Covenant's End - Ari Marmell Page 0,1

between the drapes.

The house was silent; still. It always was, this time of night, but tonight the hush was heavy, oppressive. Nothing leaked in from outside, no wind or rustling branches, no birds or distant voices. The settling of the foundations, the creaking of old furniture, the mechanical tick of the clock's heavy pendulum—all sounds she'd never consciously noticed before, absences she all too keenly noted now.

Call out for her parents? The words jammed in her throat, throttled by fear, yes, but also a lingering wounded pride. Instead she slid to her feet and, after a minute spent fumbling to light the wick, slowly crept into the hallway with candle in hand.

It seemed…longer than usual, that hall. Her brother's room, mere steps away, was a distant blot, dark against light. The stairs were invisible, swathed in shadow. But of course, the hall couldn't have changed, that wasn't possible, had to be her imagination.

That or the candle's gleam remained duller than it should have. Was that possible? It sounded less preposterous than a growing hallway, anyway.

Bare feet on hard wood, and all in silence. No slap of skin on the floor, no creaking of the occasional loose board. Ghostly step after ghostly step, Rosemund proceeded, breath short, hand trembling. Until, finally, she reached the top of the staircase.

There the silence ended. From there, she could hear, however faintly, a sound from the floor below.

A faint, desperate whimper.

It must have taken a hundred years to descend the stairs.

The chamber below was dimly lit, ruddy embers in the fireplace peeking out from beneath gray coats of ash. Flickers and waves of crimson danced along the walls, casting everything in a nightmarish illumination.

She saw Rousel, huddled beside the old sofa, hands clasped, lips quivering.

She saw her parents, on their knees in the center of the room. Their clothing hung in bloody tatters, from where they had apparently been whipped again and again. Pillowcases covered their heads, and it was from beneath those that the whimpers and panicked gasps sounded. Their hands were bound behind their backs; with what, Rosemund couldn't see from here. And the air…

The air smelled heavily of cinnamon and sweets.

“Mama?” She was a babe again, barely able to speak. It embarrassed her, as only adolescents her age could be embarrassed, but she couldn't help it. Couldn't deepen her voice, couldn't steel her nerve. “Papa?”

The whimpers rose to muffled cries, fearful, warning. They must also have been gagged beneath the pillowcases, she realized, and then wondered why such a thought would even occur to her.

She drew nearer, edging around the room, trying to understand. When she could finally see her mother's hands, however, her confusion only grew.

Licorice. Her parents’ wrists were bound, not with rope or chain or twine, but thick and twisted strands of licorice.

“Oh, you're here! Good. I grew bored of waiting.”

Rosemund squeaked at the horrid voice. No, not voice. Voices. Two, speaking in perfect unison, perfect clarity. One, that of a growing boy, perhaps a few years older than she; the other, the rough, sandpaper rasp of a decrepit old man.

In the distance, as though responding to those voices, a chorus of children cheered her arrival.

He appeared from nowhere, between two flickers of the candle. Tall, lanky, he looked like a young man not quite past the edges of his maturity, perhaps only half again as old as she. But Rosemund wasn't fooled. She never doubted for one heartbeat that he was older, far older, than he appeared.

Dark, greasy hair hung in tangles to his shoulders. His tunic and leggings and vest had once been of finest make, richer even than her own, but now they were crusted with caked-in dirt and bore the rips and stains of careless play.

His right hand, tightly gloved in rabbit fur, clutched an old kitchen knife, nicked and scored. His left…

Oh, gods!

The thumb of his left hand was mundane enough, but the other digits were no fingers at all. Close to two feet long, each was a switch of freshest birch-wood, perfectly suited for welting and splitting the skin of disobedient children.

And his eyes, his eyes were glass. Perfect mirrors, reflecting the room and Rosemund herself, but not the other members of her family.

A single tear rolled down Rosemund's cheek, but she couldn't bring herself to scream.

“You called,” he told her in his twin voices. “I came.”

“Called…?”

“Yes. Both of you. Quite distinctly. You said you hated…them.” The revulsion in his tone was thick and viscous as he waved those fearsome switches at her