Trigger Warning

This book contains references to domestic violence from the start. If you find this causes you undue stress, please stop reading and seek help.

You matter, and your recovery matters.

Chapter One

The Lightning Snake and the Icefire Bear

The air sparkles with monstrous energy. Me and Maeve stand opposite each other, ten meters apart. The rainbow river gurgles beside us. I glare at her, fists clenched. It’s like I’m looking at an echo of myself, five years ago. The bunched muscles, the fury in her eyes. I meet her with equal ferocity. Mainly because she’s doing my head in. Girl’s got a mouth that could make a howler horse blush. We’ve been trading insults all morning.

Our shouting’s attracted a flock of nosta birds. They natter in the trees above, green eyes peeking between the multi-colored leaves of the canopy. The red and yellow of their feathers flash in the sunlight. Their black, dagger beaks gleam. I eye them warily, but it ain’t singing season for them yet. Our memories should be safe for now.

The forest’s alive this morning. Cracklemice scurry beneath leaf litter. Birdsong, loud and violent as war drums, batters the air. The sun’s reached its peak and the red-and-indigo sky glows bright and fierce. This is home. This strange not-quite-world we call Nowhere. A place between universes. A haven.

Or at least, it was, until we brought Maeve into it two weeks ago. Girl’s a firestorm. Temper like a tornado, fists like battering rams. And if that wasn’t enough, she’s got a giant, horned bear-monster with burning eyes and icefire powers that feeds off her rage. It stands before her, now, about the height of a horse, head lowered, ready to charge.

Nightmare.

“Well?” Maeve barks. “You ready?”

I clench my jaw. Damn cheek! Who’s calling the shots here? “’Course I’m bloody ready!” I yell back. “Can’t you tell?”

Because Maeve’s not the only one with a monster. I’ve got one of my own. A great, green-scaled serpent with a crown of ferocious spikes adorning his head, eyes gleaming scarlet, scales that sparkle with lightning and a pair of vast, blood-red wings. Normally, I manage to keep him small enough to drape round my neck, but today, I’ve let him grow. He’s matched Maeve’s monster for size and sways tauntingly.

Don’t tell! He hisses, straight into my brain. His voice tingles, but I’m used to it. Let’s take ‘em by surprise!

Easy, Wriggler, I think back. It’s not an actual fight, remember.

I keep a tight hold on him. Won’t let him grow any bigger. He wants to, I can tell. But it ain’t happening. When I let Wriggler loose, bad things happen. When I let him loose, he becomes the part of me I’m most terrified of. The monster I barely managed to wrestle under my control five years ago. The Oraqua.

Wriggler glares. It was an actual fight last time, he grumbles. Bear tore my wing.

I roll my eyes but don’t bother answering. That was three days ago and it’s not as bad as Wriggler makes out. Bear—Maeve’s monster—caught the tip of Wriggler’s left wing and left a slash. It’s already healing. Wriggler’s just sore he lost. If I’m honest, I’m sore, too. Maeve let Bear get too big. Out of control. That’s what I’m trying to teach her today. Control.

Oak knows, she bloody needs it.

“I’m gonna send Wriggler in,” I say, ignoring my lightning-snake’s stroppy protests. “Remember, you got to—”

“Keep Bear small,” Maeve drawls. “Yeah, yeah. You told me a million times.”

I clamp my mouth shut on a dozen retorts. I’m supposed to be helping Maeve manage her anger, not unleash it. I scowl at her. At the sheen of sweat shining on her dark skin, the curls of black hair piled on her head, the muscles rippling in her arms. She’s wearing a loose, sleeveless shirt and the flax pants Sheb finished making for her two days ago. Fur boots, just like mine, cover her feet.

I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. My death-pale skin, my ash-grey eyes with wild curls of scorch-black hair. Wriggler flicks me with the tip of one wing.

Who cares? He sneers. Let’s fight!

No, Wriggler, wait a minute—

But that bloody snake’s never done a thing I’ve told him. With a crackle of lightning, he lunges for Bear. Maeve yells as the two beasts clash. The ground shakes. Nosta birds take wing, screaming their heads off. Scarlet feathers rain down as me and Maeve clamp our hands over our ears. Might not be singing season, but nosta bird cries can still steal a few memories if we ain’t careful.

It doesn’t affect the monsters, though. Wriggler even snaps one out of the air, gulping it down in a flurry of feathers before he wraps Bear in his massive coils, squeezing.

“Hey!” Maeve yells, clutching her chest as Bear’s pain travels down their bond, affecting her, too. “Let go!”

“Wriggler!” I yell. “Not so tight!”

He glares, grumbles, but relents. His coils loosen and Bear thrashes free, leaving great gouges through Wriggler’s scales. They circle each other. Wriggler sends lightning shooting in all directions. Maeve dives, narrowly avoiding a bolt of scarlet electricity. Bear rears, opens his jaws.

And screams.

I throw my arms over my head as the noise rattles through my bones. My brain fizzes with remembered pain. The scar across my back—the one my daddy gave me before I killed him—burns.

Monsters are funny like that. They’re not regular creatures like nosta birds and howler horses. Or like Bartok, the grumpy owl-squirrel that lives with us. Monsters are made of something darker. An energy that feeds off anger and despair. I don’t know what gives them shape, or how they decide whose anger to attach themselves to. I don’t know if Maeve or me will ever break free of our monsters. All I know is they’re here with us, now. They feed off our pain. Wriggler was drawn to me when I killed my daddy, escaped his clutches, and ran from the town that tried to kill me. Maeve? Maybe she had it worse. Her mother murdered by the priests who were supposed to protect her town, while she was forced to watch. Bear was bonded to her for ages, killed three people before she realized he was hers. He’s out of control.

And the whole point in these training sessions is that she’s supposed to learn to contain him.

Sod that for a laugh, Wriggler hisses. Annie, give me more anger!

I shake my head, squeezing tight on the thread of energy that ties me to him. Not happening, Wriggler! I say. Control!

Bear charges, barreling into Wriggler before my snake has a chance to react. White fire bursts from his paws and shoots across the leaf litter. It’s not even hot but cracklemice and butcher beetles flee from it all the same. That fire might not burn skin, but it burns other things. Power. Hope. The will to fight. I shrink back as it surrounds me, the ghostly flames dancing higher.

“Maeve!” I yell. “Calm him down!”

Maeve doesn’t answer. Her eyes glow green. Bear’s white fire dances round her feet, up her pant-leg, along her arms. She’s awash with it. My gut drops.

“Maeve!” I yell. “Stop it! Let go!”

Bear’s huge. Like Wriggler, he grows in both size and power the more anger Maeve feels. She’s losing her grip. Bear’s black fur ruffles in some otherworldly wind. He swipes at Wriggler, claws narrowly missing my snake’s throat.

Annie! Wriggler roars. Stop holding back!

But I can’t, can I? It’s the thing I must never do—release my fury so it shoots down the invisible vein that ties me to my monster. If I do that, he’ll become the thing I fear. Chaos incarnate.

Get over yourself, Annie! Wriggler bellows. We had a deal, remember?

We did. He listens to me and I listen to him. But it’s hard to batter down a fortress I’ve spent five years building. I keep my rage locked tight in the darkest corners of my mind.

But Maeve clearly ain’t learned to do the same. Wriggler might still be the size he was when this fight started, but Bear’s grown. He’s taller than the trees, horns slicing the leaves at the top of the canopy. He beats his chest and howls, his cry tearing the skies. His white fire catches the trees, bleaching their bark. Maeve’s not in control. I see it in her face. The wild, feral ecstasy of knowing this monster is hers to command.

If I don’t stop her, she’ll kill Wriggler.

Which might kill me, too.

Damn this painful girl! I unclench my fists, open my mouth wide. I shriek like a banshee at full moon. I let my anger loose. Feel it race down my bond with Wriggler, igniting our nerve endings.

Yes, Annie! Wriggler laughs. My anger floods him with power. He grows until his wings cast shadows so black it’s almost impossible to see. He towers over Bear, glaring down at his rival. His eyes burn with bloody fire.

Now we’ll see who needs three days to recover before the next fight, he snarls.

Wriggler! I yell, warning in my voice. Don’t—

But he’s not listening. He lunges at Maeve’s monster. His huge maw clamps Bear’s head. Bear bellows, slashing Wriggler’s belly. Wriggler hisses but doesn’t let go. He shakes his head until Bear goes limp, then throws him against the ground. His vast coils wrap Bear in a crushing grip. Tightening.

Maeve gasps for breath, clutching her chest. The green fire goes out of her eyes as they bulge. She drops to one knee, then all fours.

“Wriggler!” I scream. “Let go!”

I run for him, reaching down our bond to pull him back. He’s not listening. Bastard snake’s going to kill them! Maeve’s eyelids flutter. She topples to her side, mouth frothing. I reach Wriggler in a whirlwind of limbs, beat his side. “Let go, you evil creature. Let go!”

Wriggler looks down at me, eyes flashing scarlet. I punch and kick. Tears pour down my face. I don’t bother to wipe them away. “Stop!” I scream.

And this time, he does. With a sigh, he lets his coils fall loose. Bear flops to the leaf litter, spluttering.

“Shrink down!” I snap.

Wriggler grumbles but does as he’s told. His scales dull to black. He reduces until he’s no longer than my forearm, a harmless serpent with vestigial wings and a flickering green tongue. He concertinas his body with embarrassment.

Sorry, Annie, he mutters.

I kick leaf litter at him. “Too bloody right, you’re sorry!” I growl. “Now piss off! I don’t wanna see you ‘til dark. Go on! Go!”

Wriggler knows he’s in disgrace. Without another word, he slithers into the gurgling rainbow river. I don’t bother to watch him go. I rush to Maeve’s side, cradling her against my chest until she comes to. I push her hair out of her face, hush her as she panics.

Her fear shrinks Bear, too. He scampers over to us, no more than a mewling bear cub with stubby horns and brown fur. He paws Maeve’s pant leg. Maeve tries to speak, but her voice is hoarse.

“What?” I say, leaning closer. Maeve grabs my shirt in her fist, her breath hot against my ear.

“Piss off, Annie,” she croaks, then faints.

I sit there, staring at her prone form for a good ten minutes. I suppose I deserved that, really.

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