Artemis's Priestess

ARTEMIS'S PRIESTESS Chapter One The House That Remembered The first thing my grandmother's house did when I stepped inside was breathe. I know how ridiculous that sounds. Houses don't breathe. They creak. They settle. Pipes rattle inside their walls, wind slips beneath doors, and old wooden floors complain beneath the weight of people who have been away too long. But this was different. I heard it. A long, slow exhale rolled through the empty house. The curtains near the sitting-room window lifted. The chandelier trembled. And for one impossible second, I felt the house inhale around me. I stopped with one foot still outside. "Mum?" My mother was already halfway through the doorway. She didn't answer. She simply stared into the house. Her face had gone pale. I frowned. "Mum?" She blinked and looked at me. "What?" "Did you hear that?" "Hear what?" "The—" I stopped. The house was silent. Completely silent. My mother gave me a tired look. "You're imagining things." Maybe I was. That had become the easiest explanation for everything strange that happened around my family. I was imagining things. Grandma was imagining things. My dreams were meaningless. The strange marks I sometimes woke up with on my skin were scratches. The voices I heard when I was half asleep were probably my brain being dramatic. And the recurring dream I'd had since childhood—the one where I stood beneath a gigantic silver moon while a woman called my name from somewhere beyond a forest—was apparently nothing more than an overactive imagination. So, yes. I was probably imagining the house breathing. I stepped inside. Dust floated through the afternoon sunlight. The house looked smaller than I remembered. That was the first thing grief had done to it. When I was little, my grandmother's house had seemed enormous. Its corridors had stretched forever, the ceilings had been impossibly high, and the staircase had felt like something from a castle. Now I could see how ordinary it was. Old. Beautiful. Neglected. And empty. That was the worst part. Empty. My grandmother had been dead for twenty-three days. I still hadn't gotten used to saying that. Grandma was dead. Every time I thought the words, my mind rejected them. She had always seemed permanent. She was one of those people who felt as though they had been placed on Earth before everyone else and would remain after the rest of us were gone. She had survived wars, recessions, family arguments, three governments, two marriages, one divorce, and my mother's teenage years. Surely death should have been something she could negotiate. Apparently not. My mother set her handbag on the dining table. "We need to finish the upstairs rooms today." I nodded. "Okay." "The estate agent is coming Friday." I looked at her. "Already?" "We can't keep the house forever." I didn't answer. I didn't want to sell it. But saying that aloud would start an argument. My mother had spent the last three weeks arranging everything. The funeral. The paperwork. The belongings. The house. The bank. She had become frighteningly efficient after Grandma died. As if keeping herself busy could prevent her from having to feel anything. I understood. I was doing the same thing. I walked toward the sitting room. My grandmother's armchair was still there. The same faded green fabric. The same little knitted cushion. The same side table where she'd always kept her tea. I could almost see her sitting there. Her glasses low on her nose. A book open in her lap. Her voice calling my name. "You've grown too tall." "You've gotten too thin." "You don't eat enough." "You spend too much time on that phone." And, when I was younger: "Come here, little moon." I swallowed. I hated that nickname. Or at least I had pretended to. "Why did she always call me that?" I asked. My mother froze. "What?" "Little moon." She turned around. For a moment, she simply stared at me. Then she picked up a stack of old newspapers. "She called everyone strange things." "Not like that." "Just help me with these boxes." "Mum." "Please." There was something in her voice. A warning. I let it go. For now. --- We spent the next two hours sorting through my grandmother's belongings. Clothes. Photographs. Jewellery. Old kitchenware. Books. So many books. My grandmother had been obsessed with mythology. Greek mythology especially. I remembered her telling me stories when I was little. Stories about gods and monsters. About women who turned into trees. About girls who were transformed into stars. About Persephone and Hades. About Athena. About Artemis. I had loved Artemis most. Even as a child. Artemis was different. She didn't need anyone's permission. She lived in forests. She hunted. She carried a bow. She protected women and girls. She was wild. Untamed. Untouchable. When I was nine, I told Grandma that Artemis was my favourite goddess. She had smiled. Not the normal smile she gave when I said something cute. Something else. Something almost sad. "Then perhaps she will be yours too." I had laughed. "What does that mean?" "Nothing." She had kissed my forehead. "Not yet." I had forgotten about that conversation. Until now. I pulled a book from the shelf. Dust covered the cover. THE GODDESSES OF ANCIENT GREECE. I smiled faintly. "She really loved this stuff." My mother glanced over. "Put it in the donation box." "What?" "The books." "All of them?" "Most of them." "Why?" "Nobody reads them anymore." "I do." She looked at me. "You don't." "I might." "Since when?" "Since now." My mother sighed. "Fine." I placed the book beside me. Then reached for another. The moment my fingers touched its spine, the lights flickered. I froze. My mother looked up. The lights steadied. Neither of us said anything. I pulled the book free. It fell open. A drawing of Artemis stared up at me. She stood beneath a crescent moon, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. Her face was strangely beautiful. Not soft. Not gentle. Powerful. I stared at her. Something inside my chest tightened. For just a second, I thought I heard a whisper. Come home. I dropped the book. My mother rushed over. "What happened?" "Nothing." She looked down. Then she saw the page. Her face changed. "Put that away." I frowned. "Why?" "Just put it away." "What's wrong with it?" "Nothing." "Then why are you acting like that?" She picked up the book. Her fingers were shaking. "Your grandmother became obsessed with these things." "What things?" "Greek mythology." "No." My voice came out sharper than I'd intended. "That's not what you mean." She stared at me. I stared back. Something passed between us. A secret. Something enormous. Something she'd been carrying for years. Then she looked away. "Just finish the downstairs rooms." She walked off. I watched her go. Then looked at the book in her hands. For the first time, I wondered whether my grandmother's obsession had really been an obsession. Or whether it had been something else. Something my mother was afraid I'd discover. --- That night, I dreamed about the moon. Again. I was standing in a forest. The trees were enormous. Their branches twisted toward the sky like fingers. Silver light spilled between them. I was barefoot. I looked down. I was wearing a long white dress. My hands were covered in blood. I didn't remember getting blood on them. Then I heard footsteps. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Someone was walking toward me. I turned. A woman stood between the trees. She was tall. Very tall. Her skin seemed to glow beneath the moonlight. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were silver. And in her hands was a bow. I knew who she was. Even though I'd never met her. "Artemis." She smiled. "You know me." "I've heard stories." "You have heard stories about me." She stepped closer. "That is not the same thing." I couldn't move. "Why are you here?" "Because you are." "Where?" "Here." She touched my forehead. A sharp pain exploded through my skull. I screamed. The forest disappeared. Suddenly I was standing in my grandmother's attic. She was younger. Much younger. She was kneeling on the floor, crying. A woman stood before her. I couldn't see her face. But I could see the moon-shaped pendant around her neck. My grandmother whispered: "I can't do this." The woman answered. "You already have." Then my grandmother looked directly at me. Her eyes widened. "Don't let them tell her." The dream shattered. I woke up screaming. --- The clock beside my bed read 3:17 a.m. I sat upright. My heart hammered against my ribs. For a few seconds, I didn't know where I was. Then I remembered. Grandma's house. The funeral. The journal. The strange book. The dream. I touched my forehead. It hurt. I switched on the lamp. There was nothing there. No mark. No blood. Nothing. I laughed nervously. "Okay." My voice sounded small in the dark. "Okay. I'm officially losing it." Then something scraped against the bedroom window. I froze. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. I slowly turned. The curtains were moving. The window was closed. Another scrape. I got out of bed. Every instinct told me not to go near it. I went anyway. I pulled the curtain aside. Nothing. Just the garden. Moonlight. Trees. Darkness. Then I saw it. A wolf. It stood at the edge of the garden. Large. Almost impossibly large. Its fur was silver-white. Its eyes were fixed on me. I couldn't breathe. The wolf tilted its head. Then it disappeared into the trees. I stood there for a long time. I didn't sleep again. --- The following morning, I found my grandmother's journal. I wasn't looking for it. That was what made it worse. I was carrying boxes upstairs when one of them slipped from my arms. Books tumbled across the floor. One struck the wall. A loose panel popped open. I stared. The panel hadn't been there before. Or perhaps I had simply never noticed it. I crouched. Inside was a small wooden box. No lock. No dust. As if someone had placed it there yesterday. I opened it. Inside was a journal. Black leather. A silver crescent embossed on the cover. My grandmother's handwriting was on the first page. For the daughter who comes after me. My heart stopped. I turned the page. If you are reading this, then I am dead. I sat down. My hands began to shake. And if you are reading this, then your mother has finally failed to keep you away from the truth. I swallowed. Another page. I do not blame her. Another. She believes ignorance will protect you. Another. It will not. I turned the page. There was a drawing. A woman holding a bow. Three crescent moons surrounded her. Beneath it were the words: THE LINE OF ARTEMIS. I stared. The next page contained names. Women. Dozens of them. All connected by blood. All marked with the same symbol. At the bottom was my grandmother's name. Then my mother's. Then— Mine. My name had been written in gold ink. Beneath it was a sentence. She is the strongest we have ever known. I stopped breathing. There was another page. She must never be allowed to awaken alone. And beneath that: Because when the Priestess awakens, Artemis awakens with her. I read the sentence three times. Then the door opened. I slammed the journal shut. My mother stood there. She looked at me. Then at the journal. The colour drained from her face. "No." I stood. "What is this?"