A child’s giggle floats between us, effervescent and tinkling.
“I demand nothing of you, cousin. Rather, I’ve brought you a gift.”
“A gift?” I repeat stupidly, caught off guard. Pan doesn’t seem the kind to consider anyone but himself. And yet, I cannot ignore the eager way he watches me—almost like he’s waiting for my approval.
Pan smiles, the luminous gesture so at odds with the horror of his mutilated skin. “A creature as exceptional as you are, deserves all the accolades of the universe. Perhaps a new Dreaming’s Eve tradition? From one deity to another?”
I stare at him, searching for a sign of insincerity. Anxiety snakes up my spine, threads around my throat though I cannot determine its source. “I don’t want anything from you.”
Pan has the nerve to look disappointed. “But Willa…you gave me the most wondrous gift, and to not reciprocate would be poor manners. I never had a mother to teach me etiquette, but even I know that.”
His grin is slow and deliberate. It feels like insects crawling over my skin, and as I follow his gaze to the crowd milling below the balcony, the feeling grows. Because there, frozen in the midst of the revelers, is a familiar face.
“Zenni?” I breathe, the name cracking with the sudden fear spiraling through me.
She is the same as she is in my memories—spiral black curls, worn red sneakers, ripped jeans that hang from her small frame—but somehow, everything seems wrong. Her clever brown eyes are distant and unfocused; her precocious mouth that is usually sharply honed weapon is slack, like she sleeps standing up.
And worst of all, is the glow emanating from her heart. Just like the little boy on the Indomnitus, her chest is lit with the magic inherent to children. But unlike the boy, Zenni’s has beenreduced to a mere spark, as if most of it has already been siphoned away.
A scream builds in my throat. Zenni resisted the plague so much longer than most with her wild imagination and adventurous spirit. She held onto hope when the entire world had lost theirs. To now have it stolen from her to feed a power-hungry tyrant—stolen from her because she had the misfortune of knowingme—is too unfair.
Pan devours my reaction, his pleasured grin a wound far more sinister than any marring his body. “I saved you the last morsel of her magic,” he simpers with relish, “so that when you drink it, she will be yours forever.”
The crowd has not yet noticed Zenni’s strangeness. They dance and laugh with no care to the hollow-eyed girl in their midst.
“I have heard your deepest desires, Willa. You are afraid of being alone, afraid of those you love leaving you. I will make sure none of them ever do.”
My shadow stirs at his words, because despite the horror of them, they speak to the deepest parts of my heart. The parts carved in abandonment and fear. The parts willing to attack anyone who gets too close—to hurt them before they hurt me.
Pan’s shadow flickers to life behind him. “Our hearts share the same magic, grown from the same wounds.” His shadow slinks forward, the dark form wrapping around mine. I watch in disgust as they stroke each other, even as I try to pull away. “We will keep them all with us for eternity. Never alone. Always powerful. It is what you want, littlest darling. I know your heart as I know mine.”
I stare at the Aeternalis for a long moment, because he is right. We were both abandoned by the people that were supposed to love us. We both built protection so that it would not happen again—his in the form of an empire, and mine, an armor. But inside his empire, Pan’s heart crumbled into dust. Mine hasremained preserved inside the armor, no matter that life would be far easier if it wasn’t.
I’ve always said I don’t care about hurting others so long as I saved myself. But the truth is, I have always cared. And no matter how I tried to hide that fact, it always seems to surface: in saving a siren I didn’t know; in saving a king I had no reason to trust; in saving a dying kingdom of dreams.
I raise my chin. “You don’t know anything about my heart.”
Lurching forward, I plunge my blade into Pan’s eye.
His responding roar of fury is deafening as he falls backward beneath my onslaught. Blood spurts from the wound in thick ropes, coating my face and chest. I hastily paint a golden shield, throwing it up just as his shadow flies toward me in a rage. A blast resounds as it crashes against my magic, shaking fragments of stone loose and raining them down from the ceiling.
Without thought, I leap over the edge of the balcony. My dress flares up around me like an obnoxious kite, and my stomach flips up into my throat as I plummet far too fast toward the stone. I scramble, twisting to claw at the temple façade in an effort to slow my fall. Dragging my nails and feet, I find purchase in one of the carved overhangs, slowing my descent enough that when I finally hit the ground, I don’t break every bone in my body.
My feet smart, but I yank at my skirts and sprint toward Zenni, pushing through pixies and city-dwellers and Silva Lucai alike.
“Zenni,” I whisper in horror when I reach her. Her trance-like stupor is more jarring this close. Children have a way of carrying themselves—their bodies are limber and unencumbered, not yet stiffened by societal expectations. But Zenni is entirely still,toostill, even as her eyes flick toward me at the sound of her name.
“Zenni, it’s Willa. Do you remember me? Can you hear me?”
There is no recognition in her gaze, nor any of the irreverent humor I’d loved. There is nothing light at all as she stares at me, and suddenly, I realize what the Aeternalis meant when he’d said he saved the last morsel.
Zenni is very nearly a Strayed.
My attention drops to the small flicker of light at her heart. It is no bigger than a droplet of rain, and acute fear grips me that it will be just as easy to lose.
I reach out to pull her to me, but stop myself short, remembering all too well what happened the last time I touched a child in the Aeternalis’ thrall. I cannot touch her without accidentally taking her magic. I have to be more intentional both in my touch and in using my power. This time, I have to paint carefully enough not to steal what creates her magic in the first place: her dreams.
The hesitation costs me.
