I bite my lip to stop its trembling. Leaving the comfort of all you know is no easy task. “I don’t know.” I have every intention of returning, but who can say what trials Under will present? “Only time will tell.”
“Then I wish you luck,” Harper murmurs. “Say hello to Zephyrus for me.”
27
BLACK SKY, BLACKER WOODS. THEdeepest, lightless pockets of the forest quiver ominously as I race along the twisting path, following the river beyond the bridge. Clamped in my hand, the roselight pulses weakly. Feeble, to be certain, but bright enough to avoid tripping over any lurking creatures. Depending on which direction I hold it, the light either flares or dims. If the roselight is connected to Zephyrus, surely it will help guide me to his location?
Eventually, a cave comes into view. My legs twinge with fatigue, yet I increase my pace, diving into the cave’s dark mouth blindly. With the Orchid King preoccupied at Miles Cross, I’ve time yet.
The tunnel opens into a moonlit cavern—Pierus’ lair. The mound of soil where he normally holds council is vacant. For whatever reason, the field of pink flowers appears wilted and gray, as though it sags beneath a coating of ash.
Across the way, a motionless lump draws my attention to the floor.
Zephyrus?My mouth shapes his name, but no sound emerges. The sight before me has killed it, wholly and completely.
He is pale. So, so pale, that resplendent, sun-kissed skin having bled of color. Limp lashes droop against wan cheekbones, curls of hair plastered to his clammy skull. A short beard darkens his jaw. He is naked as the day he was born.
I stumble forward, dazed. Carnivorous blossoms have fastened their small, searching mouths to his body: arms, stomach, even the insides of his muscled thighs. They drink in prolonged swallows, the attached vines undulating with each mouthful. The skin where the tiny spines have taken root bulges, sore-like with irritation. It’s subtle, but his chest stirs. Breath in his lungs? I’ll take it.
My hands hover near his body, but I don’t dare touch him. If I listen closely, I can hear the sound of draining fluid. A ring of white cakes his mouth from how tightly his lips press together, and I watch, repulsed, as a collection of rust-colored petals wrenches free from his ribs with a wet gurgle, revealing the small tattoo I’d spotted months ago—a trio of hyacinth blossoms.
My concern surrounding the vines deepens. I wonder, yet again, why Zephyrus is subject to this horrid anguish. I fear he has been here all this time, hours, days, weeks. I’ll need to safely remove the parasitic flora. Then distance. Shelter. A place to rest until I can figure out the next steps.
The flowers, however, are deeply imbedded. When I attempt to pry one of the buds free, the needles slide deeper into flesh, sucking eagerly. Black veins distend his parchment-pale skin.
The scuff of what might be a shoe echoes through the tunnel—someone approaches.
I spring toward a niche in the far wall as a tall, willowy woman glides into the moonlit chamber. She wears a flowing white dress and carries a pack across one shoulder. Mortal, she is not. A luminescent glow brightens her deep brown skin.
Five cloaked creatures trail the woman. Their raised hoods shimmer like the purest jewels—ruby and citrine, emerald and sapphire and amethyst. Flat, stony eyes sit within heavy folds of copper skin, and large, ornamental rings hang from their noses. Their faces bear eerie resemblance to goats.
The dark-skinned woman crouches at Zephyrus’ side before retrieving something from her leather satchel. With her back to me, I cannot see what object she removes. The cloaked individuals observe her from afar.
I’ve half a mind to fling my blade into the woman’s spine, but she departs the cavern as quickly as she arrived, along with her colorful companions. When her footsteps fade, I return to Zephyrus. Nothing appears to have changed.
Gently, I tug on the vine attached to his right shoulder. The West Wind twitches and falls still.
This plant is a living organism. Even if I were to sever the vines, the mouths would likely remain fixed to his body. If I disentangle Zephyrus, will Pierus sense it? He is connected to this horrible plant, after all. But I suppose it matters not.
Sliding the pack from my shoulder, I rummage through my supplies, pushing aside my journal and cache of food until I find the flint and steel, a piece of cloth, and a small vial of oil. All combine to create a torch in miniature, which I set ablaze.
Orange light fills the space as I hold the torch beneath one of the vines. Flames lick hungrily, the waxy skin beginning to char.
A scream shatters through the cave. Its blood-curdling pitch sends me to my feet, the nightshade roots lashing toward me.
I sidestep, driving my dagger in a vicious downward swipe. Sharpened iron peels through the vine’s flesh. Blood—Zephyrus’ blood—spews from the incision. The root recoils with a desperate shriek.
Screams compound as the blaze leaps from vine to vine. Smoke, dense and roiling, stings my throat. Within a few moments, the nightshade plant disintegrates. What remains? Red-bitten skin and a half-dead god.
I shrug off my cloak and maneuver Zephyrus’ arms through the sleeves so the garment conceals his nakedness. Then I crouch low and heave the West Wind’s body over one shoulder. Bladesmithing has its benefits. Tonight, I’m able to carry both our weights.
We reach the mouth of the cave without incident. Village lights shiver in the distance, but I continue onward, plunging through the impermeable forest with blind fear. There is no grassy path to guide me safely. Eventually, the soil fissures and the trees transition to the exposed clay deposits of an eroded cliffside. By the time I stumbleupon adequate shelter, my back aches fiercely and sweat soaks my underarms.
Carefully, I set Zephyrus beneath an overhang. He should be safe until I return. After one last look at his face, I race back the way I came, my sights set on the distant village.
A rapidrat-a-tat-tatagainst the door, knuckles on wood. Three heartbeats later, the door eases open. A round, black eye peers through the crack.
Lissi’s pale skin drains to a bloodless hue. “What are you doing here?”
