His temple caved in easily, like a rotten fruit. He dropped her arm and snarled.

  With a yowl, Serilda swung again, but this time he dodged back and scampered from her reach, reminding her of a feral animal.

  His expression was more wary now, but no less eager, as he crouched a few feet away, trying to determine how to get at his supper.

  Serilda sat up, trembling, gripping the rock, bracing for him to come at her again.

  He seemed distressed as he stared at her. Afraid of the rock, but not willing to let his prey go. He lifted his hand and gnawed absently on his pinkie finger—until she heard the bone snap and the tip of the finger disappeared between his teeth.

  Serilda’s stomach kicked.

  He must have decided that her flesh would be better than his own, because he spit out the digit and lurched at her again.

  This time, she was more prepared.

  This time, she remembered what to do.

  She curled her legs closer so he would not try to grab her feet, then lifted her arms in front of her face like a shield.

  And as soon as he was close enough, she jabbed her hand forward and shoved the stone into his open mouth.

  His jaw locked around it, the end of the rock jutting a few inches beyond his bloodied lips. His eyes widened and for a moment his jaw continued to work, his teeth grinding against the stone, as if he meant to try and devour it. But then his body slumped, the energy draining away, and he collapsed onto his back, arms and legs hitting the earth with soft thuds.

  Serilda scrambled to her feet. She was covered in sweat. Her pulse was racing, her breaths ragged.

  For a long time, she couldn’t bring herself to move, afraid that if she took a single step in any direction, this monster would rear back to life and come at her again.

  He looked dead now. A corpse with rotting flesh and a rock stuck in its jaw. But she knew she had only paralyzed him. She knew that the only way to truly kill a nachzehrer was …

  She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t think she could—

  A shadow appeared in the corner of her vision. Serilda cried out, as a square-headed shovel swung overhead.

  It landed with a sickening thump, the shovel’s edge being driven through the monster’s throat. The figure stepped forward, placed a foot on the shovel’s head for leverage, and shoved, severing the head clean through.

  Serilda swayed on her feet. The world darkened around her.

  Madam Sauer turned and shot her a disgruntled look. “All those disgusting stories you tell, and you don’t know how to kill a nachzehrer?”

  * * *

  Together, she and Madam Sauer had carried the body to the river, filled his clothes with stones, and let it and the disembodied head sink to the bottom. Serilda felt like she was living in a nightmare, but she hadn’t yet woken up.

  “He was my father,” Serilda said despondently, once some of the shock had passed.

  “That was not your father.”

  “No, I know. I would have done it. I just … needed a moment.”

  Madam Sauer snorted.

  Serilda’s heart was heavy as one of the rocks that had dragged her father’s body to the bottom of the river. She had known he was gone for months now. She had not expected him to come back. And yet, there had always been a slim hope. A tiny chance that he might still be alive and trying to make his way back to her. She had never given up on him completely.

  Yet, somehow, the truth had been even worse than her nightmares. Not only had her father been dead all this time, he’d been a monster. An undead thing, feasting on his own flesh, making his way back to his daughter—not out of love, but hunger. Nachzehrer came back from the dead so they could devour their own family members. To think that her simple, shy, warm-hearted father had been reduced to such a fate made her stomach roil. He hadn’t deserved such a fate. Serilda wished she could have a moment alone. She needed quiet and solitude. She needed a good, long cry.

  But as she trudged back to the cottage, Madam Sauer followed stubbornly behind.

  Serilda spent a moment looking around and wondering if she should offer food or drink, but she didn’t have anything to offer.

  “Would you go change?” Madam Sauer snapped, making herself comfortable on Serilda’s cot, which was the only remaining piece of furniture beside the spinning wheel’s stool. “You smell like a slaughterhouse.”

  Serilda looked down at her muck-covered dress. “I have nothing to change into. I have one other dress, but it’s in Adalheid. The rest of my clothes were taken to Mondbrück.”

  “Ahh, yes. When you tried to run.” Her tone was derisive.

  Serilda blinked at her and sat on the other side of the cot. Her legs were still shaky from the ordeal. “How did you know?”

  Madam Sauer raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s what you told Pusch-Grohla, isn’t it?”

  At Serilda’s perplexed look, Madam Sauer heaved a drawn-out sigh. “Shrub Grandmother did tell you to expect aid, did she not?”

  “Yes, but … but you’re…”

  The old woman stared at her, waiting.

  Serilda gulped.

  “You know Shrub Grandmother?”

  “Of course I do. The moss maidens came to me this evening and explained your difficult situation. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on you since the Snow Moon, but you just had to run off to Mondbrück, then Adalheid. If you would ever deign to listen to me—”

  “You know the moss maidens?”

  Madam Sauer balked. “Great gods. And you were my pupil? Yes, I know them. Also, keep your voice down.” She glanced toward the windows. “I do not think his spies yet know of your return to Märchenfeld, but we cannot be too careful.”

  Serilda followed her look. “You know about the Erl—”

  “Yes, yes, enough of that.” Madam Sauer impatiently flicked her hand through the air. “I sell them herbs. The forest folk, obviously, not the dark ones. Also poultices, potions, and the like. They have good healing magic, but not much grows in Asyltal. Not enough sun.”

  “Wait,” whispered Serilda, astonished. “Are you telling me that you’re actually a witch? A real one?”

  Madam Sauer gave her a look that could curdle milk.

  Serilda clasped a hand over her mouth. “You are!”

  “I have no magic in me,” she corrected. “But there is magic in plants, and I am quite good with them.”

  “Yes, I know. Your garden. I just never thought…”

  Except, she had thought. A hundred times she’d thought of her as a witch, called her as much behind her back. She gasped. “Do you have an alpine newt for a familiar?”

  The woman’s expression turned baffled. “What are you—? No, of course not!”

  Serilda’s shoulders sank, more than a little disappointed.

  “Serilda—”

  “Is that why the moss maidens were here?”

  “Hush!”

  “Sorry. Is that why the moss maidens were here, on the Snow Moon last winter?”

  Madam Sauer nodded. “And I understand that Shrub Grandmother was grateful for your involvement in seeing two of her granddaughters returned unharmed, which is why she has sent me to see if I might be able to help you.”

  “But how can you help me? I can’t run away from him. I already tried that.”

  “Of course you can’t. At least, not alive.”

  Serilda’s heart skipped. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re lucky. A death draft takes time to prepare, but we have until the Awakening Moon. It’s a desperate solution. A bit like trying to milk the mice. But it just might work.” She pulled a stiletto knife from her skirts. “To start, I will need some of your blood.”

  THE

  AWAKENING

  MOON

  Chapter 47

  The sun was bright overhead. A cool breeze made the air comfortable and sweet. Serilda stood in the garden that normally would be starting to flourish with peas and asparagus, beans and spinach, but this year, in her absence, had mostly gone to weeds. At least the cherry and apricot trees were growing heavy with fruit. The fields in every direction were bright green, and far off to the south, Serilda could see a herd of sheep in their fluffy coats grazing on one of the hills. The river was running strong and she could hear the constant creaking and splashing of the waterwheel behind the mill.

  Altogether, it was as perfect as a painting.

  She wondered if she would ever see it again.

  Sighing, she glanced toward her mother’s hazelnut tree. The nachtkrapp was there again, in its favorite spot among the boughs. Always watching through those empty eyes.

  “Hello again, good Sir Raven,” Serilda called. “Found any plump mice this morning?”

  The nachtkrapp turned its head away, and Serilda wondered whether she was just imagining the haughty snub.

  “No? Well. Just be sure to leave the hearts of the local children alone. I’m rather fond of them.”

  It ruffled its feathers in response.

  Sighing, Serilda let her gaze linger on the house a moment longer. She didn’t have to feign her sorrow. It was easy enough to pretend this was the last time she would be seeing it.

  Turning away, she passed through the little gate and, barefoot, made her way down to the river, to her favorite spot, where a little pool of calm water split off from the shallower rapids. As a child, she had spent hours here building castles out of mud and rocks, catching frogs, lying in the shade of a whispering willow tree and pretending to see sprites dancing among its boughs. Now, she questioned if it had all been pretend. There were times when she’d been convinced that she really had seen magic. Papa would laugh when she told him, swinging her up into his arms. My little storyteller. Tell me what else you saw.

  She sat down on a rock that jutted from the side of the shallow bank, where she could dip her toes into the water. It was refreshingly cool. Silver minnows darted in and out of the dappled sunlight, and a cloud of tadpoles gathered between two moss-covered rocks. Soon there would be a chorus of toads every night, which usually lulled her to sleep, though her father had liked to complain about the racket.

  She took in everything. The clusters of spiny quillwort sprouting up from the shallow water. The ruffled mushrooms that had sprung up against a fallen tree trunk.

  She waited until she could feel their presence. She was becoming good at spotting them now, and with a glance around she spied three nachtkrapp tucked into the shadows around her.

  She rested her palms behind her on the sun-warmed stone. “You can come out. I’m not afraid of you. I know you’re here to keep track of me, to make sure I don’t try to run away. Well, I’m not running away. I’m not going anywhere.”

  One of the nachtkrapp cawed softly, its wings bristling.

  But they did not come closer.

  “How does it work? I’ve wondered all year. Can he see me through your eyes? Or, your eye sockets … as it may be. Or are you always having to fly back to the castle and report to him, like carrier pigeons?”

  This time, a louder, unruly cry from the bird highest up in the tree.

  Serilda smirked. Sitting up, she slipped one hand into her pocket, feeling the smooth sides of the vial, how it fit perfectly into her palm.

  “Whichever it is, I have a message for Erlkönig. I hope you’ll pass it along.”

  Silence.

  Serilda licked her lips and tried to sound rebellious.

  No—she felt rebellious.

  And she meant every word.

  “Your Darkness—I am not your servant. I am not a possession for you to claim. You have stolen from me my father and my mother. I will not let you have my freedom, too. This is my choice.”

  She pulled the vial from her pocket. She was not afraid. She’d been preparing for this all month.

  A caw, almost a shriek, echoed through the trees, so loud it startled a flock of woodlarks farther down the river. They took to the sky in a frantic escape.

  Serilda uncorked the vial. Inside shimmered a liquid the color of ruby wine. It gave her hope that it might even taste good.

  It did not.

  As the potion hit her tongue, she tasted rot and rust, decay and death.

  A night raven dove for her, knocking the vial from her hand, its talons leaving three deep scratches across her palm.

  Too late.

  Serilda stared at the blood rising on her hand, but already her vision was starting to blur.

  Her pulse slowed.

  Her thoughts grew thick and heavy. Filling up with an uncanny sense of dread, coupled with … peace.

  She lay back, her head sinking into the patch of moss that clung to the bank. She was surrounded by the smell of earth, and she distantly thought how odd that it could be both the smell of life and the smell of death.

  Her lashes fluttered.

  She gasped then, or tried to, though air wasn’t coming into her lungs like it should have been. Blackness was edging across her vision. But she remembered—she only just remembered.

  She’d nearly forgotten. Her hand scrabbled through the mud, searching. She felt like her limbs were trapped in molasses. Where was it?

  Where was …

  She’d almost given up when her fingers found the branch from the ash tree she’d left here last week. Madam Sauer had insisted it be ash.

  Don’t let go.

  She’d insisted. This had been important.

  Serilda didn’t know why.

  Nothing seemed important anymore.

  The scratches on her palm stung dully as she tried to hold on tight, but she no longer had control over her fingers.

  She no longer wanted control.

  She wanted release.

  She wanted freedom.

  Visions of the hunt sped through her vision. The wind stinging her eyes. The raucous cheers in her head. Her own lips pursed as she howled at the moon.

  The bellows of the night ravens sounded far away now. Angry, but fading into nothing.

  She had started to close her eyes when she saw it through the trees. An early moon rising in the east, though dusk was still hours away. Competing for attention with the guileless sun, not to be ignored.

  The Awakening Moon.

  How fitting.

  Or, if this did not go well—how ironic.

  She wanted to smile, but she was too tired. Her heartbeat was slowing. Too slow.

  Her fingers went cold, then numb. Soon she could feel nothing at all.

  She was dying.

  She might have made a mistake.

  She wasn’t sure she cared.

  Hold tight, the witch had told her. Don’t let go.

  The silhouette of a black bird flashed through her vision, soaring northwest. Toward the Aschen Wood, toward Adalheid.

  Serilda closed her eyes and sank into the ground.

  She let go.

  Chapter 48

  Serilda lay on her side, staring at her own face, watching herself die. The wisps of dark hair that curled around her ears. The eyelashes against pale cheeks—quite dark, quite pretty—but never noticed because all anyone ever saw were the wheels in her eyes. She had never thought of herself as pretty, because no one else had ever told her she was. Other than Papa, and that hardly counted. All she ever heard was that she was odd and untrustworthy.

  But she was sort of pretty. By no means a breathless beauty, but lovely in her own way.

  Even as the last bits of color drained from her cheeks.

  Even when her lips began to turn blue.

  Even when her limbs began to spasm, her fingers twitching against the branch at her side, before they finally stilled and sank into the grass and mud.

  Unlike all those lost souls in Adalheid Castle, hers was a soft death. Peaceful and quiet.

  She felt the moment the last breath left her. Serilda looked down, pressing a hand to her body’s chest. Her eyes widened as she noticed that the edges of her hand were wisping into the air like morning dew struck by the first ray of sunlight.

  Then she started to fade. Her body was pulling apart. There was no pain. Just dissolving. Returning to the air and the earth, her spirit fading into everything and nothing.

  Ahead of her, across the river, she spied a figure in emerald green robes, a lantern lifted high in one hand.

  Beckoning her. Their presence was a comfort. A promise of rest.

  Serilda took a step forward and felt something solid beneath her heel. She looked down. A stick. Nothing more.

  But then—she remembered.

  Hold tight.

  Don’t let go.

  She gasped and bent down, reaching for the branch that had been stolen from an ash tree at the edge of the Aschen Wood. At first, her fingers wouldn’t take hold. They slipped right through.

  But she tried again, and this time, she felt the roughness of the bark.

  On the third attempt, her hand wrapped around the limb, clutching it with the little bit of strength left to her.

  Her spirit slowly came back together, tethered to the land of the living.

  She looked up again and wondered if that was a smile worn by the god of death, before Velos and the lantern faded away.

  This time, she did not let go.

  * * *

  In the hours that passed, Serilda found that she very much disliked being dead. She was gravely bored.

  That’s precisely how she would describe it, she thought, when she told this story to the children.

  Gravely bored.

  They would find it funny.

  It was funny.

  Except that it was also true. There were no people about, and even if there were, she doubted they would be able to see or communicate with her, not so long as there was daylight. She didn’t know for sure—she’d never been a spirit before—but she didn’t think she was the sort of traumatized, half-corporeal spirit like those that haunted the castle. She was just a wisp of a girl, all mist and rainbows and starlight, wandering along the riverbank and waiting. Even the frogs and the birds paid her no heed. She could scream and wave her arms at them, and they went right on chirping and croaking and ignoring her.