Hansel 4(5)

It’s bad that Mother got her, but she’s mine now.

“Gretel,” I murmur.

I look up to see Mother’s red grin. Her dancing eyes.

I look down the hallway, spotting my open door a dozen or more feet away. I look back down at the girl: Leah.

“Do you like her?” Mother asks me.

“Oh yeah. Yes,” I say, a little more flatly. “She makes a good Gretel.”

What I mean is I love her. What I mean is I would die for her. What I mean is I will never wake up in that cold bed, strung so thin I think that I might come apart.

I inhale one more time, so I can relish her sweet scent.

“Tell me what to do with her, and I’ll do it,” I lie.

Mother stops walking. Turns away. My eyes are still on my half-cracked door, just a few steps ahead, so I don’t notice at first that Mother is opening the door beside it. When I do, I stand there, clutching Leah, wondering who’s in this room and what we need with them.

Mother steps inside the door, and I follow blindly behind her. My eyes cling to Leah: to her eyes, her nose, her rosy cheeks.

“Go on,” Mother tells me. “Lay her down.”

Shock streaks through me as I look around the room. It’s much like mine, the walls painted with the same trees. The wall to the left painted with a house: the witch’s house. Mother is pointing to a cot just like mine, pushed against the back wall. It’s covered with a blue sheet where mine is brown.

I squeeze Leah to my chest as things around me tilt a little. “But— No, you said she could live with me.” My voice is thready; weak. I take a step back toward the door, wondering if I could run with her.

Mother throws her head back, laughing so loudly it echoes around the little room.

“You must be kidding, Hansel! Let her live with you? Why would you—”

“You said.” I whirl and lunge for the open door.

Mother moves so quickly, I don’t see her whip the can out. I don’t see her spray the Mace.

All I know is a sharp sting, then I can’t see. I clutch the girl’s shoulders and thighs, trying to think past the pain and keep my footing. And I do. I’m standing upright when she is wrenched out of my arms. My arms flail out, then up toward my eyes. Mother laughs. I hear the punch I land on Mother’s cheek.

Then I lose my balance. Meet the floor. I scramble to my hands and knees and she kicking my ribs. I wobble to my feet between two kicks, waving my arms so I don’t fall. I rush blindly in the direction of the cot.

Mother’s bony knuckles smash into my face. I stumble backwards.

I fall again, and Mother kicks my ribs so hard, I lose my breath. She drags me by my ankles, and I wave my arms, trying to grab at the doorway. My eyes burn, though. Every time I try to blink, my eyes burn like a bitch. One of my hands flies up to them reflexively. I writhe as my bare back glides over the rug. I feel a whoosh of momentum as she tosses me back. Then I hear a loud slam.

“Fuck!”

I roll over, crawling on my belly. I reach out in front of me and feel the smoothness of the door.





CHAPTER TWO

Leah

Present Time



I’m standing in the doorway of Mother’s house, taking in the massive entry hall, when my sixth sense starts to ring-a-ding-ding. I’m so overwhelmed, at first it’s lost in the storm of my emotions. My heart pounds as my gaze rolls over the stone floor. My eyes dart up and down the walls, now painted mauve and stripped of their pointless iron balconies. I’m taking in the nooks he’s made with couches, chairs, fireplaces, bookshelves. I’m checking for torches, and finding—with relief—that there are none: only round, glass wall sconces beaming light into the shadows. My gaze lifts to the ceiling, and I notice there are no chandeliers. Just sky lights.

“Wow.” He’s changed a lot of things, which is good because that makes it easier to be here. But the only way I know how much he’s changed is by contrasting this foyer I’m looking at with the one inside The Forest. The club really does look exactly like this place used to. “This still looks like The Forest,” I say, turning my head a little, but not looking fully over my shoulder at him. “I can see you painted here, but—”

That’s the moment that the subtle buzzing in my head begins to roar. He hasn’t moved; that’s not my clue. He dropped my hand a few moments ago, so he isn’t touching me.

I can just feel it.

Feel him.

Something’s wrong.

I turn slowly. “Luke?”

The word rolls from my lips before I see his face. When I do, my blood runs cold.

He looks…aghast. His face is twisted and his eyes are wide. He’s staring at the doorway I was just leaning through, as if his brain is running a couple of seconds behind. As if his brain is running years behind, and he’s just seen a ghost.