Haunted


 
 Haunted
 
 
 
 
 NATALIE C. ZEIGLER
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2022 by Natalie C. Zeigler
 All rights reserved.
 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, people, or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons; living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
 
 Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905257
 Ebook 978-1-7356641-5-6
 
 
 
 Front Cover Art by Diletta De Santis
 Cover Design by Lesley Worrell
 
 
 
 
 Black Glory Publishing House
 https://blackglorypublishinghouse.com/
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 Chapter 7
 
 
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Chapter 9
 
 
 Chapter 10
 
 
 Chapter 11
 
 
 Chapter 12
 
 
 Chapter 13
 
 
 Chapter 14
 
 
 Chapter 15
 
 
 Chapter 16
 
 
 Chapter 17
 
 
 Chapter 18
 
 
 Chapter 19
 
 
 Chapter 20
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 As I thread through the open-air market, I see it—a soul’s trail.
 The knife lies, dull and unassuming, in the vendor’s cluttered cart, yet I hear the jarring hum, feel the tingle in my fingertips, and see the solemn aura hovering in the air. I curl my fingers tightly into my palms. I know I should not touch it. A body dies, but the soul remains relentlessly alive. I can see the souls, speak with them, and experience their memories. Some say it is madness, but I know it’s magic. Magic is forbidden, but it hovers around me; lifting me up, filling my lungs. The magic, ancient as the realm itself, burns in my veins and tickles my skin.
 In this underground street market, called Arufin, the vendors are cutthroat, unscrupulous, and vague about their goods’ origins. They lie. They loot. They’ll steal the tunic off your back before your body cools and unflinchingly hawk it the next day. This sandstone street is also the one place in Kähari where magic abounds, rushing around as living energy, shimmering in the air like heat. Of everything I have seen today, this knife practically vibrates with it. I do not know precisely what will happen if I touch it. If I lose myself completely, someone might notice.
 Someone who might tell my mother.
 After hesitating another breath, I reach for it anyway. One day, my curiosity will kill me, mother enjoys harping. Maybe she’s right.
 As soon as my fingers curl around it, my muscles freeze, my fingers whiten, and black shadows swirl across my eyes. The chatter and noises of the market fade, and a vision sweeps in like a summer storm. I am dragged helplessly into it, eyes squeezed shut.
 When I open my eyes, I am in an unfamiliar body, still feminine but older and softer. I stand inside a strange house with thoughts running through my head that are not my own:
 I will die today, and it is not the death I expected for myself. I thought I would grow old and drift away, awash in scented oils and surrounded by candles and several children and grandchildren. They would sit around me, chummy and nostalgic, passing a bottle of wine while declaring their adoration for me in happy, convincing voices. Every year, they would visit my grave on the anniversary of my death with fresh flowers and fuss just enough over removing the matted leaves from my final resting place while I look in satisfaction upon them from the ancestral realm. Alas, I will die today with no scented oils, no wine, and no reverent grave for visitors. No one to remember me.
 Under the saber-toothed moon, the heavily-armed attackers descend upon the village, and the rumors of their brutality prove unexaggerated. From the window, I flinch as the attackers set mud and straw homes ablaze, moving hastily down the row. As the flames lick at the sleep-disturbed inhabitants, they dash into the streets where shadowy figures with crossbows and sabers wait to sow death among them. On a mission of discretion, the foes also rip holy beads from dead necks, dump incense into the dirt, and bash the modest temple into dust with their heavy blades. The screams and wails shake my nerves, and the smell of burning flesh sends my stomach tumbling, but I force myself to calm. Volatile emotions mean unstable magic.
 I push away from the window and into the arms of my partner and love, Jaali. He presses his forehead against mine, raking his hands through my coiled hair. I close my eyes for just a moment, savoring the closeness and his smell, knowing the finality in it. Between us, cradled to my chest in a basket, is our daughter.
 “Jaali,” I choke, unable to stop my tears.
 “Amaka,” he whispers my name like a song. “Run.”
 He releases me. Eyes burning, I charge out the garden door and into the scrubby brush. As quickly as I can, I dart through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, I hear smashing and shouting. Heat flashes at my back. Our home is on fire; my partner’s death weighs on my heart. I trust Jaali offered me enough of a start to reach the gully and the river with our little girl, who has begun to wail loudly in fear. I will not fail either of them.