Page 1 of Bought By the Revenant
Chapter One
Amity
Rain pounds the cobblestone street, turning dirt to mud that splashes up my legs as I run. The sound of my footsteps mingles with the downpour, but not enough to mask the heavy boots gaining behind me. My chest burns with each breath, and my legs shake from exhaustion after running for a month straight, moving from one town to the next with less money and energy each time.
I turn into an alley without thinking, just hoping it leads somewhere else, somewhere I can lose them again. The walls press closer together the deeper I go, and then I see it – a brick wall at the end. No way out. I turn around and pull out my knife, trying to keep my hand steady while three dark shapes fill the entrance to the alley.
“There’s nowhere left to run, witch.”
Thorne steps into the alley first, rain streaming down his gaunt face. The village Elder’s son has always been religious, but now he’s worse than his father ever was. Elgar follows him, a tall man who never seems to blink and makes my skin crawl just from the way he stares. Behind them both stands Brone, built like a bull and just as mean, the same man who used to make me cross the street to avoid him when I was younger.
“The drought has worsened,” Thorne says, and his voice takes on that strange rhythm people use when they’re praying or preaching. “The last crops have failed. Witherglen dies while you live, defying Draug’s will.”
“I saved a mother and child.” I press my back against the wall. “That’s all.”
“You defied our god.” Elgar’s whisper carries through the rain. “Draug demands balance. Those meant for his court in the sky must join him. You prevented it.”
“The sacrifice must be completed.” Brone moves forward, and the rain pours off his massive shoulders.
How ironic that it’s pouring here, while Witherglen hasn’t seen a single drop of rain in months. We’re miles away from my hometown, we could be on the other side of the continent for all I know – I haven’t checked any maps, too busy running. If only they could take the rain with them and leave me be.
I grip my small blade tighter and let my shoulders drop, making myself look beaten down and ready to give up. Brone reaches for my arm, and that’s when I move, driving the knife deep into his thigh with all the strength I have. He screams and stumbles back, giving me the opening I need. I shove past them and run, finding energy I didn’t know I had left. Behind me, Thorne shouts orders, but I don’t look back. I follow a sound I heard earlier. A train whistle. Right now, it’s my only chance of escape, because I can’t keep outrunning three strong, well-fed men on foot, not even when one of them is hurt.
The station appears through the sheets of rain, its lights glowing against the darkness. A train sits there, already starting to move, pulling away from the platform inch by inch. I force my legs to keep going even though all I want to do is collapse, as my lungs feel ready to burst. I reach the last car just as it clears the platform and grab for the railing.
My wet fingers slip off the metal. I grab again, catch it this time, and pull myself up with a jolt of pain that shoots through my shoulder. I roll onto the hard floor of the open freight car and lie there gasping while the rain still hits my face. After dragging myself away from the edge, I finally look back.
Thorne stands on the platform, his face twisted with rage as the train picks up speed. Elgar holds up Brone, whose leg leaves a dark trail of blood on the platform. They get smaller and smaller, then disappear completely when the train goes around a curve.
Now I can breathe.
I lean against the wall of the empty car and check myself for injuries. My palms are scraped raw from grabbing the train, and my shoulder throbs from pulling myself aboard. I open my small bag to make sure everything survived the chase: a change of clothes, a leather pouch with my last few coins, and the worn leather roll containing my midwife tools. I run my fingers over the tools and feel the smooth wooden handles attached to different metal pieces, each one made for helping babies come safely into the world. These tools save lives, but my village wants me to give up my life instead. The thought makes me shake my head at how backwards everything has become.
I rest my head against the wall and listen to the steady rhythm of the train on the tracks. I don’t know where it’s going, and I don’t care. My eyes close on their own, and exhaustion pulls me under while I huddle in the corner, grateful that I’m safe for now.
Hours later, the train jerks at a slower speed and wakes me up. I blink and try to remember where I am. The rain has stopped, and moonlight comes through the open door of the freight car. I crawl to the edge and look out at unfamiliar buildings sliding past. A station comes into view, lit by gas lamps that throw yellow light across an empty platform. My eyes dart to a dirty sign that says “Crosshold”. I gather my few things and wait for the train to stop completely before climbing down, staying in the shadows so the station workers won’t see me and ask why I was on a freight train.
Crosshold. I’ve never heard of this place, which makes it perfect for starting over. I walk away from the station and look around. It’s an ordinary town, a human settlement that looks like dozens of others I’ve passed through. Market stalls sit empty for the night with their canvas covers tied down against bad weather, workers walk home after finishing their day’swork, and windows glow as people light their lamps. Everything looks peaceful and normal, the way my life used to be before everything went wrong.
My body feels heavier with each step as I walk through streets that get narrower and more run-down the farther I go. The buildings here lean against each other, their walls stained and crumbling. This is where I belong now, in the forgotten parts of town, where people mind their own business and don’t ask questions. Near the edge of town, I find what I need: a three-story building with a faded sign that says “The Wayfarer’s Rest.” The peeling paint and crooked shutters tell me the prices might be low enough for my nearly empty pouch.
The innkeeper barely glances up from his book when I walk in. He’s an older man with deep wrinkles on his face, and he tells me a price that makes me cringe even though it’s probably the cheapest I’ll find.
“Two nights,” I say, counting out the coins. What’s left looks pitiful. I need to find work soon or I’ll starve.
He gives me a key attached to a wooden block with the number seven carved into it. “Top floor, end of hall. Washroom’s shared, one per floor.”
I climb the stairs that creak under my weight, and each step takes more effort than it should. The hallway has just one lamp to light the whole space. I unlock the door to room seven and find exactly what I expected: a narrow bed with a mattress that’s seen better days, a small table holding a water basin, a wobbly three-legged stool, and a window with a crack running through the glass. But the door locks, and that’s all that matters right now.
I set my bag on the bed and pour water from the pitcher into the basin. While I wash the dirt and blood from my hands, memories I don’t want come flooding back. I hang my head andbrace myself, my knuckles white as I grip the edges of the basin. I try not to sob, but it’s impossible. My shoulders start shaking.
Six winters ago, sickness swept through Witherglen and took my family one by one. My mother went first, then my father, then my younger brother – all dead within a few weeks. Only I survived, though now I wonder if death might have been kinder.
Then came the night that ruined everything. A neighbor summoned me to help Marla Weaver give birth. The baby was turned wrong, and the mother was bleeding too much. Death waited in that room, ready to take two lives. I wasn’t going to have it. I worked through the night using everything my mother and grandmother had taught me about birthing. I used herbs to slow the bleeding, turned the baby with careful movements, and kept talking to Marla when her strength started to fail. After hours of work, both mother and child lived when they should have died.
The whispers started the next morning. People said no one should have survived such a hard birth. They said it wasn’t natural. Maybe I had used forbidden magic or made a deal with dark forces.
Three days later, the drought began. Week after week without rain. The water in the wells dropped lower every day, crops died in the fields, animals grew thin and weak, and the whispers grew louder and uglier. The elders gathered and announced that Draug, our god of balance, was angry with the village. They said I had interfered with his will because the mother and child were supposed to die and join his court in the sky. By saving them, I had upset the natural order of things. Balance had to be restored with a sacrifice – mine.
