He slumps against the trunk, clothes mud-spattered, in complete disarray. “It would be nothing less than I deserve.” After removing my pack from his shoulders, he tucks it between the branches and drops neatly into the water. “I’ll be back.”
As I watch him go, I understand that life is a collection of choices, and here is one more I must make. Enveloped in these branches, I am safe. And yet, Zephyrus lacks a weapon. His power flags. My iron blade might be all that can defeat this demon.
Only I can decide what path my life will take, I realize. I hold the power. I have always held the power.
After tying back my hair, I grab my rucksack and climb down the tree, following the direction Zephyrus went, the path littered with broken branches and massive, clawed footprints. I push forward, but the dress is so heavy, the corset so tight, that it’s impossible to catch my breath.
Ahead, something large and menacing shifts between the trees. The beast slinks toward Zephyrus, ears flattened against its skull. Crouched at the edge of the clearing, I palm my dagger, thumb pressed against the frayed leather wrapping. Zephyrus stands alone, unarmed.
The demon hurtles forward with a roar, and I am running, dagger in hand, toward the West Wind’s back. I am not afraid. The Father guides me over pressed grass, drowned muck. Knocking Zephyrus aside, I leap forward and bury the dagger into the beast’s chest.
It recoils, falling back with an ear-shattering shriek. The motion wrenches me forward, my blade firmly imbedded. A short twist of my arm frees the weapon. I stumble back as the demon lurches upright. Its skin sizzles, melting from the touch of lethal iron.
“Brielle!”
That sharp-toothed maw drives toward me. It rams into a solid barrier, as though Zephyrus has fashioned a wall of air to separate us. At the next lunge, it crashes through the partition. I dodge, fighting the drag of my soaked dress, and slash the dagger toward its throat. It rears back, colliding with an ancient cypress. Then it’s up, charging, steam curling from its slitted nostrils. A slither of air coils around a hind leg and binds tight. The demon strains against it in a fit of gnashing teeth.
Darting around Zephyrus, I plunge the dagger into its torso a second time, then slash the blade across its throat. Blood pours forth, and the bog shudders as the demon collapses.
My chest heaves, my hand shakes, but I refuse to turn my eye from the beast. It might not be dead. It could rise again.
“Brielle.”
“What if it heals itself?” I demand. “We can’t take any chances.”
“Yakim is dead.”
I whirl, and there Zephyrus stands, a single scratch marring the otherwise smooth skin of his cheek. He is handsome. Beautiful, even. What manner of sorcery is this?
“Your face.” I’m still staring. It hovers on the threshold of perfection, indescribable splendor, sharp enough to cut. “How?”
He collapses with a cry.
As his head vanishes beneath the surface of the bog, I lunge, catching him around the collar and hauling him upright. He sags into me, dragged down by his weakened legs. By the Father, I wish the sun would reveal itself.
“The tree,” he grinds out. “Bring me to that tree.”
I drag him to the tract of dirt, where an old cypress oversees the sprawling wetland. He grabs a low branch, glaring at me like an irate kitten. “That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” he growls.
“It was going to kill you. You just stood there—”
“I was going to end it with my power,” he retorts. “It had to be at the last possible second. A single strike to the heart.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“I told you not to interfere.”
My blood hums dangerously, and my fingers twitch around the dagger, drawing his eye. We have been here before. I’m beginning to wonder if he prefers death. “I saved your life,” I hiss. “A simple thank-you would suffice.”
“Thank you?” He laughs, yet the sound fractures, becomes something else as his face crumples. A tear slides down one cheek, shocking me to the core.
I step forward, suddenly uncertain of my place.
“I can’t watch someone I care for die again,” he says hoarsely. Silver streaks his green gaze. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
His admission softens me and saddens me. He has experienced much strife in his immortal life, but haven’t we all? The difference is, I’ve had support—Thornbrook, my peers, Mother Mabel. Zephyrus is alone.
Lifting my hand to his face, I say, “We will get through this. I have faith.” My thumb catches a tear where it trembles, dewdrop clear, against his cheek.
