Kendare Blake - Girl of Nightmares

The corner of her mouth twitches.

“You’re not real,” she says.

“You’re not either,” I say. Anna’s eyes blink once, and swivel my way. The instant before I look into them there’s a flash of panic, but as her eyes travel up from my stomach and over my chest, there’s so much skepticism in them and so much quiet hope that all I can think is, there’s my girl, there’s my girl, there’s my girl. Her eyes stop at my chin and one of her hands lifts, hovering over my shirt.

“If this is a trick,” she says, and starts to smile, “I’m going to be very, very angry.”

“Anna.” I shove the athame into its sheath in my pocket and reach out to pull her off the slab but her arms wrap around me and squeeze. I draw her head down to my shoulder and just stand; neither of us wants to let go.

She has no temperature. The rules of this place have taken that away, and I wish for the press of her cold skin, the way I remember. I suppose I should just be glad that she still has the right number of joints.

“I guess I don’t care if you’re real,” she says against my shoulder.

“I’m real,” I whisper into her hair. “You told me to come.” Her fingers dig into my back, pulling at my shirt. Her body sort of jerks in my arms, and at first I think she’s going to be sick. But then she draws back to look at me.

“Wait,” she says. “Why are you here?” Her eyes scan me wildly and her balled-up fists feel like stones on my ribs. She’s panicking. She thinks I might be dead.

“I’m not dead,” I say. “I promise.”

Anna climbs down off the rock, cocking her head suspiciously. “Then how? Nothing’s here that isn’t dead.”

“There are two things, actually,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Me, and this other, annoying girl that we have to find.”

“What?” Anna smiles.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re leaving.” Except I don’t really know how we do that. There isn’t a line tied around my waist for me to tug on and be pulled back. We need Jestine.

Anna’s eyes are bright, and her fingertips trace my shoulders, still waiting for me to disappear. “You shouldn’t have come,” she says, like a scolding, but she can’t quite make it stick.

“You told me to,” I say. “You said you couldn’t stay.”

She blinks at me. “Did I?” she asks. “It doesn’t seem so bad, right now.”

I almost laugh. Right now it doesn’t. When she’s free of burns, and cuts, and not strung through with butcher’s twine, it doesn’t seem so bad.

“You have to go back, Cassio,” Anna whispers. “He won’t let go of me.” Through her bright eyes I can see what this place has done to her. She seems smaller somehow. There’s happiness on her face to see me, but she doesn’t really believe that I can get her out.

“It’s not his choice,” I say.

“Always his choice,” she corrects. “Always his pleasure.”

I hold her tighter. Over six months she’s been here, but what does that mean? Time doesn’t exist. Even I’ve been here too long. It seems like I walked that maze with Jestine for an hour, and then an hour more without her. Not true. Nowhere near true.

“How did this happen?” I ask. “How did he beat you?”

She draws away and tugs at the strap of her white dress with one hand. The other stays firmly attached to me, and I don’t let go of her either.

“I fight and lose, again and again, over and over, until forever.” Her eyes lose focus, over my shoulder, and I wonder what she sees. If I looked in the same direction, I might not see the same thing. Her eyes sharpen. “Prometheus on the rock. Do you know that story? Every day he’s punished for giving mortals fire by being strapped to a rock and having his liver eaten out by an eagle. I always thought it was a poor punishment. That he’d just get used to the pain, and the eagle would have to think of some new torture. But you don’t. And he does.”

“I’m so sorry, Anna,” I say, but the words bounce off. She’s not complaining. In her mind there’s been no crime. She thinks that this is retribution. That this is justice.

She studies my face. “How long has it been? I don’t remember you right. The memory is from too far away, like I knew you when I was alive.” She smiles. “I think I’ve forgotten what the world is.”

“You’ll remember.”

She shakes her head. “He won’t let go of me.” The movement is strange. It doesn’t fit; it hangs on her lopsided and it makes me wonder just how much damage has been done.

I pull her gently to her feet. “We have to go. We have to find my friend, Jestine. We—” I cringe as sharp pain hits my gut. Then it’s gone and I can breathe again.

“Cas.” Anna’s staring at the front of my shirt. I don’t need to look down to know that the blood is starting to show. I’m not sure whether that means I’m not focusing hard enough on forgetting it, or that time is short. But I’d rather not take chances.

“What did you do?” she asks. She presses her hand against my stomach.

“Never mind. We just have to find Jestine, and then we can get out of here.”

Something taps my shoulder. When I turn, there’s Jestine, looking as pleased with herself as ever.

There are cuts and lacerations on most of her fingertips and knuckles. Blood streaks are smeared across her cheeks and forehead like war paint, probably from wiping her torn-up hands against her face.

“Where have you been?” I ask. “What happened?”

“I’ve been solving our problems,” she says, and digs her hand into her pocket. The move makes her grimace, but when she pulls her hand back out, she’s absolutely beaming. When she unfurls her fingers, I see rough chips of shining silver in her palm.

“Two pockets full,” she says. “I found a vein. Of the metal. The same metal that’s in the blade of the Biodag Dubh.” She puts it back, out of view. Two pockets full. Plenty for the Order to forge a new athame. Something inside me quivers, some quiet, growling, jealous thing. “Now the Order will have its proper warrior. They’ll leave you and yours alone.”

I wouldn’t count on it, I want to say, but she nods at my shirt.

“Wound’s starting to show. I can feel mine too. I think that’s our cue to leave.” Her eyes shift toward Anna, and they regard each other levelly. Jestine smirks. “She looks like her picture.”

I put my arm around Anna protectively. “Let’s just get her out of here.”

“No,” says Anna, and when she speaks, the Obeahman roars, a high, mechanical screech that rings out from everywhere, like he’s directly above, or beneath us.

Jestine cringes and pulls out a short knife and what looks like a chisel. Both have chips and dents out of them. I guess they’re what she used to get the metal out of the rock.

“What’s that then?” she asks, makeshift weapons at the ready.

“The Obeahman,” I explain. “The ghost that Anna dragged down here last fall.”

“No ghost,” Anna says loudly. “He’s not a ghost anymore. Not here. Here he’s a monster. A nightmare. And he won’t let go of me.”

“You keep saying that,” I say.

“Where he goes, I go.” She closes her eyes, frustrated. “I can’t explain it. It’s like I’m one of them now. One of his. Twenty-five murderous dead. Four moaning innocents. We wear him like chains.” Brittle, pale fingers slide down her arms and wipe at the fabric of her skirt. It’s a traumatized, cleansing gesture. But when she sees Jestine watching, her hands return to her side.

“He’s tied to her,” Jestine says. “If we pull her through, he comes along for the ride.” She sighs. “So what do we do? You’re not going to be in much shape to send him back when we get home. I suppose the Order could hold him, maybe bind him or banish him for a while.”