“Thyra…” I whisper. “Are you back?”
She convulses, her entire upper body shaking back and forth while her legs stand rigid. I step back and trip, falling to the floor.
Thyra’s eyes lock onto mine. But they are hollow. I can’t see Thyra. Only dark pools where her blue should have been.
“Please,” I shout, terror spreading through my body. “What is?—”
Thyra opens her mouth. A shriek comes out. A sound defying the human voice. Her scream rips through the room, making me cover my ears. Thyra’s voice shouldn’t even be able to produce such shrill sound. And she wouldn’t if she could.
This isn’t Thyra. This isn’t human. I’m in mortal danger—I know it in my bones.
Run. Just fucking run.
I scramble to my feet to head for the door.
But Thyra jumps on me, scratching and kicking in a wild mess. She tears at my robe, ripping it at the shoulder. She pushes her knee into my groin. Punches land all over my body.
Panicked, I protect my face with my arms as I push her away with my legs. Kicking at her face and torso. She keeps screaming. I’m feeling dizzy. If I black out, I’m gone.
“Help!” I scream as loud as I can. “Help!”
Thyra doesn’t stop, but I manage to pull my leg back under her and push her up with my foot. She pushes against my leg, flailing, mindlessly trying to reach my face. Thyra looks wild, gleeful. But it’s not Thyra. It’s a curse.
I slam my other foot into her jaw, stunning her.
Panic. I crawl, toward the door.
“Help!” I shout again.
As I reach the door and raise myself, Thyra has locked her eyes on me again. She grabs a knife from the table.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I run outside. One of my breasts hangs out of my ripped robe. Blood pours out of my nose and down my bare chest. I can barely breathe, gurgling on my own vital fluid. I stagger and turn toward Thyra’s house.
“Help,” I manage to mutter.
Some women have appeared around me. But they don’t step forward. Of course they don’t. Why would they risk it all for me? I’m as alone now as I was in the river.
“Stop her,” I wheeze.
“Stop who?” shouts one.
Thyra comes barreling out of the house. She doesn’t look around her. She doesn’t care who sees. She just comes straight at me. Knife raised.
“Please,” I shout at her, raising a hand as if to cast a spell of protection.
I look around in panic. No one is coming to help. No one is?—
Then I see her.
Lovely Ragnhild.
Thyra’s little girl. Wide-eyed. Covering her mouth. Her hair is wild, unkempt.
Let her look away.
No more time for empathy. No time to think. In seconds, I will die.
