Chapter One
The world is silent. The chill in my bones and ache in my muscles will not relinquish their hold over me, no matter how desperately I try to shake away the feeling. Relief is always out of my grasp.
I stare at my hands, noticing how much I have aged in these few short months. My skin, no longer smooth or cool or pale, is dry and cracked, tainted by nights of neglect. Before, I did not have to worry about the mundane.
But I do now.
I feel its disappearance. There is a hole in my gut, and it screams at me. It is dark and dank and hollow within my core, and it stares me down, angry with my choices but conflicted by my lack of emotions. It is just as confused as I am.
The darkness within my body wants me to react, but I cannot. The world is spinning, moving forward in time, while I am desperate to latch on to something safe and familiar. I feel as though I will be lost in this moment forever, never quite finding my way home and always aware that I am without hope of ever being found.
Only moments ago, I was grounded between two worlds, yet a resident of neither. Now, I am slipping away, floating into the darkness, releasing my hold over the physical plane and entering the abyss. The world moves below me, and I watch it from where I am perched. I try to reach for the girl I once was, but she moves away at the perfect moment for me to grab on to her.
I sit in a chair. I do not know how I got inside the house, but somehow, I am here. I am no longer lying on the grass, looking at the sun. I no longer feel the burn in my eyes from staring at it for far too long. I am no longer blinded by my desire to watch as the world is bathed in light.
I am at a table. I lean back in my chair, moving so mechanically I have to wonder if I am even alive at all. Maybe this is a dream, and I will wake soon. But I know it is a lie my mind is telling me.
I look around the room but only as far as my eyes can see.
I do not turn my head to see more.
I do not inhale deeply for familiar scents.
I do not listen for noticeable sounds.
I do not taste the morning dew that lingers in the air.
I do not feel the earth calling to me.
Cut off from my senses, I am empty, hollow, dead.
“Ava, ¿puedes escucharme?” Mamá asks.
I do not respond. I hear her voice. I know my mother is asking if I can hear her, and part of me does. The part that is still encased within my mortal coil responds to her voice, to her nearness, to her familiarity. I know she is beside me, crouching to look into my eyes. I see her worry lines, her tired eyes. She smells like sage. When I look at her, I see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her voice.
But the part of me that truly lived, the part that really experienced this world and all it could offer me, does not hear her. Because it can’t hear anymore.
The vampire is dead.
I know the exact moment it was ripped from my soul, tearing through flesh, leaving a ragged, haggard mess in its wake. What remains is an emptiness, and it threatens to swallow me whole.
When I look into the dark pit, I suck in a sharp, steely breath, and I almost want it to devour me. I am desperate to escape this world, even if my only escape is a prison far worse than the one I am held in now.
The dark spell Mamá performed severed the witch from the vampire. No longer a hybrid, I feel as though I am neither. With the vampire gone, the witch is supposed to remain, but does she? I do not feel the way I used to. In fact, I do not feel like a witch or a mortal. I do not even feel alive. I am dead, and that sensation blankets me, embracing each curve in darkness. The seclusion is suffocating.
“Ava, answer your elder,” someone says, trying to break my silence.
Does she not understand that I want to respond? I want to feel normal and answer and be my usual witty self. But I cannot. My silence is not laced with spite or malicious intentions. I just. can’t. answer.
She clears her throat, and I know her voice. It is Abuela, my grandmother. She is the high priestess of this coven, and she is the reason I am like this. When she severed my better half, she linked my soul to my mother’s. Even now, I feel Mamá’s aura inside me. I feel her more prominently in my very soul than I feel my own essence.
It strikes me suddenly, and I am overwhelmed by the thought that pain might be the only thing left for me. What kind of life is that? Why would Mamá risk such magic? And how can she do this to a loved one?
When I think of my mother, I see only evil. That darkness and its promise are silencing my fears. It speaks to me, telling me I will never be alone, not anymore, even when I want so desperately to shake free from its chains. I do not want to be tied to her. This invisible connection is forming a noose around my neck, and it is tightening around my throat so I cannot speak, cannot scream, cannot plead with my captors for my freedom.
But even if I could, I know my mother would not grant it. They will never allow me to return to the vampires, and even more so, they will not risk temptation. But what does that mean? Will I forever remain within these walls, a prisoner in my own childhood home? Am I to live here? To die here? I imagine my mother intends to never let me go. This spell ensures my life is now in her hands.
I would give anything to be a hybrid again. I want to connect to the earth. I want to feel the wind against my skin as I run through the forest. I want to smell the rain and hear the slithering of worms in the soil. I want to touch the new fallen snow and feel more than its crisp bite at my fingertips.
The darkness shades everything in gloom, and I am drowning. I cannot move, cannot think, cannot speak, but I am well aware that I am sinking further into black quicksand. I feel the grains between my fingers and toes. The grit coats my legs and cakes around the curves of my chest. It is heavy against my lungs, and I want to scream. I want to shout at the witches and curse them for what they have done.
But I do not. I cannot. Like my mind, my muscles are numb, my voice mute. When I close my eyes, I see flashes of crimson irises and waves of blood. When I open them, I see only a loveless house, inhabited by heartless strangers.
A single tear escapes my lid, sliding down the sharp slope of my bones until it splashes on my chest. It seeps through my shirt, but I do not feel the dampness. I watch its slow progression, completely immobilized and dazed.
When I scan the room again, searching for something familiar, something safe, I spot Will. He walks into the house from the sliding doors that lead to the backyard. The witches usher him inside, seating him across from me. He follows their lead, silent and compliant.
He does not look at me. His eyes, no longer crimson, are dark and moody. They are deep brown or maybe blue. Sitting a few feet away, I cannot tell. I blink several times, trying to clear my vision, but it is no use. I cannot see him any clearer. The color of his eyes remains a mystery, but one thing is certain: he is not a vampire anymore.
His hair is messy and damp. His face is scratched and bloodstained. His nose is bleeding, and a single line drips down his chin. His lips are cracked and dry. When the glass doors open, sending a rush of wind throughout the house, he and I both shiver from the icy breeze. The witches, dressed to withstand the sharp lashings winter bestows upon Darkhaven, do not react to the cold.
Liv is standing near Will, but she is looking at me. I wonder how I look to her. Do I look as different as I feel? Or will the witches expect me to be the girl they once knew?
But I know I am not her. Not anymore. The Ava they mourn died so long ago, I feel as though I never knew her at all. I am not confident they knew her either. I like who I became after my transition. I was strong and selfless, loved and respected. And I had friends, family, who would die for me.