Trigger Warning

This book contains references to domestic violence right from the beginning. It also contains some references to physical and emotional cruelty to children. If this causes you undue stress, please stop reading and seek help immediately.

You matter, and your recovery matters.

One

Rain and Silence

My heart hammers in time to the steady beat of scarlet rain. It’s not heavy yet, but it wets my hair, dripping down my neck. I wipe my wrist across my forehead. It comes away red. I keep marching. Don’t look back. The leaf litter is slick beneath me. I keep slipping, but I don’t stop. Can’t.

Behind me, voices drift through the downpour.

“Annie!”

Sheb’s voice. My best friend. My light and my compass. “Come back, the rain’ll give you blisters!”

“Dammit it to hell, Annie!”

That’s Maeve. Pain-in-the-ass, quick-to-anger, brave and brilliant. Right now, though, I wish she’d leave me the hell alone.

“Lin says you’re breaking all your promises!” she throws at me. “Why won’t you just tell us?”

I hear a hoot of agreement from Bartok, who I know will be giving me big, tawny, accusing eyes right now from Sheb’s shoulder. Painful owl-squirrel.

Needles of shame dig into my heart. I imagine Lin’s face, soft and kind and full of disappointment. I don’t look back.

At my heel slithers a little black snake with vestigial red wings. He keeps casting me accusing glares.

This is daft, Annie, he says, straight into my mind. You’ll only need to wash the rain out of your clothes later. Why don’t you just tell them?

“Shut up,” I grumble.

Right, Wriggler sniffs. Yeah. Mature.

He’s right, though I hate to admit it. I should turn back. Ain’t like they’ll be angry with me, this little family I’ve built for myself in the heart of a universe called Nowhere. They never are. Even when they should be. They’ll just fold me into a hug I don’t deserve, tell me they love me, wrap me in blankets and talk and laugh and try to bring me out of myself while Sheb cooks something delicious and Bartok peers at me with endless disappointment.

But there’ll be those looks of concern. The glances they think I don’t see. I’m frightening them. I don’t know how to stop.

Then, they’ll ask me what’s wrong? And I won’t be able to tell them. Even though I promised I would. Though they’ve known for a week I’ve not been myself. Though they’ve been gentle and kind and now they’re fed up with my dark moods and want to know how they can help.

Well they can’t, can they?

You could ask them to, Wriggler points out. I shoot him a glare. Painful monster.

It ain’t that simple, I think back.

Sure it is. Just four little words. Say it with me. I need your help. Your turn.

I ignore him, splash through a puddle, throwing scarlet spray halfway up my pant leg, curse. I’ll be soaked through by the time I get back, my skin blistering from the caustic rainwater. But I keep going.

Suit yourself, Wriggler huffs. He slithers off ahead.

Around me, the trees of Nowhere shiver their multi-coloured leaves, the vines snatching at me. The trees here always get anxious in the rain. Birdsong thunders against the sky, which is thick with poisonous green clouds. I don’t stop. Race up the opposite bank of the little, rainbow-watered stream, climb the incline, running the last few steps, push my way through the ferns into the clearing I come to every day, though it tortures me.

Wriggler’s already here. Sensing my turmoil, he’s grown to pony-sized, his black scales showing a hint of dark green. He does that, whenever I’m feeling distressed. He flicks his tongue, tents one wing, inviting me to stand beneath it.

Not your finest moment, he chides. But then, I’m not sure you’ve had a finest moment. I live in hope.

I smack his tough side. “No you don’t.”

Wriggler chuckles. You’re right, he says. I don’t. He pauses. So, what are we doing here? Just staring forlornly like we always do, or is there a plan this time?

I don’t bother answering. We’re silent for a bit. I peer through the rain at the blackened old tree stump that dominates the centre of the clearing. It doesn’t look special, except for the ever-changing lights dancing from within its hollow, and the whispered voices—laughter, weeping, yelling, murmuring—that accompany the rain. Because this ain’t a tree. Not really. And it never was. It’s a doorway. One I’ve entered too many times. And on the other side are worlds beyond worlds, full of joy, pain, hope, fear.

Today, mercifully, it’s quiet.

Great, Wriggler says. Maybe she’s stopped complaining. We can go home and forget about it.

Like hell we can. Like hell I can forget about the voice that’s been drifting through this portal for the past week, yelling in my head, snatching at my heart, piercing my mind at night when I can’t fall asleep. The others never seem to hear it. It calls my name, begs for my help. I can’t stand it.

That ain’t why I’m here right now, though. It’s not why I come to this portal almost every day, watching the lights of other worlds drift by in an endless cycle of possibilities.

I come because, in one of those worlds, so far away that, if I think about it, my heart might unspool, is the only person I want to see right now. It’s not been that long since we met, maybe no more than a few months. But I still remember that day as vividly as if I’ve just lived it; the tall, dark-eyed priest with the gentle voice, fighting off the vicious creatures that had been attacking us. Brother Sasha. Or at least, he was, then. He left the Order shortly after, when he realized the priests he’d dedicated his life to were actually murderers. He’s just Sasha, now. And yeah, we’ve come so far from that first moment in even this short time, but there’s still so much distance between us. In my lonely moments, lying awake in the dark, I remember the first time he kissed me. That soft, sweet taste. The scent of musk and moonlight—his magic. The feel of his hands on my face. I miss him.

Hell, it’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like several lifetimes. I know he needed to go, had some stuff to deal with. Being hunted by a vengeful priest who can shift into a giant maned cat doesn’t exactly make the best start to a romance.

Still. I can’t help coming here most days. Wishing. Hoping.

Wriggler flicks his tail.

Don’t you think it might be time to get over it? he asks, tactful as ever. I throw him a filthy glare.

“You get over it!” I snap. “You’re the one who almost killed him. You’re half the reason he ain’t here!”

This ain’t really true. Or fair. But it makes me feel better, saying it. Wriggler’s not just any old beast of Nowhere. He comes from somewhere darker. More dangerous. He’s not really a creature at all, but a being made of rage and pain. My rage. My pain.

It's a power we’ve encountered in the both the worlds of Wilderness and Riverfell, and each world had their own story for where it comes from. In Wilderness, they called me a dark-child, cursed by the evil of the Wild Wood. In Riverfell, I was murk-touched; chosen by the swamp.

Truth is, I’m neither of those things. Wriggler ain’t from some magical wood, or a sentient swamp. Like Sheb says, I called him from the darkness because I needed him. Sheb calls it the monster-bond. Wriggler’s me and I’m him. And when he does things, like attack the man I could grow to love and almost kill him, it’s really my rage he’s using to do it.

Wriggler huffs. He kept hurting you, he says, reminding me that, for all his painful sarcasm, my monster does care about me, even if he’s got a funny way of showing it. I lean into him, close my eyes.

“I miss him,” I admit. Can’t even bring myself to say his name. Haven’t spoken it in two weeks, though I think about him all the time. Wriggler knows this. It irks him, which is why he says that name now.

Sasha will either come back or he won’t, my lightning-snake points out. He said he’d always find you, remember? Anyway, don’t you think we’ve got bigger problems?

Yeah, we do. That damn voice. Her voice. Torturing me through the portal. But, just for a while, I want to stare at this blackened tree and imagine the lights flashing with blinding force as the portal opens and Sasha falls through.

I can tell Wriggler ain’t in the mood for that.

He’s not here, Annie. He left you. Twice. But Sheb, Maeve, and Lin are here. Even that bloody owl-squirrel is here! And for some reason I honestly don’t understand, they do actually care about you. You promised them. Do you think, maybe, you could just stop being so Annie about everything, and tell them the truth?

I glare at him. “And say what? ‘Hey, guys, sorry I’ve been weird all week, but my mum, you know, the mum who abandoned me twice and I ain’t seen in four years? Well, her voice has been yelling at me through the portal all this time and I don’t know what to do’?”

Wriggler thinks for a minute. Yeah, he says. That’s perfect. Let’s tell them now.

He turns as if to head home. I wallop his side. “Stop it!”

Wriggler groans but does, actually, stop it. It’s raining more heavily, now. Streams of red pour from his wings. He blinks, shakes his head, spraying scarlet in a halo around the clearing. The lights of the portal flare for a moment, turning silver. I shudder, knowing what’s to come.

It’s faint, this time. I almost don’t hear it through the rain. But it’s there. That distant, desperate voice.

“Annie …”

It sends a spear of ice through my core. I double over, hating how much it hurts.

“Annie, help me. Please. I need you …”

I wait, listening for more, but it doesn’t come. The lights change again. My mother’s voice fades. I sink to my knees. Wriggler rolls his eyes.

Decision time, Annie, he says. You know Maeve will come looking for you, soon, and that kid is stubborn as anything. It’s impressive, actually.

I can’t be bothered to respond. Instead, I get to my feet, breathing through the wild thunder of my heartbeat.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “She ain’t my family anymore. She made that clear when she left me the second time. I got a real family to protect now. I ain’t wasting time on this.” I turn, ready to head home. “Even if she is my mum.”

I squeeze raindrops from my scorch-black hair, head to the edge of the clearing. I turn when I realize Wriggler ain’t following.

“You coming?”

Wriggler folds his wing, staring past me. There’s a look of triumph on his face I find unnerving.

Nope, he says. And I don’t think you’re going either.

I whip round to look at what Wriggler’s staring at. My stomach twists. Maeve’s at the edge of the clearing, blocking my path. There’s a little black bear-cub creature at her side, looking sodden and miserable. Maeve, though, looks as if she ain’t even noticed the rain. Her arms are folded, one eyebrow quirked in judgement.

This is it. I’ve been caught.

“Right, Annie,” Maeve says. “I’m done being patient. Start talking. What’s all this about your mum?”

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