Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - In the Forests of the Night

I am not Rachel, and I can never be Rachel again, I think. Rachel is dead.

I leave Ambrosia without another word, my head reeling with anger. I have seen Aubrey only twice since my death, and both times were long ago. Until recently, I have avoided him like bad blood.

When I return to my home at dawn, I find one of Aubrey's servants in my yard. This is my town, and I do not tolerate other vampires, or their servants, in my territory. This applies to Aubrey above all else, because he would take what is mine if I allowed it.

I change to human form less than a foot from the interloper and push him against the wall of the house.

"What do you want?" I demand.

"Aubrey sent—"

I have no patience and reach into his mind, finding the information I want. Aubrey sent him to warn me away again. If Aubrey had come himself we would have fought, and while I know he does not fear challenging me, I cannot see us fighting again without one of us dying.

"Tell him I hunt where I wish," I say to the human. "And I will kill any other servants of his who approach me." It is dangerous to send such messages to another vampire. What I have said is very close to a challenge—one I hope to avoid—but so be it. If I must, I will play thin ice with Aubrey tonight. I do not care that if the ice breaks it will be I who falls through.

I leave the human on the doorstep and return to my room.

I FELT MYSELF DIE. I remember hoping I would wake again, that somehow I would live, but then I realized what that would mean.

I was dead.

I threw myself into the shadows of death and became lost.

Senses and memories came slowly when I first awakened.

I remembered a death, and I remembered that it had been I who had died, but I did not remember who that "I" was.

Trying to open my eyes, I saw only blackness. I thought I was blind, and that terrified me. Was this death, then? Floating forever in blackness, not even remembering who you had been?

As that thought brushed my mind I realized I was not floating. No — I could feel a wooden floor beneath me, and I was leaning against a wall that was cold and smooth like glass. I groped blindly around myself but felt nothing else. Behind me was the glass wall, and in front of me was only blackness.

I forced myself to my feet. Though all my muscles were stiff, after a moment I was able to stand.

I felt for my pulse and could not find it. I tried to shout and realized I did not have air in my lungs to do so. No heartbeat. No breath. I became afraid once again. I was dead, wasn't I? If not, what was I?

Humans breathe when alive, even when they are asleep or unaware of their breathing. Since waking, I had not taken a breath, and I had not noticed until now.

I finally tried to draw a deep breath, but sharp pain shot through my lungs. It knocked me to my knees, then slowly began to fade. Finally it subsided, and I tried to speak, wondering if I would be able to hear myself. Are not the dead both deaf and mute?

I took another tentative breath, and the pain did not strike as hard this time, so I used the breath to ask the darkness, "Can anyone hear me?" I received no reply, and I did not wish to ask again.

I tried to ignore my fear, working the stiffness from my joints and forcing myself to take another breath. The pain was almost gone, but my ribs still felt sore, as if the muscles around them had not been used for a long time. I felt no need to exhale, and I did not become dizzy when I did not do so. Letting out the unnecessary breath, I marveled when my body did not tell me to take another.

I had my senses of touch and hearing. I could speak. I could taste, and the taste in my mouth was sweet and vaguely familiar. I licked my lips and found that it was there as well. A memory tried to surface in my mind, one of pain and fear. I did not want it, so I pushed it away.

I tried to determine whether I could smell anything in the darkness. A honeylike scent wafted in the still, cool air. Beeswax? A candle, perhaps? I could also smell the light, dry scent of wood and an even fainter scent like frost—glass. It did not occur to me that I should not be able to smell glass. No human could.

Beneath these scents was something I did not recognize—not really like a smell at all, but like something between a taste and a fragrance that you catch for a moment on the breeze. Or perhaps it was the breeze itself, a gentle movement in the air. I focused on this sensation, and though it did not become clearer, its presence was strong.

Later I learned that this feeling was aura. The aura of death—my death—and of a vampire: Ather, my dark, immortal mother, who gave me this life against my will and who killed my mortal self.

I tried to walk, searching for a way out of the black room I was in, and found it surprisingly easy. The stiffness was gone from my body, and I moved smoothly, more as if I was floating than walking. The wood beneath my bare feet was smooth and cool.

I followed the wall until I reached a place that was not glass—a wooden door. I opened it slowly and blinked at the light that poured in. Turning my face away, I caught sight of the room I had just left. All four walls were mirrored, and my reflection flew back at me hundreds of times. Amazement filled me. Whoever owned this house must be rich, to have so much glass in one room. And yet there were no windows at all: nothing to let in the light and air.

I walked back into the room, entranced by my own reflection, hardly recognizing myself. I approached the mirrored surface and stretched a tentative hand out to the stranger reflected there. Her hair was still my golden hair, and her body had nearly my body's shape, but her form was more graceful, and when she walked she seemed to glide effortlessly. Her eyes were black as midnight, her skin as pale as death.

"Look hard, Risika," a voice behind me said. "Remember it well, for soon it will fade."

I spun toward the voice. Everything about the speaker was black, from her hair and eyes to her clothing, everything but her unnaturally fair skin. My first thought was witch. It came from some vague recollection of my past life, though I did not know what that life had held.

My next thought was Ather. I remembered her—I remembered the dark halo her hair formed around her pale skin, and I remembered her icy laugh.

A scene flashed through my mind. Once again I remembered my death, but now I remembered before that—Aubrey, sheathing the knife that had just taken a life. Whose life? I did not know and was not sure I wanted to.

"Why have you brought me here?" I demanded. "What have you done to me?"

"Come, now," Ather told me. "Surely you can figure it out. Look at my reflection — look well. Then tell me what I have done to you."

I obeyed her command and turned back to the mirror. I could barely see her reflection. In the glass her form was so faint that her black hair appeared as little more than pale smoke.

"Now look at your own reflection," she told me.

I did. Once again I looked at the figure in the mirror, wondering if she could truly be me. I had a picture of myself in my mind, and it was not the same as the one I was seeing; though very close, perhaps, it was still very wrong.

"Who am I?" I asked, turning back to her. I truly did not know.

"You do not remember your life?"

"No." Ather smiled as I responded. A cold smile—if a snake could smile, it would smile as she did.

"I thought so," she answered. "Your memory will, sadly, return later, but for now …" She trailed off with a shrug, as if it did not matter.

"Who am I?" I demanded. "Answer me." I was angry, but her nonchalance was not the only reason. My mind had been spinning since I awoke. The sensation had been faint at first, but now the edges of my vision were beginning to go red.