Read Online Mistwalker by Saundra Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B

have I killed anyone. I collected souls, but only those that came by accident and happenstance.
    When I need it, there’s a wall-length cupboard below the gallery. It’s lined with glass jars.
    Yes, in all my faery-tale certainty that I was meant to redeem myself on this island, I failed to acknowledge two things.
    First, my dominion over the mists, and second, the jar cupboard. Ten years dragged on until a rowboat sank in the harbor. The jars chimed; they demanded my attention.
    I uncapped one, and that soul all but collected itself. A hum filled the room, as if it were satisfied. And I, too, felt the faintest measure of peace. A taste of hope, a realization that I could free myself from this curse without any reflection on my character at all.
    After all, the seas are voracious. Sailors and swimmers disappeared into them all the time. Except not so many as I thought. Not so readily. Until this summer past, I collected only two more souls. This summer, I finally raised that total to four.
    Four in a hundred years. Rarely do I use my arithmetic anymore, but I can figure that sum.
    Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.
    Longer than the course of all written human history. Longer than the memory of mankind itself. Thus, the anatomy of a perfect curse. It seemed possible. It hinted that I might keep my soul and morals yet. Simply let nature have nature’s way and benefit from it.
    But no—there aren’t so many tragedies beneath my light as it might seem.
    If I were to sharpen my teeth and learn to relish the prospect of drowning the innocent, I must be honest. There aren’t enough of them in Broken Tooth. If I cull them all at once, their families will flee my shores. None would sail beneath my light.
    Clever, clever curse. Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.
    It’s been but a hundred, and I’m already sick of silence. Of magic. Of presents. Of kindness and generosity and honor and myself. Clutching the rail, I consider throwing myself over it. It’s a childish thought, stupid drama for no audience at all, and worse, it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.
    The lamp grinds behind me, spinning ceaselessly. Its heat stings—I’m here, I feel it. But my body doesn’t break its beam. I am insubstantial.
    Those lights on the beach have no idea I’m watching them. Wanting them. Plotting against them. Ignorant, every one of them—they dance; they sway. They’re just far enough away that I can’t enjoy their music or eavesdrop on their conversations.
    Right now, I hate them more than anything. And I’m glad, so glad, that she’s thinking about me.
    It didn’t take long to change my mind. To do the things I swore I would never do. Just one hundred years—but what is that in the face of twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six?

 
     
    SEVEN
Willa
    The party got to me before I got to it. Music echoed down the beach, and people were laughing. Somebody threw another log on the bonfire, and a cloud of fire swirled toward the sky. Silver ash drifted over the water, disappearing into the dark.
    Across the waves, Jackson’s Rock loomed in fog and shadow. Couldn’t even see the slender body of the lighthouse, just the beam as it swung over us. The pines were brushstrokes jutting from the mist; the cliffs seemed to rise from nothing.
    When the foghorn sounded, its call rolled through the dark and the haze. Like it was alive; like it might draw me across that light bridge and into the secrets of the Rock. Harbor bells rang, like church bells on a wedding day.
    I stood for a minute, staring like I’d never seen my own harbor before.
    My head was so clear; I wasn’t thinking about anything. Aware, yeah, of the six-pack dangling from my fingers, and the steamy scent of hot rocks and boiling water. But I was alone in myself for a minute. No guilt, or anger, or fear.
    Then something glittered on the island cliff. My imagination rushed up to name it the Grey Man. Fantasy tried to fill in the