It had fallen asleep, worn to the weary bone.
He sat very still among the roots of the oak, his skin still covered in cuts and bloody letters from a story now too smudged to read. Rose petals flaked from his left eye, and the thorny vines had gone brittle now that there was so much less blood to drink. His bare skin had turned to cold alabaster, hislong, delicate fingers absently tracing the branches grown from his split-open stomach.
“It will stop hurting soon,” he said to the quiet between the trees.
They didn’t answer; they were just trees again. All that was left of the monsters were broken wishbones and carved-out teeth scattered among the roots.
They’d devoured each other in this forest, these boys so ravenous and defiant and tearful, they’d not known how to stop. The way Andrew loved Thomas was terrible and eternal, but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever said that out loud.
“Remember you love me.” His words felt so small and sleepy against the forest’s dawn. “All my stories are about you. They will always be about you.”
He ran his fingers through Thomas’s curls, his movements slow and careful so he didn’t disturb the careful way he’d arranged Thomas’s head in his lap. They were both so tired, they needed this moment just to rest.
He carefully slipped his hand into Thomas’s and laced their fingers so they fit, scarred knuckles against freckled ones, both stained with forest dirt and blood. He kissed the back of Thomas’s hand, tender and aching. They were beautiful together; they were magic and monstrous, and they had created a whole vengeful world between them.
Andrew lowered his head so his mouth was close to Thomas’s ear. “Wake up. I need you to tell me if we’re real.”
Thomas didn’t open his eyes, but his face had gone soft; all that fierce anger and lonesome fear slipped away.
“Kiss me,” he said, low and sleepy. “Then you’ll find out.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I left a piece of my heart in this dark little book. If you’ve turned the last page and are now frowning at the wall, then everything is as it should be. I suggest not going near any trees for a while and keeping a tight hold of your eyes.
This book exists with deep and humble thanks to so many people. Thank you to Emily Settle for loving these horrible, beautiful boys; I am beyond grateful to work with you. To Claire Friedman, Jana Heidersdorf, Meg Sayre, Aurora Parlagreco, Helen Seachrist, Raymond Colón, Jackie Dever, Zhui Ning Chang, and Tara Gilbert, for all your work to make this book the best it can be.
Much thanks also goes to Maraia, Melissa, Kelsea, and Samantha. Thank you for telling me to be brave, for listening, for reading; I don’t know what I’d do without you. And to my parents, for supporting me so much.
And to you, reader, thank you. May this one haunt you.
I.
The Antler King was a terrible creature, pulled straight from the wicked deep of the forest, and it hunted with vicious intensity.
Where it stood, grass wilted. Where it prowled, shadows festered. It sharpened its teeth on whetstones and polished its hooves in spilt blood. The weight of its inverted antler crown was monstrous, and the sharp tips often pierced its own skull and sent blood running from its eyes. But it had grown used to the pain.
Nothing pleased the Antler King more than when its prey ran and it could give chase. It liked to feel their fast-beating hearts under delicate rib bones before it snapped their bodies in two. When the prey cried prettily, the Antler King carved off their faces with a knife made of its own horns.
Few ventured into the forest for fear of this monstrous creature. But when it hungered, it crawled out of the rotten places between roots and mossy hollows and came for them anyway.
In the end, the villagers struck a bargain with the Antler King. They offered it a tithe of one mortal every month if it remained in the wicked deep and left them alone. The Antler King agreed. Finally, there was peace between village and forest—aside from the twelve who were tithed and died weeping each year. But all agreed it was for the best.
No one dared ask why the Antler King stole faces, and it never told.
The monster often sat by a frog-lily pond and placed the skinned faces over its own to see what it would look like if it could be human.
II.
Once an ancient crown had been lost to the woods and now lay grown through with roots and vines and feathered with soft moss. After a thousand years, the gold had tarnished and the opals had cracked. In the summer, fairy foxglove entwined with the crown’s elegant curves, and in winter, snowflakes danced on its pointed tips. Many searched through the glens to find it, but unfortunately for them, the thistle fairies got to it first.
They crawled over the crown with glee, scraping their long, needle-sharp teeth on the gold and polishing the opals to a shine with their shimmering, incandescent wings. For theywantedthe crown to be found.
A traveler stumbled upon the crown first and picked it up with awe, brushing off the moss and holly berries and setting it upon his head with delight. He didn’t notice the tiny thistle fairies perched all over the crown.
The attack came swiftly. The thistle fairies detached in a wave from the crown and flew at the traveler’s face and neck, sinking their teeth into his veins and drinking hungrily. Many underestimated these monstrous little green creatures with their faces as sharp as the tines of forks. In a few swift minutes, the traveler’s blood was drained and his body rotted into the ground among the mushrooms and moss.
Next, a farmer picked up the crown and met the same fate.
