After drowning in self-pity, I stand and tiptoe toward the bathroom, glancing back at our bed only once I have crossed the threshold. Confident I haven’t woken my sire, I close the door and slump forward, allowing my palms to linger against the cool wood once it is firmly shut. Again, I close my eyes, preferring the darkness of my mind over the reality of my visions. I remain like this until the hammering in my head ceases.
By the time I step away and look at myself in the mirror, I am confident I can forget about my dream. Sometimes, what I conjure while I sleep haunts me throughout the day. Other times, I am able to remain blissfully unaware of what may come.
It may be careless to write off this one as just another nightmare, especially considering my affinity for spirit, but these warnings come too often to properly vet. The more frequently I have them, the harder it is to sense whether or not they are foreboding visions or the result of an overactive imagination. So I have decided to ignore them and let fate define our path. Our greatest enemy—the witches—is no longer a threat, and I am confident we can best anyone else who brings trouble our way.
Still, I am shaken by them. Watching Jasik die again and again is not helping my sanity. It isn’t helping our relationship either. I feel myself pulling away from him. The thought of losing him hurts so much, I almost wonder if it will be easier if I weren’t so…invested. I hate myself for even thinking this, but I’ve lost so much. I can’t bear the thought of losing my sire too.
I turn on the tap and splash water on my face. I let the droplets drip onto the countertop, and I stare as they pool before me, molding into shapes that look eerily similar to the monsters from my favorite children’s stories. I used to read them under the covers at bedtime with nothing but a flashlight guiding my way.
I hold out my hand and concentrate, summoning an element to dry the mess I’ve made. The air shifts slightly. It tingles and vibrates against my exposed skin. The pooled water ripples before blowing into the sink, disappearing down the drain.
I complete my task easily, even though I rarely rely on my magic these days.
I admit I have been in a rut. Living with the vampires has almost suppressed my magical half—just like the dark spell. They don’t ask me to keep from casting spells, but after everything the witches did, it feels strange to harness magic in this house and around my nestmates. They harbor no ill will toward me for what the witches did, but I still bear the weight of it. It compresses against my chest, forcing the pounding beats of my overworked heart into my head until I can hear nothing else. It is a constant reminder of what they did, of what we lost.
I finish my morning routine and change into new clothes. Before I exit my bedroom, I glance over my shoulder one last time. Jasik still sleeps. Knowing he—and the rest of the house—won’t rise for at least another hour, I close the door behind me.
I crouch beside his headstone, brushing off the debris that fell overnight. The stone is rough against my palm, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Everything about this place feels cold, yet I visit it, day after day. I tell myself Will is not here. None of them are, but that does not ease the pain.
“I miss you,” I say. The stone stares back at me, blank and mute. This place is cold and lifeless—so different from the warmth of skin or the glint of a devious glare. Nothing about this place represents the souls lost that day.
I feel it as I do every time I come here. The anger rises in my chest, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
I hate the witches for what they did, and I am ashamed that I was born from their blood.
I hate this evil entity that I must now protect. It does not deserve my protection or my allegiance, but if it falls into the hands of someone with evil intentions…
I sigh and shake away the thought, balling my hands into fists at my sides. I bury my fingernails into my flesh, easing the pressure only when I feel the familiar bite of broken skin. It heals quickly, and I am suddenly consumed by my guilt.
My comrades relied on my protection, my aid, and even though I am swarming with power, I could not save them. And I cannot bring them back. I rely on my magic to heal unnecessary wounds while Will decomposes, buried deep in the earth. Nothing about this is fair.
I sink lower, resting my bottom on my heels. For only a moment, I allow my anger to rise in my chest until I feel nothing but the burning, formidable desire to bring this entire town to its knees. I want to avenge our fallen. I want the witches to pay the ultimate price—like my friends paid. I want them to answer for their mistakes, and I want the cost to be more than relinquishing their magic. That isn’t enough. That will never be enough.
Once I am seething, trembling so violently I can barely contain my rage, I allow myself the gift of forgiveness. I release the hate, refusing to allow it to corrode my innards. In one sweeping burst, it escapes me, and the ground shakes. The earth responds to my longing in a way the witches never could. It weeps with me, quivering right to its very core.
My skin is hot, sticky, and I swipe at the sweat that beads at my temple. My magic explodes from my body, and the sudden change in temperature has caused a mist to form. The air thickens and fogs, making it difficult to breathe, but I try to ignore these signs.
I remember my dream, my fear, my pain—and I let it all go. Hunching forward, I weep. I release the elements, and I cry until the tears refuse to flow. My eyes burn as I wipe away that which is not there. I press hard, involuntarily so, almost as if I am trying to force more tears. But none come.
I want to tell Will that it is not fair, that he should never have been the sacrifice in this war. He deserved to survive, to leave this place and create the life he always dreamed of having. The good should not be the cost of peace. But I can’t bring myself to admit these things, even though this stone has heard them all before. I try not to think about all the times I have promised to avenge his death, because I have lost count.
During my darkest moment, I even fancied the idea of bringing him back, of dabbling in the dark arts and summoning an entity so evil and so powerful it could raise the dead. But I never did. And I never will. Not because I don’t want to and not because I can’t access such magic. I know I can. I know this power exists if only I just tap into it.
The reason I don’t is because of Will. I would need to succumb to the most sinister parts of my soul, and I couldn’t bear the way he would look at me when he discovered the truth. He would hate me forever, and I am ashamed to admit that the only thing worse than losing him would be knowing he’s alive and has no desire to see me.
So instead of more broken promises, I say, “I hope you’re proud of me.”
But I don’t know why I say this. I have done nothing to deserve Will’s pride. He died while saving me, offering his life in an effort to save the rest of us. He was a better, kinder, stronger, smarter soul than any of us. We didn’t deserve his loyalty.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
And then I hear it. Cackling from somewhere above me, as though the creature from my nightmare mocks my words. My blood runs cold as I flash back to that moment in my dream, when the sound erupted from the depths of darkness, surrounding me, smothering me.
I look up and see it. Perched on the highest part of a nearby tree, a crow watches me. My breath catches as I stare back at it, and I feel my pulse race. I become lightheaded, but I cannot look away. Frozen in place, my eyes dry at the bitterly cold morning air. Tears burn, but I still do not blink, not until I am certain I am really seeing what I think is there.