Page 2 of The Sacrifice

Another hiss and my Shadow turns her back. No one but my family and closest friend knows about Qora. And the Brother-priest our father had called forth for an exorcism, much to my lament. When she’d vanished into thin air, I’d hurried to my room as fast as possible, slammed the door, and cried on my bed for an hour. Then, I woke to Qora trying to smother me with my pillow, and I embraced her as best I could before my victory dance around the room.

Ever since, we’ve kept her a secret as best we can. My heart warms at the memories that date all the way back to my crawling years, and a light and fluffy sensation like stardust fills my head. Most would think me mad, but mad would be a step up from cursed. Monster-touched since birth.

Tonight, I'll return to the monsters where I belong, according to Pater.

I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes until Qora’s cool mist drifts above me. She’s tilted her head. Blinking, I tilt mine to mirror her, but she moves her shadowy hand to my throat. My heartbeat quickens from apprehension, but Qora points her finger to my neck, then lowers her head. Confused, I knit my brows together. Her hands thrust to mine, tug on the bindings, and unravel them in one silky motion.

After she follows with my ankles, I climb out of bed on wobbly legs and move to the stand-up mirror in the corner of the room. So, this is what she was referring to.

“Qora,” I sigh and touch my fingertips to the ligature marks dripping with fresh blood. I wag a bloody finger at her. “I thought we’d agreed no more marks.”

She grunts and sways to the window, pretending to be occupied. Half-tempted to blow her a kiss, I shake my head with a smile before turning back to the mirror. As long as they’re not staring too close, no one will notice the marks. Not with all the other ones on my body I do my best to cover with ink. I don’t want to use my vym—not when I’ll need as much as possible tonight. A scarf will do fine.

Pale eyes haunt my reflection. Ashen skin ever since birth with not even a blush to warm my cheeks. I look as if I’d crawled out of the Waste itself. Like an ethereal, wandering spirit haunted by shadows.

And Qora is my dark twin.

“It’s late afternoon,” I murmur from the view outside the window, judging by the shadows and the sun’s position. “Dusk will arrive soon. I need to prepare for the Sacrifice.” At Qora’s silence and her shifting darkness remaining near the window, I shrug and add, “I promise I’ll play with you as soon as I’ve healed all I can. We could do that one game you love: shade charades.”

Qora turns and pulses a shadow splatter at me: her form of blowing a raspberry. We both know I may not make it home tonight, but dark thoughts don’t last long in my head. Much to my father’s chagrin, I pop them like black bubbles.

Chuckling to myself, I tug the nightgown off my body. I am all sharp or delicate angles with no in-between.

I trace the long, curling lines of chaotic calligraphy upon my skin. A few silver scars peek from beyond their edges, but I’ve managed to reclaim most. Needling ink into my flesh helps me rewrite the history of my gift.

I’m pulling my ankle boots of strong leather over my leggings when a frantic hand slaps at my window over and over again. A familiar but panicked voice follows, and I scramble to the window as quickly as possible, thankful my room is on the lower floor of our monstrous manor. Outside, Sarai is a wild mess of mahogany curls, cheeks reddened from the wintry cold, and eyes creased in pain. By now, Qora has drifted toward the bed, her shadow toying with the frayed rope threads, lost in her own world.

Opening the window to my friend, I blurt out, “Sarai, what in the—”

“Quinn...” she says out of breath and looks down. My gaze follows, and fear almost cripples me from the blood soaking into her skirts between her thighs as she holds the small swell of her belly. Too small for birth. This is pre-birth. “I need your help,” she pants, her breasts heaving far too much thanks to her rush over here and wearing little more than her corset and underskirt. Not standard convent attire.

Swallowing the panic spiking through me, I reach for her hand to haul her inside my room, hoping no one in the halls or rooms beyond hear.

Sarai tugs back, shaking her head wildly. “I can’t come in, Quinn. Something happened.”

Eyes wide with alarm and breath growing more labored, she thrusts her head behind her to the grounds of our manor, to the graves straddling our property where a ragged line of slow-moving white figures groan from the scent of blood on the air.

“I’m sorry, Quinn. They’re coming. I don’t know what to do. I need—”

My stomach lurches. Grabbing my long wool coat on the wall hook and spare dress, I haul myself out of the window, get my arm around Sarai, and steel my spine as I say, “We have to make it to the Wailing Woods.”

2

The Monsters are Coming

QUINTESSA

“The ghosts are following us.” I glance behind us where gray breath hushes across the aged cemetery stones as we hurry to the Wailing Woods. As gray as my hair. Breath that smells of wormwood and overripe fruit.

Reaching for Sarai’s hand, always warmer than mine, I tug her along. Her footsteps are slow and heavy from where she holds the swell of her laboring stomach. More blood seeps through the bundle of rags between her thighs to stain her brown wool dress. Droplets tumble onto the snow, luring the dead all the more.

Wind gusts through the trees, picking up bits of dry, crumpled leaves and snowflakes. And wails. Not even the ghosts heaving shrieks and groans silence them. By nightfall, the trees will scream. We hurry toward the line. With their brittle branches and gnarled, twisted white bodies, they remind me of searching corpses, their long, thin branches like strings of intestines.

“Don’t stop until you get to the trees,” I urge Sarai, who weighs down the earth with her tired legs while I lower to scoop up a jagged rock.

“Good,” she huffs and presses on, calling behind her, “Because I was planning to stop before I reach the sister trees that scare the stuffings out of your ghosts.”

Ghosts are hollow, I don’t bother saying. Except on the longest and darkest night of the year. It doesn’t escape me how she said “your” either.

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