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There’s a part of Zelda that’s always screaming.
Not singing along to a playlist, not listening to her friends, not berating herself—screaming continuously. It’s loud and insistent and it is part of who she is. There’s no taking it out, no soothing it, no transforming it anew. It is screaming now and it was screaming the moment she was born and it will be screaming in her ears when she dies.
It’s not fear. It’s not pain. It’s not sadness.
There’s a part of Zelda that’s always screaming, always boiling, always spitting and scratching and on the brink of ruining her life—and it’s rage.
She’s had to learn to love it.
---
Sam Nightingale is the most beautiful person in the world. That’s not how the story starts, but it’s worth mentioning.
The story begins—people know how it begins. There’s a crystal and a dragon and a prophecy, seven maidens forced to bear witness to tragedy who then return to kill it and prom happens, too. The Seven, bound by ancient word and friendship bracelets alike, spend years forcing that story into something they can stomach, something that doesn’t leave someone feeling powerless and shaking apart in the bathroom after a nightmare at four in the morning.
It resulted in fame, fortune, and more than twelve dramatic haircuts at the sink across the group.
Now, this chapter started somewhere between the time Sam showed up with a name embroidered on the front seat of her car and the time Zelda deleted a viral video, the time Zelda brought over two sets of safety goggles and helped her break every dish in the Everpetal house and the time Sam coached her through asking for a modification to her drink at the coffee shop, the time Sam stood guard while she gave herself over to the god of wine and ecstasy and the time Zelda texted her to confirm that there is a chapter in Gorgug’s binder about breaking up with someone.
There’s a part of Zelda that’s always screaming and it doesn’t stop when Sam’s around. It doesn’t get quieter. Sometimes it even gets louder, bubbling up in her throat, pressing against the back of her teeth; Sam’s the most beautiful person in the world and the world is a terrible, horrific place that’s done terrible, horrific things to her.
Zelda can’t fix it, can’t fix any of it—which is stupid, it’s stupid, because if she were a good hero she’d have a fix for Sam’s low moments, if she were a good friend she’d be able to get Sam out of a house with an omnipresent ghost, if she were a good person she wouldn’t want to break into a hell dimension and tear Penelope Everpetal into a dozen pieces and then do it again.
On Sam’s bad days, Zelda wants to tear the world apart. It’s really, really good that Sam’s such a kind person, that Zelda’s had so long to learn to bear the screaming in her chest, because if either of those things were different Elmville would be dealing with significant amounts of property damage and also possibly a rage-induced apocalypse.
On Zelda’s bad days, Zelda wants to tear the world apart. She and Sam do mud masks, instead. Or they get smoothies. Or they listen to music, or they go to the movies, or they go to the mall, or they do—well. Sam always seems to know when it’s one of Zelda’s bad days, and she always seems to have something up her sleeve.
Sam is the most beautiful person in the world and besides that, she’s kind.
---
They’re on the side of a mountain when Sam confesses that she’s living in the Everpetal house alone. There’s not enough time to make a plan about it, not enough time to convince her to move out—Sam got this idea somewhere that she’s toxic, that being around her makes life worse for the rest of them, and Zelda hasn’t had enough time to get her to understand how absolutely fucking bullshit that is.
She’s had long enough to work out that it’s an obstacle between Sam staying at the house and moving in with any of the party, and it’s so stupid that Zelda hasn’t found a way around it yet, it’s stupid, but all she can do on the side of the mountain is hold Sam tightly and remind her that the offer is there.
When everything is done, she has time to do something different.
---
Her parents aren’t in town and her kinda-uncle the god of wine and ecstasy doesn’t have anything to say about her pulling a duffle bag down from the top of her closet and shoving a week’s worth of clothes and a bunch of other crap into it. She’s turned the music up and it roars through her ears, down into her bones alongside the screaming rage, and it stays with her all the way across Elmville—all the way to the front door.
Sam opens the door and Zelda pops out one earbud, takes in the determination on her face and the kind of pride that means you’re worried people will leave if they see you at your worst, and says, “My family is out of town. Can I crash here?”
There’s a part of Zelda that’s always screaming, frothing and bleeding and sharp edges and blunt force trauma. Sam knows this about her. There’s a part of Zelda that knows she’s stupid, she’s not worth friends and not worth paying attention to, that whatever she says will probably be the wrong thing just because she’s the one saying it. Sam knows this about her.
Sam is beautiful and kind, and she’s smart— she knows what Zelda’s doing here, knows that once she crosses the threshold there’ll be no moving her back out, not until she comes too.
It’s more than the nebulous offer of leaving; this is Zelda reaching out her hand, this is Zelda with a hoof in the door, this is Zelda screaming, I won’t let you do this alone.
Sam steps to the side, a little wide-eyed, and Zelda doesn’t know if she’s going to mess this up irrevocably. But she has to try.
---
The Everpetal house is haunted.
Zelda’s glad she never knew them very well, that she doesn’t see as many ghosts as Sam. They eat breakfast at a table the family must’ve had waffle decorating contests at. They cook lunch from the meal kit Sam’s subscribed to at the island where she and Penelope probably made bake sale goods. They sprawl out across the couch in the den where the popular clique held sleepovers all through middle school.
It’s a big house, bigger than Zelda’s, but it feels empty from more than just the size. There are no pictures on the walls. A lot of furniture is missing; Zelda can see impressions left in the carpet from years of tv stands or end tables, but nothing sits in most of the spots. The only dishes are the ones the Seven picked up from Elmville thrift stores after the time with the plates and the safety goggles, like nobody bothered to replace the broken ones. There’s an empty china cabinet, an empty trophy shelf in the upstairs hall.
Sam’s is the only room that feels lived-in, and crossing the threshold makes Zelda’s breath come easier. Sam, beautiful and kind and smart and perceptive, picks up on it.
“You can stay in here,” she says, like it doesn’t matter, like she’ll feel comfortable anywhere else.
Zelda turns to argue but catches the determined line of Sam’s jaw, the way her teeth are clenched. If she were a braver person she’d argue, she’d push, but she had to stop four times on the way over here to get her heart rate under control, working herself up to knock on the door.
She nods, lets Sam put the duffle bag down on her own bed, and curses herself the whole time.
---
She’s brushing her teeth when the voice comes out of the bathroom mirror.
“You’re wasting your time,” the last prom queen of Aguefort’s hisses. When Zelda looks up, there’s blood dripping down from the crown of her head, splattering against the pink silk of the dress. “You’re going to try and do something? For Sam Nightingale? Who do you think you are?”
See, the Everpetal house is haunted.
“You’re stupid,” Penelope says, saccharine and condescending like she’s doing Zelda a favor, letting her in on the secret. She has so many teeth. “You’re nothing, nothing, and you’re only going to make things worse for her. How selfish can you get, seriously? You know she doesn’t want you around.”
Zelda rinses and spits. There’s a part of her that’s always screaming. She contemplates breaking the mirror while she caps the toothpaste.
“Hey, loser, I’m talking to you. I know you can hear me.”
“You’re dead,” Zelda says, unhesitant. “There’s nothing for you here.”
She turns her back on Penelope Everpetal’s threat before it finishes.
---
Zelda doesn’t break any of the mirrors in the house. Sam doesn’t seem to notice the odd portal to hell that appears now and then, the demon peeking through. There’s a pressure in the air all the time, more cold spots than Zelda can count.
She could ask Ostentatia about it from a religious angle, since she’s got some kind of line through to the afterlife. She could bring in Yelle to work the nature aspect, change is the only constant and all. Penny could uncover some unknown arcane defense against hauntings and Antiope could probably order a high-ranking devil around through sheer force of personality and Katja probably knows, like, a ghost-horse ghost-whisperer they could summon to intercede.
She will, if she has to, if she can’t get things to work out. She probably won’t be able to, it was probably stupid to come over here with her bag on her shoulder and an instinct to follow, and her instinct is probably wrong anyway. It will upset Sam, but she’ll get the others involved the second she needs to. It’s just...
Zelda’s got a feeling, is the thing, and out of the seven of them she’s probably the best at ignoring a demon who wants you to feel bad about yourself. Zelda’s got a feeling and the crystalnet article on dispelling hauntings and warding away demons printed out in her duffle bag, alongside anything else she might need and the absolute willingness to commit arson if it becomes necessary.
Penelope Everpetal presses up against the other side of the mirror in Sam’s vanity, hisses disparaging remarks about the makeup Zelda’s trying on at her friend’s behest. She isn’t louder than the part of Zelda that reminds her she’s worthless. She doesn’t even compare to the part of her that’s screaming.
She throws a towel over the vanity to sleep, and as soon as the view is blocked the prom queen disappears.
---
You’re nothing, Penelope Everpetal said, like that was the worst thing she could imagine.
It helps that she probably doesn’t really know anything about Zelda, that she can’t target her more precisely. She seems like the kind of person who really listened during getting-to-know-you games while she was alive, looking for ammunition. Zelda’s pretty sure they don’t play those games at first meetings of the damned.
And it helps, frankly, that she’s dead and Zelda’s not, that she’s trapped in her last night alive while Zelda will always have the potential to change, even when change might mean rage. Even when it might mean failure.
You’re nothing, Penelope Everpetal said, the way she probably told Sam, I love you, you’re perfect, are you sure about that color? No, it’s good for you, it’s cute, it’s just that I wouldn’t be that brave.
Zelda hadn’t had many friends before the Seven, but she’s overheard plenty of iterations of that conversation. Most of the girls doing the talking hadn’t tried to end the world, but they all pulled from the same script: Aren’t you glad I told you? You trust me, don’t you? This is why we’re friends, someone’s got to protect you, to keep you from making these sorts of mistakes.
It’s a basic, cliche kind of meanness. And it works, it worms its way into people’s heads and sticks around for years, it’s why Sam still doesn’t wear much red even though she secretly likes it.
Zelda hates Penelope Everpetal for what she did to the Seven, for what she tried to do to the world. But she loathes her for what she did to Sam.
Sam Nightingale is beautiful and kind and smart and perceptive. She can do anything, she has a whole life ahead of her, and Penelope Everpetal is dead.
It’s time she got the memo.
---
Zelda’s been there six days, each colder than the last. Sam waves it away as something broken with the air conditioning, something brittle around her eyes, and so Zelda goes along with it.
They spend long hours away from the house, at the mall or the library or the ice cream parlor, meeting up with their friends or just hanging out together. They talk about nothing at all and they talk about their quests and they talk about each other and they talk about movies, and she knows they’re closer than they’ve ever been, and she knows there’s something wrong.
The Everpetal house is haunted, and Sam hasn’t been sleeping well.
She always goes to bed after Zelda, no matter how late they both stay up. There are dark circles under her eyes that Zelda sees in the morning before she gets ready, an uptick in how much coffee she drinks in the morning. Zelda finds herself doing more around the house, like she can make up for the trouble her presence causes.
But Sam hasn’t asked her to leave, and she’s not going to.
On the sixth night she fakes a yawn and turns in early, waits for the whole house to sit quiet and still before she creeps out of bed. Her steps are almost silent, Penny would be proud, but when she steps into the hall she can’t help but shiver. Her breath comes out in a cloud of fog. Her sweatshirt doesn’t feel warm enough, even as she pulls the hood up.
The Everpetal house feels bigger at night. The walls are high and the ceiling shadowed, and the empty places where knick knacks and family mementos would be seem huge. It’s the kind of place that feels like there should be a map; like a museum with all the exhibits gone, just plaques remaining to say what used to be on display.
The farther down the hall she gets, the colder it is. Delicate wisps of ice begin to creep along the floor, cracking under her as she walks. It’s hard to breathe, the air thin and freezing in her lungs.
Sam, she knows Penelope is saying in the distance, knows the shape of Sam’s name in the air without having to hear it.
Her heart doesn’t sink as she approaches the bedroom door. Her heart is the thing in her chest that does the screaming, that snarls and spits blood and pumps heat through her body even as the very air feels crystalline and sharp.
The doorknob is freezing under her hand and it won’t turn, and she knows, she knows that Sam is behind the door, that Sam is in Penelope’s room.
Zelda draws a dagger in one hand, her heart howling in her chest.
It’s very, very cold here. It’s very, very dark.
An emergency road flare burns at around two thousand degrees. It’s made to light up part of a highway at night. If you have enough of them, you can create a safe zone to warn people away.
Zelda holds the flare in her other hand, fully extended away from her body. Her heart doesn’t give her time to worry about the house burning down; she listens and ignites it while kicking down the bedroom door.
---
Sam is laying on the bed in the empty room. There’s a canopy of ice in the air around her, beautiful and razor sharp. Everything is a drab blue, even Sam’s vibrance faded in the dark, bleeding out into the bedroom. Clasped between her hands is her compact, open and the only source of light in the room.
Penelope Everpetal flits through the room a dozen times over, intangible and almost invisible. It’s her through the years, a laughing kid and an imperious preteen and a triumphant Aguefort student; sometimes she’s made of shadows and sometimes the freezing air coalesces like mist, just enough to suggest an outline of her. She croons in Sam’s sleeping ear, she sings jump-rope songs, she gives some kind of acceptance speech; her voice is indistinct and overlaps itself.
Zelda bursts through the door, haloed in the red light of the flare as it spits and burns in her hand. She feels like a comet, like a meteor, like the blade of a guillotine in mid-fall; there is a part of herself that is always screaming and that is the part she is listening to.
“Get away from her,” she snarls, she knows she’s snarling but she doesn’t swallow it back, doesn’t apologize. “You’re dead, you’re nothing, and there is nothing for you here.”
Penelope doesn’t look at her; no version of Penelope looks at her, but there’s only one mirror in this room and Zelda thinks she must be coming through it.
This is a good idea, her heart roars, and it drowns out every other thing in the world, the hissing of the flare and the worried voice that’s part of Zelda and the rhyme a six-year-old Penelope’s singing, the smell of burning hair.
Zelda Donovan crosses the room and thrusts the flare directly into Sam Nightingale’s hands.
---
Sam keeps burn cream in the first aid cabinet in the bathroom, and Ostentatia’s already sneaking over in her dad’s car to see to things. They sit at the kitchen table where people probably ate holiday meals, the whole kit spread out between them and a melted, smoking compact mirror on the table at Sam’s side.
Sam’s hands, miraculously, are uninjured. Zelda is not.
When she lit the flare she hadn’t been careful enough about the angle, caught up in the rage; there’s a burn down the side of her leg that she hadn’t felt before calming down, that would likely be worse without her god’s patronage.
She knows it’s going to scar, and Sam had shouted about going to the hospital before Ostentatia had answered the group thread. It’s currently blowing up, the rest of the Seven waking up and demanding updates. Antiope’s already proposed the idea that they should all come over, fuck the time of night, so it’s pretty likely that she’s out gathering the others while Ostentatia heads directly to them.
“The house is haunted,” Zelda says, after half a dozen false starts.
Sam’s quiet, assessing the damage.
“I will always want to help you,” Zelda says, forcing her conviction up into her voice. “Sam, I will always want to help you.”
There is a part of Zelda that is always screaming. There is a part of Zelda that is always terrified. And there is a part of Zelda that is always on the mountainside at the Temple of the Earth Defiant, not knowing what to do but knowing that the most important thing in the world is hanging on to Sam.
“I’ll be pissed about it later,” Sam tells her, before rising and gathering her into an embrace, so careful of her leg. “I’ll be really pissed about it.”
It doesn’t sound like the warning it’s meant to be and despite the pain in her leg, Zelda smiles.