Bo hadn’t thought to ask Talia or Everil what they liked to eat. There’d been other shit on his mind. Like eating pancakes. Trauma dumping on a stranger. Curling up against a guy whose long, dark hair he wanted to stroke until his skittishness settled. That, or fuck him into the mattress. Both.
He sent,Does Aunt Jan like alien hats?
The leaves somewhere nearby rustled as he sent the message. A flash of bright green, then a flicker of red when he glanced up. Violet, when he turned his head. It tugged at him the way Everil sometimes did when they were apart.
A tangle of colors and curiosity. A fucking cat, that’s what Aunt Jan called him. And Bo took a step off the path to try and catch another glimpse of whatever the fuck those colors were.
Nothing (except pink, just there, but gone again). Bo took another step, hardly clocking the too-heavy weight of his phone as it slipped away. He trailed his hands over tree trunks when he passed them, absently noting the scrape and sting of his palms, how the branches seemed to reach for him, to pluck at jacket and hair. Concerns that passed as quickly as they came.
Robin’s reply pinged in the distance, the telltale chirp of birdsong they’d added long ago. Another flash of color, distracting him from any thought of return. Colors and quiet and thatsomethingBo needed to find.
Almost like Everil. Not quite, but enough. Robin could wait, far back behind the rustle of trees.
The sound of wind without the wind itself. A coaxing susurration and flicker of colors, distant, but growing closer. All the other sounds quickly grew quiet, then gone altogether. No teenage laughter, no one calling Bo’s name.
No worries at all. Not here, where it was so nice. In the forest, he could simplybe. Bo could follow that thread of wanting, without the complex layers of reserve. Of confusion. Of maybe and, oh, maybe not.
He stumbled once, nearly. Just once. A branch on the ground too thick to crack under his boots. No gentle touch caught him, no soft murmur ofif I may. But there was another branch, rough around his waist, supporting him for a breath.
Here, Bo was wanted. He could feel it, the need for magic, thick on his tongue. Magic, heavy and wild, radiating from the huge weeping willow waiting just ahead.There.
The branches brushed the ground, long and soft looking. Another flicker of color, faded rose, dipped out of view.
But by then, the colors didn’t matter so much. The tree rustled, inviting. Welcoming.
Bo hummed, quiet, slowing to a stop a few feet away to study it.There. A tug at his chest, inviting him closer, where there were no edges to cut himself on or cut others with.
“Under the weeping willow tree,” Bo murmured to the tune he’d been humming.So he may know where I am sleeping, something something,weep for me. An old song, jaunty tune turned quiet and rolling. And Bo could almost imagine the tree singing back. The wind picked up the rhythm and played it with a shushing sigh. And Bo, Bo hummed along and continued walking towards the waiting tree.
He reached out, slow and careful, fingers outstretched to the gold-green-brown-pink-blue-violet drape of leaves and life. The branches of the willow parted, a wordless invitation. One branch, the one he touched, curled around his wrist, and another stroked down his cheek.
Bo smiled, the song on the wind and his lips. A tip of his head pressed his cheek to gentle leaves, even as the branch on his wrist tugged at him, almost impatient. Tempting, to step forward and allow the trees to curl around him as those at Brookhaven had for Everil.
Difference was they’d been Everil’s trees. Everil, lovely and dark with the protective curve of branches and wind, hidden away as they spoke of magic. And Bo, he’d never had that kind of bond with the world. Not really.
Trees didn’t laugh, either, from just out of view. But that didn’t soundleafyenough to come from the willow.
“No, not a great idea,” Bo heard himself say dreamily, even as he dug his heels in, both literally and figuratively. “I always said I don’t fuck around with trees that move. I think you want Everil.”
“Oh,” said a voice, rich as sap and deep as the roots in dark earth. “I had hoped you wouldn’t struggle.”
The branch around his wrist tightened, magic gone from his throat. The others no longer held themselves open; they reached for him, rustling with laughter and creaking like a curse.
Oh fuck. Oh,fuck.
A man–or something like a goddamn man–stepped out from behind the trunk. Bark brown and rough-skinned, his hair a riot of autumn leaves. His eyes were green, green, green, and his teeth very white when he smiled, somewhere between sad and cruel.
A fucking dryad smiled at him, the very essence offuck fuck fuck, alien and familiar and horrible.
“Oh,fuckno Bo snarled. He scrambled back, tugging at the branch around his wrist, leaning from the one at his face. Alarm lent him the strength to wrench himself back, away from that clutching tree. “Go lick a fucking termite mound, you piece of shit.”
“Hush now. There’s no need for hostility, human.” The dryad shook his head, all unruffled, apologetic inevitability in his words. Fucking prick. “I bear you no ill will.”
“Fuck you and your will.”
Bo’d stepped off the fucking path like some grungy-ass Riding Hood, left Talia,fuck, Talia, and he was going to die because Grandmother Willow was a fucking murderous jackass. He grabbed the branch with his free hand, just above where it clung to his wrist. It broke, even as Bo stumbled, his back hitting something solid, keeping him upright.
A nest of fucking branches, woven now behind Bo like a net. They caught at his clothes, tugged at his hair. Several, horrifyingly, aimed to get some purchase around his neck.
