After Rae Campbell is murdered by her abductor, she wakes in a world that exists parallel to ours- one which diverged in 1761, when a band of Scottish Highlanders joined with the Skin-Walking Kituwah tribe to oust the British from Appalachia.
Rae b...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I awaken, my eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. The room is filled with pungent smoke, and though a fire burns- bright, and hot- at its center, my teeth chatter. I shiver, and curl into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees. A bandage wrapped around my chest and shoulder brushes against my chin. I hear voices coming behind a closed door, but I am dragged under by exhaustion before I can see the faces they belong to.
The next time I come to, it is to voices, again. They speak in a language I have never heard- it is all rolling r's, and liquid w's, interspersed with guttural sounds made deep in the throat. The words are soft, and rhythmic, and they lull me back down into slumber as effectively as a lullaby.
The next thing I'm aware of is the feeling of fingers softly carding through my hair. It is a gentle, caring motion- one my mother often did when I was young. Still, I flinch away from the hand, my stomach turning over at the physical contact. A voice softly whispers, "See-ah-lah."
I am aware of other moments too- A strangely dressed woman chanting in an ancient language, shaking some sort of rattle over my body. Drinking a liquid that makes me cough and sputter and burn and float through the heavy, humid smoke that fills the room. Hearing the snapping jaws, howls, and growls of wolves. The scent of woodsmoke, pepper, and pine at my side.
When I finally emerge from the fog that clouds my mind, I expect to open my eyes to garishly pink walls. I expect to realize that the standing stones, and the wolves, and the strange snatches of memory are only a half-remembered dream.
Instead, I see a round room made of whitewashed stone with a roaring fire at its center. It is warm- uncomfortably so. My damp hair sticks to my sweaty skin, and the deep green, woolen blanket draped over me is entirely too thick and too hot. I kick it off, and am surprised to feel no pain at the motion.
I prod at the wound above my collarbone, and find that while it is still sore, touching it no longer sparks agony.
How long have I been asleep?
I push myself off of the narrow bed, and have to catch myself against its frame when my knees buckle under my weight. I curse under my breath- even the small amount of energy required to hold my own weight makes me pant with exertion.
As if on cue, the door to the room opens, and a man steps through. He is so tall and broad the top of his head and the edges of his shoulders nearly brush the frame. He fixes his dark eyes on me, and I swallow hard.
"See-ah-lah," he whispers, his eyes wide and round and awed. He rushes forward, his arms outstretched. Before I can run, or protest, he has wrapped his big arms around me and crushed me to his chest. One hand cradles the base of my skull, and I feel his lips brush against my temple. He is murmuring things against my hair. I do not understand the language, but the tone makes it clear that they are the sweet nothings of a lover.
I go stiff as a statue in his embrace, my heart hammering in my chest, my mouth dry. A part of me thinks that I should fight, that I should break away from him, but Master's fists and cigarette butts and belts and whips have taught me better. So I stand, frozen, my hands clenched into fists at my side.
