“No,” I stop her. “No, I can do it.”
Mara excuses herself, and I turn my attention back to the second body. Stepping in between the tables, I wait. But nothing happens. He doesn’t grab my wrist. So I reach for his hand. Nothing again. How is that possible? I’ve never come across a dead person who didn’t have last words to share. I lean over, studying his face, wondering if he’s in fact not dead, because there’s no other explanation for him to be quiet.
As I look him over, my eyes catch on the tiniest red embroidery on the side pocket of his thick combat pants. I squint, trying to make sense of the pattern.
A red serpent.
Olivia’s warning hits me again, and I stagger backward. At the sametime, I hear a voice. Young, male, layered with a slight resonance.Run, he says as my cuff sears against my skin.
A ghost. I feel it in my gut.
Footsteps echo, and with each one, my breath shallows. The dead have never spoken to me without a touch before. Why did the voice tell me to run? Run where? Run from what?
“They are far too young to be dead,” Mara mutters as she walks back in, putting on a pair of gloves.
My shoulders relax. It’s only Mara.
“Your sister didn’t deserve this either,” she continues.
I murmur my agreement. “You don’t think she fell?”
She gives me a pointed look, and I could cry in relief. She shares my suspicion. Maybe she can help me investigate Olivia’s murder.
“What’s under your shirt?” She motions to the silhouette of the cuff under my sleeve. Bloody saints, I should have worn a sweater. I don’t want Mara to know I have magic, don’t want her to see me differently.
“A gift from my mother,” I lie with unease.
“Is it like the one your sister wore?” she asks.
Her question brings me pause. How does she know Olivia wore a cuff? Yesterday was the first time Mara saw my sister. And her relic had already been stolen then. Maybe Mara assumed Olivia wore a cuff because she was a mage—
Run, please run. The voice echoes in my head again, his tone a raw despair.
“Family jewelry from the Isles of Carac,” I lie. Nan was from Carac; I doubt Mara will question it. Panic courses through my veins. “Actually, I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll head home… You’re right, it’s too soon…”
“Of course, Viola. Take all the time you need.” She smiles, but her face is void of her usual warmth. Even her blue-green eyes look greener, sharper now. Or maybe my mind is playing tricks again. Mara’s my safe person; I’ve known her for four years.
Run, now, Viola. The ominous feeling deep in my belly takes root. It tells me to listen. It tells me that the dead never lie. So I make a beeline for the back door.
“Viola,” Mara calls out. I don’t look back, terrified of what I might find. I hurry my pace, keeping her in my peripherals. As I move, she speedstoward me like a lioness chasing her first dinner after hibernation. I push through the door, trip over the steps, catch myself, and keep running.
In a blink, she’s standing in front of me. Her eyes are an icy green now, unrecognizable, framed by dark veins that remind me of something I’ve only read about in Nan’s books: puppets—bodies controlled by death magic. Mara lunges for me, and by some divine intervention I sidestep, and she falls.
I bolt across the street, toward the lake and away from the town into Albion Forest, running as fast as my legs will go. My chest tightens, my lungs threaten to give up any minute, and my thighs burn to the bone. Still, I push through until I no longer recognize the path ahead.
I pause, heaving, begging my lungs to calm down. The tallest trees I’ve ever seen shroud me from the light of the full moon. In the stillness, I only hear the falter of my breath and the thumping of my heart.
Then the sound of crushed leaves steals my next breath. I don’t know where it’s coming from, only that it grows closer. I don’t wait for it to catch up to me. I take off deeper into the woods, but now the once slender trees are thicker, humming a low tone I’m unfamiliar with. And if I listen closer, I hear the song of death. I am no longer in Albion Forest. I am now in Gorhail Woods.
My shins are on the brink of shattering, my lungs are trying so hard, but they squeeze within my chest. My body can’t keep up with my will to survive. Finally, I halt, finding the nearest shelter in the hollow of a tree trunk. I gulp in desperate breaths, looking to the skies, praying to any God that will hear my plea. The momentary silence fools me into believing that I am safe, but I fail to see it for what it is: the calm before everything goes wrong.
The steps are back. More of them; some walking, some running. I don’t dare look. I don’t dare move. I don’t dare breathe. It’s dark, and my only hope is that I’m small enough to go unnoticed.
At the first break in the footsteps, my ears strain toward the sound of voices. The whispers grow more and more distant. Now is my chance. I run.
My pace has slowed to half of what it was before, but I can’t stop moving. I follow the trail ahead, rounding five quick bends, and drag my feet along the only broken-stone path north. My mouth is dry, and my stomach caves in on itself. I want to go home, lock myself in my room, and never come out. In truth, I’ll be lucky to survive the night. If the puppet that was once Mara doesn’t kill me, the sheer pain and exhaustion will.
I round another corner with white flowers. This is the third time I’m seeing these within the last ten minutes. Gods, I’m going in circles. My legs retract, walking in the opposite direction, and I smack face-first into someone.