The Devils Daughter

Chapter One: Cursed

The chickens knew me by the sound of my footsteps.

I emerged from the cottage as dawn broke over the hills, my bare feet finding the worn path through the garden without thought.

The morning air bit at my skin, sharp with the promise of autumn's approach. Mist clung to the ground like restless spirits, and somewhere in the distance, a crow called out. A sound the villagers would have called an omen.

Everything about me was an omen to them.

My hands worked automatically, scattering grain across the yard while the hens clucked and fussed around my ankles. Thirteen of them now.

An unlucky number, Father Benedict had said when he'd seen them last spring, making the sign of the cross as if my chickens themselves were cursed. Perhaps they were. Perhaps everything I touched carried some taint, some shadow that marked it as other.

I didn't care anymore.

The goats bleated from their pen, impatient for their morning feed. I hauled the bucket of kitchen scraps and vegetable peelings, my arms burning with the familiar ache of labor.

This was my life. It had been since I was ten years old and found my mother cold in her bed, her lips blue, her eyes staring at nothing. The village women had come then, wrapped her body in linen, and whispered their judgments loud enough for me to hear.

Died as she lived. In sin.

The bastard child will follow soon enough.

Mark of the devil on her. Those eyes.

I'd learned quickly that no one would care for the devil's daughter.

The cottage at the edge of the village became my prison and my sanctuary. The small plot of land my mother had tended became my lifeline. I learned to coax vegetables from the rocky soil, to trade eggs for flour, to make a copper coin stretch further than it had any right to go.

I learned to survive.

By the time the sun had fully risen, burning away the mist, I had collected two dozen eggs and filled my basket with the last of the summer vegetables. Carrots, onions, and a handful of herbs that grew wild near the forest edge for Market day.

My stomach twisted with the familiar dread, but there was no avoiding it. I needed flour. I needed salt. I needed the coins that only the market could provide.

I braided my hair. Black as a raven's wing, black as sin, black as the devil's heart, depending on which villager you asked. I pinned it at the nape of my neck.

My reflection in the cracked mirror showed what it always showed: sharp cheekbones in a too-thin face, pale skin that rarely saw kindness from the sun, and eyes the color of lavender fields at twilight.

I pulled my shawl tight around my shoulders and lifted the basket. The walk to the village took half an hour, following the rutted road that wound through fields where other families worked their land. They never looked up as I passed. I had learned not to expect it.

The village of Thornhaven sat in a valley, clustered around the stone church that dominated the square like a disapproving father. Market day brought farmers and craftsmen from the surrounding area. Their stalls formed crooked rows in the shadow of the church's spire.

The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat made my mouth water, but I kept my eyes down and headed for my usual spot. The far corner, near the alley where they dumped the refuse.

Even the placement was a message.

I spread my cloth on the ground and arranged my goods with care. The eggs gleamed white and brown in the morning light. The vegetables, while humble, were fresh and well-tended. My prices were fair, lower than fair, if I was honest. Desperation had a price, and I paid it every market day.

"Well, well. The witch comes to peddle her cursed wares."

I didn't need to look up to know the voice.

Thomas Blackwood, the butcher's son, with his cruel mouth and crueler hands. He stood with two of his friends, blocking the light. Their shadows falling across my vegetables like a stain.

"Good morning, Thomas." I kept my voice level, neutral. Showing fear only made it worse.

"Good morning, she says." He laughed, and his friends joined in. "As if she has any right to speak of good things. Tell me, witch, did you curse these eggs? Will they poison the children who eat them?"

"They're freshly laid this morning. No different from any others sold here."

"No different?" He crouched down, his face close enough that I could smell the ale on his breath. Could see the look in his eyes as he looked over my body causing my hands to press over my chest. "Everything about you is different, Elara. Everything about you is wrong."

His hand shot out and knocked over my carefully arranged eggs. Three of them cracked, their golden yolks spilling onto the cloth like small suns dying.

The rage that rose in me was hot and immediate, but I swallowed it down. I had learned that lesson too. Fighting back only gave them an excuse.

"That will be six coppers you owe me," I said quietly.

Thomas stood, grinding his heel into another egg. "I owe you nothing, devil's spawn. You should be grateful we let you live on the edge of our village at all."

"Father Benedict says the devil's influence grows stronger," one of his friends added. "Says we should be vigilant."

They moved on eventually, their laughter echoing across the market square. I cleaned up the broken eggs with shaking hands, salvaging what I could. Four eggs lost. Four eggs that could have bought me flour for a week.

The morning crawled by.

A few customers approached, those desperate enough or poor enough not to care about superstition. Old Meg bought a dozen eggs, pressing an extra copper into my palm with a look that might have been pity. A farmer's wife took the carrots and onions, though she made sure not to let our hands touch during the exchange.

By midday, I had earned enough for flour and a small portion of salt. Not enough for the candles I needed. Not enough for the oil that would see me through the winter. But enough to survive another week.

I was packing up my remaining goods when the shadow fell across me again.

This time, it was Father Benedict himself.

The priest was a tall man, gaunt as a scarecrow, with eyes like chips of ice. He wore his black cassock like armor, and the silver cross at his chest caught the light as he looked down at me.

"Elara." My name in his mouth sounded like an accusation.

"Father." I didn't rise. I didn't bow my head. I had learned that submission only encouraged them.

"I have been hearing troubling reports. Livestock dying in the night. Milk souring in the pail. Children waking with nightmares." His voice carried across the market, drawing attention. This was a performance, and I was the unwilling player. "These misfortunes began a fortnight ago. The same fortnight you were seen gathering herbs at the forest edge."

"I gather herbs every fortnight, Father. For cooking and for medicine. The same herbs my mother gathered."

"Your mother." He said it with such contempt. "Your mother, who lay with demons and birthed their spawn. Your mother, who died unrepentant and unshriven. Tell me, child, do you follow in her footsteps? Do you consort with dark forces in the night?"

The market had gone quiet. Every eye was on us now. The weight of their stares, their judgment, their fear pressed down on me.

"I consort with no one, Father. I live alone. I harm no one. I only wish to survive."

"Survival." He smiled, and it was a terrible thing. "Yes, you are very good at surviving, aren't you? Like a weed that refuses to be pulled. Like a corruption that spreads despite all efforts to cleanse it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. "Your time is coming, the longer you don’t submit. The Lord's patience is not infinite. And neither is mine."

He straightened, made the sign of the cross over me, a blessing that felt like a curse, and walked away.

The market resumed slowly, voices rising again, but the damage was done. The few customers who might have approached kept their distance. I was poison now, freshly marked by the priest's words.

I gathered my things and left, my basket lighter than it should have been, my purse heavier with dread than coin.

The walk home felt longer than usual. The sun was high and hot, but I felt cold. Father Benedict's words echoed in my mind.

Your time is coming.

What did that mean? What were they planning?

The cottage appeared through the trees like a haven, small and weathered but mine. I fed the animals, tended the garden, drew water from the well. The familiar routines soothed me, pushed back the fear that threatened to overwhelm.

As evening fell, I made a simple meal of bread and cheese, eating alone at the rough wooden table my mother had used.

The silence was complete except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional sound of the chickens settling for the night.

I had survived another day.

I would survive tomorrow.

I had no choice.

But as I lay in my narrow bed that night, staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the darkness, something shifted.

A change in the air, a weight pressing down. The temperature dropped suddenly, my breath misting in front of my face.

And then hands.

Invisible hands pressing me down into the mattress, pinning my shoulders, my wrists. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't obey.

Terror flooded through me, pure and primal.

Something was in the room with me

Something had come for the cursed girl at last.