Page 26 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

At Ambra’s name, the young Wight shot the older—she has to be a relative, her mother, aunt, something—a terror filled glance.

“It’s okay, Ambra’s nice,” Chloe says, the immediate instinct to defend her friend kicking up. “She won’t hurt you, she…she just wants to live peacefully.”

“She’s not afraid of Ambra,” the older Wight says, severe, like it’s such a rude thing to say, and everything is so much for Chloe.

In the space of however many hours, she died, was resurrected, teleported, knocked out underground, shot someone, and got her research stolen, then had to battle her way out of her former home.

And exhaustion still itches in the back of her mind, crunching around her eyes, no matter the amount of time that she had slept for at the demon’s hand.

So she sits, all at once, on the rickety couch, and it creaks underneath her weight.

“How long was I out?” she mutters, rubbing her hand through her hair and finding a dead leaf and more than a little dust from underground.

Both Wights shoot her an odd look.

“Look, I was unconscious when I got here, I think,” Chloe starts, and hates that she has to quibble about it. “I shot the demon guy, then…woke up in my old bed.”

The two Wights exchange another glance, and with that glance is a weight of knowing each other and knowing the situation and Chloe hates it. Hates being such an outsider.

“He teleported in and out about fourteen hours ago,” Stella says, and her voice is soft, hoarse. Like her vocal cords are still fried from screaming in Toronto.

“And I only woke up like…I dunno, thirty minutes? How long were we walking?” Chloe asks, and Stella’s just watching her, her eyes wide, like she’s afraid Chloe will bite her. “Sorry, not your fault, I’m just…”

With another glance to the older Wight, Stella pulls a completely normal bottle of water out of the fridge, creeps over to set it on the coffee table, then immediately backs up, scrambling out of reach.

“Thanks,” Chloe says, weary, rubbing her face. “Sorry about snapping, it’s been…a day?”

“You died, didn’t you?” Stella asks, soft, and the older Wight sighs, like she desperately didn’t want Stella to say that but couldn’t stop her. “Was that today?”

“I don’t think so?” Chloe says. “I mean, I got knocked out for fourteen hours and there was a four hour knock out earlier and I didn’t sleep the night, so…”

“Why’d they let you out?” the older Wight asks, crossing her arms, and she’s way more intimidating than she has any rightto be. “You should be recovering, necromancy isn’t a thing you shrug off.”

Chloe wishes she had a snappy comeback, something, anything, to rebut that, but she just leans further back into the couch instead, like it could swallow her up.

“Am I stuck here?” Chloe asks, her palms going sweaty, as both Wights turn and stare at her. “Am I free to leave?”

“Do you want to?” the older one asks, sarcastic. “They’ll be combing the land for you, they’ll find you within the hour.”

And that’s true, so Chloe forces herself to breathe into the cup of water.

“By all means, if you think you can,” the first one says, and something unwinds a bit in between Chloe’s shoulders at that. “We won’t stop you.”

Chloe takes another deep breath, schooling herself. “No,” she says, and Stella nods at her, like she gave the right answer. “No, I’m okay, I just…”

“Wights don’t keep prisoners,” Stella whispers, voice bone dry in the relative chill.

The moment stretches on, before the older Wight gives the water a significant glance, so Chloe sighs and cracks it open.

“Thanks,” she says again.

“Stella,” the older Wight began, “why don’t you send the missive off to Zoel outside?”

The small Wight flinches, before twisting and staring at the door, a panicked expression filtering over her face.

Like the outside scares her.

“It’s okay,” Chloe says, and the older Wight eyes her. “It can wait if you need.”

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