32
IN THE LIGHTLESS WOMB OFthe bog, I run.
Leaping over collapsed vegetation, I plow through the murk, doing my best to avoid the deepest waters, the areas of marshland devoid of risen earth. My stomach cramps, snarling into a knot beneath my right hip bone. It is beyond pain, beyond the most excruciating agony.Rest,my body demands. I cannot.
I’ve pushed myself to the very edge of what I can sustain, yet my weighted legs continue to move. I crash through stagnant pools and rotten debris, my dress in tatters. The air lies dead against my skin.
Ahead—a break in the trees. Light punctures through every gap and hollow, sweeping wide across a long plain of short yellow grass elevated above the waterlogged grave of the swamp. As the baying reaches new heights, I glance over my shoulder. Shapes crowd the undergrowth, too many to count.
I careen forward with a choked sob. Death awaits. I’m not ready. I cannot die here, so far from the sun.
Halfway across the clearing, my boot catches on a depression in the soil. I hit the ground hard, rolling twice before slamming onto my back.
My dagger appears between one breath and the next. Pushing to my feet, I face the pack, iron blade steady despite my heaving lungs. The hilt bites into my palm, and the pain grounds me. I am not dead. Not yet, anyway.
The hounds close in, beasts wrought by the realm’s insidious darkness. Nothing remains of their snouts except small cavities. Their rib bones gleam white, bare of muscle or skin, revealing the scooped-out hollows of their stomachs. I glance between them in rising panic, for the circle closes at my back, cutting off my escape.
The first hound lunges with a snarl. I pivot, slashing across its eyes. It yelps and falls back, riling the pack into a great howling mass that snaps at my legs.
I kick out, catching one in the snout, then punch my blade through another’s back. There must be thirty surrounding me in total. They take turns nipping and retreating, stirring me into blackened terror, where there is neither thought nor clarity, where the blade is all that matters.
Another hound strikes my leg. I spin away from its attack and kick out. As my foot connects with the ribcage, its teeth sink into my thigh and I scream, driving the blade into the back of its skull. The creature drops, twitching.
I whirl to catch another hound mid-leap. It slams into my chest, and I go sprawling, the dagger knocked from my grasp.
A spiraling squall whips through the clearing, and the pack scatters.
Something slides beneath my arms. “It’s me,” Zephyrus whispers. “Hold on.”
Up we go, the wind dragging us into the trees. I’m too exhausted to protest, allowing Zephyrus to maneuver my feet upon a high branch, my back to the wide, sturdy trunk. He’s a mess. Mud still cakes his ripped trousers, and his tunic hangs limp and dingy around his frame. A cut on his chin, newly opened, weeps blood.
“Thank you,” I whisper. At the base of the tree, the hounds plant their paws onto the trunk, yelping their protest.
Crouching at my side, the West Wind relieves me of my rucksack, setting it aside. He then adjusts the fabric of my dress so it covers my bare legs. “It seems I’m not the only one who is lured by your scent,” he whispers.
“I’m tired, Zephyrus.” My voice strains. I could sleep for a thousand years if given the opportunity.
“I know.” He tucks a damp red curl behind my ear, the tips of his fingers brushing the heated skin there. “I’ll take care of it.”
I catch his hand in mine. “There are too many.” Wan is his face, and drawn. Hour by hour, the West Wind fades.
“You worry too much, darling.” He offers me a smile, however forced. “Am I not the West Wind? Do I not call forth spring in all forms?” Yet those mossy eyes have dulled.
Quietly and with feeling, I whisper, “I don’t want you to die.”
“Brielle.” Equally quiet and aggrieved. “At this point, I would welcome death.”
He is gone within the next heartbeat, dropping onto the grass below. Out punches four spheres of air in rapid succession. Three hit their marks. The fourth veers wide as Zephyrus sidesteps, evading a rogue beast.
I’ve never seen anything like it. He is music in tangible form. The wind is his to forge, and he hammers it effortlessly, noosing another two beasts, decapitating a third with a sword hewn from the air itself. But immortal or not, the West Wind is unwell. I cannot allow him to face this alone.
As I drop into the meadow, the air—fashioned into two massive, circular blades—careens forward, slicing the grass to bits. Blood sprays as the dogs scatter. When the aftermath settles, four are dead, sliced to ribbons. Their white bones dissolve into dust.
The baying spikes with newfound hunger. As the drove regroups, Zephyrus retreats until his back hits a tree, legs sinking into a half-crouch, hands raised. Air erupts, then dies to a mere breeze that goes no farther than his reach. His eyes widen as the hounds surge toward him and he disappears from view.
Terror like I’ve never known surges through me. “Zephyrus!” Snatching my dagger from the ground, I race toward him.
Under shudders in warning. I manage two more steps before my ears pop, and out sweeps a roar that buckles my knees. There is a scream.
