Page 2 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

A spectral shadow slipped through the trees, a flash of white reminiscent of the stark, white shift her mother had worn the night they were captured and taken to the temple’s undercroft.

The acolyte had been no more than a child then, terrified when both she and her mother were forced into the padded carriage that collected those accused of suffering lunacy.

In the months that followed, she’d watched her mother endure cruel interrogations, poked and prodded by witch prickers, and made to undergo treatment for bad humors.

In time, that stark white shift had collected dirt, grime, and blood—a motley collection of her mother’s suffering.

“Come, Eleanor. Escape with me to the woods.” Another flash of white, followed by the telling red of her mother’s long hair, as if she were trifling about through the trees.

A distant echo of her mother’s laugh, one she’d not heard in years, brought a tearful smile to her face.

“Let us make merry until night giveth way to dawn!”

The ghostly figure twirled and slipped behind the trees, and the acolyte stepped closer.

“Come, Daughter. Cast off thine shackles and live as thou wilt.”

The ancient tongue still troubled her, even if her mother had slipped from time to time herself and spoke as her own grandmother had before her, but the whimsy in her mother’s voice compelled Eleanor closer. Closer.

A wailing cry from the child in the basket failed to break her focus, as she watched the figure mince through the trunks of the trees, stoking the fallen brush.

Mother! She reached out her hand, her fingertips stretching just past the archway. Wait for me, Mother!

The child screamed in the basket, her cries so filled with terror, the acolyte broke from her trance to see those tiny glowing eyes staring up at her amid a face as red as a beet.

The ravens had flocked closer, cawing as if to chastise.

One flew at the young acolyte, and she threw up her hands, swatting at it.

Another joined the first, their sharp claws scratching against the exposed bits of her skin.

Get away! Get away!

She swatted at them with the frantic thrashing of her hands, unknowingly inching backward to avoid their attack.

Something cold gripped her wrist, and she turned to find a tall, beastly creature with bark-like skin and antlers staring back at her.

The wrathavore.

A scream tore through her chest at the same time as a hard yank sent her flying through the archway.

Into The Eating Woods.

S hrill wails of agony rang out in the distance, and The Crone Witch straightened from where she bent over a patch of frosted moonberry. She twisted toward The Eating Woods, pausing to listen. Wasn’t unusual to hear the occasional scream of some poor, unwitting soul who’d gotten a bit too close.

Fools.

She turned back to her toil, but another sound rose above the first. A long, nasally cry of a child, higher pitched and more frantic. Like that of a newborn.

Frowning, she lifted her lantern and hobbled around the corner of the cottage, toward the center of her yard, where she could see something at the foot of the distant archway surrounded by a cluster of ravens.

A small babe in a basket?

Scanning the surroundings showed no one, but those cries went on, until The Crone Witch could no longer ignore it.

Keeping to the edge of the trees, she limped closer.

Closer still —until she came upon the basket in which a baby lay trembling, its tiny hands having come loose from its swaddling.

A raven sat beside the child, roosting close, which seemed to fascinate the babe, as it no longer screamed.

Those eyes, silver eyes, remained riveted on the bird.

Eyes of silver and deathly pale skin.

The child her priestess had prophesied would arrive with a new moon.

The Crone Witch glanced up at the black sky and trailed her gaze downward, to where a flitting piece of red fabric had caught on a sharp tine of the archway’s bone.

She lifted it from the pointed tip, noting a wet saturation, and released it, watching it vanish into the trees.

What she surmised to be blood coated her fingertips.

Perhaps the child’s mother, eaten by the woods.

Masculine voices emerged from the distant tree line ahead of her and the old woman dimmed her lantern, scurrying to hide amongst a copse of shrubs.

She watched as an older man approached—a hunter, judging by the bow strapped to his back, the earthy tone of his clothing, and the snares he carried at his hip.

A boy, no more than twelve, walked alongside him, garbed in the same clothing.

Both of them headed toward the baby, and as they seemed to catch sight of her, the older hunter frowned.

“By God, is that a baby?” The boy lowered himself alongside the basket, and the older hunter knocked him backward with a swift shove of his shoulder.

“Keep your distance.”

“But it’s just a babe, Pa. So tiny, like Margaret.”

The boy’s father nodded toward the child. “Look at its eyes. An aberration.” He looked around, his palm resting on the hilt of a dagger at his hip. “Ravens flock to evil. Whoever left it here, did so with intention. And we will do the same.”

“But the animals will get it, won’t they, Pa? Won’t the ravens eat the eyes out of it?”

“I should think something far worse. It is the will of The Red God, boy. Leave the child.”

“It’ll freeze,” the boy argued.

“Leave it! Go now, finish these snares.” The older hunter handed them to the boy, casting an uneasy glance toward the ominous trees at his back. “Keep them hidden in the shrubs.”

Setting traps anywhere near The Eating Woods was against the law and the parish doctrines, as the animals that dwelled in proximity were considered to be infested with evil.

Unfortunately, as winter raged on, food had become increasingly scarce, forcing hunters to venture beyond their usual grounds.

Punishment, if one were caught committing such a crime, was banishment to The Eating Woods, as anyone who consumed the meat was thought to carry evil in their bellies.

“I’ll set a few a ways down, and we’ll retire for the night. Come find me when you’ve finished.”

“Yes, Pa,” the boy answered solemnly.

“Stay away from that archway, and do not touch that child. Understand?”

The boy lowered his head and nodded.

With that, his father strode off, farther down the tree line, and the boy set to work laying his snare in the shrubs, as his father had instructed. When finished, he stood over the babe and shooed off the bird, which cawed and flapped its wings at the boy.

“Be gone, you wicked beast!” With a long walking stick, he batted the creature away and stared down at the child.

“Father says to leave you be. But perhaps it’s more merciful…

” He drew his dagger from his hip, its tip sharp and glistening.

“You are an ugly monster with those eyes. Perhaps I should pluck them out of your skull.”

The Crone Witch pushed up from her hiding spot and crept toward the boy with light steps, so as not to make a sound, until she stood at his back.

So close, she could feel the tickle of his stray hairs upon her nose.

He drew back his dagger, as if to strike the baby, and the old witch caught his wrist from behind.

Gasping, he spun around and let out a small cry that died in his throat.

Still gripping his limb, she slapped her hand over his mouth, eyes stern. “You would pluck the eyes out of an innocent babe, would you?” Brows raised, she lowered her hand from his face.

“I … It was not my intention, I swear it.”

“But it is your intention to let The Eating Woods devour this child.”

“Pa … He says it is the will of The Red God.”

The Crone tightened her grip on his hand, her long, pointed nails digging into his flesh. “The will of your god will be your demise. For, one day, it is you who will become The Banished . Maledicio tej’per nomed vetusza deosium .” I curse you by the name of the ancient gods.

The crackling sound of sizzling skin brought a smile to her face, as she watched the sign of the gods burn into his hand—five stars and a moon. His eyes turned a milky white, as the curse she’d cast hooked itself into the boy’s heart.

“Goddess Death,” she rasped. “You will perish in the name of the goddess. For that is your fate.”

“God … is … death.”

The Crone Witch sighed. “Close enough.” The moment she released him, the boy’s eyes returned to normal.

Trembling, he let out a shaky breath as he lifted his cursed hand, and a whimper escaped him. “What does it mean?”

“In time, you will know. Now, run along. Your father waits for you.”

The boy’s shallow breathing sent puffs of white steam from his lips as he backed away. He spun on his heel, tripping over his feet, and darted off in the direction of his father.

The Crone Witch snorted, watching him disappear into the darkness, then turned toward the infant, where the ravens had gathered around the basket once again.

“You are a bit of trouble already.” She reached into her cloak for a small wooden box that she’d kept close to her heart for nearly a millennium and she opened it for a tiny black rosehip inside.

When the largest raven flew toward her, she held out her arm, allowing the creature to land there.

She placed the rosehip in its beak, and it flew back to the ground, setting it on the baby’s chest.

A soft orange glow indicated the heat it released across the child’s skin, warming the little one down to its little bones. The skin of the rosehip split, and out grew a thorn and stem as it elongated into a perfect, silver-tipped black rose atop the child’s chest.

Not even as the infant’s tiny fingers clung to the petals did the rose falter in shape.

“You belong to her now. May the gods be merciful.” Her eyes fell on the raven that remained beside the basket, while the others kept guard around it.

“I look forward to seeing your Corvugon return one day. Goddess bless.” When she nodded, the raven cocked its head to the side, as if absorbing her words.

She turned to head back toward her hovel but paused as one of the ravens cawed at her back. Ignoring it, she kept on, grumbling to herself. “Cursed bird.”

The blasted thing flew into her path, flapping its wings at her.

“Be gone! I’ve fulfilled my promise! It is done!” As she tried to sidestep the creature, it flew toward her head, pecking its beak in her silvery hair. “Enough! Leave me be!” She swatted and flailed her hands, but it refused to fly off. “Alright! Alright! I will find it shelter!”

The bird once again settled to the ground beside the basket.

The old Crone snarled at it. “You are a wretched thing.” With a huff, she hobbled back toward the child.

“I will ensure the babe has a place to stay, but it won’t be with me.

I want nothing to do with an abandoned child.

” Groaning, she snatched the basket into her arms. “May the gods grant me eternal sleep after, so that I should never have to see your loathsome, beaked face again.” Carrying the basket, she headed toward a house in the distance that belonged to the old winemaker of the village, Godfrey Bronwick.

A kind, old man with a granddaughter not much older than the infant.

One who might serve as a playmate to her.

The old wood creaked as she climbed the stairs of the cottage porch and placed the basket on the doorstep.

Soft cooing drew her attention to the baby inside, whose eyes glowed like an animal’s—frightening, in a way.

The old woman sighed and ran her sharp fingernail over her thumb, drawing a small sliver of blood.

“ Argenticulos tej cinere, sole fractir’per mortiz.

” Eyes of silver to ash , a curse only broken by death.

She smeared the blood over the baby’s lips, feeling the slight suckling at the pad of her finger.

The infant’s eyelids lowered and when they reopened, the stark silver from before had dulled to a winter gray.

“Much better.” The old woman cocked her head to the side and stroked a finger over the baby’s warm cheek.

“May you fulfill your destiny, little one.”

With that, she knocked on the door and hobbled off into the night.