The Blackwood Estate didn’t just feel old; it felt like a living, breathing predator, finally cornering its prey.
By midnight, the house was a velvet tomb of misshapen shadows. Maren was already drifting into a heavy, unnatural sleep in the next room, breathing shallowly, rhythmically, and in a way that felt wrong. Sloane had been “monitoring” her, bringing cold compresses and more of that thick, floral-scented tea.
Elara sat on the guest room floor, her face composed, but her eyes betrayed her mounting dread as she stared at her hand, the black line pulsing with a faint violet glow only she could see, like a vein learning to breathe, deepening her helplessness that bloomed beneath her ribs.
This was the “Shared Nerve,” A fragile connection that could betray her. She needed to know if Maren was truly gone, if the “empathy battery” had been drained so far that no soul remained to save. If she tried to speak to Maren directly, Sloane's eavesdropping ears would catch her. The house was wired with the Root Council’s secrets, and Sloane’s ears were tuned to the same fear-filled frequency.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, deliberate, approaching. Sloane was moving toward her. Elara scrambled to her feet, then back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as her eyes widened in fear. She began to hum, a low, discordant tune, the childhood melody they’d weaponized long before they knew what danger meant. They’d made it up as children to annoy their kindergarten teacher. It was their “emergency” melody, signaling that danger was near.
The door opened suddenly, and Sloane stood there, her silhouette carved out by the hallway's amber lights, softening nothing. She wasn’t wearing her “best friend” mask anymore; her face was completely neutral, almost clinical.
“You’re still humming that song, El,” Sloane said, her voice a soft, dangerous silk. “It’s a bit obsessive, don’t you think? It’s making Maren very restless,” she murmured, a ghost of a smile sharpening the corners of her mouth.
“The shadows like the tune,” Elara whispered, staring at the ceiling. “They dance faster when I hum. Don’t you see them, Sloane? They’re under your feet right now, licking your boots.”
Sloane stepped further into the guestroom, letting the door shut behind her. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge. The mattress dipped slightly, and Elara's “Shared Nerve” in her shoulder flared with a cold, biting frost.
“I brought you something to help you sleep,” Sloane said, holding a small crystal vial filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid that looked like obsidian, flowing. “It’s a tincture of the black-veined lily. It’ll keep the dark shadows at bay and make everything quiet again.”
Elara looked at the vial, then back at Sloane. This was it. The “hallucinogen phase” Sloane had described in her ledger. If she drank it, the pretense of madness would become a real prophecy.
“Will Maren drink it too?” Elara asked, her voice cracking slightly.
“Maren is already quiet,” Sloane murmured, leaning in. “She’s so brave, El. She’s already giving everything to the town,” Sloane murmured, revenant, hungry. “You should be more like her. Stop fighting the roots.”
Sloane reached out, her fingers ice-cold as she brushed a strand of hair from Elara’s face. In that moment, Elara felt a sudden, violent surge of Maren’s emotion through the bond. It wasn’t fear. It was a faint, flickering spark of recognition, a pulse through the “Shared Nerve.”
Maren had heard the humming.
Elara took the vial, her fingers trembling with the well-acted terror now that she faced it. “If I drink it… will you stay? Just until the shadows go away?”
Sloane’s smile, when it appeared, was thin and sharp. “I’ll be right here. I’m your sister, El. I’ll never leave you.”
Happy with Sloane’s answer, Elara brought the vial to her lips, but as she did, she “tripped” into another simulated fit of “madness.” She thrashed against the pillows in a perfectly timed burst of “madness,” knocking the vial from Sloane’s grasp. It shattered against the nightstand, and the dark liquid splashed across the wood.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Elara wailed, burying her face in her hands.
Sloane let out a sigh, a sound of genuine, predatory frustration. “It’s fine. I’ll get more. Stay put, Elara. Do not move.”
The moment the door shut and Sloane’s footsteps faded toward the kitchen, Elara bolted out of bed. She didn’t go out the window; she went to the wall shared with Maren’s room. She pressed her lips firmly to the wood of the connecting door. She didn’t whisper a name; she hummed the last three notes of the “danger” song, but she changed the ending to a specific sequence they used to signal “hide.”
From the other side of the wall, a single, feeble tap answered, fragile yet alive.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Maren was still there. She was being siphoned, her spirit used as literal fertilizer for the town’s prosperity, yet she remained awake.
Elara retreated to her bed just as she heard Sloane returning down the hallway. Her heart raced like a drum, ready for war. She knew she couldn’t survive. She would have to break the bond without killing Maren, or the “Blood Sister Curse” would ensure they all ended up as fertilizer in the Obsidian Greenhouse.
But now there was a new problem. As Elara looked at the spill on the nightstand, she realized the black liquid wasn’t just a drug. It was moving. The spill was crawling across the wood, forming a single, jagged word on the floorboards: HUNGRY.