Mark of Betrayal (Dark Secrets #3)(78)
Author: A.M. Hudson

But nothing happened.

Very slowly, I slid my hand down from my eyes and peeked out past my wrist, dropping it completely when the empty, clear lines of the forest stared back.

The fog was gone. The hand, gone.

The gravity of loneliness opened the world around me then, as if I could pan out to a view above everything and see myself, so small, so alone, out here in the forest with no one but myself to protect me. That was just a recipe for disaster.

I looked up to the weaving branches, blending in with the black of night as the last clouds ate the sun. Darkness fell, descending like a velvet cloak, ingesting the treetops, the branches and, finally, the trunks, until all I could see was my own hands if I held them right up to my nose.

I was alone. Burning. Starving. Weak. Hopeless.

Inevitability surrounded me on all four sides; the shadowed density of night that circled the trees would be the path I’d walk until dawn. The timer had started. My mission had begun. I had only hours now to get out of here.

But I didn’t want to walk. I didn’t want to go deeper into a landscape I couldn’t see. How was I to know if I’d fall off a cliff or hit a tree? How could I possibly walk through what I couldn’t actually see?

And despite that, I felt myself get up, protest screaming within me, and start walking. If I sat there all night, I might not get hit by branches or feel the itch of hairs raising on the back of my neck from things I couldn’t see, but one thing was guaranteed; if I didn’t get up, get walking and find my way, all hope would be lost, and I would not only fail my people, but never make it home again.

Chapter Nine

I felt around for a tree trunk, pressing my forehead into the dry, scratchy bark when I found it. My body swayed, too worn to stand straight. Rushes of cold then hot kept making me want to flop down and rest. Just rest—just five minutes and I might have the strength to go on.

I slid my hands down the tree and felt for the ground. There was no grass, like I hoped, only dry dirt. But it was cool—soothing against the hot Markings. I laid on my back, pressure rising in my nose, cheekbones and brow, making my headache throb, and brushed my limbs through the dirt, forming mounds under my elbows and shins.

The night felt longer than it should be. I’d been convinced at least twice that the sun should be showing on the distant horizon, but it never came. I’d walk and stumble and feel pointy branches scrape and pinch my skin, not focusing too much on time, until I walked so long I had to stop and catch my breath, realising only then that day hadn’t come any closer. That time vortex had hold of me again, and I wasn’t so sure this darkness had an end. But if I could sleep, maybe just fall asleep for a little while, the sun might be there when I opened my eyes.

The skin around my elbow pulled, the dried wounds cracking when I folded my arms in and rested my hands on my belly. Just five minutes. Just close my eyes for a little while, I said to myself. Just a little while….

“Ara.”

My eyes snapped open and I sat up, darkness all around me, the ring of that whisper warm in my ear. I think I even dreamed a face to go with it—saw the grey skin, the red lips, the dark hair.

I shook my head, dislodging it, and scuffled back on my hands until I felt the trunk of the tree on my spine. Clearly, I hadn’t slept long enough to bring day or to make myself feel any better.

The burn in my skin retreated for the chills again. I hugged my arms across my chest and tucked my knees up, making myself small, but there was nowhere to hide, no way to escape the cold. The trees were all thin and bare, and the only warmth I found all night was the five minute intervals where my skin burned before it grew cold again, making me shake. Every muscle in my body ached like the flu; my lower back, legs, the ones around my neck and shoulder blades, even my bones ached.

I pressed the back of my wrist to my forehead; it felt muggy, sweaty, but underneath that, really hot—hot enough to warm my throat just by breathing near it. Even my tongue felt hot.

“How can they expect me to do this?” I murmured to myself, or maybe to that One Entity. “I’m sick. I just need to go home to bed.”

But it didn’t matter. No one had installed the red button of panic out here. I couldn’t just call Mike and beg him to come pick me up. I had to finish this. I had no choice but to either find a way out of here or be lost in the black purgatory for a time longer than I could comprehend.

Around the changing temperature of my body, the night air suddenly became cooler, settling over my toes, the very tips of my fingers and nose in an icy layer. I held my hand out to the emptiness, half expecting to feel snow, when I heard something—a scuffle, a purposeful brush of a form against a tree branch. Singular. Lone. No other sound to follow it or around it. It wasn’t wind, because there was no wind. It wasn’t the crow, because he was rude and noisy. It had to be something else.

“Ara.” A whisper slipped along my neckline.

I spun around to the tree—just a tree, nothing else.

“Ara.” The voice came at me again, creeping down my spine in a tepid breath.

“Who’s there?” I whirled around, the thump of my heart using more energy than I had spare. I felt weaker, so weak I knew I couldn’t run if there really was a person there. “Who…who are you?” I said carefully, not really wanting an answer.

But the sound that came next left me with nothing but confusion; it started as a winding sound, like a cog or a crank, and grew into a soft, chilling lullaby.

I rolled onto my knees, digging my hands into the earth to steady myself.

Music. It was music. Like the box David gave me before our wedding.

“Hello?” I called again, sitting very still, waiting to hear a sound.

“Ara?” It whispered right by my face—I felt it, felt its dry skin by my wrist; I snatched my hand into my chest and sprung back from the voice, white shock blackening my mind as my heart caught hold of itself.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” It said, talking faster than I had.

I wiped a hand across the ground, grabbing the first stick I felt, then aimed it into the darkness, waving it around blindly. “I…I have a stick,” I stuttered. “And I will use it.”

“Will use it,” the voice said.

I frowned. “She sells seashells by the sea shore.”

“By the sea shore,” It whispered back, a breathy, speedy echo of myself. I think.

Panting heavily in gusty breaths of cold, I pressed my hand to my forehead again; the fever was burning, clearly making me hallucinate.

I got up, ready to move on from this spot, and snapped the tip of the twig with my thumb. But a cold wash of fresh fear straightened my spine when an identical snap echoed from behind me. My shoulders lifted into stiffness as I turned slowly, deathly afraid of the form I might find. “Who’s there?”