Cursed to the Bone

51. Unbidden Memories

Montre moi? That sounded French for something. There was no time to think about that, though, as I was submerged in darkness. Alone. Fake Lucien was nowhere to be seen. The wind dropped to a whisper as cold threads of grass grew between my now bare feet. Then I smelled pine. Ahead of me, a wall of evergreens rose to towering heights. A forest. I spun around to see the patio of my parents' house. There were guests. Adults chattered around a long table and children ran amuck. Mom and Dad sat with a group of our old neighbors, deep in a conversation I couldn't hear.

A chill tickled my spine as I heard a whispered, Come. My gaze lifted to the pines to see a child staring into the plumes of fog that drifted among the tree tops and blocked out the sky. Oh, Goddess. My heart ached. The child was me.

Something tugged me forward, dragging me with my memory. Against my will, I ambled down a pine path into the mists. The moment we stood between realms, the itchy tingle of the veil between us brushed over my skin with a heavy pressure, like hands tugging me in. It was the Witchwood. I knew it like I knew how to breathe.

The wind screamed at me to run, but I couldn't look away from the blue rifts that covered the field ahead. Remnants. They opened all at once, all on their own, showing me the shapes of countless children from countless moments. Their screams for mercy echoed in the air as they walked into a fire at the field's center. A woman was present, too, her creepy outline slapping a drum with a ritualistic hum.

Emotions burned within me. The fear and understanding I felt as a child was there, as well as my loathing and regret in the present. Internally, I begged my child self to turn back before it was too late. So young and full of heart, I was, I thought I could stop the witch. I thought I could be a hero. It was almost impossible to watch.

The moment we stepped into the field, the wind fell quiet.

A cottage stood beyond rifts that closed in on themselves. It was a simple thing crafted of timber and layered with vines of indigo flowers. It was pleasant to look at, far more pleasant than it was. The door opened with an eerie creak, light splashing out around the shadow of a long and imposing figure. The old witch offered a smile and gestured inside.

"Won't you come in, dear?"

Young Vera marched forward on determined feet. Bitterly, I joined her.

"You knew what you were getting into. Why did you not heed the wind?"

I spun around, distracted from the memory. It was Fake Lucien. He didn't seem to care about the blood smeared over his face. His eyes were focused upon Young Vera.

"Who are you?"

"I cannot say," Fake Lucien said. "Why did you not run?"

"I believed I could stop her like the heroes in stories," I said, looking to the scene of Nimda leading Vera in. I wasn't sure why I answered him. Maybe it was because he shared Lucien's face. Either way, I found myself unable to stop watching as Nimda hatched her nefarious plot.

The kettle whistled moments before the witch poured a cup of tea. With a hobble to her step, Nimda brought it to Young Vera, who stared at the liquid with poorly veiled suspicion.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." Young Vera pretended to drink.

"Ah, good! Good. Is it to your liking, dear?" Nimda croaked, her sinister smile unyielding and her eyes so wide they looked read to fall out.

Lowering the cup, Young Vera nodded. "Who are you?"

"My name is Nimda." She sank into a chair near to the lumpy cot where Young Vera sat. "And what is your name, dear?"

"Vera."

"Ah, poor dear. You look so tired." Nimda leaned closer and gestured to the cot. "Why don't you rest? When you wake up I'll take you home. Does that sound nice? I'll even put you to sleep with a song I learned in the south." She freed a drum from beneath the cot, brandishing it in a wave.

Young Vera's eyebrows rose to her hairline and without any thought to her actions, she jumped to her feet and emptied the cup's contents into Nimda's face.

The witch howled and clawed her eyes, the drum toppling to the floor with a heavy thud.

Taking advantage of her distraction, Young Vera dropped the cup and grabbed the drum, lugging it to the fire and tossing it in. Embers flew and black smoke puffed into the air.

"No!" Nimda screamed, shoving Young Vera to the floor. She scrambled in the pit, clawing at the remains of the drum but it was too late. After a suffering, drawn-out quiet, the witch rose and faced Young Vera with dead eyes. Her smile was gone. "How did you know?"

"I saw it," Young Vera yelled, scrambling to her feet. "The, um, blue mist. I saw you with the drum!"

Mirthless laughter filled the silence and Nimda rubbed her chin. "Regrettable that I should be undone by a child."

RUN, the wind chanted, over and over.

Young Vera darted out the doorway and into the field, but Nimda followed. She yanked a twig off the cottage and reached for Young Vera. The girl swung into the ground as a root circled her ankle and dragged her back. I grimaced at her screams, at my screams, and bit down on my lip to keep from groaning.

"Your power ruins me, now I ruin you."

Young Vera spun around, staring up at the old witch with terror. "Please, no. I'm sorry!"

"Live like the twig broken by wind; weak, never whole, 'til the day you grow old." Nimda dragged a twig across her jugular and tossed it into the air as blood oozed from the gash across her throat.

Young Vera screamed and the wind tore her throat in the same, mangled gash. Her screams turned to gurgled whimpers as she fell backward, the wind carving her bones.

My hands curled into fists in my pockets as I approached.

With one final gust of wind, the old witch turned to dust and took to the sky.

In the absence of the wind, the gash on Young Vera's neck sealed on its own and hardened into a scar. Young Vera stared upward, her face twisted in pain, and somehow she found the strength to reach for the remnant that floated above her. It was mine. My remnant. I never wondered why I did it—why I reached into the rift, but somehow, I just knew I had to.

Then Young Vera vanished.

"A young tragedy," Fake Lucien said, right behind my shoulder. He was so close I was surprised I hadn't felt him sooner. "But you did stop her. Like the heroes in the stories."

Anger filled me. I turned and tackled him to the ground, ignoring the pain that shot through my knees. It was a small pain and well-worth paying for what I intended to do.

Fake Lucien's laughter rang through the field, stopping only as I scratched my nail across his forehead hard enough to draw blood while charging magic into it. "What are you—"

"Who are you? Montre moi!"

Fake Lucien screamed with what I took to be rage before we spiraled into darkness once more.

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