Willa Hext's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The next morning, Willa found fresh ruin. Three vines hung chewed and gray. She needed the boy's eyes to catch the thing before it bit deeper. She went to the shed where she kept him and reached for his muddy hand. Gideon pulled away. He folded his arms and stared past her at the dark mountain over the trees. "No," he said. His whisper was flat. "You killed one. They watch you now." He pointed at empty air near her shoulder. "They don't like your hand." Willa's grin hardened. She snatched his wrist. He let his arm go limp, a dead weight, and shut his eyes. She shook him. "Show me, lamb." Nothing came. No gasp, no pointing finger. Without his willing sight, she held a cold little hand and saw only leaves. The boy had learned he could refuse her. Fear would not move him. It never had. She let go. She paced the floor and thought. Threats broke his father, not him. So she tried a different thing. "You see them always," she said. "Day and night. They crowd your bed." Gideon's eyes opened. "I can keep them off you. Light hurts them, does it not?" She went to her shelf and took down an old lantern with a warm glass heart. She lit the stub inside. The flame bloomed gold through colored panes. Gideon flinched at the brightness, then leaned toward it. For the first time, the watchful shapes at his back seemed to shrink from the room. "Hold my hand," Willa said, "and this light stays burning by your bed. You walk the wall with me. You keep your little lantern." She crouched to his level. "A fair trade, hound. You help me. I help you sleep." The boy looked at the lantern. He looked at the shapes only he could see. Slowly, he put his hand in hers. His grip was firm now. Chosen. They walked the ivy together. His breath caught. He pointed, and this time his whole arm steadied with purpose. Willa reached in and felt teeth, fur, a snapping jaw. She swung the axe. The screech came. Blood she could not see soaked her apron. Gideon pointed again, and again, down the long black wall. He named each one. She killed what he marked. By dusk the ivy hung still and whole. The gnawing had stopped. Willa wiped the blade and smiled her black-toothed smile. She had her eyes back, willing now, bought with light instead of fear. She pressed the lantern into his hands as promised. But Gideon did not look at her. He held the lantern up and stared at the treeline, where the shapes had gathered thick. More than before. They did not flee the flame now. They watched it. They watched him hold her hand. "They're angry," he whispered. "You take me every night. Now they'll come for the house."