Inheritance

I felt like the room was turning from Midas’ touch, from antique to amber, and I imagined I was turning too, sealed into gold forever with my back bent over a very big cardboard box, spending the rest of the time like a Greek punishment, unpacking forever. 

Thea’s voice echoed down the hall, “Luna Jean.” 

I broke the curse and rose from the box, feeling each vertebra click into place. I exhaled in relief, hands braced on my hips as I looked out onto the overgrown lawn of our new home, Ichor, the manor of which was now mine. I looked around the room, his study. Apparently, this is where the original owner, my great great uncle, Lord Kestrel, died. They had found him with his clothes torn apart, laying in a pool of splinters, claw marks, and blood,  his eyes glossed over from death, a hand reaching out to his beloved blade, as if he was attempting to fight his end. 

I looked at the walls. So quiet, it feels like they are holding their breath, the humidity of dust and stuffiness of oxygen slipping through their locked lips. 

“Luna Jean.” 

Thea leans onto the threshold of the tomb. Her heavy-lidded eyes scanned the faded walls in concern. A corner of her lips pulled down, betraying her. 

“It just needs a new coat of paint,” I said. 

Thea nods, studying the claw marks strewn across the wooden floor. I note them too. Nowhere in his report did it note these marks, slashed around the manor, especially in the study. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I say, looking at the marks, Thea shrugs in my peripheral vision. 

“A Lord in an English manor, he must have had some hounds for the good ol' hunt,” she offers, finishing her words with a horrid accent. Satisfied, she leans back, groaning as she rocks back to wring her spine from aches, before ascending to stand again with a yawn. 

I blink at Thea, worn down from a day of unpacking, her shoulders rounded, signaling that she is close to passing out in any bed available. I grin at my poor wife,  shaking my head at her attempt at being coherent. 

I offer, “Want to take a break?” 

Thea  sheepishly nods. 

“I kind of want to check out the Festival the ferry man was talking about,” she says between another yawn. 

I smirk at her, no matter how exhausted she may be, Thea would rally for any festivities, “Are you sure you can make it?” 

Thea wipes her eyes, shielding another heavy exhale from me. My cheeks burn as I grin at her, immaculate in the light, the lithe lines of her frame exaggerated in the shadow, collaborating her into the rest of the curse of the Midas touch, taking up the role of  someone sworn to unpack life’s burdens.

“Come on,” Thea says, dewy eyed, she grips my hands, drawing me out from the study with a toothy grin, breaking me out of the amber cell. 

“Let’s go before I drop,” she whispers, her eyes shining. 

She meanders down the corridor, down the stairs, towing me past the wounds of the house; indents in the wall, slashes in the wood. I don’t think a lord would allow his hounds into his home, let alone leave marks on his estate. As we closed in on the front door of Ichor, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Thea seems unbothered, throwing her hand over the indented doorknob, yawning as she pulls the door open. A chill washes over my body. My heels sink into the floor. 

Look at me. 

My head turns to the portrait that greets us in the foyer. It is of Lord Kestrel himself, poised under an oak tree with his sword in hand. He stares at me with oil-stained smudged eyes. I tense, as if we have made contact. 

“Luna Jean,” Thea says. She tugs at my hand. I can’t pull away from Lord Kestrel. There is a gravity to him, or the image of him, a tether to us, maybe our lineage or maybe not, but there is a sense of rest, as if an exhale, and I am waiting for the pause to pass. I have the instinct to wait for a portrait to speak. I looked at his sword, held so tightly in his hand, I couldn’t believe that it could have been lost, disappearing shortly after the lord's demise. Thoughts of the wall gashes and claw marks press into my head, as if asking what happened, what happened? 

“Luna,” Thea says, her voice sharper. She looks up at me, her eyes glazed over as she blinks at me. A scowl on her face. 

“Sorry,” I said, breathless, my chest relaxed. I look at the portrait. Lord Kestrel looks at the distance, a hand over his heart, his sword holstered at his side. What?

“What’s wrong?” 

Lord Kestrel is admiring something in the distance, he isn’t looking at me - or was he ever? The wind carries into the house, breaking down the stuffiness of the manor with every wisp of fresh air. 

“It’s like -,” I say, blinking out at the town below the manor, the square growing busy with people. My mind is full of static. As if it is remembering a warning, or a saying. Did anyone say anything? 

“Let’s go, I think I am starting to lose it,” I muttered to myself, padding past Thea, pulling her down the winding road down to the village. I felt her teeter behind me, confused of why her wife was so weird, but I also felt someone watching me. I imagine the portrait of my ancestor watching us through the window. 

****

The crisp air of Autumn was like a salve to my ache. With every inhale, I forgot the soreness that had resided in my spine only a few minutes before. The village square was caught in the golden spell of the setting sun, the flags strewn above rippling ichor above us, the moth-colored dressing of the villagers now bleached with sun, their dark hair burning like torches as they milled about barefoot across the cobblestone. 

Did Lord Kestrel do this, mingle with the villagers? I wondered. I looked over at Ichor, standing tall on the hill. Or was he just in his studies all day? I’m sure he would look out at the distance, to watch a sunset like this one, the star slipping down the back of the mountain range, its rays scraping down the snow caps as it slips farther and farther into night, pushed down into its dark mouth like a secret, as if a knowledge the townspeople only knew, quiet, the only sound the pad of their heels on stone, as they passed us, glancing at me and Thea before resting at a booth, staring at their feet, their hands clutching the edge of the counter. 

Luna Jean noted a man they were passing to their left. His sleeves, pulled to his elbow, showed a network of developed muscles, tensed. As they took steps away, he turned his head toward them, his teeth clenched as if in pain. Luna Jean clenched Thea’s fingers in her palm. A spell of nerves washed over her. The bitter taste of flight washed over her tongue. Was it fear that kept them quiet? 

A blond girl passed in front of us. She was about seven years old, and carried a stuffed bear that bobbed from her quick gait. Her eyes swept over them, I swallowed, they were black as pits, my stomach twisted, as if it would fall in their dark depths, then, the girl walked on, unbothered, transelike. I watched as she was padded by the man with the pulled up sleeves. She looked up at him, perching onto her toes as if miming a question. The man looked down at her, then placed a hand over hers, having her settle back onto her feet. They turned to us in unison, long smiles curved across their faces.

The bulbous lights above our heads burned brighter as the night dyed the sky deeper and deeper until it was inky, casting a ghostly mask across the villagers' faces. One by one they turned to Luna Jean and Thea, marking their every step with hungry eyes, casting horrible smiles onto them. 

“Thea,” I  said between my teeth. Thea’s fingers pressed into the bones of her palm. Thea merged her body against mine. 

“They are watching us, Luna,” she whimpered. I inched forward, eclipsing Thea. I scanned the square, meeting each villager’s eyes, swallowing back the vinegar of fear. The people didn’t change, smiling and staring, pressed close together, stitching the square closed. I glanced up at Ichor, a shadow on the hilltop. 

A cackle shattered the silence, sending chills down my spine. I turned my head to look ahead. My head's skull filled with the thunder of blood rushing to my brain, attempting to rationalize what I saw before me, a group of five women padding out of the darkness, into the square, moving in unison with their pedicured feet, their heads raised in triumph, their golden eyes singed into my cells. 

The one in the middle, the oldest of the five with her silver-threaded hair, smiled at us. I tensed. Thea tugged at my shirt. I ignored her, I knew this woman, there was a memory of her somewhere, synapses firing to unearth moments of where I saw her features; the high cheekbones, the hair, the eyes, nothing came up but a fog. 

“Kin of Kestrel, we are honored to see you on this night,” the woman said, blood burned hot through my veins. I could feel my teeth grit. 

“Luna Jean,” spat Thea, she yanked at my sweater, “Luna Jean Luna Jean.”

 She butted her head in between my shoulders. 

“Please, I don’t want to be here any more,” she whimpered. 

I exhaled, my muscles relaxed, I offered Thea a squeeze to her arm. She didn’t pull away from behind me, rocking her head against my spine. 

“When I give the signal, you run,” I heard myself say, the words sharp in my throat. 

Thea gasped, “What?”

The middle woman, who I  know is the leader, steps forward, breaking her chain, she frets at us, upturning her ringed hands in apology, “Leaving so soon? It’s been so long since we have seen you-”

A chill flashed down my spine. The claw marks. 

“Luna-,” creaked Thea.

“When I say,” I hissed at her.

“Kestrel kin,” the leader snarled, her smooth voice now hazy with beast. Her pupils dilated into slivers. Her brow wrinkled in disgust, her fellow women flanked her, smiling with fangs as sharp as daggers. 

“Do you remember our last meeting? You seem … lost in thought,” the leader cooed. 

She looks me over, a smirk deepening into her face, “And ill prepared,” she chuckles. I pat my side, and flinch as I realize that I am looking for Kestrel’s sword, the one that was found beside him in the study, the one they can’t find. Why do I think I have it? 

Wolves glare at me with the black eyes of the villagers, now stalking us in the village square. 

“Thea,” I whispered. The wolves pull back their lips, glossing over their canines with their long pink tongues. 

Thea grips my sleeves.

“Now?”

I looked at the leader, a woman wearing the head of a black wolf. She studies me. She sniffs the air, peppered with inherited fear. She wrenches her head back, releasing a sickly howl, a medley of man and beast, that careens into the night, joined by her back. 

“Now!” 

I shoved Thea off to kick her off. The pack of villagers crash over the cobblestone like a wave, washing over their trap with their ragged bodies, bolting after us. 

“Up the hill, up the hill!” I urged her, pushing her on. Thea catches herself falling. In the fading light of the village, I see horror etched into her face, and I take her in my arms and charge toward Ichor, holding onto her as I churn and churn up the hill, pushing against the gravity of it all, forging ahead, listening to the heaving pants of the pack following us, imagining their breath on their heels. 

A light turned on in the window of Ichor, in the foyer. It shines onto us, the golden glow urging me on. Thea hooks her hands into my shoulders, her cries burn against my ears as she tells me how close they are, asking what is going on, but I can’t say I know because I don’t. This all feels like a dream, and  I am falling into place like I have always done, wrenching open the door of Ichor and collapsing into the light with Thea clenched to me. 

We lay on the floor like this, breathing into each other. Her tears press into my cheeks, as if we were crying together, as if I could cry now, so much burning and waking inside me, I have forgotten how to cry. 

The front door slams shut. I look up to the sound of claws raking into wood. Thea breaks away from me, pushing herself back to the steps, wilting against the base of the railing, her body shuddering as she begs for protection. 

I watch as the door shifts under the growing weight of wolves, buckling under the churn of their bodies slamming against the entrance over and over again. The wood no longer creaks but splinters. The wolves hush. A line cuts across the polish, splintering the wood. The pack members pace at the entrance, unsure of this sound. The line continues, unwavering. 

“Is it the woman doing it?” 

Thea is tucked into herself. Tears beaded down her face. 

“Is she going to open it?” 

A feeling settles into my chest. I shook my head. 

“No,” I say.

Thea cries out, pointing at the door. “It’s her!”

“KIN OF KESTREL, WELCOME” the writing reads. 

“It’s not,” I said, half to myself. 

The wolves whimper, I hear them fade away in the distance. 

The greetings bridge closed, and opened again to say, “ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR TRAINING?”

Thea whispers, “Training?” 

“Yes,” a voice says. 

Thea screams again as a vaporous substance slips from the oil painting of Lord Kestrel, descending onto the foyer, before rising up to fill the form of a man with the same pointed facial hair, dress, and sword as in the painting. He looks at me fondly, I smile at him. 

“As I think you may know,” he says, taking his sword from its sheath and holding it up to me, “We were interrupted last time.”

“Yes,” I say, accepting our blade, and holding it up to the light, “I believe we were.”