Bring Me Their Hearts(17)
I don’t tell her how the bandits riddled Father with arrows, bits of his brain on the steel tips, or how they split me open from navel to throat and left me to die, to watch, as they did the same to Mother. The hunger gnaws at my edges, the memories like blackened catnip for it. Your fault, it whispers. You killed your own parents with your weakness. I shake it off.
“Nightsinger found me and turned me. And she was even so nice as to bring me the bandits, too.”
I don’t tell her about the blinding fury, the dark tidal wave of anger and pain and hunger that pulled me under, drove me to rip the bandits to nothing more than pieces. I don’t tell her about the monster inside that burst forth from me, killing everything in its path, relishing in the blood and death.
“Do you know what she told me,” I continue, “when I asked her why she brought me the bandits? She said, ‘Because I thought that’s what all humans want. Revenge.’”
I put my hands between my knees, then pull them out. That’s not how a lady sits. I press my knees together instead, holding my head high and my shoulders wide in a pale mockery of Y’shennria’s perfect posture. Her hazel gaze is fixed on me, and I stare back, the old, bitter glaze of regret settling. I try a smile, because I know I must look terrible. It’s hollow on my lips.
“And she was right.”
3
Water for
a Witch
We stop to rest the horses two hours out from Vetris. A sudden fog rolls in on the grasslands, turning everything gray and dreary, but I don’t mind. The scenery is still brand new. My eyes absorb every gray blade of grass, every ripple of wind among the reeds, every ghostly outline of the rabbits and hawks whirling together in the dance of death. Y’shennria and I get out to stretch our legs, and she has Fisher pull down a trunk from the top of the carriage. She rummages through it before handing me a sleek green silk dress, braided with silver threads. It’s gorgeous—the sort of thing I’d only dreamt about in the woods.
“Old God’s tit!” I plunge my hands into the smooth silk, rubbing it against my cheek. “Did you really get this for me, Auntie?”
“A lady doesn’t swear.” Y’shennria sniffs. “And she certainly doesn’t call me ‘auntie.’”
“But that’s what you are, right? My auntie. Auntie, auntie, auntie.” I hold the dress up to my bust, watching the skirt billow. “It’s kinda fun to say.”
She flinches minutely at each repetition. “Enough. Change into that before we enter the city. Those rags of yours will convince no one.”
“Hey!” I look down at my tattered, faded blue dress, the lace bodice stained with old blood and dirt and the back ripped to shreds by the celeon assassin’s dagger just today. “This rag served me well. And before I stole it from a carriage’s trunk, it served some noble lady well. It deserves a proper dress funeral.”
Y’shennria quirks a dark brow. “You’ve stolen from nobles?”
“‘Stolen’ is such an ugly word.” I wrinkle my nose. “I prefer ‘long-term donation.’”
“The witches never informed me of this.”
“The witches are a little desperate,” I say. “In case you haven’t noticed. And desperate people get sloppy about details.”
She looks nervous, her stone mask cracking for the first time. “Did any of the nobles see your face?”
I sigh. “I know it’s sometimes hard to tell through my impeccable acting—”
“Did they or did they not?” she barks imperiously. Fisher looks up from petting the horses. I breathe out.
“No. Of course I covered my face. I’m sort of very good at making myself hard to see. Comes with the territory of being hunted by every human in the country.”
Y’shennria’s cracks slowly fill in, her mask cementing itself again. “All I can do is take your word for that. And I despise relying on words alone. You will tell me any and all secrets of yours that might hinder our goal—”
“I’ve told you everything.”
There’s a tense silence between us, her eyes prying into my own cracks, as if she’s deciding whether she can trust me. She doesn’t have a choice—she has to trust me as much as I have to trust her. Finally, she turns and retreats into the carriage.
When she’s gone, I feel the weight that’s settled on my chest since I left the forest lift a little. I press the dress to my body, whirling around with the skirts. It’s a thousand times nicer than anything I’ve worn in my life. I didn’t used to like dresses—I remember that much about my human life—but becoming a Heartless shifts your priorities around drastically. I went from wearing breeches every day to stealing beautiful dresses—the prettier the things I wore, the less I felt like a freakish monster removed from her humanity. A good skirt became better than any armor for me.
I dress quickly behind a far line of heavy bushes, cradling my old bloodstained dress in my arms. When I return to the carriage, Y’shennria snatches the dress from me.
“We’re discarding this.”
“But that was my favorite—”
“Your life as a Heartless is over,” she asserts. “From now on, you are my niece. You are an Y’shennria. And an Y’shennria would never be caught hanging on to such an ugly garment.”