Page 23 of Death Valley

“The curse,” she hisses, voice like cracking ice. “You can’t escape it, sister. Can’t escape the hunger.”

I claw at her, at the monstrous baby, desperate to escape. But my hands sink into rotten flesh, into oozing, putrid softness. The stench fills my nostrils, my mouth.

Lainey lunges, teeth closing around my throat, hot and sharp. I feel my skin split, feel the blood gushing, staining the snow crimson.

And still, the baby watches.

Still and cold and knowing.

Eyes the color of ice.

I wake with a scream trapped behind my teeth, heart pounding a staccato beat against my ribs. For a moment, I’m still there, caught in those eerie, blood-soaked woods.

Then reality filters in. The soft quilt tangled around my legs. The creak of the cottage settling. The wind, moaning through the eaves, rattling the windowpanes.

I sit up, pushing sweat-damp hair from my face. My pajama top clings to my back, clammy and cold.

Outside, the storm batters noisily. I pad to the front room on shaky legs, peeking through the curtains.

The world is a swirl of white—snow!—the trees bending and swaying like drunken dancers. I can barely make out the shape of the main house through the driving snow. Is it normal to get snow this early in the year? Will it melt in time for us to leave?

A shiver wracks through me that has nothing to do with the chill. The dream clings like cobwebs, sticky and cloying.

I need air. Need to breathe something that doesn’t smell of phantom blood.

I crack the window, letting the wind whip away the last tendrils of the nightmare. It smells clean, sharp. Cleansing. Even the cold feels nice, reminding me that I’m awake and alive.

I don’t dare go back to sleep.

I close the window, then use the washroom and wrap a cozy bathrobe with the MG monogram on the chest, the same branding I’ve seen around the ranch, over my pajamas before grabbing the bottle of whiskey and pouring myself another glass. The drink burns, adding warmth, and I go to the fireplace. If I’m too afraid to go back to sleep, then the next best thing is to start a fire and drink myself to a dreamless state.

Of course, I’m much more of a city girl than I’d care to admit and it takes a long time to try and start a fire. In fact, I’m a few glasses of whiskey in before I decide to give up all together. The most I’ve done is let a few logs smolder, filling the cabin with smoke.

I head over to the door to air out the cabin, stumbling slightly as I walk, which makes me realize I’m more drunk than I thought. The moment I open it the wind hits me hard, snow swirling over me, sobering me only a little.

I should close it, keep the storm out.

But something makes me pause.

I swear I hear my name being whispered on the wind.

A chill runs down my spine, but it’s not from the blowing snow.

It’s that the whisper sounds like…Lainey.

I shake my head, my hand trembling at the knob. I’m just drunk. I’m just drunk and the vestiges of the dream are sticking to me. But that was a dream and this is reality and Lainey isn’t out there in the storm.

But what if she is?a voice says to me.What if somehow she is?

Like I have no control of my body, I turn and grab my boots from beside the door, leaning against the doorframe as I slip them on. Then I step out onto the frosted porch, shutting the door behind me.

I’m being ridiculous. I’m being impulsive and dangerous and ridiculous.

And yet I can’t stop myself.

I walk out into the snowstorm, which thankfully is only a dusting on the ground so far. I tighten my robe, my hair whipping around, trying to listen above the whine of the wind.

Aubrey.

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