The air between us seems to pull tight, a tether on the verge of snapping if either of us dares to move. Her breathing hitches as she searches my face; as my ribbons slither from my arms, slowly inching toward her. She’s seen their malevolent power, but she doesn’t back away. Instead, she takes a stubborn step forward, closing the last inch of space between us.
Shock spirals through me. Not only does Willa not fear death—shechasesit.
My death reaches for her, sliding in the air along the curves of her body, determined to fulfillallher desires. Agony shreds through me as I keep them from caressing that silky skin; from nestling between her breasts and devouring every bit of her vibrancy. Willa—with that furious anger spilling from an unending well—she’d be such a feast.
I grit my teeth and growl, “Tell me!”
Willa jumps, and satisfaction threads through me.
“I—” Her words freeze in her throat, and she shakes her head with a doubtful mutter. Then she narrows her eyes. “What doyou know about the plague? You told me the wards are too thick to travel through. But you’vebeento my world.”
I watch a ribbon curl through the air between us, tantalizingly close to her throat. With another snarl that causes Willa’s eyes to flare, I jerk it away. A sharp breath shoots from me as black edges my vision, and it takes a full moment of attempting to gather my thoughts from where the agony has scattered them to remember she’s asked a question.
“Your world and mine are more intertwined than you realize. And you, Willa Darling…you’re going to be the one to save them both.”
Willa’s breath hitches, and the color drains from her face entirely. I hadn’t glimpsed a hint of fear when she faced down the bloodthirsty beast, but now, it shines plainly in her eyes. She takes a step backward. “You have the wrong person.”
“Oh, I don’t think I do. You’ve seen that beast before.” I step around her with a cruel grin, my ribbons slithering in the air behind me as I circle her like prey. “In your mind.”
Willa stiffens. “That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” I cock a brow. “That beast has been buried in the recesses of your imagination since you were a child. A projection of your hidden fears, brought to life.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “The rot has seeped into your brain Corpse King.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You’ve no idea.”
She glares at me over her shoulder, as I lean close enough to breathe her in once again. Blood and lilies. “Imagination isn’t real,” she insists, but for the first time, her voice wavers. My death slithers around us both, tethering us together in a suspended stasis.
For a moment, my study fades away. There is only Willa and my pain. Both suddenly feel buried in my bones. Inescapable. Fated.
“How can it not be real when dreams are the truest thing we have?” My voice is a whisper against her skin, caressing the juncture of her throat. I stare at the spot, imagining stroking it with my fingertips. Tearing at it with my teeth. Destroying her delicate neck the same way I’ve been destroyed. “They are stripped of every lie we tell ourselves and every lie the world tells us. There is nothing more ardent in this life or the next than our imaginings.”
Willa tilts her head infinitesimally, inching closer to the brush of my breath.
“You’ve seen firsthand what happens when imagination dies, Darling. The toll it takes on the world when there are no more dreams.”
She whips her head to me, her eyes narrowing further. Her face is a steel wall, even as her mind races with my words. I want to shred through it, to read every thought as she thinks them. “The plague?” she breathes. In surprise. In horror. “It…it kills imagination?”
“And here I was worried you were slow,” I drawl sardonically. I’d known things were desperate in her world, but I hadn’t realized no one understood what was causing the madness.
The death of dreams.
It seems so obvious.
Children leaping to their deaths, with no imagination to protect their innocent minds from the horrors of the world. The demise of music, art, and innovation with no adults able to dream up something better. A world without creativity is stagnant, and stagnancy is nothing but a slow death.
I meet her gaze, drinking in the rich brown, the vibrant greens, the splashes of gold. “Have you not yet realized where you are?” Confusion wrinkles her brow, and I drink that in, too. “A land of sirens and pixies, of dreams and death? I know stories are rare these days on the mainland, but surely, you’ve heard this one.”
Her breath catches, and I press on. “The music has died, and paintings don’t last…but the stories…you’ve collected them in your mind, haven’t you? Protected them from being lost just like every other beautiful thing. Clung to them when the world is dark and desolate? Wrapped yourself in the tales of heroes and villains to keep from ever having to come to terms with which one you’d be.”
As Willa stares up at me, an addicting mixture of horror and wonder on her face, her lower lip falls open slightly. I hoard the small movement and hate myself for it. Willa’s face is only a reminder of my agony—there should be nothing enticing about it—but for some blasted reason, I am drawn to it. Like my body is eager to relive every excruciating moment of my past.
And there’s truth in the thought, even if I don’t want to examine it too closely—I’ve lived with the pain for so long, I wouldn’t know how to exist without it. Maybe my body instinctively drives toward more, because it knows nothing else. Like an addict.
Willa gazes up at me, and I know her thoughts have followed mine. That the words are on the tip of her tongue, but she’s trying to trap them behind logic. Behind reason. Neither of which have a place in my kingdom. So, I lean in closer and drive her over the edge. “The star you fell through. Which one was it? The second from the right, perhaps?”
Her mouth pops open as she stares at me. As the truth of her circumstances press down on her.
