The Forest Keeps Its Monsters

Episode One

Detritus is my favorite smell. Not the freshly dead and buried, the feast for the worms, but the soft soil of the forest floor. I sink my fingers into the first layer; the falling leaves crunch, break brittle. Then the dirt parts for me like a doorway. Black soil that holds the scent of rain, of mushrooms, of cleanliness and the cycle of life. I could live here, where the dead things feed the earth, in the quiet between the trees. The wind blows, catching my hair, and on it there’s a sound, the chime of a bell. My ritual isn’t done. I’m not cleansed yet, but there’s no purpose to cleansing when work waits. When the scent I’ll be bathed in is my least favorite form of detritus. A witch’s work is never done. I stand, grabbing my unlit lantern from the ground, shaking the leaves from my cloak whose tattered bottom simply collects more as I walk. The bell chimes again, the second of three rings, calling me to the hallowed ground as I make my way between the towering sentinels that keep the sun at bay, the undergrowth permanently shadowed. It’s been this way since before I came into this world, dark and void of the light I’ve heard tales about. There’s fog on the horizon, a green-lit bloom, creeping along the ground, bringing with it a chill in the air that makes me tug my cloak tighter around my body. A root extends up, catching the edge of my boot, and I stumble, then look down in surprise. “Have I done something to offend you?” I don’t remember this particular tree being so ornery, and none have ever tried to slow me on the way to my purpose. It doesn’t answer, of course. It can’t speak like me, but it’s speaking to something. The leaves above shiver, cascading down like rain, and I tilt my head, watching it echo along the path in front of me. Roots reach like small arches, obstacles in my path as the leaves float down, one tree after another. The bell chimes a third time, and I set my jaw. It won’t ring a fourth time, and I’m expected. The token waits, the body waits, and the time is now ticking down to the setting sun. “Offended or not,” I say to the tree, stepping up onto the arched root and using it as my steady ground now, one after the other. “I’m called, so I must answer, or we all suffer.” The roots don’t lower, not that I expected them to. Trees are so set in their ways, and their language is slow, their movement to retreat slower. And their reasoning hasn’t changed just because I’m pressing forward despite their protest. I catch myself against the trunks as I slide on the fallen leaves, impatience building in my chest, but the circle is ahead; I can see it, holding the wall of fog at bay. It creeps along the vine-woven barrier, a hiss in the air as it touches, testing itself against me. Nature against the nature wielding. My will wins. This ground is mine, assigned, agreed upon in blood and in writing before me, before the memory of my mother, and her mother. I step onto the last root, a stair down into the clearing. The canopy is still above, stretching like a dome, woven branches that hold strong against light and storm. Too strong against the light this evening, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dark pressing down. The lantern in my hand lights as I lift it, and the others pop on around the circle, a burst of flame more violent than usual, and I take a calming breath. I need to center myself. Whatever the trees were speaking about can’t reach me here, and their petulance with the light isn’t a bother. “Something so old shouldn’t be so childish.” I chide as I make my way past the graves. Stones protrude outward from the ground, some small, some large. Colored with moss, lichen, dirt, vines. The warm glow fights the darkness for a moment, then it spreads along the vines, up the shadow of the tree barrier, until the canopy glows softly as well, though not as bright as I’d like. I don’t have time to rectify it now. I reach the space between the vines that leads into a darkened path through the forest, like a gaping maw, and reach up, taking the token from the sheared branch it’s required to rest upon. It’s frigid in my hand, and I turn toward the light to see it clearly. “Silver?” Not bronze, copper, not some amalgamation of metals. A steep payment that feels wrong almost immediately. There are no extra coins to bury with the dead, no further instructions. But I can smell the freshly tilled earth. The grave has been dug, the body placed. I look around the outer edges for the hole and come up empty, tucking the silver token into the pocket of my dress. I don’t murmur apologies as I step onto the dirt-covered corpses. They won’t bother their keeper; they can’t even if they wished to. The crickets are the first to make themselves known. No chirps, but a black tide of them, hopping away from the edges of broken earth I can see, and the closer I step, the more the air changes. Thickens, cools, oppressive like humidity before a deluge. “Move,” I command the tide, and they scatter, find their shelter away from my lanterns’ glow. There’s no stone risen yet, just the edge of the freshly dug grave I put the toe of my boot to and lean over to look inside at what they’ve brought me. “Spirits be damned, what is this?” I know what it is; I have eyes, but I don’t quite believe it. It’s not a sprite, an undead waiting for peace; it’s not some banshee frozen in time. It’s a man. They’ve made a mistake. That’s my first thought as I step back enough to kneel down instead. They’ve brought me one of their kind to deposit in the graveyard that doesn’t accept men. Is that the reason for the silver? There isn’t enough light to see more than his face and the iron chains that bind him. A strong jaw, a thick head of black hair, matted with dirt. I summon my lantern, and it hops along the ground with a squeak of its metal hinge until I grab it and hold it high. The wind pulls up from the ground, guttering the flame, pulling at my hair like it wants to drag me away, and I grab the edge of the grave to hold on, dropping the lantern down into the damp earth. It doesn’t break or flicker out; it lands upright, half sunken into the soil, and lights his legs. He’s still wearing pants made of dark material, which is unusual. Everything is born into the world bare, and it should be taken out the same. And he’s in a circle of salt. Anger flashes through me, bright and visceral, the lamps flaring in response. They salted my earth. How dare they. Three feet below the soil line, and it will kill every living thing in its path. Upset the balance. Selfish, idiotic breed. I force the wind down with my hand until it dies down, dropping the cloak from my bare shoulders, and hike up my skirt with one hand. The warning voice of my mother, the rules, are a buzz in the back of my head. They must pay if they want us to seal the dead creatures they bring.

Slowly, I lower myself into the grave, the heel of my boot kicking back the lantern to make more room so as not to catch my skirts on fire, shadowing the body that lies wrapped in iron chains.

You must complete the ritual before the last light dies in the sky.

I lean to scoop the first line of salt into my hand, and it takes more will than I’d like to transmute it, the natural, bitter crystals turning to glass that glitters as I let it drop back into the grave. You mustn’t cross the threshold of soil into their tomb lest you be dragged under. The soles of my boots are lined with my own black salt. Nothing would be dragging me under this day, or any. You must cleanse yourself after each burial so the souls cannot follow you home if they escape. Moving to scoop up the line on his other side, I press my fingers against the wall of dirt, looking at him as the lantern casts its light back over him. There are burns across his chest; I see them now, charred markings, a ritual of its own written into flesh, sealed with heat. They bled, and I watch as a drop trails along the muscled cords of his abdomen, and my eyes widen. And no matter what, you mustn’t bury the living. “The dead don’t bleed,” I whisper to the air that shivers in agreement, my breath puffing out in a cold mist. The chains shift, the soft, sly clinking of the metal pulling taut, and my heart leaps into my throat. “No, they don’t.” His irises glow emerald as his hand snaps out, wrapping around my ankle. I scream.

Episode Two

The iron chain burns as it touches me, something I feel as if it’s scorching down into my bone to leave its mark as I kick free, driving my body back against the far side of his grave to grab the lantern. My chest heaves as I hold it high, prepared to break it over him, to finish the job even if it means razing my heritage and starting anew after centuries. My ancestors cursing me from their own graves. His hand drops to the dirt, the chain rattles, and his chest is heaving too, in effort or in pain. Maybe in a hex that makes him seem alive when he’s something else. A spell meant to bring a lover back, gone awry? The scorch marks flex with each breath he takes, his exhale clouding the air the same as mine and my hands begin to shake, making the fire flicker. He’s alive. Truly. In my pocket, that silver stings cold against me, a calling, a payment. I should drop the lantern, put him out of his misery, out of his fight. I cannot bury the living. Gritting my teeth, I stand straight, raising the lantern higher as he watches me through thick lashes, that glow as bright as my flame. His lips part like he’s going to object, and something in me hopes he does. I’m not the executioner; that’s not my calling. I’m the keeper; I’m the witch who lays the slain to proper rest, who protects the living world from their rising again. He exhales no words, just a soft, warning growl. “Speak again, creature, if you can. And choose your words wisely. They’ll be your last.” I snap. The chains clank as he shifts, as he presses his shoulder into the wall of dirt and lifts his chin at me. “To hell with you, witch.” Indignation spears through me, then his leg jerks out to the side, catching mine, and then pain spears through my tailbone as I fall straight onto my ass in the soil. The lantern peters out, and I throw it at his head like a weapon anyway, aiming for the mirth-filled glow of his eyes. It misses, hitting the side of the grave, and dirt loosens, falling on him like it sprung a leak. It covers the top of his head first, falling around his shoulders. I realize that it’s not going to stop when he does, his eyes widening as it drops onto his chest and starts creeping up his chin. He shakes his head hard, dislodging some, but it’s not enough. He tries to tilt his head back and ends up with a face full of it. A fine material, perfect for growing, perfect for flooding the lungs. “Woman!” He gasps before he’s forced to shut his mouth or taste the intention of his death. The light is on its last breath of the day; I can feel it in the air, see the change above as true, natural darkness begins to set in. He’ll be buried. It’ll be done. The token will be earned. And no matter what, you mustn’t bury the living. My mother’s voice again, one I used to find I was fond of in companionship, is now a nag. I turn my eyes up to the canopy as if in prayer that lightning will make its way through and strike this creature dead, then I surge forward on my knees. The soil is soft between my fingers as I delve into it, my bared elbows barely avoiding his chains as I search for something to grab onto of his, to pull him free. No shirt, curse him. Ears too fragile, nose not big enough to grab onto to wrench him loose. My fingers tangle into his hair, twist unkindly, but only because I need the grip, I defend in my head, then I pull, leaning back. His face breaks through as he gasps for air, as he sits up with my assistance so quickly my back lands against his thighs, shoulders hunching so the chains only touch the back of my dress. Up close, he’s far less corpse-like even with the dirt shadowing his face, maddeningly so. I become abruptly aware that I’m lying between the thighs of the man I threatened to kill moments ago. The air puffs white between us, and under my fingers he’s warm, something vibrant and tingling creeping up my hands, to my wrists as he looks down at me. I don’t know what that feeling is; I don’t recognize it, but I see him experience it too. His eyes flick toward my arm, back to my face, and his gaze catches on my face a moment too long before he jerks his head back. Dirt rains down on me from his hair, and I put my hands in front of me to defend myself. Above us, on the soil line, the last of the sunlight dies; the earth beneath us shivers with the closing of the daylight, sending a ripple through the air as night rises with the moon. I expect the air to grow heavier, but instead, it lightens. The humidity lessens, the sweet smell of the soil permeates the air, the cold recedes until I can no longer see my breath. Then the crickets begin their song. He hasn’t moved; I can see the light of his eyes from between my fingers, and I feel a bit foolish as I lower them, sitting up. Something’s changed about him. He’s breathing easier; his eyes have lost their bright green look to something deeper, easier to gaze upon. But most of all, the charred spell work lining his skin begins to fall off like ash, leaving him unblemished. The blood no longer flowing. “What are you?” I ask, reaching out to touch the crumbling mark. He doesn’t flinch away from me; he just watches like he can’t account for what he’s looking at either. “I don’t know.” *** The roots have retreated once again, the leaves a soft carpet beneath my boots that feels much more welcoming to my presence now. He walks ahead of me, his steps tired but sure, his feet bare, the iron no longer clinking around him. I left the chains in the hole, better there than near me, than crossing my barrier and disrupting my grounds. There’s magic about him, but the iron didn’t leave burns behind, only bruises that are fading before my lantern light the closer to my home we come. There will be a lecture in the spirits for me. Several at this point. I took payment and didn’t complete my duty. I took a body from the grave. I’m taking him to my sanctuary. This unknown creature sent to me to be buried alive, in chains, under a spell I don’t understand. I know nothing about him. I cannot even glean what he is when I try to look past his skin to his soul. There is only skin, like armor. “How did you get into the grave?” I ask. He shakes his head silently. “How did you get wrapped in those chains?” Again, my question is met with silence. “How did you—” “I don’t know!” He rounds on me, scaring birds from their night roost, the flap of their wings matching my heartbeat as he looms, large and menacing. The shadow he casts around me is dense, dark; I can taste the magic of him on the air. Ash, like what fell from his body, earth, something pleasantly green, like garden herbs, something electric on the back of my tongue that crackles like a warning not to meddle with what I’ve found. Behind him I can feel the hidden doorway to my home, warm and inviting. Safety behind wards and books. I could cast him away, turn him loose into the forest, let him be the problem of the others who reside. But I want answers, and he has provided none. “Then what do you know? It’s the least you owe me for pulling you from that grave, creature.” I step closer to that shadow, pressing against it with my will to see if I can make it bend. It only grows darker. “Don’t call me that.” He snaps, and I hear something in his voice, a twinning of sounds, one human and one ancient. But he doesn’t step forward, his fingers curling in against his palms, then releasing like he’s trying to disperse tension. “Then tell me something. Tell me what to call you.” What name to bind him with if I must. The silence stretches between us, but only between us. The forest around us is alive, vibrant. Its wind is soft and warm, the fireflies flickering bright and cheerful, and the sounds full, almost like they’re calling to something. “Riven,” he lets the name go like it’s the only thing he’s sure of, and the wind presses against my back, urging me to step closer. No, it’s urging me to bring him inside, tugging at the bottom hem of my cloak like an excited child. “Riven,” I repeat, and the hardness on his face softens, like he’s relieved to hear his name, like it feels real. “Welcome in.” He turns to see my house forming from the woods, the illusion fading to soft light coming through the glass, the purple painted front door swinging open like a second invitation. He breathes deep, and I think he’s going to hesitate. Instead, he steps forward. I see the wards react before I can stop them. They light the arching of the doorway, brilliant and blue, and he stops before he hunches over. The noise he makes sounds like anguish until the growl marks it as rage. They’re not meant to harm, only obstruct, and I raise my hand to change them, and watch in fascination as they change themselves. No longer blue, they warp, turning into a language I’ve seen but don’t know how to read. He stumbles through the doorway, dropping to his hands and knees, and the wind pushes me forward once more, insistently. I move across the threshold, feeling the same tingling in my hands as before, caressing my shoulders as I carefully reach out, touching his back. The tips of his fingers have blackened, claws stretching forward to curl into my wooden floor. His hair has parted, two small backward-facing horns peeking through the thick dark strands. When he looks up at me, I see elongated fangs, the fury in his glowing eyes. “You’re…cursed…” I breathe. What had been done to this poor man? His hand moves blindly behind him, searching, and I catch it before his claws can find the floor again. His fingers curl over mine instead. “Can—” His voice cuts off as he strains, as the horns sink back from where they came from, as his claws begin to contract away from my skin. “Can you help me?”

Episode Three

My tomes have collected dust, weeks of it, some years, and now so has my bed where I’ve spread them for research. Riven sleeps, not beside me, but on my kitchen table, face down, his head resting on my pillow, my blanket wrapped around his naked lower half. His pants are hanging by the river stone hearth to dry where the fire crackles, where the soup cooks in a copper pot smelling like garlic, leek, and potato. Outside, the copper wash basin is filled with dirty water, soil, the leftover crust of blood, and now he’s giving off the distinct scent of lemon balm. It tickles my nose as my beeswax candle burns bright on my bedside table, illuminating the space without reaching him. I rolled it in herbs for calmness and serenity, but my heart must’ve not been behind it because several things are distracting me from both. One is the runes along the arch of my doorway I’ve written down on parchment and can’t match to any language I have. Another is the state of the man who had been on his hands and knees, asking me for my help. And then there’s the man himself, lying there, breathing softly like he hasn’t a care in the world. Memory broken, body breaking, and a new hint of magic hovering over him like a mirage of heat, warping the air, changing the shape of the objects I can see in its illusion, it’s not like the darkness from before. And it’s tugging at me to look, to examine it, to run my fingers over him. A connection I don’t understand. Or perhaps it’s a calling. The claws have almost completely receded, but the black around his fingers remains. His hair is a little longer as well, the dark strands curling around the nape of his neck since the curse took him to his knees last night. When the daylight whispered between the trees, he began to sleep, and sometime after dawn I put my pillow under his head. I told myself it was because listening to his skull knock against the table every time he moved was distracting. And when night fell, my fingertips began to tingle, and they’ve not stopped since. “It’s not transmutative like I’ve seen before. That’s all at once and is hardly a curse but something that forms from the inside out.” I murmur, closing another book and casting it to the side. My covers catch it from making noise, and I stand, shoulders aching, eyes burning from my own lack of sleep. Curses are rare things, expensive things for the witch that casts them. Some cost soul fragments, materials that are difficult to come by. Some require sacrifices of certain blood, and they all look different, feel different. His was inlaid into his flesh; it should have remained, it should still be visible now, traceable. Does it mean it’s permanent? Does it mean that something caused it to fracture and break? Does it mean that perhaps the caster died before it was complete? There are those that say they’ll pay the cost of magic, then turn on the caster, not knowing that it can interrupt the spell. I look at the silver token hanging by my doorway, a beacon of everything that’s gone wrong since I went to retrieve it, and wonder if I should take it back to the hallowed grounds, replace it on the branch. There would be no point to it; it’s not as if they come back to check on the deceased. They just think the job will be completed as promised. And it should have been, but they broke the rule first. They did not bring me a body. They brought me a cursed man, still breathing. And he is still breathing; I make sure of it as I cross my small house to him. The ash circle I placed around the table has held, as far as I can tell, and when I cross the threshold of it, I make sure not to disturb it. It’s protective for me, my home, incase whatever is in him decides to break free. He doesn’t stir as I glance down at him, folding my hands behind my back and leaning over him. The skin of his back looks unblemished, but along his spine there’s the same inky black that covers his fingers, dipping downward as if his skeleton is showing through. It disappears under the cover of the blanket, and I wonder if it continues or stops at the end of his spine. There’s the consideration to simply lift it and look; the dead never seem to mind, but Riven is not dead, and I am a witch of some moral standards, at the very least. Standing straight, I lift my hands to the mirage, the way it warps the air above him. I can feel it, like a tangible thing, and I want to feel more, so I reach forward into the waves that make the tingling worse. Riven rolls as if I’ve pushed him, his eyes open, a hand coming up to grab my wrist, and he just holds it. “You’re touching me,” he says. I look down at him, my heart in my throat, then up to where he has a hold of me. “You’re actually touching me…” Impatience crosses his face, and he tugs my hand more into the mirage, and his back arches a little. “Riven…” I warn, my face heating, unsure of what’s happening. “What’s your name?” He asks suddenly, his breathing unsteady. It makes me take a breath, my throat suddenly going a little dry. Out of all of the things for him to ask me, I wasn’t expecting this. My fingers aren’t just tingling now. It’s my hands, my wrists, my elbows. I feel like his hands have wrapped around my shoulders, an insistent pressure that matches that on my wrist, t trying to pull me further into the waves of whatever magic is above him. When I speak, my voice is unsteady. “M-Mirelle.” “I need you to…reach.” His eyes move to mine, and his other hand lifts, fingers slipping into the back of my hair. “Reach for me?” For him? I part my lips and I begin to understand what it is. The curse is being rejected by his body, a piece of it exiled to the air above him where its workings are trying to retain its hold on him. He pulls my wrist farther, and I watch as black ink begins to fall out of the shimmering space above him. I can feel something, like metal that starts to burn as I touch it, the core of the spell, but can see nothing but the way the ink starts to trace his bones under his skin. His sternum first, spreading along his ribs like a painting. My hand is simply hovering in that mirage, touching empty air to my eyes. “Can you feel it?” His fingers tangle harder into my hair, and I can hear that undertone in his voice again, ancient, distorted, as he pulls my face down toward his. Those fangs begin to grow, his claws prickle at my scalp, and our eyes meet once more. His pupils have turned to slits, focused in on my face, his lips parting and his exhale washes warm over my lips. “Can you help me?” He growls softly as my fingers wrap around the core of his curse. His lips brush mine. The magic is dissipating, unraveling as I secure that core in my grip. Even as the heat soaks into me, I’m enthralled by what I’m seeing in him. Outside, the wind picks up, the flames in the hearth dance higher, the electricity dances on the back of my tongue in that crackling warning as his lips part. “Can you free me, Mirelle?” I want to. I want to press my lips to his, taste his magic. I want to free him. On the wind I hear it; in my head it rings. A single chime of the bell. It comes to me like clarity, a flash of knowledge that I overlooked because I couldn’t see past his skin. Riven isn’t a cursed man. My grip falters, and whatever I’m holding slips through my fingers as my concentration breaks, and I lean forward to grab it again. Riven’s body jerks hard enough to move the table beneath him. The wooden legs scrape across the floor, through the line of ashen herbs, and I realize too late that my instincts had been right, it was containing the curse. It expands rapidly with the circle broken, pressure that envelops me, the house, straining at the edges of the walls like a barrier. As it tries to protect itself. The wood groans in protest, the windows begin to crack as the distortion of the mirage makes my head swim. The flames start to die like they’re suffocating, and I understand. I cannot breathe either. “Mirelle,” Riven says my name, and I hear two voices. The human wild with fear, the ancient one hungering for release. I strain, looking forward, and I can see it. Curses are knots, webs woven through flesh until every strand has its hold, its control. This one is webs stemming from a single object clutched in my grip, vines rising up to meet it, trying to break free. “I can see it,” my voice struggles to be heard. The bell rings a second time, vibrating the windows with its insistence. I’m being called. Riven’s head turns, and his horns are sprouting again, curling against the side of his skull. I pull, and the web vibrates, the vines shake. The core of the spell runs down through him, branching around his ribs, his heart, his throat, winding through every part of him. Not like a curse dug in, but like a cage. Containing. I pull again and the core cracks; the air pulsing with a sound beyond my hearing; it breaks, throwing me forward against his body as it gives way so I’m holding onto nothing. The cloud disperses as I gasp for air, and for one ragged breath, Riven is no longer shaped correctly beneath me. His shoulders broaden, black bones shifting under the pale skin of a man, and something presses outward along his spine, raising him off of the table. He’s silent, his fingers digging harder into my wrist, pulling at my hair, then he tears his hands away from me. I stumble back, tripping through the rest of the ash line as he collapses back against the table, panting, more man than creature again, but the black still spreading along him. The bell chimes for the third and final time, and I’m running out of the door, the sound of two voices calling after me.

Episode Four I run blind in the dark, the wind chasing after me like a mournful howl, carrying the voices of him. There are no roots in my way, no falling leaves, but the air heats until the hair clings to the back of my neck, and the circle of my hallowed ground appears between the trees. Everything is wrong. It’s bathed in red light, barely illuminating the dark, and I realize I shouldn’t be here. The bell rings before sunset; I have until the last of the light touches the earth to bury the dead. But it’s already dark. There’s no scent of freshly tilled earth; there’s no reason for my calling. I look up at the red canopy, the leaves shivering in the light of a blood moon; I realize and steel myself. Monsters roam under this moon, madness too. There’s a flicker of light in the outer rim of the circle of trees where the gaping maw of black waits, the forest road that leads to the village of men. I see it bounce between trees, shimmer off of another hanging token on that sheared branch. I should turn around, and something slicks down my spine in the shape of shame for running. For seeing something unlike myself but living, in pain, trapped, and leaving it in the guise of my duty. If I’m to be punished here, it’s justified, and I lift my chin, stepping out into the circle. The torch is held higher, the pistol pointed at my chest, the smell of the gunpowder horn recently used burning my nose. “Witch,” the human hisses into the dark. “Is it done?” I can see he’s losing his hair, that his eyes are shadowed with fear, exhaustion, that grief is a wave that washes over him from behind like a ghost. His hands shake despite the weapon he holds. “You broke the natural order of things.” My voice doesn’t shake, but I wrap my arms around myself despite the warning heat. “What you brought wasn’t dead.” The gun rises, then waves in the air as if it’s an extension of his hand. “That’s why the silver. That’s why the payment is beyond the measure of the agreement. We brought him, we chained him, we made sure he was in the hole, near death. All you had to do was perform the ritual.” Now the gun taps against the hanging token, another piece of silver reflecting the firelight. “It is dark; I cannot bury anything else this night.” “Incentive, witch. To complete the job.” He speaks to me like I’m in the wrong, like I don’t know the rules of nature, that I don’t wield it. “We need you to finish it.” That’s the second time he’s said ‘we,’ and I lift my chin, looking as more men step out of the tree line, out of the dark of the wood and into the red light. “I do not kill the creatures you bring, only help them to rest.” Then something else has me curling my fingers tighter in my gown. “How did you know the job isn’t complete?” “The forest still resists. His minions still attack, preventing us from crossing the river into the wild lands.” Where shame had run down my spine, cold now replaces it like ice, sinking into my stomach until my arms drop heavily to my sides. “He’s from the wild lands?” I picture the forest, ancient, raw and untouched by humans, vibrant and beautiful. I picture the dreams I have of it, wishing I could stray far enough from this dark canopy to see the sunlight for the first time since I drew breath. “He’s dangerous.” He is. That isn’t knowledge I’m lacking. He's dangerous because he's meant to be. Not therefore good. Not therefore evil. Just purpose-built for violence in defense of something. The runes come back to me as well: the bright green, the call of the wind, the trees trying to stop me from reaching the hallowed grounds, the leaves raining. His horns. “He’s a forest guardian,” I choke out. Sacred. Solitary. Cursed into the body of a human. “You trapped him.” “Yes. A curse bought and paid for in the blood of my son, what remained of him. We searched for food. We’re farmers, simple men, and it hunted us. Slaughtered all but two of us. It enjoyed the hunt. So yes. We trapped him. We had him cursed to be human, to be buried alive to his end.” The tears come; I can’t stop them, because I can’t stop seeing them. The monster on my kitchen table, asking to be freed, saying my name as I gaze upon his torment. The monster standing at the end of the forest road, asking for Riven to be murdered for reasons I cannot know are true. This is not my calling. I am not the one to judge, to execute. Just guide. He takes the token from the branch and tosses it to me. I catch it, the silver frigid once again between my hands. “Finish it, and we’ll never ask another thing of you again. We’ll destroy the bell; we’ll free you of your duty.” My heart leaps; I take a breath, and all I can do is nod. It’s not a promise, it’s not a denial. It’s time. “By nightfall tomorrow, let it be done, witch.” And they leave, back into the dark maw, leaving me bathed in red. *** The breeze leads me home, the light of the fireflies, the chirp of the cricket song that dies as Riven steps from my doorway. Above him, the runes glow that brilliant green, fading the further he gets from the door, and the closer he gets to me. I let the fear hit me first; it’s visceral: the man standing there with the shadow of his skeleton showing through his muscles, the horns that have not retreated, the claws that rest at the tips of his fingers. His eyes are still green, the shade a painful glow once again. When I can take a breath, I let the pull sink into me next. The tingle in my fingertips, the shadow of him that’s grown dim, the smell of green and pleasant filling my head. “Your magic,” I start, and have to clear my throat. “It calls to me.” Riven says nothing for a moment, his eyes looking over my shoulder like he can see what happened at my hallowed grounds. Then his gaze catches on mine. “You can reach it, Mirelle. You can reach me. Whatever I am.” “Do you remember the wild lands? The forest?” I ask, twisting my fingers in my skirt. His eyes unfocus as his pupils turn to slits, and I can see the black shift across his skin, spreading. “I remember the light. The water.” “And the men?” I whisper. Riven straightens with a snort, lifting his chin. “Men. Humans? I remember running.” His tongue moves out against his elongated fangs. “I remember them running too.” “And did you kill them?” “No,” he says, then tilts his head. “Not all of them.” I swallow the anger that wants to leap from my throat, the fire that wants to form at my fingertips. The light of the fireflies start to dim. The day is coming soon. “Why?” “Balance,” he says simply. “They killed six of my forest. I killed six of their village.” “The same six from the forest?” “No,” he tilts his head again, as if he doesn’t understand why that matters. My stomach clenches, and whatever he sees on my face makes him continue. “They shouldn’t have hunted us; they shouldn’t have crossed the river.” Hunted us. “They weren’t just farmers?” I hate how the hope hangs in my voice, how the decision to judge is unraveling from my fingertips, the weight of the new piece of silver in my pocket growing heavier with the denial growing in my chest. “Not just, Mirelle.” My relief spills over, not because he’s innocent. He isn’t. But because being a monster isn’t the same as being evil. He’s part of the natural cycle, wielding it in the only way he knows how. My throat tightens as I step closer. “They want me to kill you. They’ve paid two silver tokens for your life.” He says nothing for a moment, then lifts his hand. His claw-tipped fingers catch the strands of my hair and tuck them behind my ear. “Is that payment high?” “Yes.” The attraction spreads, a slow heat moving through my stomach, upending the fear as it travels. “Do you think you can kill me, Mirelle?” It’s as if he can feel it, the way his magic is tangling with mine, a slow smile starting at the corner of his lips until I can see his fangs, and I know that he absolutely can feel it. “No. I think I’ll save you again, Riven,” I murmur as I tangle my fingers in his hair and bring his lips down to mine.

Episode Five

He tastes like every dream I’ve ever had of the wild lands, and he tastes like my forest. That sweet smell that comes from the falling leaves, the scent of the rain as it splashes against the forest floor. His hands slide up my back, pressing our chests together, lips parting as his tongue seeks out mine, and the noise he makes in the back of his throat fills my chest. I back us toward the door to my home, and we both forget that it swings open, silent on its hinges in welcome. I can feel his foot catch on the threshold, the wards glowing bright and warm above us, then we’re falling. He lands on his back with a grunt, our legs tangling, his arms caged around me like a protective instinct. My forehead hits his nose, and when I gasp, looking up at him, he’s laughing, and it sounds rusted, unused. Those emerald eyes are watering, his shoulders are shaking, and I can hear the other voice in his laugh, a low rumble I can feel in the soles of my feet. My toes curl, and I watch as the lines of black travel around his face, filling in the outline of his skull. Where my fingers are tangled in his hair, the horns have curled more, backward like a ram, and I slip an index finger along one slowly. His laughter dies in his throat as he looks up at me. “Is it getting worse?” My eyes widen in surprise as I let my hand slide from his hair to his cheek. “Worse? Because the curse is falling apart slowly?” “Because of what you’ll see when it’s gone.” “Do you forget that you met me in your grave? I’ve seen creatures far more fearsome than you,” I joke, and he catches my hand, brushing his thumb against my palm. “Riven, how can someone who gets to live in the sun be worse than the men who dwell in the shadows and the witches they employ?” “You’ve never seen it? The sun?” His gaze searches mine. “I’ve Not.” Riven nods once, then he rolls us, putting my back to the smooth wooden floor. “I’ll show you what it feels like.” I’m amazed at how gentle his hands are as he unbuttons the front of my dress, and how much my fingers tremble while I help him with the last two out of impatience. I expect him to stop, to ask me if I’m scared; instead, he laces his large fingers with mine, his fangs catching the fabric of my dress as it slips off my shoulders and drags it down as he moves onto his knees between my thighs. His mouth moves against the pulse of my neck, his tongue flicks warm against my collarbone, and his exhale sends goosebumps shivering to life on my skin. “Hold,” he rumbles softly, placing one of my hands along the spiral of his horn, and I grip it until he chuckles, and I shake his head back and forth gently. “Like that, yes.” I want to laugh, so I do, and it’s a nervous, elated sound. Then he parts my thighs, and his tongue strokes long and hot against me, and the sound I make is far from nervous. It shakes though, my fingers tightening down along his horn, and I suddenly realize that Riven’s tongue has become longer and thicker, spreading my walls and making me see stars as it fills me. My face heats, my skin, my hips rocking with a moan. He lets go of my hand so he can press his against my abdomen instead, and the pressure of it has me writhing. The sounds he makes vibrate through me, hungry and low, that ancient rumble in his voice like he’s speaking another language my pleasure-addled brain cannot begin to translate. “Riven!” I call out to him as his tongue makes my core tighten, that heat spreading through my abdomen. And he slips it from inside of me, flicking the tip up against my clit before he slides his pants down his hips. I don’t stare. I want to, but I want him more, my hand wrapping around the back of his neck as he leans down, the other around the length of him. My heartbeat is pulsing through me like it’s casting a spell, and I look up beyond his head at the magic shimmering above us. Maybe it is. “Will you keep me, Mirelle?” He whispers against my ear, and I know that the voice he’s speaking with is simply him. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him down closer until our bare chests touch and his heartbeat echoes in my chest. “If you’ll be mine.” I press my lips to his, our eyes meeting as he thrusts into me. “Yes,” he nods, his eyes turning to slits, his magic unfurling green and lush behind him, more beautiful than any canopy. “Gods, yes.” *** The first chime of the bell rings me awake, and Riven’s hand brushes down my back, his thumb skipping along my spine. His skin is black now, the darker shadows outlining his bones starting to take on different shapes as his body grows. I trace my fingers along his expanded ribcage, listening to the sound of his fading heartbeat. “It’s closer than your graveyard.” His voice is more forward with that resonating sound, the human fading to the background. “They come for what you owe.” I look up at him, the way his cheekbones have grown, making his face wider, more angled at the bottom with that strong jaw, his emerald eyes finding mine. “I’ll give back their payments,” I insist, rising from the bed. “It won’t be enough; they won’t accept.” He sits up, rolling his shoulders. There are still human features to him, his arms, his abdomen, the overall shape of him, but I know that will change too. It isn’t just that, though. His speech seems to be fading, turning into a silent language I can’t hear. Like the trees standing guard in the forest. “It’ll have to be enough; it’s what I have to give them. And they are in lands that are not their own; they’ll take it and leave, or I’ll make them leave.” I shrug on my dress, buttoning the front as the second bell rings. “Mirelle, witch.” His voice rumbles with fondness. “Riven, guardian,” I tease as he stands, coming over to cup my face. “Stay here, I’ll be back.” He says nothing, and I feel his eyes on me as I collect the two silver tokens, walking outside as the third bell chimes. There are five of them: torches, guns with powder loaded. Night has fallen, and the grave still stands open. “Witch,” the grieving man from last night doesn’t say it with fondness. “You’ve failed in your duty to the town.” The door closes behind me silently as I step forward and toss the two tokens onto the forest floor between us. “I did not promise I’d kill the forest guardian. I said I would consider it, and I did. And I’ve declined. You may take your payment back in full, and ring again when you have a proper reason to call for me.” Some of the men speak to each other in words I can’t hear; another raises his pistol. The leader holds up his hand. “You have the creature?” “I have the forest guardian, yes. He’s under my protection now.” The second gun comes up, and before it raises all the way, I flick my hand, sending the powder exploding in the barrel, the musket driving into the earth beside me. “You’re out of your boundary,” I smile at them. “This is my home. And as you like to remind, I am a witch.” One of the men backs toward the forest; two others raise their pistols. Behind them in the dark, emerald eyes rise eight feet off the ground. There is something in me that yearns to call out a warning, some part that knows that men are prideful, foolish creatures who don’t know any better. And then there’s the natural order of things. Men have morals, according to them. And they stepped outside of the bounds of them and into the laws of nature. I hear the crunch of two before the remaining three scream, turning their guns upon the shadow that is Riven. The light flashes with bangs that echo between the trees and I see him moving. So large and yet graceful, I find, a flash of light illuminating his emerald eyes bright, his clawed fingertips finding the chest of one man, deep gashes gleam wetly in the second flash of light. Blood doesn’t spill from him, it’s too fast, the skin white from the force, like the blood was scared back into his veins, the skin split to his ribs. There’s a shout, his body falling, I miss the second killing blow in the sudden dark. It sprays toward me, a pink mist filling the air, viscera that drips darkly crimson from the plants it covers, drops rolling thick down the scattered blades of grass, sinking into the moss until it looks like it grew from it. Riven roars, and the sound isn’t fury, its excitement, the hunt of a predator finding its prey. My ears echo with it, my chest vibrates as it steals my breath, and I’m not afraid. I feel the magic of him in the air, and it calls me to him still. Another shot rings out, the scent of spent gunpowder burning my nose, and I see the final man lifted, his throat enclosed in a grip that makes his face ruddy as his fingers claw uselessly at the black skin. My eyes adjust as I take a small step forward, peering into the shadows where the breaths are harsh, ragged, slowly beginning to cease. Then there’s a snap, twiggy like a broken branch that simply could not bow against the force of nature. Then he drops into an unnatural heap.

Leaves shiver as if in excitement, and the bell rings once as it falls to the forest floor. A grave is already dug, and I’ll do my duty and fill it with what’s left of the men before nightfall tomorrow. *** Riven stands at the edge of my view, the protruding bones of his back flexing between the muscles of his shoulders, his dark hair cascading down to his chest. His hands still look human, clawed, but his feet look more canine. His mouth fanged, a little wider; his overall build what men would call monstrous, and I would have too if I met him without knowing who he was. The difference being, I’d never have hunted such a beautiful creature, clearly meant for the wilds. “Riven,” I call to him, and he doesn’t respond. I step over the threshold of my home, the runes glowing warmly, forever changed by the forest guardian who walked across it days ago. “Riven,” I try again, and he turns to me silently, like the trees remain stoic, sentinel, and I let the shadow of grief wash over me. He doesn’t understand me anymore; we no longer speak the same language. “Will you go home now?” I keep the sadness from my voice. His head tips to the side and he turns, walking further away. “Riven…” My heart squeezes as I take a step forward, reaching out toward him. The trees begin to tremble their excitement, like they are welcoming him home, and he looks up at them. A vicious crack sounds through the canopy, leaves cascading as I cover my head with my arms in shock. With a groan of wood, the branches begin to untangle, and beams of light shoot down, golden, pouring onto the forest floor, my house, me, warm and soft. I look at my pale skin, then tip my head back and the brightness blinds me, it makes colorful lights dance behind my closed lids until I raise my hands. The warm light slips between them, such a contrast to the cool earth beneath my feet I want to bathe in it. I never want to leave it. Carefully, I open my eyes and gaze between my fingers, squinting up at the sky that’s a shade of blue I never could have imagined, at the rising sun. I watch as the branches retwist into a rune I recognize. Green with the leaves, glowing like the arch above my doorway. “What is that?” I ask in wonder, the tears pouring down my face in a sort of anguished joy as my eyes find his shadow, darker now beneath the canopy that cuts out my new found sunlight. It takes him a moment, his mouth struggling to find the shape of the word before it rumbles from his lips. “Home.” I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to brush the tears away with my thumb as I hold back my sobs with deep breaths. “You’ll come back? You’ll come back home to me?” He stares at me for a long moment, then he nods, turning into the shadows of my forest. The sunlight warms the detritus beneath my feet, drawing up my favorite scent of rain, mushrooms, and life beginning again.