23 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The moon glinted menacingly in the black eternal sky of Yarim. The whole ground shook with intense vigor—hands emerged, gauntness and vileness comparable to the Eshers though much more of it were present in the ghouls we faced now. Wan brain matter dripped from their heads that were bashed open; their limbs were ruptured in different areas and still, they followed the Necromancer's orders.

The crone grinned. "It has been long since we met, Crawford—"

"Do not speak my name, fiend!"

But the crone continued unerring in her words. "—how goes your fair maiden?"

I could not say how she could speak: her mouth opened to reveal a void of black where her teeth were tethered desperately, a lurid of yellow that made my stomach twist and turn and capsize.

"Not a word from you again," said Crawford, his blade flushed a crimson red from crushing the skull of the summoned ghoul of the crone. "You have tormented this land for too long, fiend. I will end you here and now!"

"You flatter yourself, dear Crawford," the crone said. She appeared to not be distressed that it were two hunters she faced, and though she had the favor of numbers, the collectivity of brains paled in comparison to ours. She hides something, a voice whispered. It is true, I agreed. It has been quite peculiar—talking to voices in my head but I have gotten used to it in the past few days as I had gotten used to the ghouls that reside in Yarim's sprawling streets.

"The Church bears no goodwill for you citizens; they seek only to control you and make you dance in the midst of their palm, offering you vials of Paleblood so that you might live longer, prolong your suffering one year more. How long do you have left, hm, Crawford? Oh, do not look so irate—I know you are soon to die. You have not mentioned it to your companion yet, I assume?"

Even in the darkness of the Forest, Crawford's face appeared grim, as if the crone had punctured the right holes in his armor. "She does not—?" I ask.

"She does," Crawford replied hesitantly. "I take the vial in the morn and hunt. It keeps me alive though I will die a monster—I am sure of it."

"We have talked for too long, have we not, my beau? I am sure you and your companion are eager to begin your hunt. So you shall!" The crone howled once more, visceral anxiety rose in me: my heart throbbed and picked up in speed, my breathing had become pants and gasps for air, my feet wobbled and I stumbled onto the ground, holding my temples.

They will come. They are coming. They will come. They are coming. They will come. They are coming. They will come. They are coming. Come. You. Coming.

Air lodged in my throat. I trembled. My chest tightened in pain. I am going crazy. I am going mad. I will die. I am scared.

Anima, I hear my name called but it is far away. I cannot see through my eyes; the world is painted a translucent lens, distorted and dreary. I want to escape. Yes, let us end this suffering. Deses, come. The blade is heavy in my hands, uncomfortable as it was when I had turned into a ghoul. The silver flickers like a fire that will consume everything—even its master. The tip touches my abdomen. I prepared to stab. Time slows as the blade comes. I close my eyes.

"Anima!"

I am conscious.

"Anima!" a voice calls. Crawford, I recognize. My temples throb and the moon scintillates wickedly in juxtaposition with the gloomy color of the night. There are no stars. There never have been in Yarim. They are as alien as the sun. How I longed for them. Crawford put his hands on my temples, and slapped me with both. My vision focuses. "You are awake? Nod if you are. The witch had put a spell on you. We must leave; no, Anima, we have no hope in defeating her, much less killing her. The whole forest is her domain! Come, to your feet—we have bought time with the cannon but I do not know how much time we have. Up! Anima, up!"

I got to my feet rather unmanly but Crawford stood as support. We meandered the pine trees stretched taut black into the sky where the moon resided a lonely resident, and something seemed to fly across it, sparkling silver that whistled through the air. Crawford pushed me and it hit him. A spear, it was, made of ornate silver no doubt thrown by the crone that had followed us.

Crawford fell on the ground, limp and lifeless. I did not need to check his pulse nor his breathing; he was dead. Yet I strangely did not feel anything; I could not, I thought at once. The vestige of the spell the witch had cast remained, rendering me as invalid as Virgil's legs were. Footsteps planted doggedly around us, corse and invalid both.

The whole forest is her domain, Crawford had said yet he had tried to save me. All for naught.

The crone appeared into view, illuminated by the gas lamp Crawford had dropped, her disgusting visage cackling. I beheld it in all its terror and wickedness: string-thin frost patched her near-bald head, wrapping it as the skeletal trees did us. Crags ran deep from her head to her face to the rest of her skin which spindled into rotting fingernails black as the sky yet robbed of all the beauty and hope of the former. Only her vile teeth matched the mistake of God that was her fingernails.

I revulsed her countenance yet she will kill me. As if she had heard my thoughts, she turned to me and pointed a vile fingernail. I could not hear anything but she had mouthed, Eat. The Esher-like monsters emerged from the shadows of the forest; previous citizens of Yarim that have turned into ghouls themselves. I cannot move. It is finished.

I hear the whistling of a blade, quiet and gentle as the leaves falling. The crone's head rolls into view. A woman stands where the torso had been decapitated. She looks at Crawford's body but does no ritual or prayer. She looks at me and I recognize her. Edythe. More are beheaded.