A sudden blast of cold air jolted Maywin out of a sound sleep. It was a bit early in the spring for Maywin to sleep on his bedroll, so his first thought was to use his coat as an extra blanket and go back to sleep. But as he stood up, he sensed that something was amiss in the house. Nikolai was snoring as usual, the fire hadn’t gone out—but the back door was wide open.
Maywin forgot the cold. He glanced around the room and saw nothing amiss. The cobblery had been robbed once, and Maywin had daydreamed for years about what he’d do if the robber returned. With one swift movement, he opened the door to the shop and grabbed an awl. He aimed it at the room, but he saw no one. In fact, the front door was bolted shut from the inside. The windows were barred. Everything was in its place.
Confused, Maywin returned to the back room. The door was still open, and the moon illuminated the room with a spectral glow. There were no figures, no movements, no sounds of breathing other than his family’s.
Maywin began to shiver. Other than the cold gust that had awakened him, there was no wind. He took one step out the back door and saw Bennerick as it should be, dark and sleeping. Fog strolled down the street, making sure everyone was tucked safely in bed. The River Nock reflected starlight in the distance.
“Maywin?”
Maywin whirled around to see Gregor standing behind him, his white nightshift glowing in the moonlight. His dark hair was moving slightly, as if a breeze was rustling it. Maywin loosened his grip on the awl.
“What’s wrong?” Gregor asked.
“Something opened the door.” Although he knew it wasn’t justified, Maywin still felt terror gnawing at his chest. But it had to be nothing. Surely, someone had just forgotten to shut the door last night.
But something else was wrong. After Maywin shut the door, he realized what it was. It was Gregor. His nightshift really was glowing. His hair really was moving, and Maywin was certain he saw a strand hit Gregor’s cheek and keep going, like a twig falling into a stream. A cold feeling pierced Maywin’s stomach when he realized that Gregor wasn’t breathing, either.
Out of the corner of his eye, Maywin saw the bench-bed. He glanced at it; his brother was still asleep in it, breathing and peaceful and not glowing, as humans should be.
Maywin’s blood ran cold. He turned his gaze again to the creature standing in front of him, the thing that looked like Gregor but wasn’t. In a small voice, he asked, “What are you?”
The thing that was Not Gregor chuckled. “I’m still hungry,” it said. It took a step towards Maywin, and Maywin took a step back. He clutched the awl tighter.
“Go away,” said Maywin.
“Don’t make this difficult.” Not-Gregor’s eyes began to glow red. Maywin threw his awl, but it clattered to the ground after passing painlessly through the specter. Desperately, Maywin backed up against the door and struggled to find the latch. He was too late. Not-Gregor grabbed Maywin’s face with a hand colder than death itself, colder than a thousand icicles impaling his cheekbone, and opened its mouth as if to take a bite out of Maywin. Maywin twisted away, pressing his eyes shut and curling into a ball on the ground.
“Stop! Stop it! Let me go, let me go! Go away!”
There was a noise—another gust of cold wind, although this one seemed to originate from inside the house—a hand grabbed him. Maywin gave a cry of alarm before he realized that this hand was warm and human. He opened his eyes to see Nikolai.
“What happened?” Nikolai demanded.
“Cold—it’s Gregor, but it’s not Gregor—it came through the door—”
Nikolai looked up at Gregor, who was sleeping peacefully on the bench-bed. He opened the back door (after scooting Maywin away from it) and looked outside. Fresh air filled the house. Maywin scrambled over to the fireplace, which had gone out, and coaxed it to life again. He was shivering.
“You had a nightmare,” said Nikolai.
“No—no, Father, this was real, I swear it. And Gre—but it wasn’t Gregor, but it looked like him—I threw the awl at him, and it didn’t hurt him—”
“Maywin, dove.” Rosyth’s voice came sleepily from the bed. “It was just a dream. You’re alright now.”
“But he touched my face and it still hurts!”
Nikolai took Maywin’s face in his hands, but was apparently unable to feel the cold that still pressed daggers against Maywin’s cheekbone. He stepped away with a grumble. “You slept on it wrong.”
“Father, I swear—I swear on Milo’s grave—”
Nikolai, who had turned to get back into bed, swung around and grabbed Maywin painfully by the upper arm. For a moment, Maywin thought Nikolai was going to strike him. It might make the cold pain go away. But instead, Nikolai leaned close and hissed, “Don’t you dare bring your brother into this.”
“Nikolai.” Rosyth’s voice was a bit more awake now. “Come back to bed. Do you need to sleep on the bench, Maywin?”
“No,” said Maywin. He couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping next to his brother, just in case he turned out to be another monster. So he crawled back into his bedroll, shivered a bit, and listened as Nikolai climbed back into the big bed and started snoring again.
All was right in the house again.
Had Maywin been dreaming? He had nightmares, of course. Most of them involved heights and exposed bones and scenes he’d imagined from hearing stories of drekavacs—red eyes and sharp teeth and screams that were almost human.