Page 17 of The Witch's Heart
The wolf is awake.
Its eyes are bright with a predatory glint, and its jowls hang open to reveal sharp canines. For a panicked moment, I wonder if this is Declan again, but I dismiss the idea immediately. This wolf is nothing like the one Declan became. Feral. Dangerous. Inhuman. Drool pools along the edges of its lips, and it snarls before throwing itself against the bars as it tries to get to me.
I cry out and leap back again, grateful for the metal separating us.
Again and again, it smashes against its cage, saliva dripping from its mouth as it snarls for me.
My breath catches and panic claws at me with each noise it makes. Surely, someone will hear it and come to investigate. I have no idea what they’ll do if they find me wandering the halls, but it won’t be pleasant.
A cold hand closes around my wrist. I whirl and come face to face with a young boy wearing nothing but rags. Iron bars stand between us but we’re so close now, only a breath from one another.
His eyes are cold and depthless and desperate. His grip on my wrist tightens and he pulls me close.
For a moment, I think he’s going to help me.
To whisper something that will unlock the secret to an escape.
But then his teeth elongate and he bears fangs aimed at my throat.
“I’m so hungry,” he whimpers, a sweet desperation that’s in direct contradiction to the predator he embodies. “I just need one little taste.”
I struggle, but it’s no use. His hand is like a vise drawing me in, and I know I’m not strong enough to pull away. I shut my eyes and wait for the attack that’s sure to come, bracing against the pain that will inevitably follow.
But then the pressure of his hands on my skin vanishes.
I open my eyes and blink at the sight of my cell.
I turn a full circle before I exhale in relief. I’m back. Safe inside the walls of my own space. The boy-predator is gone. I’m alone. Locked in a prison that I’m not even sure is real anymore. And I’m forced to admit that, for the first time since arriving, being in this room makes me feel safer than I ever thought it could.
5
In my dreams, I freeze in icy winds as voices whip around me, propelling me toward deeper levels of insanity. When I come to the edge of a cliff, the wind pushes me to jump. The voices add their encouragement.
Just one more step.
You can do it.
It will all be over.
No more pain.
Don’t you want this to end?
Tears harden on my cheeks, and when I look down, I realize my skin has turned to ice.Ihave turned to ice, and soon I will break into tiny shards to be carried away by the wind.
I wake with a start and sit up, pulling the blanket tightly around my shoulders as I struggle to orient myself to my surroundings. The lighting is the same as always: dim and full of shadows. My breath is visible in the damp chill, a misty white puff that dissipates before me.
My body aches from the thin, hard mattress, and even with the blanket drawn, I shiver, unable to stop, wishing desperately for warmth and food and my normal life.
Nothing about this new life is normal, and I’m loathe to imagine this is the way it’ll be moving forward.
I don’t know what time it is, but I picture myself midday at Sorbonne University, listening to a lecture about art history while I sip a café latte and nibble at a baguette I bought at the corner bakery on my way to class.
I would be scribbling notes in French—the language I tend to think and write in while at school—and afterward I’d spend the afternoon touring the local museums, studying the living history on display. My favorite is The Rodin Museum, though now when I think about the Gates of Hell I shudder as I realize I’ve descended into that nightmare.
“You awake, witch-girl?” An Australian accent from the cell across from mine calls out.
“Declan?” Though he and his brother sound alike, I can hear the difference in their inflections and tone. It’s a twin thing.
