Page 48 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

IV. Possession

“Host is drained by oppression and obsession. Entity now takes over partial or complete control of the host’s body.

Purify with fire.

Hope is lost.”

-The Wretched Sacrament

MY VISION PULSES, BLACKNESS BLOOMING and receding at the corners of my sight in a vicious, rhythmic cycle.

I run harder.

The skin of my bare feet stings from being torn open on jagged stones and sharp roots covering the forest floor. I don’t stop.

The forest doubles above me, filling the sky. Twisted, tangled branches sprout from the earth and sky—a mirrored snarl of limbs with no sky above or ground below. Only the Twisted Hollows.

How is this possible?

The unnatural chill in the air cuts at my lungs, each breath becoming harder to pull.

White fog blankets the forests, glowing from an unseen light. The source is a moon I cannot find or feel but somehow know is there.

Branches break across me as I pass. They tear my dress as easily as my skin, slicing me open as if I were made of paper. My nightgown, once white, clings to me in tattered strips. It is now the color of wine and bone—of blood and cloth.

“Little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…”

The voice comes from everywhere: above, below, and inside my head, chasing me down.

“Lamb to the slaughter, lamb to the slaughter!”

The chant grows louder, complete with more mania and delight.

Their voices clash, a chorus of many mouths speaking thorough one throat. An unholy harmony erupts from the people haunting me for weeks.

“Run. Run. Run.”

The laughter turns shrill and maniacal. It chases me like wind at my back, driving my legs faster.

I can’t breathe.

My lungs seize, and I stumble, falling forward as a coughing fit racks my body. I manage a stumbling step and catch myself before I fall and hit the ground. I pause to try and catch my breath.

I raise my hand to my mouth on reflex, trying to muffle the sound.

Copper floods my mouth; it’s warm and metallic. I pull my hand away and stare at blood. My blood.

How…?

My fingers tremble. A sob tears out of me, each step heavier than the last. Each breath is a plea that pounds against the forest floor.

It builds into a scream of frustration—of desperation—ripping through me like a curse.

Let me go. Let me out.

This must be some sort of nightmare, where the forest is never ending and skies do not exist.

My body betrays me again, releasing another howl of pain. I come to an abrupt stop when pain slices through my lower belly, so sharp it doubles me over. No branches or thorns are causing this pain.

I gasp, clutching my stomach as the cramp twists tighter and deeper. It brings me to my knees.

Another cough rips through me, and the pain flares again. Hot liquid trickles between my thighs, slowly spreading a tack wetness between them. I blink through the tears, dragging up the hem of my tattered nightgown, just enough to see.

Red.

Blood is pooling beneath me but not from a wound.

My first bleed.

The ground soaks up my blood like it has been starved of rain for months, and I swear it seems to breathe.

Am I dying? Is this what it feels like?

The pain claws up my spine, tightening in a vice that makes my head spin. I choke on a sob, barely managing a whisper through my voice.

“Please…”

If any gods are real and can hear me, save me from this hell.

The answer to my prayer is pain: a sharp, searing lash that coils around both ankles and begins to climb.

I scream, my voice raw and animalistic, as my body is yanked forward, face first into the dirt.

Roots thick, twisted, and covered in sharp barbs dig and slice into my skin as they drag up my legs.

I claw at the earth, frantically trying to pull myself away, but it’s no use.

The thorns climb up my thighs, and the agony that follows is blinding. They sink themselves into my legs, pausing once on their ascent up my thigh.

I choke on my own breath as a cold sweat breaks across my skin. My body trembles on the edge of collapse.

I don’t pass out; something won’t let me.

Some unseen power holds me there, awake and aware. It forces me to bear this weight.

A crow calls above me. Then another. Soon, the mock sky overhead becomes a swirling, screaming storm of countless black wings.

I stop struggling.

I splay my hands in the dirt, pushing myself upright just enough to twist and look back so I can see what the birds are fleeing from.

Past the trees, in the shadows beneath the trunks twisted like bones, something moves.

Four long, impossibly slender arms stretch outward. Each pale-white extremity ends in clawed, crimson-black talons. It grips the bark and pulls. And from the darkness, it emerges, pulling free a humanoid figure. Two sinister eyes, gleaming like rubies in oil, lock onto me.

I kick frantically, trying to tear free from the thorny roots. They only dig in deeper.

I claw harder into the earth, bloodied fingers digging, slipping—desperate to follow the birds above.

To fly. To flee.

More roots erupt from the ground, wrapping around my arms, pulling them down, and pinning me flat against the dirt.

I scream but not from the pain. I am gripped by refusal.

I will not die here.

I summon my magic, trying to call Ollie—to summon Nyx and Twyx.

Nothing. My body shakes, and my strength fails me all over again.

Let me in, the voice whispers, stronger than ever.

Her voice is silken, almost soothing

I will make you strong. Her words slip beneath my skin, curling through my thoughts like smoke.

And it would be so easy, so effortless, to simply let go—to open my mind and let her inside.

Behind me—

thud-thud-thud.

Heavy footfalls. The creature is coming, bounding fast toward me. I twist, trying to look, but my curls fall forward like a black curtain.

I’m so dizzy.

The ground around me glistens red. My blood spreads in a cold pool beneath me, seeping deeper into the roots and dirt. My teeth clench from the shivering cold, my head dips lower from fatigue, and my face nearly drops into mud.

And then she arrives.

Pale limbs plant themselves beside my face, near my head and shoulders.

A strange sound comes— click-click-click— from the thing’s jaw. It leans down. Oily, matted hair falls over me like a veil of rot. Its breath hits my neck with the smell of putrid decay, something deeper than death.

I gag, turn my head, and regret it instantly.

Its mouth hovers inches from mine, dripping with black slime and fangs long and rotted.

I tremble…and then I stop.

The voice hums gently in the back of my mind like a lullaby, and I finally do what I’ve avoided for months: I open the door.

Come in.

Sharp pain blooms at my neck; it comes hot and sudden. The creature bites down and pulls .

Something tears my throat.

A rush of warmth floods my mouth and then my lungs.

It’s blood.

I cough once…and it sprays outward, red and violent.

My vision flickers. Darkness pulses at the edges. I feel my body shift beneath me, but the pain is already fading.

Distant.

I hear the sounds of the creature feasting, somewhere behind me now, muffled. Either it or I am far away. I let myself drift. There’s warmth now: a strange, quiet warmth.

Dying isn’t so bad. It feels like silk wrapping around me, like sleep.

The pain melts, not just this pain but all of it: the lessons, the scars, and the expectations.

I am expected to be strong, useful, rare.

I’m tired of doing this alone—tired of missing her. I have no one. Not really.

Arcadia will survive without me. I know she always does.

Rare…? Is this how rare dies?

Maybe being rare was never real.

I can rest now. I used to try and get high enough to see her.

Now I can.

I’m coming, Mama.

I SIT IN A BOTTOMLESS pit. There’s no edge, ceiling, or light. It’s just quiet. And I’m content to look around. I feel no pain—not anymore.

What was causing my pain?

Actually, who am I?

I rise slowly, barefoot in this nothingness I begin to explore. The void stretches endlessly in all directions. I walk anyway.

After a while, however long, two shapes ripple into existence beside me.

Panthers.

They walk at my sides, and I can’t help but smile as they take turns nudging me with their massive heads.

“Hello,” I say tenderly, running my hands over their sleek fur. It’s velvet-soft beneath my fingertips. Unbidden, the familiar names float up from somewhere deep within me.

Nyx. Twyx.

I know them. I know their names. I made them, long ago.

I sink onto the ground again, not because I’m tired but because it feels right. The panthers curl around me like shadows made soft. I let them.

We remain there in the nothing. Together.

And I pet their heads slowly—over and over—as if I could remember the shape of myself through their touch.