresh fire, the flames illuminating the room. He tossed his backpack to the ground, reacclimating himself with the place that had been his home for so long. He went to the kitchen and grazed the counter with his fingers. The place smelled the same, like burnt wood and herbal spices. He got on his tiptoes and rummaged through the high cabinets, finding the canister of his father’s tealeaves. He brewed himself a cup, the smell permeating his nostrils. He sat down by his father’s desk, staring at the old photograph of his mother. Her dark eyes radiated through her thick-framed glasses.

  Samuel rubbed the photograph with his thumb. If only his father had lived a different life. He could’ve grown up knowing a mother’s touch. He could’ve experienced a softer side of his father, one that wasn’t plagued by guilt and regret.

  Samuel winced. His breathing stopped for a moment as he waited for the pain to dull. The burned mark on his arm reminded him he couldn’t escape the roots. As hard as he tried to forget, his father’s words would always be with him, pushing him, tormenting him, guiding him. He would rather nurse his doubts and curse his father’s faith as misguided. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know if he could ever be sure if there was some benevolent being watching over humanity. He didn’t know if there was such a thing as life after death. Even so, Samuel hoped against hope that his father’s soul would be forever connected to Azhuel’s roots, that he would rest alongside his mother, and that they both could lie together in peace the way they never could in life.

  Samuel’s breaths were constricted. There was a constant weight pressing on his chest that he couldn’t keep ignoring. He hated himself. He was a liar. A coward. And now, a murderer. He was the reason why Claudette’s father was dead. He should’ve stopped Zei, but he didn’t. He was the reason why his father was dead, because he sent him off into a trap. He was the one who slit the mayor’s throat. The citizens weren’t wrong in their resentment of Samuel. He was the reason so many of them had died. He was the reason Claudette would cry herself to sleep for nights on end.

  Samuel propped his chin and saw the leather-bound scriptures resting on the opposite end of the desk. He grabbed the book and slid it closer. There was something tucked inside of the scriptures that bulked up the pages. He opened the book and saw the throwing knife he’d given to his father after Wilkens’s funeral. The knife was tucked into the spine.

  He carefully lifted the knife and began to read.

  The wind rapped against the outside walls, and the wooden planks creaked along with every rhythmic gust. Night had come. Samuel jabbed the smoldering embers with the poker. He scooted back and pulled the ends of the woolly blanket over his shoulders. The flames inside the fireplace cackled as they consumed the glowing logs. The heat rose.

  Samuel slipped his left hand deeper inside the blanket and touched the layered gauze wrapped around his forearm. The doctor instructed him to leave the bandage on for another day before removing. She told him the wound was nearly ready to heal. He didn’t believe her. It hurt too much. His fingers moved down from his arm and onto the bloody bandage covering his palm. It took a long while for the bleeding to stop. It was as if his right arm was cursed.

  He stared at the old backpack beside his father’s desk. It held so many knives: the hunting knife, seven throwing knives, and the obsidian-colored blade he’d used on the mayor. It also held the scriptures. He would leave the cabin at morning’s light. It was too dangerous to travel through the woods in darkness. He had wasted too much time. He didn’t care. A part of him wasn’t ready to leave the cabin. This was his home. His real home. But he knew he didn’t have a home anymore. He couldn’t stay in Haid. He didn’t know where he would go next. He recalled his father’s pleas for him to seek sanctuary with a nearby cleric, but he couldn’t recall the name. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to do that. He was no cleric or patrolman. He glared at his arm.

  He was nothing.

  A burst of wind struck the outside walls with force, causing the wood to squeal. Another storm was coming. Samuel could feel it. He rubbed his eyes and cleaned his new lenses with the tail end of his sweater. Afterward, he curled deeper into the blanket, but a strange rapping on top of the roof caught his attention. He rationalized it to be nothing more than a fallen tree branch, but there were no pines close enough to touch the cabin. It couldn’t have been a squirrel, because the rustling sounded louder than any rodent could muster. What if it was someone?

  Samuel sat up and let go of the blanket. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door, flinging it open. The cold wind struck him hard, the gust nearly taking his breath away. He stepped outside. All he could see were the empty pines and the barely visible moon peaking above.

  “Zei?”

  He waited for what seemed like ages. But no one came.

  “I don’t know if you’re there,” Samuel called out. “But I’m sorry. I was a bad friend to you. I should have helped you more. I didn’t. And I’m sorry. For those things I said. I didn’t mean them. I care about you. I didn’t think I could anymore, but I still do. I never stopped. I don’t think I can ever stop.”

  He took a step back.

  “I want you to be safe, Zei. Please. Just don’t hurt anyone else … unless they really deserve it? Promise?”

  The only response Samuel was given was that of the rustling tree branches. When he could wait no longer, he went back inside and curled up by the fireplace. He should’ve gone up the ladder and slept in his old bed, but being up in the loft would only bring back more memories. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep.

  Minutes or hours passed before the flames inside the fireplace turned to embers, and Samuel awoke to his own shivering. He needed to get closer to the fire, but his muscles felt like mush.

  An unexpected gust of cold wind hit the back of Samuel’s legs, but after a squeak, the wind was gone. He kept his eyes closed, curling deeper underneath the blanket. He could’ve sworn he had heard the door open and close. He shoved his hands over his face. His head throbbed, and he couldn’t get himself to think clearly.

  Someone was inside the cabin. He could feel it.

  He closed his lids tighter. He was terrified, but he fought the urge to turn around. What was the point in trying to run away? He wasn’t strong enough to make it through the northern woods all by himself, especially not with winter approaching. What did he even hope for? He could never have a normal life. How hard would he have to work to keep his right arm covered, knowing its exposure would only raise questions, fears, and, in all probability, lead to his arrest? Could he seek refuge in some northern town closer to the coast, one with no knowledge of what had happened in Haid? Could he find any sort of freedom in the chaotic greenlands? Could he somehow find a way to get down to the redlands? He knew the answer.

  There was nowhere safe for him.

  Muffled footsteps rapped behind him, but still, Samuel refused to turn around. A gentle weight pressed against him, and his body felt the warmth of another’s body. He cracked his eyelids, his chest rising and falling with every breath. The burn mark on his arm twitched. This wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. Someone was lying beside him. From the smallest c
rack in his eyelid, he could see red strands of hair falling over his bandaged arm. He couldn’t look. He was terrified to look. He remained motionless as he was warmed from the body heat.

  Zei wasn’t going to kill him. She hadn’t before, and she wouldn’t now. What was it that she wanted from him? Did she care for him? Did she notice he was cold? Could a demon be capable of love?

  Halyre.

  He said the word in his mind, remembering the foreigner’s rushed words. If Zei was some sort of forbidden creature, then who had made her? On her last visit, the doctor closed the guestroom door and came to Samuel. “I want to tell you something,” she said somberly. “Because, I think if anyone needs to know this, it’s you. I took a sample of that child’s blood and mailed it off to a colleague I know. She owns the only microscope in the state.” The doctor paused. “It’s a blood substitute, of course. But it’s more than that. A symbiotic entity dwells inside the liquid that tries to engage and feed off its host. It’s incompatible with human genetics. And yet, it lived inside that child like a thriving virus, only the effects are … different. Strengthening. Regeneration.”

  Samuel didn’t understand what the doctor meant. Was Zei sick? What had latched onto her? No. Zei was not a girl. Samuel understood that more than before. They were Halyre.

  Could Zei have something to do with the old wars? Would Zei tell him if he asked? Perhaps he needed to find answers elsewhere. The foreigner seemed to know things. As a former officer, he must have had access to the banned books and technologies. The redlands military was responsible for safeguarding the past. If Samuel headed south, how many days would it take him to reach the redlands? With the chaos ensuing between the whitelands and the greenlands, would he even have a chance of crossing two borders? Would Zei come with him?

  Questions and anxieties plagued him until his thoughts bled into one.

  Samuel scooted his body back, edging himself closer to Zei. He felt the soft drag of their fingers across his hair and the pressing of their knees onto his calves. After a while, when his mind had exhausted itself beyond its limitations, he began to settle. Despite all the blood and death, he could sleep with Zei beside him. The humming of gears in the prosthetic arm lulled him. After several hours, his muscles relaxed, and he drifted off.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my partner, Elise. Thank you for choosing to love me unconditionally, for taking care of our daughter while I’m holed up in a coffee shop writing words, being the moody emo trans kid you fell in love with a decade ago, and for letting me cuddle you every night. You are my safe place. I hope I can always make you proud.

  To my daughter, Sansa. Thank you for always being a light in dark places. You are the strongest person I know, and I mean that. I am so thankful to be your mom.

  To Jane Delury. Thank you for being a phenomenal writer and mentor and for helping me find diamonds in the rough. To Jessica Welch and Tracy Gold. Thank you for supporting my writing and for being beautiful friends. A sincere thank-you to Andrew Sargus Klein, Justin Sanders, Kendrel Dickerson, Mary Adelle, Abby Shaffer, Mandy May, Chris Warman, Ron Kipling Williams, Tyler Mendelson, Mia White, Kendra Kopelke, Steve Matanle, Pantea Tofangchi, Meredith Purvis, Jennifer Jericho, and the rest of the UB Creative Writing family. I have grown so much as a writer because of you all. To my agent, Amy Tipton. Thank you for your hard work and dedication to getting underrepresented writers on the bookshelves! To Georgia McBride and everyone at Month9Books for all of your hard work on this project. Thank you so much for taking a chance on me.

  To Bailey Pope and Kelley Anderson and Leah Canner and Max Canner and Bharathi Vallalar and Jamie Doucette and Alex Doucette and Brittany Wight and Ky Tran and Lyle Greco. Thank you for loving me as I am, for showing me that family is a choice, and how to make pretty things out of any mess. I owe you everything. I love you completely.

  To God. Despite my neurosis and need to control everything, I will never not need you.

  NIKKI Z. RICHARD

  Nikki Richard is a sensitive queer writer with moods and coping mechanisms. An MFA graduate from the University of Baltimore, she lives in the city with her hot wife, amazing daughter, and fluffy cat.

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