Page 8 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Hushed voices woke Malka gradually. With a yawn, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was early still, the sun hanging low and casting a hazy red glow through the window.

Hadar curled further into her. She was a deep sleeper, and when she snored, the gap between her two front teeth peeked out from her parted lips.

Malka kissed her forehead, warm and sticky from sleep, before slipping out of bed.

The creaking floorboards greeted Malka’s weight as she tiptoed from the bedroom.

Danya and Abba were hunched close in the kitchen. Their conversation silenced when Malka entered the room.

Her sister’s face was pale and drawn with worry. Her coarse brows creased together, arms holding herself. Thin-lipped anger tugged Abba’s face as he began to lace his boots tight with white knuckles.

“What’s wrong?” Malka asked, then noticed the absence in the room. “Where’s Imma?”

“She left.” Abba kicked his spare boots off the bench by the door, making Malka wince. “That damnable woman.”

Danya added, “We think she went to pick black perphona from Mavetéh. Minton’s infection had drained the last of our stock. But, Malka, I didn’t think she’d—”

“Only your mother would think she could outwit death.” Abba unhooked his dagger from the wall.

Malka’s heart pounded, her head spinning like it had from the wine. She wouldn’t have done that, she wanted to believe. But she knew Imma, how heedlessly she’d risk her life if it meant providing better care for her patients.

Danya removed her cloak from the hook. “We’re going to go find her.”

Malka realized then Danya was already dressed. She had snuck from their room without waking her, without saying anything.

But Malka was the eldest sister. When Kratzka ?ujana became Mavetéh, it was Malka who spent her days with Danya and Hadar when Imma was busy with patients and Abba began to hunt the Rayga with the other village men.

It was she who shielded them when Abba returned from the woods and vomited his drinking behind their house.

She who taught Hadar how to make paper cuttings, how to drag the blade across the paper to avoid jagged lines, how to mix paints to create the colors of the forest’s trees.

“You didn’t wake me?” she asked meekly.

Danya gave her a pitying look. “Malka, you have not been well since the incident with Minton in the shektal. I’m just—I’m of age, Malka. I can handle this. Take a break from it. Go back to sleep. We’ll come back with her. I promise.”

“Abba,” Malka pleaded.

Abba attached the dagger’s sheath to his belt. “Danya is right. You’ve barely done your chores. Danya says you’re stumbling in No’omi’s workroom. Your eyes have been as glazed over as a honey cake.”

“I’m fine!” she cried out in desperation. When Hadar stirred in the next room, Malka winced.

Abba clutched Malka’s chin. She gasped as he yanked her close, until his breath was hot on her face.

“How dare you speak back to me, Malka? You may be of age, but you are unwed and still live in this house. You heed my orders.”

He let go, but the phantom grasp of his fingers dug into her skin.

She stared at the floor and didn’t look up when Danya muttered an apology and the door shut, leaving Malka alone.

Tears stung her eyes, and she pressed herself small into the corner.

The tendrils of light caught on a glass crystal hanging from the ceiling, transforming the deep scarlet of the morning sun into a spectrum of colors across the floorboards. Malka extended her hand, and watched as the colors illuminated her skin.

She thought of a time kinder to Eskravé, when she and Danya would twist the crystals around their fingers, let go, and try to catch the fluttering light in their hands.

Abba had laughed, his touches kinder. Before he turned to the bottle to deal with the nightmares Mavetéh gave him on the Rayga hunts.

Imma’s skin had glowed with youth, pigment blushing her cheeks as she prepared dinner for the Sabbath.

Oh, the smells. If she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the salted fish on her plate, the sweetness of apples with goat cheese, honey, and almonds. Pastries filled with jam, chocolate, and dates. Even the terrible, syrupy red wine Imma would press to Malka’s lips on holidays.

Hadar yawned loudly from the other room, and Malka wiped her tears.

She would not let Hadar see her like this.

Her sister, who was too young to enjoy life before the shadow of Mavetéh.

Too young to remember the sound of every household in Eskravé chanting the Sabbath at the same time, like a choir song.

“Malka?” her youngest sister intoned, peeking in from the hallway.

“Good morning, Achoti. ” Malka pushed herself from the wall. “Come here.”

She held her sister in her arms, throat tight.

Only a few moments could’ve passed before the galloping of horses sounded from outside. Through the window, a group of Paja members—all men—sped down the otherwise quiet street. They were a blur of red and purple, their robes stark against the dour dawn.

Her gut tilted. They were headed in the same direction as Danya and Abba.

Abba was already in a foul mood this morning, his anger on the verge of rupturing. One wrong word from him and who knew what the Paja would do to him or Danya.

“Lock the door behind me, Achoti, ” she told Hadar, then put on her cloak.

Snow crunched under Malka’s feet as she trailed behind the Paja. Through the gathering fog, the cluster of Paja members in their bright cloaks began to curve right. They picked up speed, and soon Malka had to run to keep them in sight.

By the time Malka had caught up with them, there had been some kind of commotion. The neighing of horses was silenced by their masters, the scream of swords drawing from their sheaths sliced the air.

Malka slowed, hiding herself behind some shrubbery, and attempted to squint through the pockets of leaves. She could make out Father Bro ? ek, tall on his horse. When his animal spooked at something, the priest tamed it with a kick.

Two knights flanked him; one, Václav, who had antagonized Sid and given Amnon his yellowing bruise. Aleksi was also there, his face pale as the fog which enveloped them.

Across from them, two knights held a woman in iron clutches, golden hair spilling from the hood of her cloak.

Imma.

Malka’s hand flew to her mouth.

Every eye was trained behind Imma, to a spot on the ground obscured from Malka’s view. Legs shaking, she stood on her toes, shifting to a wider gap in the shrub.

Bile burned her throat.

From this distance, Malka was spared the details of the Rayga’s newest victim.

Yet even she saw the scrape of teeth separating skin from bone, the blood staining the snow like crushed cherries.

The woman’s leg fell unnaturally, bent outward at the knee.

It took a minute before Malka realized she knew who the victim was—the dark hair and mutilated red robes.

Rzepka.

Malka squeezed her eyes shut. If only Rzepka had listened to her pleas, there wouldn’t be another body so soon after the last.

My God has not let me down yet.

Malka didn’t know Rzepka’s God, but she knew Mavetéh. It had defied the prayers she said each night. She did not know the lengths the Rayga would go to devour its women.

When she opened her eyes, Rzepka’s body had been shrouded.

“What have you done, Yahadi woman?” Father Bro ? ek dismounted, pacing toward Imma in measured, confident strides.

“I did nothing,” Imma said fiercely. “It was the Rayga, the monster we have warned you about. It’s taken another victim.”

The knight twisted her arm, and she cried out.

“Did you think you could go unnoticed? That we were not alerted when a Yahadi woman snuck away early in the morning with nothing but her cloak and a bag of Yahadi witch supplies? We were always going to find you.”

No, this was wrong. All wrong.

Malka pushed through the bush, crying in opposition. She succeeded in garnering their attention, all eyes flicking toward her. Her heart pounded wildly, and her legs had numbed where she stood, shoes heavy as boulders on her feet.

When Imma called her name, a knight shoved cloth into her mouth.

“She’s telling the truth, Father. I warned Rzepka yesterday—” Malka pleaded, circling her arms around herself.

“Are you saying you are her accomplice?” Father Bro ? ek raised his hand, motioning for Václav to restrain her. Before the knight reached her, Aleksi stepped forward.

“Malka was with me all night,” he said, crossing the gap to stand close to her. “Whatever the witch did, she did alone.” He bent down and whispered in Malka’s ear. “Stay quiet if you want to live.”

Aleksi had given her a cover, a way out.

No one would bat an eye at an Ozmini Paja member bedding a Yahadi girl during one of their visits.

It had happened before, many times. Too many times.

But a cover was nothing if it meant Imma was charged with a crime she did not commit.

It meant nothing if Malka had to watch her in pain.

Václav licked his lips. “Father, you know their history with our people as well as I. There’s no doubt this was a sacrifice. Look at the blood staining her hands.” He splayed Imma’s hand wide for all to see. It was stained crimson.

Malka hadn’t noticed a crowd gathering around them until the gasps filled the air.

“It seems, once again, an Ozmini woman has been subject to Yahadi cruelty,” said Father Bro ? ek.

“She is not cruel at all,” Malka sneered. “She is a healer. She was trying to help her!”

Aleksi covered her mouth with his hand. It was salty with sweat.

Father Bro ? ek raised his brow. “And it is exactly a healer witch who would know how to cast your foul curses.” He addressed Imma. “Which holiday bread will her blood be used to make this time? Tell me, is her death worth the taste?”

Malka shoved and shoved against Aleksi, but he held her firm. Her tears soaked his palm.