Page 86 of Shadows of Nightshade
A strong wind was shaking the leaves, threatening to tear away the weakest branches. But I could not feel the storm againstmy face. Instead, the dream-like quality surrounding me continued. I was floating, yet tethered to the earth.
We’re here.
Red bled into russet and gray, and as my ears popped, I was back in a familiar place.
The bright white marble of Professor Hamway’s kitchen shone under the sinking light of the waxing moon. The room was spotless, like I’d left it earlier.
All except for a single coffee mug resting on the countertop and the aqua-colored ceramic pot on the stove.
Had I forgotten to put them away? Who had made tea while I was cleaning?
Even through my dazed thoughts, I was embarrassed that everything wasn’t perfect.
I should have been scared. But even though my heart was pounding and my skin was tingling, it was not from fear. There was an electric energy radiating throughout the space, a new feeling that I couldn’t quite place.
Maybe I was dreaming. That would explain a lot.
“Turn back, turn back.”A different voice now.
The wind brushed against my ear. I jumped, pressing my hands to cup my ears as I turned. There was no one and nothing, not even the slightest wisp, present in the darkened kitchen outside of me.
“There’s nothing for you here, only death,” it said. This time, it wasn’t a whisper at all, but a loud ringing in my ears.
I was moving through water, resistant and unable to control my body. Despite fighting against the action, I stepped toward the basement.
With that, the room changed. An oppressing presence fell over the space, and blurred shapes floated in the corners of my vision. The modern oven was replaced with a kitchen hearth and an openflame, and brick walls replaced the modern backsplash. Yet my thoughts stayed numb as I took another step and reached for the basement door’s handle.
My fingers itched as I touched the knob. I could feel the painful sting of frozen metal and iron. I wasn’t dreaming.
Then what was going on? Why was I back here?
I’d fallen asleep in Damen’s room.
“Hide, hide.” It sounded as though the speaker was directly behind me. I spun around, and this time, I saw her.
An elderly woman in a black dress turned from the hearth. A large cauldron bubbled over the open flames, and she set a wooden spoon on a three-legged bench before she wiped her hands on her apron. A russet-colored table was in front of her, and she pressed against the surface, fingers touching the deep indentations. There was an urgency in her voice as she said, “They will be here soon.”
Who would be here? I was afraid to move or to breathe, so I remained still in my corner.
Was she talking to me? But… she was not looking in my direction at all. Rather, she was looking at a growing shape on the other side of the table.
“Stop talking in riddles.” The form spoke, solidifying, and my throat closed. Her softly curled blonde hair was easily distinguishable, but not her expression. Every time I’d seen her before now, her eyes held more fear.
I wasn’t sure what was happening, or what I was seeing, but in this moment, this memory, she was alive. Was I really seeing this, or was this all my imagination?
She looked the same, but so different. Her gingham was not torn, and her anxious, unsure, personality was confident and collected. “I do not have time for this nonsense. Just tell me where my sister is. I will not leave without seeing her.”
“I see why you’ve been chosen,” the old woman tsked. “It’s always the heroic ones who seek out an early death. But you must escape now, or you’ll lose the opportunity to do so.”
The girl stepped to the table, also placing her hands on the surface. When she spoke, she was powerful and frightening in a way that did not match her smallish frame, enunciating each word with a command. “Tell me where I can find Eleanor.”
Vibrations thrummed under my bare feet, and I was pulled from their conversation as the plank flooring began to shake under the weight of heavy footsteps.
But the two women did not seem to notice.
‘R-run—’ I opened my mouth to warn them, but I could not speak. I was frozen. Fear finally reached me, and a line of sweat dripped down the center of my back. My skin crawled as a gray-black cloud that smelled of patchouli and wormwood began to curl through the crack at the bottom of the basement door. It took me a moment to recognize the scents—it’d been years since I’d been taught to recognize the herbs.
‘Run…’ I mouthed, but still, silence.
