Page 15 of Bought By the Revenant (Monsters’ Bride Market #1)

Chapter Thirteen

Amity

I close my eyes and let the water rush over my hands, washing away the last traces of blood.

The birth went more smoothly than I expected, and Katherine was strong throughout the labor, even when the pain became too much to bear and she wanted to give up.

Fenna proved herself a capable assistant, following my instructions without hesitation.

And now, a new life breathes in the other room – a boy, small but healthy.

I splash water on my face and watch the pink-tinged droplets swirl down the drain.

My reflection in Katherine’s mirror shows exhaustion in the dark circles under my eyes, but I feel satisfied, too.

I can’t wait to tell Riven that everything went well.

He was so worried when he left, he’ll be relieved to know both mother and baby survived.

A sound coming from outside catches my attention, a rustling in the bushes near the house.

It’s probably just a night animal searching for food.

I dry my hands on a clean cloth and consider going back to the bedroom to check on Katherine and the baby again, but they were both sleeping when I left them just minutes ago.

My lungs crave fresh air after hours in the small, warm house where the smell of blood and sweat lingers.

I leave the bathroom and step quietly through the kitchen toward the back door, careful not to wake anyone.

Fenna sits in a chair beside the baby’s crib, and I decide not to disturb her.

A few minutes outside will help clear my head before Riven gets back.

The door creaks gently as I open it and walk out into the garden behind the house.

The night air hits my face, cool and clean after the stuffiness inside.

I take deep breaths, filling my lungs with freshness and feeling my muscles relax.

Katherine’s vegetable garden stretches before me in neat rows, with beans climbing stakes, leafy greens in organized patches, and what looks like carrots and turnips pushing up through the dark soil.

The moonlight paints everything in shades of gray and silver.

Crickets chirp from somewhere nearby. My fingers itch to touch the soil.

Katherine’s small garden reminds me of the garden at Riven’s mansion, which is now mine, too.

My mind trips over the word “mine” after a month of running and hiding and never having anything permanent.

The idea of a wedding, a husband, and a future in Aura Glade feels unreal after everything I’ve been through.

The dress fitting earlier today seems like it happened to someone else.

Perhaps I could establish a proper midwife practice here, once I’m settled.

The local midwife, Katherine told me, could use help.

I could be useful here, maybe even happy after so long, with Riven, who sees past my circumstances and accepts me despite knowing nothing about what happened in Witherglen.

The crickets go silent. I stand still when I notice it.

For no reason at all, my throat feels tight, and my mouth goes dry.

My instincts kick in, and I know better than to ignore them.

I take a step toward the house, suddenly feeling exposed.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles with awareness of danger, though I see nothing in the semi-darkness.

A twig snaps somewhere behind me. I spin around, eyes straining to see into the shadows of the trees that border the garden.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Nothing moves, and there’s no answer. Yet I know with absolute certainty that I’m not alone out here anymore.

I take another step toward the house, then another, trying not to appear frightened even though fear races through my veins.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, ready to fight if necessary.

Three more steps and I’ll reach the door, then I can get inside and lock it behind me.

A shadow detaches itself from the darkness to my right, moving fast. Before I can react, before I can even draw breath to scream for help, a hand clamps over my mouth while an arm wraps around my waist and lifts me off the ground.

The hand smells of dirt and sweat. Panic floods through me as I kick backward wildly, and my heel connects with something solid that might be a shin or a knee.

A grunt of pain tells me I’ve hit my target, but the grip around me only tightens, squeezing so hard I can barely breathe.

I thrash my head from side to side, trying to break free.

I manage to part my lips just enough to bite down hard on a finger.

The taste of dirt and blood fills my mouth, making me want to gag.

“Bitch!” a voice hisses in my ear.

More shadows emerge from the trees, and more hands grab my flailing arms, forcing them down to my sides.

“We have you now, witch.” I recognize Thorne’s voice. “Did you think you could hide forever?”

I struggle harder, my body twisting and fighting to no avail.

“Hold her still,” Thorne says.

Something rough forces its way between my lips as someone pries my jaw open. A cloth that tastes like mold pushes deep into my mouth. I gag around it, and tears spring to my eyes from the effort to not vomit.

“Make sure it’s tight,” says Thorne. “We don’t need the whole village hearing her.”

A bag comes down over my head, coarse fabric scratching against my face and plunging me into complete darkness. The smell of old grain and dust fills my nostrils, making breathing even harder.

“You won’t escape again,” Brone’s voice rumbles close to my ear, his breath hot and sour. “Draug will have his sacrifice.”

I refuse to give up after surviving this long on my own.

With my last reserves of strength, I twist and writhe in their grasp.

My nails find flesh and dig in deep, scraping down what might be an arm.

I hear a curse in Elgar’s familiar nasal voice and feel savage satisfaction as blood coats my fingertips.

“Enough of this,” Thorne says sharply. “We don’t have all night.”

Something hard strikes the back of my head. Pain explodes behind my eyes and spreads through my skull, as white light flashes across my vision. My legs go weak. The world spins, and the men’s voices become distant, muffled sounds that I can’t quite understand anymore.

Then there’s nothing but darkness.

***

Voices drift in and out of my awareness. The jolting rhythm of being carried, the scratch of rope against my wrists, the sway and bounce of riding on horseback, the throbbing pain in my skull.

“How much for the portal?” Thorne’s voice comes from somewhere to my left.

“Too much, but the village will understand the cost.” That’s Elgar.

“What if he doesn’t let us use it even if we pay?”

“We’ll find a way if we have to.”

I can’t make sense of their words, and I faint again.

***

When I open my eyes, dawn light filters through the trees above me.

For a confused moment, I think I’m back in Katherine’s garden, somehow having fallen asleep in the grass.

Then I try to move. My arms and legs are stretched out wide, bound with thick ropes to something solid.

Another rope cuts across my middle, pressing me against cold, hard stone.

The rag is still in my mouth, dry now and foul-tasting, making each breath a struggle through my nose.

I know this place. The sacred grove outside Witherglen. The sacrificial altar.

I’ve been here many times, watched from the crowd as animals had their throats cut in Draug’s name. Their blood drained into the stone channels carved into the altar’s surface, flowing down to soak into the ground below.

People surround me in a wide circle, dozens of faces I recognize.

Familiar faces from my childhood, from years of delivering their babies and treating their ailments.

Some meet my gaze, while others look away in what might be shame.

But not one person steps forward to help me.

Not one voice speaks against what’s about to happen.

A face appears above me, blocking out the brightening sky.

The Elder, Thorne’s father, looks down at me with those cold, hard eyes I remember too well.

His gray beard hangs over me as he leans close, and he wears his red ceremonial robes.

Draug’s symbol is embroidered in black thread across the chest.

“The drought continues,” he says, his voice carrying to the gathered crowd, “because she defied Draug’s will. She stole those meant for his court in the sky.” His fingers touch my face, making me flinch away. “Only her blood will restore balance and bring back the rain.”

He pulls the rag from my mouth. I gulp air desperately, coughing and choking, then immediately begin to scream as loud as my raw throat allows.

“Let me go! Have you all lost your minds? This won’t bring rain!”

My voice echoes through the grove, bouncing off the trees. I search the crowd frantically, looking for any sympathetic face among them.

“This is murder! How can you believe this will help? I’ve delivered half your children!”

I spot Marla Weaver standing near the edge of the circle, the woman whose difficult birth led to my condemnation. She holds her baby in her arms, with her husband by her side. Her eyes meet mine briefly before she looks down at the ground.

“Please,” I beg. “This is madness.”

The Elder smiles down at me, but the smile never reaches his eyes.

“Your screams please Draug. He will hear your terror and accept our offering.”

My mind flashes back to the times when I stood in this grove.

I was fifteen years old and trying to understand why everyone believed these things.

Disease had swept through the goat herds that spring, killing nearly half of them despite my mother’s attempts to isolate the sick animals.

My family and I knew it was some sort of contagion, but the village elders declared that Draug demanded blood to stop the deaths.

I watched as they brought forward a black goat, the finest remaining in the village.

The animal bleated in terror as they forced it onto this same altar, and its screams cut off abruptly when the knife sliced across its throat.

The disease eventually ran its course, as diseases do without any mystical intervention, but the villagers credited the sacrifice for saving the remaining herds.

Then there was Mella three years later. Sweet, simple Mella, who believed everything the Elder told her.

When fire raged through the forest that summer, destroying half the trees that supplied the village with lumber and threatening the village itself, the Elder said Draug demanded a greater sacrifice than animal blood.

Mella volunteered herself, truly believing she would save everyone.

I couldn’t bear to watch what they did to her.

I left the village that day and hid in the hills until it was over, but I heard her screams carried on the wind.

Maybe that was my first mistake, showing my disgust with their rituals.

By refusing to participate in their madness, I marked myself as different and suspicious in their eyes.

When I saved Marla and her baby years later using knowledge and skill rather than prayers, the villagers were already primed to see witchcraft instead of midwifery.

Now, my cries and pleas have no effect on the crowd. I can see it in their faces: the determination born of desperation and blind faith. No one will save me.

My thoughts turn to Riven. Our time together was so brief, but just the same, I found something I never expected to find.

Understanding from someone who knew what it meant to be different.

Perhaps even the beginning of love, though I never said the words out loud to him.

Now I’ll never get the chance. He’ll never know what happened to me or why I disappeared.

I realize I wanted to be his wife more than anything.

Even if things happened so fast, even if initially I only saw him as an escape, I wanted to tend to our garden together through the seasons, to sleep in his arms, to learn more about him and his world, to cook for him and share my short mortal life with him.

The Elder raises his knife high above his head for everyone to see. The blade is ornate with a curved edge and a handle carved from yellowed bone. Ancient symbols run along the metal, meaningless to me but clearly significant to the believers.

“Great Draug,” he says, “accept this offering. Restore balance to our land. Send the rains to quench our thirsty fields.”

The crowd begins to chant in response, a low, rhythmic sound that grows louder with each repetition. Words in the old tongue that no one really understands anymore, passed down through generations as sounds without meaning, yet somehow these sounds justify murder in their minds.

I clamp my mouth shut. I won’t scream for them anymore. I won’t give them what they want. I close my eyes and picture Riven’s face as clearly as I can. His glowing white eyes, the stitches that map his features, the careful way he touched me, as if I might break.

I feel the air shift, and I open my eyes to see the Elder stand beside me with the knife ready.

He presses the blade against the inside of my left arm, just below the elbow.

The knife bites deep into my flesh, slicing through skin and muscle, from elbow to wrist, in one smooth motion.

The pain is immediate and overwhelming, spreading through my arm in waves.

A scream tears from my throat despite my resolve to keep silent.

Blood wells up instantly, bright red and flowing freely down my arm.

It runs along the sides into the channels carved in the stone.

The Elder moves around to my right side, taking his time.

My vision blurs around the edges and darkens.

I feel disconnected from my body, floating somewhere above the pain.

Is this what dying feels like? So quick to come, and so cold as the blood leaves me?

The Elder presses the blade against my right arm now, finding the same spot below the elbow.

The chanting grows louder around us, voices raised in religious fervor.

I close my eyes as the knife begins to cut.