The Devil's Handmaiden

Chapter One

Shadows of the Past

"Mom! Mom, please, don’t leave me!"

My screams echoed in the suffocating silence, tangled with the metallic tang of blood in the air. I clutched her limp body, warmth fading from her skin with every passing second.

Tears blurred my vision. The world around me dissolved into a whirl of red and panic as I shook her, desperate for any response.

“Mom, please! Open your eyes!”

My voice cracked, raw, broken ripped straight from the depths of my soul.

Panic clawed at my chest as I stumbled into the garage. “Dad! Dad!” I screamed, my throat raw. “Something’s wrong with Mom! She’s... she’s not moving!”

My father dropped his paintbrush. The color drained from his face as he bolted past me. I chased after him, heart pounding like a war drum.

When we reached her, he collapsed to his knees, cradling her in trembling arms.

“Rory!” he shouted, voice splintering. “Call 911!”

My hands shook as I fumbled with the phone, the numbers swimming in my vision. I couldn’t stop staring at him, this man who had always seemed invincible now shattered, sobbing over the love of his life.

And just like that, she was gone.

Out of existence.

Leaving behind only silence.

And two broken people: my father... and me.

---

The memory tore through me like a blade, ripping me from sleep with a gasp. I clutched the sheets, chest heaving, phantom cries still ringing in my ears.

I closed my eyes, willing the past to stay buried.

But the images never left. They never did.

“Aurora! Get down here!”

Victoria’s voice sliced through the quiet, shrill and impatient.

I groaned, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. “This woman won't let me breathe,” I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed.

My room was a chaotic sanctuary, cramped but alive. Sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and half-finished canvases cluttered every surface. The once-pink walls Victoria insisted on had long been overtaken by bold streaks of color, my rebellion, my therapy, my truth.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above my desk.

Hazel eyes, wide, hollow stared back at me. My long, curly brown hair tumbled down my shoulders in a frizzy mess. Freckles dotted the bridge of my nose. People called me beautiful. Goddess-like. Breathtaking.

But to me, it was just a mask.

A distraction from the ache beneath.

I turned away, shoving the thought down. No time for self-pity.

I dressed quickly jeans, hoodie, boots and grabbed my sketchbook before heading out.

---

The smell of burnt toast slapped me the second I entered the kitchen. Victoria was barking orders at her daughters, Vanessa and Anastasia, who ignored her in favor of their phones.

I snatched a pancake from the counter, earning a dagger-eyed glare from Victoria.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she snapped.

“School,” I replied without looking back.

“Don’t forget to clean your room when you get back.”

I didn't bother answering.

Outside, Alex leaned against the gate, arms crossed, his expression a mix of amusement and mild suffering.

“Finally,” he said, pushing off the fence. “Your stepmother wouldn’t let me in. And Vanessa kept staring at me like I was a three-course meal.”

I chuckled, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “Sorry. You know how she is.”

“She’s terrifying,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

We started walking toward school, the early morning sun casting long, sleepy shadows along the sidewalk.

Alex was my best friend. The only person who truly saw me not the mask, not the silence, just... me. His quick wit and easy smile had pulled me back from the edge more times than I cared to admit.

“So,” he said, bumping me lightly with his shoulder. “Senior year. Big dreams? Prom? College? Mysterious strangers sweeping you off your feet?”

I rolled my eyes. “Honestly? I’m just trying to survive.”

“Come on, Rory. You could use a little drama. Maybe a brooding billionaire or a tattooed bad boy who rides motorcycles and growls instead of talking.”

I laughed. “You’ve been reading my sketchbook again, haven’t you?”

He smirked. “Guilty. But seriously you’ve already got me. What more could you need?”

My smile faltered, just a little.

Because I knew.

I knew how he felt.

He’d never said it, but it lingered in every glance, every joke, every quiet moment.

And I couldn't let myself go there.

Not with him.

Not now.

---

We passed through the gates of Medford High, and I paused, staring up at the peeling school sign like it held answers.

Senior year.

Prom.

College.

The future loomed ahead like a storm I wasn’t ready for.

Then like a whisper something brushed against the back of my mind. A shiver. Cold and sharp.

Something was coming.

And deep down, I knew...

I wasn’t ready.

---