“Zephyrus.” His chuckle skates across my shivering flesh. “You are the one who invited her into Under.” The Orchid King’s gaze returns to me. “Do not be frightened, young novitiate. Zephyrus and I have an understanding.”
“I implore you again,” Zephyrus says. “Let her leave.”
A second vine lifts to curl beneath the Orchid King’s chin. Lips pursed, he considers me, and I quake from the intrusion of his pervasive gaze. I imagine those curved talons pricking the ripeness of my flesh, their possessive hold.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Lessons must be learned, and I want this woman to know what happens when my orders are disobeyed. You have kept me waiting long enough. Let the ritual proceed.”
The Bringer of Spring goes still. Truly, I did not realize how expressive he was until the brightness was extinguished from his face.
He moves in pieces—shoulders, arms, wrists, fingers. Grasping the hem of his tunic, he peels it over his head, tosses it aside. My attention flicks to his naked torso before skittering elsewhere.
“This will not take long,” the Orchid King assures.
One of the flowers uncoils, latching its spined mouth against Zephyrus’ neck.
I trip backward with a horrified yelp and land hard on my rear. A second flower extends from a slender vine, affixing itself to his cheek,a third to his forearm. Zephyrus twitches, face rigid with pain, and falls to his knees.
Scuttling backward, I ram into the wall, paralyzed by the atrocity unfolding before my eyes. Five flowers fuse to Zephyrus’ naked torso, then seven, now ten.
Another twitch renders his arms useless, yet he emits not a sound. When a blossom sinks into the pectoral muscle above his heart, his back arches, taut abdomen flexing in shallow pulsations. His mouth yawns in a muted scream.
The petals’ pink hue darkens to carmine. They grow engorged, inflamed, the drink too bountiful to contain. Red seeps from their suckling mouths.
By the Father. My gaze lifts to the Orchid King, who watches me with avid fascination. I flinch, pressing harder against the rock.
Under is a poison. This I knew. I should never have agreed to this fool’s errand.
When the blooms finally detach with wet sounds of suction, Zephyrus slumps forward, panting through his teeth. The spines have punctured his skin, leaving half-moon markings. Across his ribs, there appears to be a tattoo—flowers colored white, pink, and violet. Strange. But the sight is quickly masked as he replaces his tunic and climbs to his feet. He will not look at me. For whatever reason, I wish he would.
“Refuse my call again,” Pierus intones, “and I will drain every last drop from your body. This is your final warning.” A wave of his clawed hand. “Dismissed.”
Zephyrus’ dull, distant eyes stare straight through Pierus. There is no sign of the charismatic man from earlier. Turning on his heel, he strides from the room.
The Orchid King shifts his focus onto me. At his back, the entire field of roses has hemorrhaged, pink replaced with a dense red. “You would do well to heed my warning, young novitiate. Do not trust Zephyrus. He will use you for his own gain.” One of the flowers curling from his back unfurls, then clamps shut. “Should you need aid, you may seek me out. Under is a treacherous place, after all.”
7
“ZEPHYRUS!”
He pushes onward, walking so swiftly I’m forced to run. By the time we emerge behind the waterfall, sweat and mist drench my skin.
Zephyrus leaps across the slick rocks, landing lightly on the opposite bank. I scramble after him, but I should know better than to think I can outrun the West Wind. He lengthens his gait, driving continuously forward. It does not take long before we return to the underground lake with its pulsating drums and shattering noise. Grass sprouts before me, Zephyrus only two strides ahead.
“Wait.” I reach for him without thought as he stops, stiff in the frame, and angles his face away from me.
“The Orchid King,” I gasp. “Why did he…?”
My gaze drops to Zephyrus’ chest, but his tunic shields the aftermath of that gruesome feeding. The image marks my vision, set to scar. A dark cavern. A blanket of pink blossoms, the scent of honey in the air.
“Drink my blood?” he offers.
I nod slowly. We may as well be standing alone in the vaulted cavern, for the fair folk, every shape and every shade, seem to diminish in light of what has just occurred, veiled behind the red brightness dousing the walls.
The West Wind sighs. “There are forces at work you will not understand. Old blood. Old debts. For your safety, it is best to remain inthe dark.” He speaks all this without looking at me. His voice, however, trembles.
“But why does he treat you so poorly?” No,poorlyis not the right word. That display of power? Absolutely disgusting. “If Pierus—”
“Please.” Zephyrus lifts a hand. The long, tapered fingers curl slightly, as if grasping for something to hold. “Do not speak his name.” Quickly, he searches the crowd. It has somewhat dispersed, though I spot a number of the smaller sprites, identified by their rotund figures and twig-like limbs. “If you must, refer to him as the Orchid King. It is disrespectful to do otherwise, and many fair folk are employed in his service.”
