The Knight of Slaughtaverty

Chapter 19 - Ethereal Life

TW:- Mild gore and possibly triggering themes ahead. Reader discretion is advised.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I take one step back, then another, the big floppy-eared rabbit slipping from the grasp of my numb fingers as I watch the figure rising from the chair.

At full height, I'm surprised that I mistook it for a doll. It is almost as tall as me, but the shadows are thick in this section of the room, and even squinting, I cannot distinguish who it is. There must be a second light switch I'd missed because the room was much brighter when I was here with Liam, and it wasn't only because it was daytime. None of the bulbs is lit in this section.

With each step I take backwards, the figure takes one forward. Through my hyperventilating anxiety, recognition swirls inside me like thin smoke, not quite able to take shape.

One more step and the person enters the dull flickering light of an overhead lamp, the jaundiced glow sparking highlights in her long, silvery brown hair. She still looks like a doll, dressed in an empire-style cream silk and lace dress, giving her the appearance of an apparition from a long-gone era. For a second, I think that, like the avatar I'd used in the family tree, Saoirse is indeed a ghost.

Her face is gaunt, and her collarbones stand out, fragile and sharp in the square neckline of the dress. She is as diaphanous as the air around us, her heavy-lidded eyes lowered halfway over pale irises. Relief wrestles with apprehension as I gaze into her shadow-painted face.

Dread claws its way up my spine, sinking needle-sharp talons into my skin, causing goosebumps to break out over my body when my eyes fall on the tiny baby she is holding onto, clasped tightly to her chest. I can hear the infant making muffled snuffling noises, causing me to breathe in a sharp gasp of shock.

"Can you hear him," Saoirse asks me. "He is crying."

Panic is crawling over my scalp, causing a strangling lump to form in my tight throat, and I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Where did she get this baby?!

"Yes," I croak, taking a nervous step towards her. "Yes, Saoirse, he's crying. Please give him to me... H-honey..."

I hold my arms out, desperate for her to hand the baby over. If I lunged at her, she might hurt him. I can hear my breath travel to and from my lungs in terrified huffs. My mind is swirling with visions from a vague dream I had of a helpless little baby bleeding and cold in the arms of a white-haired girl... a baby lying as still as death on my bed while the girl sucked the blood from my veins.

"No!" Saoirse growls, jerking me back to the present, and the nightmare evaporates as fast as it appeared. "Mine," she mutters, protectively covering the baby with her arms. "He's mine," she sobs, her eyes anxiously searching the dark shadows around us, and I'm suddenly afraid that she will dematerialize and vanish with the infant.

Strangely, I do not feel any real fear for my own safety despite the threatening noises the girl emits in a low voice, her eyes narrowed in warning, and her lips drawn back in a snarl. In the dusky light, her irises seem to glow with silver light. I do, however, fear for the baby in her arms.

"I... I can hear him crying," I lie, stretching my hands out palms towards her, hoping I don't appear intimidating. "I think he's... he's cold. He's just cold. Let me swaddle him in a blanket for you. He'll be happy then."

"Swaddle?" she repeats, looking at me, tilting her head as if listening carefully, giving me a little hope.

"Yes, I'll wrap him in a blanket, snug and warm like... like a burrito."