prologue
AHUMAN WALL STRETCHES AROUND HEULENSEE. WOMEN AND girls kneel shoulder to shoulder in terrified reverence, linked together by white-knuckled hands. Their mouths hang open. Viewed from afar, you might imagine they are singing—that this is a celebration, or some benign folk ritual.
The scene is about as benign as the tumor that killed my papa. The women aren’t singing; they’re screaming.
They wail, heads tipped back, eyes red and white with terror. The wall of bodies sways and buckles with the weight of collective emotion. Some wear their fear proudly with unwavering falsetto screams; others are quieter, and the terror inches free from their mouths in gasps.
My silence makes me an outlier. It makes me a target.
I stand behind Mama as the sole missing brick in our feeble defense. Beside her, my sister, Dorothea, wails. Terror twists her face. It wrinkles her forehead and makes her pretty eyes bulge from her skull.
Mama turns to me, eyes wild. “Scream, Ilse!”
An apologetic smile is all I can offer. I want to render them in my image, even if just for a moment. Rid them of the fear that pains them. They are so determined, so full of horror—but their bodies are fleshy and easy to break. Secretly, I don’t think their efforts will do much to protect us when the monsters come.
The looming threat of our demise sparks a realization: If I am going to die, I would like to do so by my sister’s side. I nestle between Mama and Dorothea, perched awkwardly on my knees. They grasp my hands, knuckles popping. Something feral touches their eyes. They begin to howl. The sound runs through my bones.
From this angle, I can just make out the inky smear of the Hexenwald on the horizon. The sky above the trees blushes crimson. It’s the only warning we receive before the forest overflows. On any other day, the forest seems almost benevolent. The Hexenwald’s deceitful appearance is perhaps its most lethal trait. Whispering boughs mask a multitude of sins.
The trees serve as a breeding ground for all manner of monsters. Perhaps today will be like the summer when colossal serpents, Lindwurm, emerged from the forest and swallowed four children whole. Maybe I will smell the same decay as the night an entire family was drained by bloodthirsty Nachzehrer, vampiric creatures who only know thirst.
While I cannot predict what will spill from the trees, one thing is certain. No matter how hard I try, I will not feel afraid.
“Please, Ilse,” Mama begs, my obvious distraction triggering desperation in her eyes.
I part my lips, hoping that Mama’s own fear will leap down my throat. That it will dig its claws into my heart or my brain—wherever I am supposed to feel it.
I begin to groan. It’s a hollow sound. There is no weight behind it, no driving force. My heart thumps steadily, blood meandering through my veins. I think the absence of my terror must be glaring, but my performance seems to fool Mama and Thea. They relax their grips on my hands.
“Yes, Ilse!” Mama presses a fervent kiss on my cheek and goes back to screaming. The shock of her lips on my cheek is bittersweet. I cannot remember another time she’s kissed me.
The ground shakes beneath my knees.
“It’s coming,” Thea shrieks. “The Saint is coming!”
The vibrations in the earth rattle my kneecaps and travel up my spine. They grow and grow until they’re so close that they mirror the steady beat of my heart. Thud, thud, thud. Heat billows behind me—the displacement of
air by something huge beyond comprehension. Moist, rotting breath grazes my nape.
The screaming stops.
Mama’s grip on my hand tightens. Thea’s, too. The air that hung heavy with terror moments ago is now totally still. I swallow. It sounds like a gunshot in my ears.
The next breath is so close that it makes my hair flutter.
“Are you afraid?” a deep, echoing voice asks from behind me. It sounds like the rumble of thunder that precedes the worst of a storm.
“Yes,” we shout. I am the only one who is lying.
A rush of air almost topples me; a shadow briefly blots out the sun. The beast lands in front of us, more macabre than I remember it. The Saint of Fear. It is a disgusting patchwork: Its body is that of a wolf, but ten times the size; at the crown of its head, a deer’s antlers spiral out, reaching for the sun; its skull is that of an overgrown deer. I say skull, not head, because there is no flesh or fur to cover its awful maw. There is only bleached bone, deep hollows for eyes, and a permanent, toothy sneer. Heretics call it the Untier. The monster.
I strain to keep my gaze pinned to the floor, the way it wants me to—but I cannot stop my eyes from drifting upward. Caves call to children, and the pits in the Saint’s skull call to me. Deep in the sockets, eyes the color of blood flick to meet mine. The Saint falters midstride and releases a breath, more of a growl than an exhale.
I stare back into my lap, focusing on the pinch of Mama’s nails against my palm. Rancid breath moistens my cheek. One of its bloody claws pins the edge of my dress to the dirt.
“Are you afraid?” it snarls into my face, each syllable echoing unnaturally.
Lie, my brain orders. “Yes.”
A rumble comes from deep in its chest. “You will be.”
A distant wail echoes. A chorus of whispers rises from the women. I let go of the exhale caught between my throat and lips, stealing a furtive glance at Thea. When she looks back at me, there is more white than blue in her eyes.
The wind dies down. The birds cease to sing.
The Saint swings its colossal head toward the trees of the Hexenwald. Mama grips my hand so tightly that my skin blanches around her fingers. Anyone privy to this spectacle, unaware of Heulensee’s macabre traditions, might believe that the monster before us is our foe.
No, this bloody-mawed creature is our savior. The worst is yet to come.
An amorphous cloud of white floats free of the forest. Not the serpentine Lindwurm, nor the insatiable Nachzehrer. As it glides over the lake, it separates into three distinct entities: three women, floating just above the water. Their arms and legs dangle, as motionless as corpses. I watch them in the way I might ogle a snake before it strikes.
“The Hexen,” Mama whispers, her voice cracking. “This is the end.”
Through all the eight years of my life, monsters have poured from the Hexenwald like blood from a wound. But never—never—have the Hexen shown their faces. They are the root of all the evil that has preceded them. They orchestrate; they do not bloody their own hands.
Until today.
The Hexen reach our shore, gliding over the pebbles, then the grass, then the cobbled street. They hang just in front of the ancient Saint, staring it down with pupilless eyes. One is gray-haired, her face weathered by time; one is maternal in her beauty, soft of cheek and hip. Between them, they clutch the youngest—no older than me, perhaps eight years old. She does not levitate so much as she hangs.
“We have come for the Saint of Fear.” They do not open their mouths, but they speak in discordant harmony.
I know their presence should stir something in me. They are predators, and I am their prey. Our relationship is the basis of life in this is
isolated valley: The creatures of the Hexenwald hunt; humans flee. But rather than fear, I feel anticipation. It is the same sense I get just before a storm breaks.
The eldest of the Hexen floats forward. She cocks her head at an unnatural angle, eyes boring into the Saint’s skull. The imposition of her gaze enrages the beast; it snarls, raising its hackles.
“Leave this place,” it barks. “Do not folly with a Saint. I have slain the beasts you sent to terrorize this village; I will slay you just the same.”
The women’s jaws fall open in unison; laughter tumbles out. It is flighty, girlish. Utterly strange from their cold, unsmiling faces.
“I will tear you limb from limb,” the Saint growls, incensed. “Then you shall see.”
The Hexen stop laughing. A wind whips around them, lifting the muddied hems of their dresses. The eldest turns her back and glides away, drawing level with her companions. I think they might be retreating—until her head rotates a half circle atop her spine.
Eyes burning white hot, the woman says, “Feast.”
The Hexen plunge through the air, jaws hanging open. The oldest smiles so widely that I think her cheeks might split; the middle Hexe adopts a rigid face so uncaring that I think she must be made of glass; the youngest screeches, a sound that makes my teeth ache. Gauzy, iridescent ether fills the sky, pulsing around them.
The beast roars. It leaps forward, plunging serrated teeth into one of the Hexen’s legs—the youngest of the brood—and slams her to the ground. Her spine breaks at an angle, mimicking the staccato peaks of the mountains beyond the Hexenwald.
Mama screams. This time, it holds more than just terror. Her pupils narrow; tears stream down her cheeks, unbridled. The young Hexe’s death snaps something vital inside her. It snaps something in the remaining Hexen, too. They wail. It’s a magnetic sound, wrenching my focus away from Mama. Ether rolls off them in waves—the same way it seeps from the Hexenwald on a clear day. Their fists harden at their sides, and their assault resumes.
The eldest howls, anguish pinching her features; the other laughs so shrilly that my eardrums begin to ring. Their outburst infects the Saint of Fear. Its eyes begin to water, and it moans with grief; its colossal heart beats so loudly I hear it at a distance, mirroring the maternal Hexe’s erratic laughter. The Hexen set upon the weakened beast, tearing out great hunks of its flesh with their teeth.
The Saint swings its head, and I swear it looks directly at me as it bellows, “I need more.”
from the Hexen and turns on us. The women shriek, clutching one another in desperation. The Hexen cackle as the Saint lumbers toward our ranks, one paw dragging limply behind.
At first, I think the Saint is coming for me—that it plans to punish my heresy once and for all. I throw myself in front of Thea, desperate to shield her from what comes next—but then the Saint diverts. It stalks down the line.
I look to the right just in time to see Klara Keller’s head torn from her neck. The stump of her spine spurts blood. I gawk at the empty space where the girl’s head should be, unable to comprehend her metamorphosis from person to corpse. My lungs calcify, denying me the breath I’m desperate for.
The Saint stares at me. It wants me to see Klara’s lifeless eyes staring out from between its teeth. Her mouth is still ajar, as if she might reanimate at any moment and tell us not to worry. Slowly, slowly, the Saint grinds its jaws shut. Her face compresses and distorts and—
Mama uses our conjoined hands to shield my eyes. It does not stop me from hearing Klara’s skull crack between the Saint’s teeth.
By the time Mama removes her hand, what’s left of Klara kneels limply. She wears her best dirndl: a white apron, now bloody, and a dress the color of forget-me-nots. How proud she must have been putting on that dress this morning, never anticipating it would be the last thing she’d wear.
Klara’s mother and sister do not move; they maintain their grip on her hands, keeping her headless body upright. Even in death, Klara completes the wall.
“Now,” the Saint roars, “are you afraid?”
The women around me rally. They think the Saint is addressing us all. I know the truth: that it has seen me. That it knows the steady absence in my heart. Klara Keller died because of me.
Spittle flies from Mama’s mouth; farther down the line, Klara’s mother clutches her daughter’s corpse and bellows. Terror becomes a tangible force, exploding from the women’s feeble bodies, shrapnel feeding the Saint.
The beast changes. It rears up to stand on two legs, not four. Its antlers branch out, skeletal prongs sharpening. It walks like a man, not a beast. Teeth longer than the rest drop from its bony jaw.
The Hexen levitate, retreating to the lakeshore, and begin to chant. The Saint pursues them but gravity itself seems to be working against the creature. The Hexen’s faces contort; they chant louder, louder. Groaning, the Saint collapses to the ground, body pressing into the earth.
The scream that Thea lets loose is the closest I have ever felt to fear. It is an urgent plea—a call to action. She scrabbles against me, anchoring our bodies. Her panic brings the reality of our situation into sharp focus: If the Saint of Fear dies, so do we.
And it will be my fault.
My chest shudders with guilt, blending with my longing to save Thea and my desperation to be fearful, to be the way a girl should be. I let my mouth hang open, begging Thea’s terror to inhabit me. Something else rises from my depths. Fury. A sound erupts from deep inside, somewhere primal.
The Hexen scream. I look up just in time to see them thrown across the lake, their limbs flung out like rag dolls. They crash deep in the Hexenwald. Trees collapse in their wake. There is the cracking of wood, the settling of leaves, and then there is silence.
The Saint turns to face us, panting. Thea draws me tighter against her, as if she can shroud me in the folds of her dress. I drop my eyes to the ground and whimper—the image of a subservient, fearful girl.
The Saint of Fear draws its maw level with my ear. My hair flutters as it whispers, “Do not disappoint me again, Ilse Odenwald. It will be your sister’s head next time.”
Without hesitation, the beast leaps over the wall of our bodies and retreats to its den. The villagers call after it, offering thanks and shaky prayers. Klara Keller’s mother blows it a kiss. A kiss.
Thea collapses into a flood of tears. I kiss her cheek and turn to Mama to do the same, but her expression shows no relief.
Mama stares at me with cold calculation, her eyes caught somewhere between suspicion and loathing.
She sees the absence in my heart. The glaring, angry silhouette my fear should occupy. It is a void—a hungry black hole that will consume everything she holds dear.
We both know the clock is ticking.
chapter one
TEN YEARS AFTER KLARA KELLER’S DEATH, MY SISTER GOES missing.
The village does not mark Klara’s passing, but I cannot forget the date. No matter how frantically I try to distract myself, it’s seared into my brain. Each anniversary, I wake in the early hours, plagued down to my bones with the feeling that penance is coming. So much so that when Thea’s husband begins throwing stones at my window mere minutes after midnight, I am already awake. Waiting. My fearlessness got Klara Keller killed. Now it must be my turn to suffer.
I’ve bitten my fingernails down to stumps. It’s a nervous habit I should have grown out of. I lick their bloodied edges clean as I stagger downstairs, preemptive grief taking root in my stomach. It winds across my ribs, my lungs, my throat. Makes it so I can hardly breathe. Heat presses against my eyes. I try to stifle it—to not let my anguish show on my face. My stoicism is a defense mechanism, the same way injured animals attempt to mask their injuries.
Hans stands at our front door bleating that “she was in the bath, and then she was gone.” I can barely hear him. Macabre images of Thea devour my consciousness: her wading into the lake, lips turning blue; her slipping down the impassable mountains, flesh tearing on jagged rocks; or worse, her staggering into the Hexenwald.
The old Thea would never dare venture into the forest. But the new Thea—the one who took her Rite and came back different…
There’s no telling what she might do.
My ears whine as I tune back into the conversation. I rarely listen to Hans, but tonight, I need to make an exception.
Hans braces one arm against the doorframe. “I didn’t want to worry your mother, but I wondered if Thea might have come here—”
“No,” I interrupt, blinking loose the haze of tears that have settled over my vision. “She’s not here.”
His pulse flutters against his throat like a trapped bird. “Please help me find her, Ilse.”
I like Hans about as much as I would like an adder in my boot. He and I exist in a strange purgatory—our relationship unchanging yet fraught. Hans is nauseatingly pleasant; I rebuke his every attempt at friendship. I’m not sure whether my main gripe is his effusive nature or the fact that he took my sister away from me, even before the Rite did.
But with Thea’s life at stake, there is little I won’t do. For every foul word spoken about me in this village—and let me tell you, there are many—my loyalty to her cannot be denied. I retrieve my cloak from its hook and close the door quietly, so as not to wake Mama. “Let’s go.”
We descend the steep track from the Odenwald house in silence. Mist casts a gauze across the village. Our family’s occupation as fire watchers supplies us with little by way of fortune, but we do have Heulensee’s finest view. Our house perches above the village like a falcon ready to take flight. We enjoy unspoiled views across the lake, all the way to the Hexenwald.
Tonight, moonlight spills across the water in a ream of silver silk. Swollen storm clouds writhe on the horizon, threatening to break. A bone-white lightning bolt forks down. It strikes somewhere deep in the trees beyond.
“She wouldn’t go there,” Hans says quietly, eyes fixed on the violent bristles of the Hexenwald. There is an unspoken question mark at the end of his sentence.
“No,” I confirm, though I’m not sure I believe it. I’m not generally in the habit of dishonesty, but for both of our sakes, I think it’s the
best course of action.
The threat of the Hexenwald is sewn into us from childhood. On a clear day, when the fog lifts from the lake and you can see all the way to the forest, a lilting song rises from the schoolyard:
Blood spills from veins, skin starts to crack
Ignore the forest; turn back, turn back
Eyes become sockets, flesh melts to bone
The forest is hungry; go home, go home
The Hexen won’t rest ’til your blood is shed
Ignore the warning; you’re dead, you’re dead.
The appearance of the Hexen ten years ago sparked a renewed desire to purge the forest once and for all—but still, evil persists. Wildfire cannot singe it; fences cannot contain it; axes cannot fell its trees. Signs erected in warning are swallowed by the forest, and those who trespass either do not come back, or wish they hadn’t.
I shut my eyes and send a plea out into the night. Please let Thea be in the village.
We enter Heulensee’s central cobbled street. By day, it’s a riot of color: the mint-green apothecary, the rose-pink bakery, and vibrant flowers spilling from baskets on every windowsill. The night has stripped away the color, leaving behind a liminal husk like a bird’s nest abandoned in winter.
“We should split up,” I say. “You go toward the lake. I’ll head for the hillock.”
Hans looks at me in abject horror. “You can’t go by yourself ! You’ll be terrified.”
The certainty of his assertion almost provokes me into laughter. I half believed that Thea would’ve divulged my secret to Hans. At least it seems this sacred relic of sisterhood lives on. Over the years, she has helped me compile a mental catalog of things I should fear—men who claim to be lost, spiders with brightly colored carapaces—but the vigilance doesn’t come naturally. Hans’s dismay at my suggestion proves that.
I affect a shudder, running my hands across my
arms. “I’d feel so much better with a big, strong man by my side.” Hans puffs himself up, shoulders squared. He reminds me of a working dog: There’s nothing he likes more than to be useful. With a saccharine smile, I add, “Do you know where I might find one?”
Hans deflates, bottom lip jutting out. “I’m going to ignore your childish humor and accompany you anyway, because I’m a gentleman and—”
“No need,” I interject. There are few things I’d like less than him dogging my steps, pushing his foppish hair out of his eyes and breathing too loudly.
He narrows his gaze. Accustomed to the good, fearing ladies of Heulensee, my insistence to go alone is a glaring disparity. Fumbling in the pocket of my cloak, I produce the penknife Papa gifted me when I was just a girl. I brandish the blade in front of Hans.
“I’m scared, but I’m not defenseless. Besides, if we separate, we can cover twice the ground. We’ll find her quicker that way.”
Hans nods slowly. He doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, but we part without another word. I watch as his form disappears into the fog.
Overhead, the clouds tear in half. An ocean falls in slow motion from the heavens, forming minute rivers in the seams of the cobbles. Thunder cracks like a whip and I remember to shriek, just in case someone is watching. I keep my charade stapled to my skin.
Fear is a permanent force in the village. It does not fade or wither. In fact, we cultivate it. We stare into shadowed corners and will monsters into existence; we look to the sky and imagine the stars crashing down to earth, raining hellfire.
I dream of knowing what it is to truly shudder.
I have devoted the years since Klara Keller’s death to coaxing fear into the hostile expanse of my heart. At night, I scream and scream into my pillow until my vocal cords give out. Hands clasped tight, I pray for divine terror to inhabit my body—but it does not come. At fifteen, I risked my life for the cause. With rocks tied to my ankles, I waded out into the lake, praying that the last gasping moment between life and death would make me feel something.
at my steady pulse.
Even now, with Thea’s life at stake, I do not fear for her. There is a feeling of apprehension—of knowing that I am on the cusp of the worst suffering of my life—but there is no terror. No matter how desperately I wish there was.
Hands cupped against the glass, I peer into the bakery window, wondering if a mischievous streak I don’t think she possesses may have prompted Thea to steal krapfen in the dead of night. The shop lies dormant. As does the apothecary’s, and the butcher’s, and the tailor’s, and the blacksmith’s. One by one, I patrol each dead-end alley, each shadowed corner.
There is only one place left to check.
I follow the street to its end, where the cobbles turn to dirt. In the suffocating dark, I can barely make out the bog: acres of waterlogged soil and sucking mud pools, grafted to Heulensee’s heel like a festering blister. Slender willow trees fringe the mire, their branches skeletal in the darkness.
I shuffle forward, one foot in front of the other, until the planks of the boardwalk whine beneath my feet. ...
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