Inheritance of Scars - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Crystal Seitz is the author of 89 Seconds to Midnight, Beast Becomes Her, and Inheritance of Scars. After being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, she set out to write the representation she needed: fantasy and dystopian stories starring disabled heroines. She lives in Boston, where she spends most of her time designing websites, crafting stories, or consuming too much coffee. Visit her online at CrystalSeitz.com or on social media @CrystalsWriting.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

ONE

People don’t just disappear. Not anymore.

But that’s the reason we’re heading home for the first time in nine years. Dad drives down the winding road, and the seat belt cuts across my throat as I lean closer to the window. Tiveden forest presses in around us, ragged pines reaching for our car like thousands of outstretched hands.

I peer out at the snow-drenched woods, half looking for the creatures my grandmother used to warn me about. Anytime something went wrong in Unden, Amma blamed the Hidden Folk. Food spoiling too quickly, covered with crawling flies. Power outages leaving us in cold darkness. Birds dropping out of the sky like stones.

When I first got sick.

No matter how long I stare out the window, I don’t see any monsters. I’m sure Amma would say what she always said about the Hidden Folk: Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Except now she isn’t here either.

We got the call no one wants to get a month ago while Dad and I were out for yet another doctor’s appointment. Because of course Dad still uses a landline. The voicemail was waiting when we got back, a blinking red light.

This is Officer Lind from Unden. No one’s seen Ingrid in a few days. We checked her house, but she wasn’t around. Thought maybe she’d gone to visit you in Stockholm? Well, just give us a call—

“We should be there soon,” Dad says, startling me back to the present.

“Took long enough,” I mutter, fiddling with the radio.

Dad ignores my barb and flips the radio off, leaving us in sudden silence. Now our soundtrack is bitter December wind blasting the car and tires grinding over gravel. Something about the motion makes me sick to my stomach. Or maybe it’s because I’m finally going home.

To Unden.

Maybe this is another before-and-after moment and I just don’t know it yet.

Before the voicemail, I hadn’t heard Amma’s name spoken aloud since we moved. After, dread doused me like ice water. Dad rubbed his mouth like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say, which is most of the time. He didn’t need to explain. I already knew. Neither of us had seen Amma in nine years. She was too old, too stubborn to ever leave Unden. So if she was missing now, it could only mean one thing.

Something had happened to her.

I’m sure she’ll turn up, Dad offered eventually.

She didn’t, and so here we are. Sighing, I slip my cell phone out of my pocket. I pull up my messages, scrolling through the most recent texts from Zuri:

soooo when are we getting Mr. Cake again??

Astridddddd

since when do u not want cinnamon rolls lol

hey, everything ok?

ok girl you’re actually worrying me now. are you ok?? it’s not another flare, is it?

I tap my thumb on the reply bar, but I don’t know what to tell her.

No service either. Great.

The rest of my messages are texts from people I never answered. Hey, how are you? and Want anything? and Wanna hang out? Maybe I’m just pushing Zuri away like I do everyone else. At least now I can use no reception as an excuse.

But it also means no distraction. The drive to Unden feels endless, like the hours I spent waiting for any update from Officer Lind. I remained right by the phone, because the alternative was staring blankly at homework or, more likely, Netflix. Each time it rang, I bolted over, but it was always Dad’s work or my gastroenterologist.

Days passed. Weeks.

Then finally Officer Lind called.

We’re going to find her became I’m so sorry.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, hoping it will calm me, but I’ve felt sick to my stomach since that last call. This better not be another flare-up. Not long ago, I could barely get out of bed to make it to the bathroom, never mind travel hundreds of kilometers. Dad didn’t want me to come. You never even let me say goodbye, I reminded him. Dad sighed. Fine, Astrid. This is your opportunity, but then you have to move on with your life.

He’s barely spoken to me since.

We’ve been driving for hours and in the car, there’s no escaping Dad. I can’t retreat to my bedroom or slam the door in his face. As the forest blurs outside the window, I catch a flash of something between the trees—

No, not something. Someone.

A wrinkled, pale face floating in the darkness of the forest. A white braid hanging over her shoulder like a rope. If I’d blinked, I might’ve missed it. Missed her. My breath catches in my throat. Amma is here.

“Stop!” I shout.

Dad slams the brakes, and the tires scream in protest. Momentum throws us forward in our seats. We skid off the icy road toward a tree, but Dad swerves away at the last moment. A low-reaching branch digs into the side of the car like nails scraping over a chalkboard. We screech to a halt, my heart pounding wildly.

Dad grips the steering wheel, white-knuckled. He turns to me, breathing hard. “Shit, Astrid. Are you okay? What is it?”

“Amma,” I choke out. “I just saw Amma in the forest.”

My eyes dart between the tall trees. Broken branches jut out like rib cages. Pine needles shiver as a breeze blows through the forest. My skin tingles, dread washing over me. Amma was right there.

Now no one is.

I stare at the empty space between the trees, trying to make sense of it.

I jab the cold glass. “She was right there!”

Dad rubs his mouth, his large hand scratching over his beard. He barely glances in the direction of my finger before pulling back onto the road. My focus remains glued to the side mirror as the trees recede into the distance.

“You know,” Dad says, hesitating a moment, “when I lost your mother, I saw her everywhere.”

I blink. We don’t talk about Mom. Ever.

Even though I never knew her, I’ve felt her absence my entire life. Mom died shortly after giving birth to me. Sepsis caused by postpartum infection. Though he’s never said it, I know Dad blames me instead of her shitty immune system. I’m a living reminder of everything he lost. That’s why he’s always angry. Why we always fight. He wants to forget, when all I want is to know her. If it weren’t for Amma, I wouldn’t even know that Mom loved to bake semla year-round and sing along off-key to ABBA.

But then the shock wears off, and the rest of his words hit me.

“Don’t act like Amma is dead,” I say tightly.

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t respond.

“We don’t know anything, not without a body.” I twist toward him, and my seat belt is the only thing restraining me. “Maybe if you hadn’t delayed for a month, we would’ve found her by now.” Maybe I would’ve noticed something everyone else missed. Maybe I could’ve found her.

Maybe I still can.

“We’re not here to find her.” Dad glances between me and the road, his shoulders tense. “We’re here to lay her to rest and...