Chapter One
Clara
It isn’t the sound of the front door slamming that wakes me. Or even the sound of Father as he drunkenly stomps through the house toward his room to finally collapse, face down into his bed just before dawn—those are noises I grew accustomed to long ago—but rather the sharp pains of hunger that can pull me from a deep sleep.
I lift my favorite book from my chest and close it, having fallen asleep reading. The leather is worn smooth from use over the years. It’s the only one I have left from before life went to hell. I brush my hand over the worn leather then wrap it up in an old cloth and place it under the bed.
Sliding my legs over the edge of the bed, I tiptoe across the cold wooden slats of the floor, moving silently to avoid waking Kathrine. She stretches out as soon as I’m gone, pulling the blankets closer toward her, and lets out a soft sigh. I pause, not moving, barely even daring to breathe as I wait to make sure she’s still fast asleep.
Kathrine stirs and rolls to her side.
“Clara?” she mumbles, still mostly asleep.
“It’s early, go back to sleep,” I shush her gently. When she doesn’t make a noise or movement of protest, I quickly slip into my worn leather trousers and shrug into a thick shirt, not bothering to tie the laces at the hollow of my throat.
I pick up my boots from behind the door and slip out of the room, closing it slowly behind me while trying to keep the old hinges from screeching.
I turn to face the small room that serves as our main living area, kitchen and dining room in one. A far cry from the luxury we used to have. The room reeks of spilled spirits, several dirty cups, and a mess of gambling tokens are scattered across our table. I wonder how much of our meager stash of money Father gambled away last night.
I shake away the thoughts and my blooming anger—it doesn’t matter. It never matters. There’s nothing I can do to change it.
Plopping down on the bench beside the fireplace and the dying embers that barely give off any heat, I tug my boots on. They conform to the shape of my legs perfectly, even if the leather is becoming a little too worn around the seams. If I can make them last through the coming summer then I should be able to stash away enough coin to buy a used pair and not have Father or Kathrine notice.
My guilt over such things has long since vanished, especially since it had somehow fallen on my shoulders to not only supply all our food and needs, but also bring home enough money for Father to lose in his near nightly games.
I don’t even try to be quiet now as I stand, flinging my cloak over my shoulders. I head for the door, pausing to snatch up a small piece of stale bread left out on the counter. I pull my knife from my pocket and slice off the slightly molded bit. Shoving it into my mouth as I open the door with one hand, I snatch up my arrows with my other.
It’s chilly in the watery light of morning, but it is enough to keep the demons that haunt the forest at bay—but just barely. While it’s still early in autumn, the mornings have already begun to cool.
I walk along the dirt road, avoiding the muddy patches as much as possible. It is mostly deserted this time of day, with only an occasional cart or rider. Nevertheless, I skirt around the town to avoid being seen and turn into the grassy field that separates our small village of Littlemire from the Shade forest.
I crouch low, hurrying through the field trying to keep from being noticed. Going into the forest is forbidden. That territory doesn’t belong to us. Though the butcher and the clothier know I go there almost daily, they keep that to themselves because I bring them meat and fur far cheaper than anyone else.
Father doesn’t care what I spend my days doing, so long as I keep bringing home money and food. I think Kitty would like to think I have some sort of honorable job in town that provides for us.
Once I hit the trees, I stand to full height and jog until I’m certain no one can see me. I pull an arrow from my quiver and knock it into my bow as I walk with near silent steps, eyes scanning for birds or rabbits, or some other woodland creature that might make a decent meal, as well as the wild beasts said to roam the forests hunting anyone who dares stray too far into the woods.
But those are old wives’ tales, stories told to children to keep them from wandering too far from home. They are no more real than the stories in books about princes rescuing girls who have suffered lives no one should be forced to endure. No more real than tales of unicorns and fairy godmothers, poor servant girls who are found out to be long lost princesses, or even colorful worlds, where the grasses are bright green instead of a dried yellowish hue, of flowers that blanket the country side, or skies so blue they are the color of gems.
In those tales, the monsters are always defeated.
No, those things aren’t real. What is real is a perpetually gray sky that always has the feeling of being on the brink of a downpour. What is real is a world that was not only born of demons and monsters, but is ruled by them.
A mile in, and I’ve seen nothing so far. I roll my shoulders, then my neck, letting the tension in my muscles ease a bit. A little further and I decide to climb a tree and wait for something to cross my path.
I’m already tired, and my stomach still aches. Though, thankfully, the small scrap of bread I ate is enough to keep it from grumbling and scaring off the prey.
Slinging my bow over my shoulder, I shove my gloves into my pockets, then I begin to climb a tree, with thick sturdy branches.
My fingers are already stiff from the chill, but morning dew sticks to the bark making it soft and impossible to climb with gloves. At any rate, I’ll need the accuracy of unburdened fingers once I reach my perch.
It takes me only a few minutes to find a branch sturdy enough to support my weight, yet high enough to avoid easy detection.
I settle in, ready my bow, and knock an arrow.
Hours pass and I grow weary. I’m debating on giving up and going into town to see if I can find a little something no one will miss, when a rustle of leaves brings me to attention.
A fat, white rabbit pops its head out from beneath the brush.
In a painfully slow movement, to avoid creating even the slightest creak from my bow, I pull my arrow back, ready to let it fly, and stop when the distant sound of someone humming a lullaby reaches me. Easing the pull I have on the arrow, I glance around, doing my best to avoid moving too much.
My eyelids grow heavy and I find myself wanting to drift off. I jolt, sucking in a breath, and hold it.
Damn it. That was too close. My heart pounds and it’s all I can do to remain calm.
I look back to where I saw the rabbit to find a young woman sitting there. She’s humming. Her shoulders move with ever so slight movements, as if she’s weaving a crown of flowers or some other harmless thing.
But she is no innocent.
She is a nightmare come to life. She is everything that is wrong with this world.
I watch her for a long moment, unsure what my next move will be. If I jump down and run, she will spot me. But my leg is beginning to cramp and if I don’t leave soon, I’m sure my stomach will start to growl.
There’s only one thing I can do. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead at the thought of following through.
Slowly, I lift my bow. The fletching of my arrow grazes my cheek as I pull it back. The bowstring groans, halting my movements and my breath. I wait several heartbeats making sure the monster in my sights doesn’t notice my presence before it’s too late.