The frost clung to the cold glass, showering the frozen weeds below with bitter kisses. The snow that had been churned up into slush the night before lay stiffened like brittle mountains of ice crystals. Pine trees swayed in the harsh wind, and dark feathered ravens clung to the soft wisps of warmth, flitting from the red brick chimney.
The wooden door to the house was blemished with ugly scars, claw and sword marks gouged into the deep old wood. The handle was tarnished with a dull yellow glow, and it sobbed, wishing for the warmth of sweet summer days.
Erik awoke to a scream. A shrill, inhuman cry echoed throughout the house, seeping around the mottled hinges of the doors and beneath the cracks of the shabby floorboards. It was everywhere.
He stumbled out of the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. The rough quilts from the bed slid to the cold floor as he hastily crossed the room. He groped for the door handle, and as his fingertips brushed it, he quickly jumped back, letting out a short cry. The handle burned like fire.
There couldn't be a fire in the house, could there? Erik had blown out all the candles, hadn't he?
Erik rushed over to his quilt on the floor. Dragging it to the door, he solved the problem quickly. Wrapping his hand in the thick worn cloth, he could easily turn the handle without getting burnt.
The hallway seemed fine. All the paintings hanging from their sleek silvery nails held still, and the lone rugs were statuesque and motionless, identical from the previous night. Erik moved stealthily down the hall, sensing something, though there was no visible danger, and certainly no fire.
He opened the double doors at the end of the hall, leading to his parlor. The doors were beautifully painted, with soft pastels. He had always loved these doors especially.
He stood in the wide doorway, gaping wide eyed at the horrible scene before him. The rose colored antique couch with the gold tasseled pillows was moved to one side, and the mahogany tea table was thrown on its back. The beautiful glass grandfather clock with wood as old as time was overturned, the crystalline glass shattered. And lush emerald curtains made of the finest silk had been brutally torn from the long windows.
And in the middle of the appalling mess lay the girl. She lay sprawled on the floorboards, pasty white arms and legs clutching a threadbare blanket. Her violent red mane of hair streamed from her head and onto the floor like a blood waterfall. Erik could see the blue veins running up one leg through her translucent skin, and he could see the tiny pale webs between each toe and finger. And suddenly, her wide eyes fluttered open.
Each wide eye was huge, and sparkled with thousands of tiny stars. They were a deep, crescent yellow, and slightly catlike. Her cracked pink lips parted, with a soft little sigh.
"Is you going to whip Satelina?" her voice was so soft and airy, barely audible.
Erik blinked. He had an urge to slap the girl until her white cheeks were flushed with blood and raw, but knew he didn't have the nerve or heart.
"Is you? Is you going to whip her?"
It suddenly drove him mad the way she spoke. He opened his mouth quickly, accidentally letting the words spill from his mouth.
"You speak incorrectly and too softly, child. Who taught you how to speak?"
The girl paused, and sat up. The threadbare yarn clung to her skin with slick warm sweat. "Satelina learns to speak by listening. She listens to them. That's how she learns."
He leaned against the doorway. "Who does she listen to?" he asked, a bit softer and kinder.
She was quiet for a moment, yellow eyes flickering. "I isn't sure. The shadows, she thinks."
Erik raised his eyebrows, thick black arcs on his forehead. "Oh? And who's this alleged Satelina?"
The girl smiled a sad, white smile. "Oh, I is Satelina."
He walked across the haphazard mess of the furniture, all anger washed away. "Satelina." He let the sweet name bound off of his tongue and lick the air like a flame. Satelina nodded her head, bloody mane swinging. "She is I."
"Tell me, Satelina," Erik said politely, "What were you doing lying in the snow?"
Satelina paused. Her eyes froze up, the thin black pupils expanding to swallow her eyes. "I is not in the snow. I is in dark, dark room."
"Where? What were you doing in there?" he pressed.
Satelina's golden eyes swelled up with reddened tears. They fell, silently blemishing her pale moon flesh.
"I is dead, master priest. I is as dead and cold, as a gravestone," she whispered, red water brimming and falling. Slowly, she took his hand in her delicate chalky one. Erik shivered. It was like lingering near the aching dead.
Quietly, and ever so gently, she set his shaking hand between her breasts. Erik gripped her hand, for he felt nothing. No heartbeat at all.