Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - In the Forests of the Night

I pick up the paper, my eyes caught on the name that is scrawled across the top in black ink: Rachel. I cannot read the words below, which have run together where water has fallen onto the ink. Not water, I think, realizing how strongly the aura is mixed in with them— tears.

I stare at the name for a moment, then crush the note in my hand, a fine tremor of rage going through me at this creature who dares to taunt me so. I do not recognize the aura on the paper; I do not know who sent it.

"Rachel is dead," I say aloud. "I am not Rachel—she died three hundred years ago."

The tearstains on the paper—whose are they? What human learned of Rachel and was so pained by her story that he sent me this? Or is this note a sick joke of Aubrey's, another way to scar my heart?

"I don't want your games!" I shout. If the one who left this reminder is still near, let him confront me.

No one answers.

My past and my present have combined to taunt me. Shaking with grief and anger, I return to Ambrosia. I glance around the room, checking for Aubrey. I do not see him.

I come to this place seeking a diversion. The ghost of Rachel cannot follow me here.

I see my image reflected in a crystal glass someone has left on a counter. My reflection is a misty apparition, but I can see Tora's markings in my hair and I laugh. This is something Aubrey will never take from me.

In this moment I feel like exactly what I am: a wild child of the darkness. A dangerous shadow in a mood to make trouble.

I look around the room again. Smiling, I toss my tiger-striped hair back from my face and perch on the counter. The girl behind it, a younger fledgling, opens her mouth as if to tell me to get down but then thinks better of it.

"What do you see, Tiger?" someone asks me, and I turn toward him. "You look around this room as if you saw it differently from all of us. What do you see?"

I recognize him, and I know he recognizes me. He is Ather's blood brother, Jager. People say he treats all life as a game that must be played—a cruel and deadly game in which whoever is winning makes the rules.

Jager appears eighteen, with dark skin and deep brown hair. His eyes are emerald green, and they reflect the dim light like a cat's. I know it is the same illusion as my hair. All vampires have black eyes, and Jager had dark eyes even when he was alive — he was born nearly five thousand years ago, in Egypt, and watched the great pyramids rise.

"I see someone who does not show his true eyes," I observe. "What do you see?"

"I see that my warnings to Ather and Aubrey were justified," he answers.

"Was it you who warned Ather I would be strong? "

" It was I who warned her that you would be stronger than she."

He sits on the counter beside me, and the girl behind it gives up, moving to a table on the other side of the room.

"Ather is weak," I comment. "It is one of her flaws. She changes those who will be stronger than her, because it makes others think she has more power than she does."

"She isn't the only one you are stronger than, Risika," he answers. "Aubrey isn't often challenged, because people know he is powerful, and they are afraid of him. He has you afraid of him, although he is not much stronger than you are, if at all."

"Oh, really?" I ask, not believing him. "Then we must be speaking of different Aubreys, because I lost the last time I fought the Aubrey I know."

"You could hide that scar with a thought. You have the power to do that," Jager says, changing the subject.

"I could," I answer. "But I don't."

"You wear it like a warning—a sign that you will avenge it."

"I will avenge more than this scar, Jager."

"When?" he presses. "Will you wait for him to start the music? Or will you start it yourself?"

"I prefer to kill in silence."

Jager gazes at me and smiles. "Happy hunting, Risika." A moment later he is gone.

I lie back on the counter, thinking on his words, and then I too am gone. We are phantoms of the night, coming and going from the darkened city like shadows in candlelight.

I return to my home in a light, detached mood, not bothering with the complexities of revenge. I look out the front window, watching the few who are also returning to bed as the sun rises.

One of Concord's other shadows enters his house—a witch, but only by heritage, as he is not trained. He is not a threat to me.

I also see Jessica, Concord's young writer, looking out her own window. Jessica writes about vampires, and her books are true, though no one understands how she knows what she does. I wonder if I should tell her my story—perhaps she could write it for me. Perhaps it is my story she now writes.

I go upstairs and fall into bed and a vampiric sleep.

My dreams are my memories of the past. I dream of my years of innocence, while I was still fighting what I was.

I DID NOT RETURN to my home for three years, and when I finally did, no one saw me.

It was nearly midnight when I stopped in Concord, which was intentional. I did not wish to run into any humans.

I did not want to be recognized, of course, but more than that I was not sure I could control myself. The last time I had fed had been two nights previous, on a thief who had the ill luck to attack me as I wandered the darkened streets. The thirst beat at me viciously.

Though I consoled myself by saying I only killed those who deserved it, Aubrey's words always echoed in my mind: Are you a god now, Risika, deciding who is to live and who is to die? Thieves and murderers sustained me, but only just. I fed only as often as I needed to in order to survive, and the hunger was always near.

I stood outside the house I had once lived in, perched on the edge of the well, watching the house like a ghost, able to see and hear but unable to do anything else.

Would he recognize me, even if he saw me? The three years had changed me. My fair skin was frosty white, and my golden hair was tangled, not having seen a comb in a while. I wore men's clothing, having lost my patience with long dresses as I explored the forests, mountains, and rivers of the country.

Of course I could have walked up to the door and asked my father if he knew who I was, but I would not. He would only be hurt more when I had to leave again. I would not let him know what I had become.

Lynette was asleep in her room, but my father was awake, and crying. He looked out the window, and though I knew he was looking in my direction, he did not see me. I had learned how to shield my existence from mortal eyes.

The tears on his face sent daggers into my heart. I had a powerful vision of Aubrey and Ather lying dead, with me standing above them. Would anyone weep if they were killed? I did not think so, but I would never have the chance to know. Aubrey had proved beyond any doubt that I would not be the one to give him death.

A woman drifted downstairs behind my father. Her dark hair was tied back, and even from this distance I could see that her eyes were chocolate brown. Her skin was not as fair as my mother's had been. When she put a hand on my father's shoulder, I could see that she did not have the graceful artist's hands my father had often described my mother as having.

"Peter, it's late. You need to sleep."

My father turned to her and gave a weak smile, and for an instant I felt an irrational urge to go inside and shake this woman. I had seen my father's thoughts, and I knew without a doubt that this stranger was his wife. Her name was Katherine. Had he married her trying to replace us? Did she even know about Alexander and me? Did she care?

These people were no longer my family, that I knew. But I could not help hating this woman for trying to take my place.