/// Scarlet Nightmares /// 2 ///

If the words weren’t a slap enough, the cold night air slapping my cheeks is just the world’s way of mocking me.

My heels crack against the stone, my breaths too sharp, too loud, the freezing air I inhaled with every frustrated huff making my lungs cry out.

I don’t care.

I stumble, almost tumbling to the ground but catching myself fast enough. I shouldn’t be so affected, it’s stupid. She was a short-term friend, but really nothing more. I have the company of many others to pick from. Ibeth was nowhere near special.

I don’t care. I never needed them.

Ahead of me, the chauffeur is already pulling the car around, having waited just like I’d told him too, so excited to let myself into the ceremony that nothing else really mattered. Now, I can’t be happier to see him get out of the car and open my door for me, not even questioning my state. Before I can reach him though, a voice calls from the shadowed edge of the garden.

“Althea, wait.”

Haden steps forward, hands in his pockets, looking almost shy. I already know what he is going to say before the words even leave his mouth. You deserved that. Wretched witch. Why did I even engage myself with—

“Sorry. That was brutal.”

I don’t answer, my throat dry from the air, but from something else too. I did not expect . . . an apology? He looks down at me with gentle eyes, brightened by the moonlight, almost silver. The wind picks up, ruffling his suit.

“Are you alright?” he asks, that stupid, stupid question that everyone asks when they don’t know what else to say, what else to make you feel better. These things are so awfully structured that I never bother with them anymore. With pity. With comfort. Not when no one really knows me, not well enough to say what I need to hear—even I don’t know what that is.

Or maybe there’s nothing that will make me feel better. Because whatever anyone would have to say, it would be a lie. My eyes sting as the words float out of the dark pit, echoing in my head like a constant reminder—my monster laughing at my dismay.

Still, with the way he looks at me, his soft gaze is solace enough.

So I crumple, just barely. “I didn’t think she meant it at first. I didn’t think any of them did.”

Haden steps closer to me, but I step back automatically, sorry for the way hurt seeps into his gorgeously crafted features. I look down at my feet, my eyes flitting across the grass, my lips still wobbly. I bite down hard and mutter, “Neither did I think Ibeth even f-felt that way. But she did.” I then force myself to look up at him, hardening my expression, my facade slowly piecing back together. I need it to face him, to continue this conversation without completely breaking down. “How do I know you don’t feel the same?”

He pauses, and has nothing to say to that, his brows furrowing. Expected.

So straighten my shoulders, my body finally listening to me, and plaster a smile on my face. He doesn’t return it. I feel tense and stiff, like a cardboard box forced closed with tape, but I’ll easily trade discomfort and pain for exposure. His eyes follow me as I walk back over to my car, sliding into the seat and crossing my legs. “I enjoyed our encounter tonight,” I say quietly, albeit overtly. And without waiting for him to answer, I shut the door, and order the chauffeur to drive me home.

///

My bedroom mirror is surely mocking me.

Unmotivated to actually change into a silky nightgown or linen tunic, I lay down in my bed and kick off my heels, my limbs lazy and weighty. The dress that felt like a comfortable choice for a party night feels like a rug around my body now.

In my cold room, I hug myself, looking for warmth somewhere in the depths of my body. I could turn off the air-conditioning, but if I did, I would go to sleep feeling sticky and worse. Pushing the heels of my hands into my wet eyes, I watch the colorful static that dances behind my eyelids, watch the lights pop and blink.

The clock makes a recognizable sound, the singular dong heavy and low. It’s midnight—I’ve never been home and awake by midnight before. It’s the hour for drinks and flirtatious exchanges, dancing and singing, stained red lipstick and the click of a bedroom door being locked.

It’s not for this.

I can’t help but be ashamed—I let myself be bullied out of the party, get talked down to, show weakness, something I swore wasn’t a possibility anymore. Why didn’t I fight back? Why was I so pathetic? Why wasn’t I guarded?

Dear God, I stuttered three times.

And still I find myself spiralling in an endless timeline of rejection and redemption and rejection and—

I’m just saying what people have been thinking for years.

And anger.

You are exhausting.

The memory of her degrading words and sneers make my body twitch with an urge to seek revenge that is certainly due late.

That bitch.

Kicking my legs with a frustrated groan, I just acknowledge the overwhelming urge to get out of bed, drive back to Ibeth’s house, and give her and her damned friends the biggest earful they’ve had since officious mothers were invented.

Or more preferably punch her square in the face.

Of course, I’ve never fought physically before, and most likely would not be good at it, but oh, how good it would feel to make her feel less right now. Make her hate herself, make her wish people cared enough to stay, make her wish she was never born. Unlike the dead, I can get revenge on people who have offended me with their words. If consequences were irrelevant to me—unfortunately they are—I would somehow use my father to destroy her father’s business and watch it burn. I would watch her have to give away her beloved possessions, watch her cry—

I slowly drop my hands from my face, letting the static die away and clear my vision.

Why don’t I want to see her in pain?

I curl up, making myself smaller till my forehead touches my thighs, and close my eyes. Still, after tonight's awful events, I want to be able to forgive Ibeth and forget any of this happened. I want to. I don’t want to be alone in my destruction and revenge. Because nothing will change. I’ll still be . . .

You don’t listen. You don’t trust anyone. You cut people down before they can speak. You think being Tithus Raven’s daughter makes you better than everyone.

Right. I’ll still be Althea Raven.

I don’t know when I fall asleep, but I find myself dreaming. Dreaming about running a comb through silky brunette locks, humming along to the song the woman in front of me is muttering. Dreaming about watching them fade and blanch, the comb bleaching the once beautiful hair with every stroke.

My hands shake, covered in frosty flakes, and I drop the comb. A scream rips its way out of my throat.

My eyes snap open.

It hasn’t been long. When I finally uncurl like a hedgehog awakening, my mouth and my throat are dry, and my stomach feels like a room with crooked walls. Sweat dampens my dress, the air conditioning a joke at this point. I run a hand through my hair, the great red bunch of it draped over my back and shoulders, making me feel hotter.

The clock reads half an hour after three, and I’ve never been more tired. But this bed no longer feels like my own.

So with a yawn, I scooch out, my bare feet cold against the ground as I push myself up and walk towards the door. Out in the empty hallway now, I let my body lead me, my mind in a distant, foggy place that is ruled by a monster out for my sanity. I’m taken down the staircase on the right side of the hall, my feet sinking into the soft maroon carpets and my fingers dragging across the smooth metal of the railing.

Even in the fuzzy darkness, the paintings on the wall are visible, each one with eyes staring at me as I pass. Portraits of people who came before me, scenes capturing families, and even me. I’m young, bright eyed, innocent, and shielded from the pain and suffering happening just outside the manor gates. I’m smiling like I’m told to, not aware of the storm brewing just nearby. That me is captured in the frame, stuck in the lie—she’s not me anymore.

When I slip on some slippers and step out into the night, my eyes sting from the cold, and I have to squint out at the moon up in the sky.

With a sigh that dries my throat, I walk along the trail leading to the far ends of the manor’s fields, to a place having remained undisturbed by the bustle of activity. I soon reach the cemetery, the multiple graves seeming to call out to me, the air of death wrapping me in its folds and pulling me into an embrace. Everything, even the air, is completely still here in the noble graveyard.

My feet having memorized the way, I trod over to a gravestone, larger than the rest, carved with beautiful waves like the ocean and arches sharp and precise, like the tip of narrow.

Kneeling down, I run my fingers over the bow sitting at the foot of the grave, feeling out the arrows in their bundle. It’s almost as if I can feel her, holding up the weapon with pride and grace, squeezing the grip not too tightly, knocking the arrows against the string and pulling backwards. And then the arrows would fly, and hit the target dead center. It’s almost as if this mere weapon holds the memories of her in it.

Turning my head up, I read the stone—Venus Sofia Raven—the letters written in dancing cursive, the reading blurry. I blink away the wetness, the cold doing nothing to stop the tears hanging on the rims of my eyes.

I’ve found myself coming here ever since I figured out where the yard was, a place Father buries only the important. But lately, this graveyard has been getting crowded, Snowfall sweeping through the ranks like a repeated whisper and taking each person one by one, or sometimes all at once. I don’t remember the names of everyone, but I know someone out there is hurting for the dead as well.

My stomach turns, and I bend, suddenly feeling sickness wash over me. My hands shake as I wrap my arms around myself, feeling so heavy I could sink into the dirt, where I belong.

I’m not worth enough to visit this grave. Yet I do anyway.

Because I’m so damn selfish.

The sound of movement to my far right calls my attention, and the sick feeling in my stomach slightly subsides as I come to. Turning, I stare into the mist, narrowing my gaze in an attempt to perceive anything in the darkness.

The sound starts again, and I flinch, jerking upwards and forcing myself to stand. “Who’s there?” No one ever comes to the graveyard when I do, not this early in the morning when no one is mentally prepared for the doldrums. I wipe my tears away quickly and repeat myself, walking forward tentatively.

The mist refuses to clear, but as I get closer, I catch sight of a figure crouched, arms at work with something. A nervous chill wracking my body, I speak again, my voice croaking. “You—you over there.”

The figure’s head lifts unexpectedly, and a pathetic sound escapes my lips as I’m met with two glowing red lights, staring straight at me.

What the hell?

My first thought is what kind of Lassieran has red eyes, and then my next thought is that we’re under attack from a foreign force, but surprisingly the person stays where they are, watching me without making a move. My throat tightens.

Apprehension and fear taints my reasoning, but I still call out. “Who are you?”

The figure stands straight, the floating red lights moving along with the outline of whoever is watching me beyond the mist, and I swallow.

“Y—”

They suddenly start coming towards me, and my brows furrow. The sound of footsteps makes me jerk backwards. I raise a startled hand, raising my voice. “Hey! Stay back! I c-command you!” The order holds no power, not even any conviction, and I hate myself even more at the moment as I’m obviously ignored.

The person surges forward, and with one rapid step they’re in front of me. I jolt, ready to throw my fist, but the proximity is overwhelming to the point their face is so close I’m able to see it’s a man in front of me. “S-s-st—”

“Hello.”

I can barely see his features in the dark, but I’m absolutely sure he’s smiling.

“You’ve got quite a stutter.” A chuckle. “Cute.”

I shove instinctively, surprised at how easily the man stumbles backwards, and huff in anger. “You’re intruding on private property. Leave.”

“How is it private property?” He sounds pleased with my reaction, his voice a deep yet youthful hum, rich and seasoned with a slight rasp. He sounds young, too young to be a rapist or murderer. I grunt as he holds something forward and nudges my chest with it, the object metal and heavy. “The dead don’t own their resting places, do they?”

“Do—” With a scoff, I look around, my mind already running through the possibilities of who this man might be and how fast he can catch up to a seventeen year old girl. “Do you know who I am? If I scream right now, the guards at the front of the manor will come and arrest you, whoever you are.” I’m a Raven. That’s right. I’ll make that clear, even though the title is nothing but a sword I might never know how to use properly.

I might as well swing it without a clue what I’m doing and hope the attack lands.

The glowing red lights narrow, and I clench my jaw, contemplating over whether I should have said that or not. But he only shrugs, tone thoughtful. “I’m assuming you aren’t househelp or a gardener, considering you’re in expensive shit with your arms out in the cold rather than rags.”

My eyes widen, and I take another step back, albeit offended by his crude insult. “How do you—how can you see me?” I haven’t heard of any people from the other six Lands being able to see in the dark, only with the help of magical beasts, or in Lassier, technology. My fear is one thing, but so is my curiosity.

“That’s a silly question. You’re not very bright are you?”

“I don’t c-care!” My fingers claw at the air involuntarily by my sides, my heart pounding fast. “You’re not from here, are you? Well foreigners aren’t allowed in this country anymore, dimwit,” I yell, “so leave now and drop everything or—”

I scream as his hand presses down on my mouth, but the sound is muffled under his palm. Disgust and terror fills me when I feel the dirt on his hand, mud and grass, but then shock as I realize just how warm his skin is. In this weather?

I reach up to claw his hand away, but I’m whirled around. Heat floods me, the contact setting off an alarm in my head. With my back against his solid, warm chest in not more than a few seconds, I freeze.

He’s shivering. Almost violently.

“I need help with something first, red-head,” he murmurs against my ear, and I can only groan against his hot, dirty hand. “Care to help me?”