Water’s Edge (A Series of Sharp Edges #1)

1. Mattie

CHAPTER ONE

mattie

T he water makes me feel infinite, like there’s no barrier between me, the water, and the universe. When I drown people here, I give their souls back to the water—back to the endless expanse of nothingness. I send them back to where we all began. We come from the water, and at the end, we must return.

I pretend like these little rituals connect me to all of it. Nature. The universe. Something, anything bigger than myself. I’m giving back to the world instead of taking from it. I tell myself it’s a feeble attempt to heal my trauma when really, it’s just unleashing it.

The water drifts around me in gentle waves. I let out a slow, hot breath, letting my fingers dance through its coolness. The water is an escape from the heat, my home. Rumor has it, I was even born in it. Ma was known for telling stories, though—big, tall tales meant to keep me safe from those not from Hellsmouth woods, not from the water’s edge. Strangers would only bring chaos to our carefully calculated life.

She kept us close to the water, close to Devil’s Pool. The lake was just down the path from our home, our little sanctuary you could only hike in or out of until you found a usable road. My pa wasn’t around as often—not that either of us complained. He spent most of his time out hunting with his pack of hounds. Their baying still haunts me, the feral noises as they descended on a kill, tore into flesh.

Now I’m out here alone, left with only ghosts of the past and my own demons to keep me company. Even though I made the path to my cabin drivable, I’m still the only one who uses it. When the loneliness becomes overwhelming, I head up to the roadhouse along the highway. The owner has been letting me pick up shifts for a few years now to make ends meet. They have a bar and a jukebox, but the real treat is mingling with outsiders, the opportunity to be anyone I want. The bar always closes, though, and at the end of the night, I’m still me. I know I can’t take anyone still breathing back to the water.

Today is unreasonably hot, even with fall nipping at summer’s heels, ready to devour it in a few weeks. The humidity is unforgiving, and even the air clings to my skin. This must be practice for hell; let God roast me. Even in just a tank top and cutoff shorts, sweat covers my body in a thick layer. Soon, the smell of my crime will rise, and the animals will come, a beacon of my sins for every hungry predator in this part of the woods.

A quiet stream of tears trickles down my cheek, mixing with the cool lake water. I always pause afterward, like the water can cleanse what I’ve done—what I’ll do. The tiny boat drifts lazily next to me, with the body floating face down serenely behind us. It’s peaceful, in a way, if you think about it long enough.

The breeze block and rope are the only passengers now that the boat is relieved from the weight of our bodies. He’s peaceful now, silent, and a far cry from the toxic creep I brought back from the bar. I lift myself back in the boat to heave the block up and tie the rope through it, attaching the other end to the dead man’s foot. I hoist the block up and over the edge, careful not to fall over with it. I know the large hole in his chest will allow him to sink, but I still whisper a silent prayer to anything listening for him to not bob back up like a bloated reminder of every fucked-up part of me. The fish will have to dive deep for a free meal.

As the body drifts out further from the boat and dips below, a breeze ripples across the water’s surface. I watch as he goes down, down, down to his watery grave. Once he’s out of sight, I fall to my knees, holding my head in my hands. As the air returns to my lungs, I dive into the lake. From the safety of the water, I scream every obscenity I know, but only bubbles reach the surface. If I move just a little farther from the safety the boat provides, I could let the water carry me away, too. I rise again, grabbing the edge of the boat and hoisting myself inside. My hands rub down my face and over my soaked hair. No amount of water can cleanse my sins.

Once I’m back on dry land, I sit on the shore and stare out into the rippling water. I squeeze the liquid from my hair and it pours into the muddy silt below me. The trees in the distance throw shadows that dance across the surface, and I follow their movements with my eyes, still in a daze. Above me, clouds begin to form an ominous spiral at the edges of the sky. Soon, any light will be snuffed out behind them. The sun is escaping the day, making its way below the tree line. It’s leaving just an orange-red hue behind to remind me of its wrath. Its heat still hangs in the surrounding air, giving no relief. The screaming of the cicadas rings out in an overwhelming crescendo. I imagine what it would be like to scream openly, without abandon.

Shit .

It’s time to get ready for work. Not that I have a set schedule. I know I need to spend time outside these woods, especially after a kill, to keep myself from disassociating completely. Still, I don’t want to be out here once the sun sets behind the mountain, cloaking the trees in darkness. Even though I’m a monster myself, I’m still frightened by Hellsmouth after dark. The tales from my childhood and my wrongdoings haunt these woods.

I repeat the warnings Ma used to give me every time I went out to play:

Never stay out after dark.

Never look up into the trees.

If you hear someone call to you in the woods, you didn’t.

Never run unless you want to be chased.

I scramble to grab my things and head back to the trail that will take me home, but the woods suddenly go silent. A chill creeps up my spine, and the sweat rolling down my arms feels like ice. The only sound is my heart pounding in my chest and the whoosh of blood in my ears with each heavy beat. I’ve spent my entire life in these woods, and I know that this is when I should be the most afraid. I ended someone’s life today, sent their life force fading out into the water, a gruesome calling card to whatever might feed off that vitality. Darkness calls to darkness.

Movement from the tree line appears from the corner of my eye.

Don’t look .

I know better than to look.

Mattie, don’t look. There’s no one out here with you.

I will every muscle in my neck not to turn my head. Instead, I move as calmly, but quickly, as I can up the trail to my cabin. It rips away any peace I might have found from the lake and my offering to it and replaces it with a sense of overwhelming dread. The wind skitters across the back of my neck, but the leaves on the trees stay motionless. A wave of nausea rolls through me with each step I take. Beads of sweat roll down my temples.

Keep moving.

I’m halfway there, so close that my body begs me to bolt to safety. The cabin’s back door is now visible through the trees. Just a little further. That’s when I hear it—loud at first, like someone is shouting in my ear.

“Hey!”

Nope, not today.

The voice is eerily familiar, the same raspy tone as the man from the lake. A lump bobs in my throat and I pick up my pace without breaking into a run, but it’s physically painful. I don’t want to give whatever is following me a reason to chase me. The voice continues growing gradually fainter until it’s almost a whisper. Ma will tell you the farther away the voice sounds, the closer it actually is. Every hair on the back of my neck stands up and my heart pounds hard enough to break free of its cage. The muscles in my back twitch. The pull to turn around is overwhelming and I strain to keep looking towards my cabin and continue at a steady pace.

I’m almost there. Fifty more steps. Thirty. Fifteen. Five. Three. One.

The porch creaks under my bare feet with each step, and I feel the surrounding air lighten. I’ve drawn something out of the woods with this kill and, for once, I hope it’s just my guilty conscience following me.