I touched my fingers to the stiff, almost gristly feel of the fabric. “Hey, Morg, I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
“Um, in the oath, I have to say a word that translates to One Entity. Arthur said it means God.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, I don't really know if I believe in God. How can I make an oath to Him if I don't believe in Him?”
“Why don't you believe in Him?”
I shrugged. “I just think if He was all so powerful and great, there wouldn’t be such things as war and famine and…”
“Look, Ara, I could so easily get into a debate with you about how ludicrous that statement is, but we don't have time. The One Entity can be any god you want. It just means a higher power than yourself.”
“But…all the old people here believe in God. Aren’t I supposed to believe what my people believe?”
“Most of your people don't know what to believe, Amara. Only the Ancients believe in God.”
“Did Lilith believe?”
“Yes.”
“Then, shouldn’t I?”
“You can't make yourself believe in anything, Princess. And, like I said, as long as you believe in something bigger than yourself, you can choose whichever religion you want. Drake, for example, was a Pagan.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Is that because he’s a witch?”
“No. Study the intricacies of the Pagan religion, Amara. Witchcraft and Paganism are very different.”
“How?”
“Because you don't have to be a witch to be a Pagan, and you don't have to be a Pagan to be a witch. Why not do some reading, find out for yourself?”
“Okay. Maybe I will.”
“That’s fine—as long as you believe in something.”
I looked into my heart for a second as I followed Morgaine from my room. I knew there were things in my soul I would never understand, but I also knew I felt something deeper than myself—something I couldn’t explain. There had to be some entity up there, somewhere, which ruled over all. That much I was sure of. Whether it was God or not, I just couldn’t say. But there was something.
Morgaine turned back and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s go write some history—you can think about the mysteries of God tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
A rushing sound, like an express train in a subway, forced my eyes open. Small needles of dry pine blurred my vision for a second; I blinked them from my lashes, my eyes focusing on the waning daylight, while a woodsy, earthy smell dried my nostrils with each breath. I lifted my face from the crook of my elbow and sat up, circling on my knees a few times in the barky bed I was laying.
Above me, trees soared high into the summer sky, opening to a ribbon of pink. I jumped to my feet and scuffed back, stopping, palms flat over the bark of a tree trunk.
“Mike!” I called. “Mike? Are you out there?”
No one answered. I couldn't hear anyone or anything. There were no birds, no scuffling of little animals hiding under the brush, not even a breeze—just my own shallow breath and the thumping of my heart. I scrunched my eyes shut, folding over from the tight, searing pulse along my veins; getting hotter the closer it got to my core. And several questions fell through me like water over a window; how the hell did I get out here, and where was everyone else?
There were no trees that looked like funny old men with weird names, no rock and no Mike. Nothing but me and my confusion.
I sat down with my legs crossed and ran a fingertip from my ankle to my upper thigh, tracing each tiny little word in black ink. They looked like whirly notepad art or the veins on the back of a leaf. I could feel the burn of the Mark around my eyes and nose, like a mask, but without a puddle or a lake to see my refection, I’d never know what they looked like. Strangely, though, when I leaned closer to my shin and looked carefully at the words, they peered back up at me like text from a children’s book. I knew the swerves and curls of each rune were letters of the old language, just like Jason’s tattoo, but I could read them—every word, as if they were in plain English. I looked away quickly.
Above me, the sky darkened, with thick purple clouds closing it in, lowering shadows onto the forest with an eerie chill. One thing was clear; somehow, I’d made my oath and ended up in the depths of the forest. But I had no memory of it. No idea where I was or how I got here.
After a deep breath, I got to my feet and checked myself; my lip wasn't cut, neither was my hand, and…I felt my chest…I clearly hadn’t jabbed myself in the heart. Or maybe I did, and now I was dead—well, as dead as I could be—or unconscious.
I closed my eyes and focused on my toes, feeling the earth and tiny bits of bark between them, felt the cool of the twilight air, settling around the tops of my ears and the edges of my shoulders. It was real. All too real to be a dream or death. Which meant that, once that sun went down, I would have a hard time figuring out which way led back to civilisation. In fact, I wasn't even sure this was the same forest surrounding the manor. It felt bigger, deeper, scarier than the one I walked in with Mike that day. The trees, though I knew they were filled out with leaves at the very tops, all felt bare and lifeless, slanting inward, looking down on me. I was alone out here, but I didn't feel alone. Not one little bit.
Rubbing the pulse in my wrist with my thumb, I started walking, cautious eyes checking every branch before passing under it. But the ghostly chill of dusk, gathering at the nape of my neck and seeping down my spine, made me walk a little faster, worrying less about what might be in the trees and more about what might be following me.
Out here, gravity owned my steps; it seemed I’d been stripped of immortality and all the powers that went with it. The ground felt weird, kind of hard—like I’d been in bed for three days and only just got up. It received my steps, but didn't return them, and I didn't like it. Didn’t like the hunger, the cold, the…feeling human. But if I could overcome it and make it home by dawn, I would finally prove to everyone that I'm not just a dumb little girl.
With that, I stood a little taller, dropping my arms to my sides.
Pain or none, I could do this. I was born for this.
* * *
Despite this forest being so uninhabited that the branches had never been trimmed and a trail had never been cleared, it felt kind of like the trees made an aisle for me, turning their heads as I passed, wondering what my business here was. But other than that small feeling of being watched, everything was normal; no marshy bogs or tar pits, no shape-shifting crows that swooped in to kidnap me. It was actually even quite pretty—the raw, untamed part of the forest. Even the weeds, tipped with furry flowers that broke into motes of dust when I passed them, looked pretty in the wild, because they were meant to be here. They weren’t doing any harm—not spoiling prized roses or messing up garden beds. This was their home, and, out here, I was the intruder—the weed.