fog/fugue
Chills wrack my body and my head pounds, throbbing in time to the beat of my heart. The sound of the ocean vibrates around this hill. I try so hard to hang on to the susurration, but it doesn’t ease my mind.
Nothing helps.
Nothing but her.
The fog rose just over an hour ago, bringing the scent of lavender with it. That’s how I know that it is time. That, and the way my sickness is so much worse these past days. She knows I’ll have to come.
Despite the fact I only live a short distance away, it’s taken me this long to make it to Marsland Hill, and the smell grows more cloying the closer I get.
Do other people smell it like I do? Does it have the same impact on their bodies? The taxi driver doesn’t mention it, but then, he’s taking another drag on a cigarette and the interior of the car stinks of it. The laws might have changed, but he hasn’t.
It’s been nine long years of this routine. Five since I realized the pattern and figured out there was no point ignoring the signs. Three since I stopped bringing weapons with me. In my permanently weakened state, there is no way I’m able to use sheer force to take back my voice.
I’ve had to find another way.
The taxi pulls to a stop, and I wave my card to pay before pushing open the door and stumbling out. I reach for the railing, knuckles white, skin so pale that if I wasn’t wearing black, I would be invisible in the fog. I inhale the damp salt air, feel the vapour in my lungs, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of lavender.
Of her.
My body responds. Headache easing enough to think straight, chills diminish so that I am not the trembling mess of a few moments ago, nausea subsides just enough to mean I can no longer taste bile in the back of my throat.
I straighten. Drag fingers through lank hair and step onto the path.
The fog seems to part for me, reveals cobbles lined with lichen, orange pine needles strewn across rock. By the time I reach the steps I feel stronger still, breathe easier, though each inhale is like sighing against her skin, like hair trailing across my palm, lips at my throat. Flashes of her flood my brain and I can imagine the smirk on her lips; this is her doing, of course, she craves my desire, knows that it brings me back time and time again for another fix, another year of freedom from the aches and pains her absence delivers.
It is always on her terms. Never on mine.
‘You came.’ Her words float through the fog. Her words. My voice. Tears prick my eyes when I hear it and the thrum of energy that it wields slips over my skin, forces my eyes closed, tears squeeze free.
*How could I not?* I think the words at her, knowing she will snatch them up, can practically feel them being torn from my mind one syllable at a time. I trudge up the steps, careful not to trip on stray pinecones. As soon as my shoes hit the grass, dampness sinks into the canvas and I hope that it will ground me. Remind me of where I am, this place that has witnessed so many horrors across the years and yet remains somehow tranquil.
My skin itches as I approach, and I can see the shape of her, leaning against the metal posts that hold the carillon bells. When I was much younger and running with other teens, we’d come up here at times and throw rocks to make them chime, but it was never as satisfying as when they truly played; much like it’s never as satisfying to hear my voice from her lips as it was to speak with it myself.
The air feels heavy with more than just the fog today, like there is a weight of expectation hanging above us. I can feel it emanating off her, a thick stew of her power combined with the magic she stole from me—and something more. Has she decided that it’s time to finish playing with me? She is more like a cat than anything else, and I’m her mouse, powerless and weak, leg broken, tail gnawed off.
At least, that is how I feel. And I’m sure it’s how I look.
How I want her to see me.
The fog dances away from her as I draw near. Her eyes gleam ink dark in the stark white light and yet her shape is amorphous, sickly purple wisps curl around her, dissipating into the fog. When we met, she felt solid. Warm. Curvy. Lips bright, smile sharp in a way that drew me to her side, that stoked a fire, made me follow her outside the club and up the stairs to this place. It was dark then and I didn’t notice until it was too late. Until her lips had latched to mine, until her tongue deposited the sickness and stole my voice.
Until she left me shaking with need, hungry for more. Broken.
I can practically taste those lips now, and despite the fact that I know what comes next, I yearn for her touch. Maybe it is because I do know what comes next.
‘Oh, Anya,’ Namora coos. ‘I can see that time is taking its toll on you, without your voice. But you’re still beautiful to me.’
I swallow hard and force myself not to close the distance, but each step nearer alleviates my symptoms. She is the poison and the cure and her scent invades all of my senses. I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to gasp.
‘Come closer,’ Namora says, her perfect red lips pull into a pout. It doesn’t suit her, this pretence at vulnerability. I don’t know how I was ever swayed into thinking that I was the predator and she my prey. She wiggles her fingers towards me, but I step away from the Carillon, kicking off my shoes to feel the fog-damp grass on my socks. A vain attempt to ground myself. The darker shape of the monument lies ahead and I fix my gaze on it.
‘Anya,’ she says, her voice firmer now. My voice, the thread of my magic humming through it, luring me in.
I take a step. Dig my toes into the blades of grass. Reach for dirt.
‘If you kiss me, I’ll give it back to you. Your voice… I know you miss it. You need it.’
Need me, is the undertone. I need her. I want her. I crave the relief that only she can give me.
But I don’t believe for a moment that she truly intends to return what she took. It can only mean one thing; she’s found another toy. Someone else’s magic to use. Someone fresher, whose lips aren’t dry and cracked, whose skin isn’t so lined with stress and worry.
Who isn’t hungry all the time. Hungry for something I cannot have.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
*You promise?* I think at her, and I swear even my mental voice cracks. Even though I don’t trust her, I can’t deny how much I want what she is offering. To be free from her. Free from this feeling that wracks my body even now and has me clutching my stomach.
She is doing this. Now. Making me feel like this so that she can get what she wants from me.
And she knows I am weak.
Even if she is lying, I need to feel my voice again. I need to feel her lips. I close my eyes, let hot tears slip free because I hate this and I hate her and I hate myself as well.
My feet move of their own accord, and I can feel the smooth silk of her being as I draw closer. I stumble and go down, hands planted on the grass, knees soaking up the dew. The shock slaps me out of the stupor for just long enough to gain some clarity, to remember why I came here, and I scramble to my feet and move towards the solidity of the monument. It has stood there for longer than I’ve been alive and right now I need the strength that it offers me.
The sharpened tips of the finials on the metal fence seem to glimmer in this strange light, and I remember what I must do.
My shoulder hits the concrete post and I grunt, turning my body so that I’m leaning against it. Namora moves through the fog, parting it like a blade through butter, the sickly wisps of purple suddenly more menacing than ever. Her dark eyes flash and I can see the sharpness of her teeth against her crimson lips. My breath comes ragged and my heart aches from want, from need, and I know that I have a choice to make.
No, there is no choice.
Not now that I know she is planning to discard me.
The chills worsen, as though she is punishing me for not immediately giving her what she wants. The pounding in my head drowns out any noise her movement makes, but I can’t take my eyes off her. Her body is sinuous, so full of power and life, and mine is all pain and fatigue. I dare not close my eyes, because she will be on me in a moment. I lick my lips, hungry for the taste of her, knowing that I cannot stop her from taking what she wants.
*I’d have done anything for you* I offer her.
‘You still do,’ Anya replies. The smirk twists my voice into a shape that it never used to have. I don’t want it to ever sound like that again. ‘Well, for tonight. And then… You’ll be free.’
Only, freedom might mean something entirely different coming from her.
*You’ve found someone new?* I force the words towards her, finding it harder to think straight the closer she gets. There is this sick twist in my body that feels like pleasure and pain at the same time. I yearn for her yet her very presence repels me, and I curl my hands into fists, dig nails into my palms, hope that self-inflicted pain can give me some clarity.
‘You could say that.’ She smiles and shimmies her shoulders coyly.
All the sickness rushes back in, as if she needs to remind me of her control. My need.
‘And you’re ready to be done with this, aren’t you? Done with me?’
Namora raises an eyebrow.
I wish that I could believe her. That I could go back to my normal life, my voice intact, my needs filled in a way that doesn’t make me sick. Doesn’t degrade who I am and how I’ve chosen to live my life.
But the things she has made me do… They will never leave me. I know that. There is no normal when we’re through. There will never be a normal again.
*One last time?*
Namora nods and drags her lower lip through sharp teeth. My core clenches as I recall that first night, when I gave her everything. When she took more than I’d offered. My hands shake as I lift them towards her, draw her in. One hand tangles in her hair and the other grips the railings, moves up. The chill of the metal keeps me present even as her lips meet mine and relief fills my body.
I deepen the kiss, feel her tongue against mine, and then my magic is filling my mouth and I groan, the first sound I’ve made since I last saw her. Tears slip from my eyes and it’s all I can do not to let go of the fence, to pull her closer and press my body against hers. Take her to the ground, devour her in the way that will sate all my needs, relieve me of all the pain.
But I don’t let go.
I cannot let go.
My voice nestles inside my throat, sending tendrils of warmth through my body. I can feel it there. Feel the way it completes me.
And then I bite down on her tongue at the same time as I slam my hand against a finial, the sharp metal tearing through flesh. My blood spills on the ground and the tang of her essence tinges my mouth, giving me the last boost of power that I need.
Namora gasps and pulls away, though I don’t release her hair. She is captured, her face a foot from mine now, eyes wide in shock and… Is that delight?
My gut churns and my skin crawls to think that she is enjoying my latest attempt to free myself from her grasp.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ she asks playfully. But it’s her voice now. Not mine. I’d forgotten how she sounds, that soft lyrical tone that belies her true nature.
I hesitate before I part my lips, before I summon my voice and all the magic that it holds.
‘I call those who have gone before.’ I speak the words into existence and immediately feel the tug of my power, filtering through the air, through my blood, to the ground below. Namora frowns. ‘I summon them to reclaim what you have stolen.’
She laughs. The sweet, high sound trilling through the air as though she is a set of carillon bells, but the sound of the ocean is louder, pressing against the fog, cutting through it in waves. I can feel the vibrations below. The lost souls, the bitter dead, the vestiges of humanity. Those she lured with my voice.
The ones I lure now.
I drag my hand from the finial, letting the blood flow; I’ve fed the earth mine, and now it is her turn. I almost wish that I could feast upon her, reclaim some of what she stole from me, but…
No.
I’ve taken my voice back: let her other victims take what they want.
I’m shaking, but it’s not from withdrawals this time. Instead, it’s the rush of my magic, the way that the dead respond to my call that shoots adrenaline through my body, awakening senses that have been dull for all of these years.
I can feel my true self stepping forward, the power plumping my veins. Whispers fill the air, drowning out the sound of the sea, pressing in like they are a fog of their own.
‘What have you done?’ Anya asks, the first hitch of fear in her voice.
‘Stay,’ I command. My lips tingle from that one word and oh how I would love to say other things. She drops to her knees, legs gone boneless with my order. It is my turn to smile, and it cracks my lips, hurts as they pull tight. I have had nothing to smile about for so long now.
But this? This is a day for grinning. I tremble, nerves and hunger still washing over me as I step towards her and bend, press a single kiss to her forehead, tasting her skin one last time, taking with me just one small wisp of her magic, the sickly purple twirling around my hand and up my arm before I draw it in with a groan. Gods but she tastes so good.
Temptation makes me pause.
I could have her all for myself. I could take everything she has.
She reaches for me. ‘Please. Anya?’
I inhale, trying to slow my heart, trying to stop the flow of adrenaline. Of need. She looks so helpless now, nothing like the being who kept me tied to her for so many years. But looks can be deceiving.
I should know that better than anyone.
Two more words. That is all I will give her. ‘Don’t scream.’
Her face somehow pales, even though she is alabaster white. Her lips part but no sound comes out.
The whispers press closer, and I don’t want to be here for this. I have never killed my prey, and I hate that this is the only way to escape. She is taking one last thing from me that I will never get back.
I turn, leaving her to the hungry spirits she created.
Wet, slurping sounds fill the air, too loud to be drowned by the waves in the distance. Loud enough to bury themselves forever in my brain.
Things may never be the same again, but at least I am finally free.
From her, at least.
I break into a run, my limbs weak and shaky for an entirely different reason now.
Cassie Hart is an award-winning Māori (Kāi Tahu)/Pākehā hybrid author and editor of speculative fiction. Her horror novel, Butcherbird, was released by Huia in 2021. She writes under a number of pen-names, and lives with her whanau under the watchful gaze of Taranaki Maunga.