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...
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I run a hand through my tangled hair and rub the sleep away from my eyes with my other fist.
I am tired and numb, but I feel cleansed.
I spent all of yesterday, and most of last night, alone in my room. I drank almost the entire bottle of whiskey Calum had quietly left outside my door. I'd cried, and screamed, and cursed God. I'd taken a bath in water so hot it had nearly blistered my skin, and remained submerged until it went tepid, then cool. I'd cried until I ran out of tears- and then I'd cried some more.
The beams of sunlight filtering through the gauzy canopy around my bed signal that Rae Campbell's life has officially come to an end. From this day forward, I will adopt the name The Grandmothers had given to me- Raelyn nieagh a' Campbell of the Aniwodi.
It's a mouthful.
My fingers catch in a particularly bad tangle, and I wince.
It won't do to greet my new life looking a sight, as Mama would say. The first order of business is for Raelyn to find a hairbrush.
Still trying to sort out my hair with my fingers, I rifle through the drawers of the vanity located against the wall between the entrance and bathroom doors. I find a small collection of what appears to be cosmetic jars- although they don't have any recognizable packaging. I open one, and gag at the stench. Something preservative free that's long-since gone bad, then.
In the top left drawer, I find a pretty strand of lustrous pearls and a few pairs of beaded earrings. I find what I am looking for in the center drawer- a hair brush made of pure silver, if the stamp on it is any indication.
Here I thought werewolves were supposed to be allergic to silver.
I run my fingers over the bristles- the sort of high quality boar ones that cost an arm and a leg at a department store, and freeze when I brush against a strand of auburn hair.
Hair that is not mine.
I look back to the collection of half-used, spoiled cosmetics, and feel my heart drop into my stomach.
Ceallach.
Calum hasn't touched this vanity since she died. The last fingers that brushed over these items were hers.
For some reason, the thought makes me sick to my stomach.
I try to put it out of my mind as I tame my wild mane, but a part of me can't help but to imagine her sitting at my desk in my dorm, combing her hair with my hairbrush, eating dinner with my mother, going out with my friends... living my life... if she had crossed over instead of me.
I shudder as I use one of her hair ties to secure my braid.
I pad across the plush carpet to the closet, and am greeted by a walk in wardrobe stuffed with haphazardly organized clothing. My small closet at home is color-coded, and the shoes are arranged by heel height. It looks like a tornado ripped through here.
