There shouldn’t be a wraith in the forest, not this close to where our coven stood strong just a handful of days ago. And yet, as my mind races to catch up, I find myself gaping at one.
They’re rare, formed by the magic used in the twilight hour of a witch’s death, and the sort of magic that Ravenswyrd witches condemned a long time ago. This one is old and haggard-looking, but wraiths are drawn to magic like moths to a flame, and the attack on our village must have drawn it into the forest. This might be my first time seeing a wraith up close, but I know enough about them to have a chance at getting us out of this.
As it drags Pemba through the water and onto the far bank, he kicks out his feet viciously, trying to dislodge its firm grip on him. He’s no match for it physically, no man is, and I know I have no choice but to call on my magic to free him.
I throw one of my hands out in front of me and conjure my power, feeling it fill my limbs and flood my body. As my hair begins to stand up at the back of my neck as though I am electrified with it, Pemba's eyes snap to mine. I lift my palm up, taking a deep breath to prepare to push it out, and my brother opens his mouth. I'm sure to try to stop me, but it’s too late for that.
I've lost too much.
I refuse to lose him too.
My power bursts out of me, the air ripping from my lungs in one fell swoop. There are none of the carefully refined maneuvers that my parents spent my entire life teaching me, gently at first, and then drumming them into me until it would be impossible for me to forget.
I don't have control of myself at the moment, which means I don't have control of my magic either.
It hits the wraith square in its chest, a force that cannot be seen but that shoves the creature violently, and again, it lets out a screeching noise so loud that my eardrums ache inside my head and I have to stop myself from clutching at my temples. I've never heard something so loud before, something so unnatural andwrong.
Its grip on Pemba’s ankle slackens, and he takes the opportunity to twist and kick at it again. This time, it drops him. I attempt to catch my breath as I watch it closely, preparing to hit it with my magic again if I can do it safely.
It’s even uglier and more terrifying than my father’s stories had warned me.
Its skin is gray and sallow-looking, with a sheen to it that makes me sure it would be slimy to the touch, and there are random strands of hair protruding from its head. I’m not sure if the misshapen skull is from the witch’s death and transformation into the wraith or some recent injury, but either way, my stomach turns at the sight of it.
I can’t tell if it was once a man or a woman. All identifying features have been whittled away by the passing of time.
It opens its ghoulish mouth once more, the blackened teeth dripping with that acid-like saliva as it screeches again.
This time, I can't stop myself from clutching my head.
I can't imagine how loud it is for Pemba, but he holds up his own palm. The white light of his power glows across his skin as he uses his magic to hit out at the wraith himself this time. The small burst of magic strikes it, and the wraith must realize we won’t be going down so easily. It scurries away, the edges of the rags it’s dressed in catching on branches as it flees.
Pemba waits until it has disappeared into the thickest part of the forest before he wades back through the river to me. As soon as his feet touch the riverbank, he flicks a hand down the front of his shirt and trousers, drying himself with one gesture. I almost feel jealous of the control that he has. The mindless sort of ability to do the simple things, something that I have always been so envious of.
More power isn't necessarily a good thing.
“Are you all right, Rooke? Did it touch you before it got me? Where's the pack? Why didn't you grab Mama's scepter?” he says, his worry coming out as a litany of concerns and accusations.
I don't blame him. I can't imagine how terrifying that must have been for him, but my own worries have words tumbling from my mouth without the sense to check them first.
“I couldn't grab the scepter—I can barely control myself now! How am I supposed to do it while carryingthat?” I snap, but Pemba just shakes his head at me.
“You have to learn to control it, Rooke. The scepter is yours now, and you can't just leave it behind. You could have killed that wraith with a fraction of the power you just used simply by channeling it through the scepter. You shouldn’t tire yourself needlessly—we have a long journey ahead.”
I nod and attempt to look rueful as I turn back to the hollow tree to get my shoes, but it’s a lie.
I had every intention of leaving the scepter behind.
I’m not ready to wield it. I’m not as strong as my mother was, and—not that I’ll say it to my brother—I’m not sure I ever will be. I needed more time with my mother, a chance to grow up a little more and learn to control my magic, because even with twenty summers under my belt, my power is still a wild and unpredictable beast inside of me.
I hesitate for a moment before I retrieve the scepter from the pack, gripping it tightly in my hand as though I could crush it away to dust if only I squeeze hard enough. Pemba quickly shoves his own feet into his boots, slings his jacket over his clothes and then, with a little more effort, lifts the pack onto his back. He doesn’t notice how quiet I am, or if he does, he’s kind enough not to mention it.
As we start back out on the well-worn path, I realize that my hands have a fine tremble in them, the beginnings of a full-blown case of the shakes at just how close I came to losing my brother.
The last of my blood.
My heart breaks open in my chest as I swipe more tears from my cheeks, my lips clamping shut as I hold in any sounds that might alert my brother to my distress.
The forest didn’t warn us of the wraith at all.
