Crescent (Book 1)

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I wait in the grand hall, admiring the candles in their radiant candelabras along the walls. Flowers decorate the main table in globed vases of winter white blooms. The air smells of mint and pine, something so much like Ceth that I hardly sense the moment he appears behind me. His scent wafts toward me, and I turn, expecting to find him alone. But I'm wrong.

At first, I don't recognize the mess of a person at his feet. They're a puddle of black, their crooked spine keeled over and their hair a sickly shade of fraying gray. I'm caught looking between Ceth's relentless grin and the slow rise and fall of the person's back. They let out a whine, and out of nowhere, it hits me: The witch.

"What the hell is this?"

"This?" his boot presses into the witch's back, flipping her onto her side so she's facing me. Her face is nothing more than wrinkled skin pulled gaunt over her skull. She coughs as he steps over her and strolls toward me. "This is how I'm planning on protecting my investments." Investments?

I flinch when he raises his hand to snap at a servant behind me. Another servant appears carrying a tray of food. Some water, a crumbled biscuit, some fruit on the verge of going bad. The witch trembles at the smell of it and Ceth grins. She's starving. Is that why she isn't fighting back?

"What are you doing, Ceth?"

He replies with the simple shake of his head. He motions the servant a step closer. He snaps up one of the rose colored berries, dangling it above the witch who's still trembling on the floor. "Come on, you decrepit creature. I have what you want."

The witch's voice, the same one I've heard in my head so many times before, is gravelly- weak. "Not..." she huffs. "From you."

I'm frozen, watching the scene. This feels too much like it did with Laura. The sound of her neck snapping is all too loud, the memory too close to sending me over the edge. Ceth's grin is the same. The golden glint of his hair, the white flash of his teeth- all the same.

He bends toward her, holding the fruit beside her face. I can tell she wants to spit at him, but she sinks further into the ground instead. Ceth grits his teeth before calling me toward him. I know better than to resist. I stare at the witch, stopping before them, terrified of what kind of game he might be playing. "Come and play, perdita." He grabs my hand and unfits my fingers, dropping the food into my awaiting palm. "Feed her."

"What are you going to-"

He grips my wrist, shoving me to my knees. "Do not make me repeat myself, Brenna."

The witch hisses as I settle my hand on her back. The feeling is all wrong. Her ribs jut out, each a knob I can count if I trail my finger down her back. My breath is heavy as I stroke the matted black fabric covering her. She doesn't budge, and I feel Ceth's impatience like the sun, heating the air.

"Please," I beg her, my voice nothing louder than a whisper. "Don't fight him."

"Fight him?" My body goes rigid when I hear her gravelly words in my head. "No, girl. He took that from me long ago."

I say again, desperate. "Please."

Her head swivels toward me ever so slightly. It isn't enough to see her eyes, but it's enough that I put the food between her chapped lips. She bites into it with two crooked teeth. It's like watching someone shift for the first time. Frail, graying skin transforms, inch by inch, into something smoother. The rough ridges of the witch's body slowly become fleshy and full. All signs of health and fullness stop at her neck where thick veins still protrude from her pale skin.

Ceth pushes a slice of melon into my hands, and I hold it out to her once more. She sits up instantly, taking the slice from me and turning her back as she ravages into it. With each bite, her hair turns silver. Her skin smooths over, but it all stops when she turns to cast a faraway look at me. Her eyes are so dark, nearly pits of black, and something in me aches when Ceth speak again:

"Perfect."

He pushes me aside, forcing the witch upright by her arm. Standing, she's probably a few inches taller than me. Her black eyes hold the same fear and hunger as that of a caged animal. The helplessness is all too familiar.

"You know what it is I need, dear Simantha." Ceth says to her, but the witch's eyes remain locked on me. "I'm afraid we're rather short on time, so I suggest we make this quick."

Her voice is stronger now but no less broken. "You also know what I require, Shawcross. What all of my magic requires."

Ceth's face turns up in a grin- a grin I know means devious things. I'm surprised when he holds his arm out and begins rolling the sleeve of his tunic. He bares his forearm to her, and magic slices the skin clean open. Blood pours out of it, dripping onto the floor by my hands, and I shoot backwards, standing as I watch it.

"You're enjoying this far too much," Ceth laughs, and magic sparks in the air like a flame being born in the dark. Each drop of his blood becomes bright and flickering, falling with an eerie new slowness. Iron in the air is strong enough to taste. Magic ripples away from them in waves, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end as a shroud of magic falls into place all around us. It coats the doors, sealing the entrances and exits.

"It's not enough," she says suddenly, the sound strangled.

I hardly feel when Ceth grabs me. I only feel her magic like a blade against my wrist as he holds my arm out and it slices. Red flows freely out of me. Blood turns to flame as it falls. Magic chokes me, hitting me in the gut like a fist as the castle groans under its new weight. Everything feels too tight, too powerful, and it isn't until Ceth releases me that the magic relents.

I fall flat on my back, the witch sinking with me, and pain blossoms in every joint and tendon. My vision is hazy for a moment, but I see Ceth standing over me, casually rolling the sleeves of his tunic back down. He holds out a hand to me, and somewhere in my peripheral, I see the witch's hands shriveling back into the hollow, sickly state they'd been before.

"What did you do?" I croak. Ceth's green eyes are a whirlpool of color above me. I blink at him, and he pulls me upright as the servant dips down to grab the witch. With a puff of magic, they're both gone- likely to lock her away in her frigid cavern all over again.

"I think it's time we dressed to greet our guests, don't you think?"

I find no kindness in his eyes. No warmth or sign of the man he'll pretend to be when the others arrive. I find only ice and malice, maybe fitting for the lord of a realm of cold and snow. My strength comes back to me slowly, and when I find enough of it, I yank away from him, carrying my skirts as I dash up the stairs. The door to our room slams loudly behind me, and I know that like always, things will be just as they were before- like nothing happened.

Something hard settles in my gut as I remember the black pit of the witch's eyes. They're eyes I'm not likely to forget.