I’m oblivious to my surroundings, lost in my own darkness. A surge of warmth consumes me as I watch her limbs give up their struggle, falling limp, a clump of my hair tangled in her fingers. Her thighs twitch and jerk beneath me. But she’s still conscious, still holding on, the blackness of her gaze an unsettling threat.
Then rough hands grip my waist and pull. Zandrite.
“I’m not done!” I hold tight, clutching her neck, clinging to the cool hug of darkness.
So he goes for my hair. He rips me off her and hauls me away, leaving my mother gasping for air. “That’s enough, you savage little thing,” he says.
I reach for her, raking air, trying to hold onto that black emptiness that fills me so beautifully. But every sensation returns.
They all catch up with me—the stinging scratches. The formation of bruises. And the burn in my scalp as Zandrite drags me through the cave by my hair. Coen tips himself over and reaches toward me the best he can with his arms restrained, rope looped around his torso. He’s just short of clutching my arm. Sola thrashes next to him, unable to help.
Zandrite continues down a dirt hallway. I try to scramble to my feet and take hold of his arms to reduce the pull on my hair, but he whips me to the side whenever I get close.
I’m sobbing by the time we reach the bottom of a long, spiral dirt ramp and enter a circular room. He tosses me to the ground. The cold air is sharp and unforgiving, the earth beneath my body loose and moist, not packed and hard like everywhere else in the Underbroke. I curl into myself and assess the space, my chance of survival.
Metal cages ring the room, each with creatures inside. They’re tall and built like Vaile from head to toe, but wholly vicious with a curved horn on either side of their heads. No hair or fur hides their mottled gray skin. Clawed hands and feet scratch the metal floor below them. They snort and grunt at our arrival, wedging their noses between the bars, more congested with every labored breath. Two serrated fangs extend down their chins.
Not good. Not good at all.
Zandrite stands behind me. “Get up.”
I don’t know if I can. Everything hurts. The effects of maturing and linking with no release are worsening. Every pump of blood to and from my heart burns like acid. My ears buzz. My skin itches. My floating head might explode. And I’d welcome it. I cover my ears and hold in a scream.
Down on one knee, Zandrite puts his godly face near mine. His voice easily makes it past my hands. “I know you’re linking with him. That’s why he wanted you close.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m only dying,” I rasp, dropping my arms.
“Not yet, but soon.” He pets my hair, and I slap him away. “I almost want to spare you purely to see how it all plays out. I’m not as bad as you think, spawn of Malachite.”
What is he going on about? “You’re going to kill me. How is that not bad?”
He pushes my hair behind my ear and traces my jaw, twisted affection in his touch. “You would do the same in my situation.” Would I? I shy away, but his touch continues, his eyes squinting in thought. “I do wish I could keep you for my collection of rare beings, but you’re my only means of escape from the Mortal Realm. I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of years waiting to get revenge. It’s time for me to go home. First, though, I have a gift for you.”
How sentimental of him. “Keep it,” I sneer.
“Really? It’s the only piece of your father you’ll know before you die.”
His choice of words is disturbing, but I muster the strength to sit up. “What is it?”
It’s not the sneaky way he pulls it from his pocket that has me forgetting how to breathe, or how he holds it in his palm so casually. It’s not even the stringy pink muscles coming off the back. It’s the way my birthmark burns on my chest, straight through the layers of disbelief, the same way my necklace heats when Eli touches it.
Zandrite rolls an eyeball back and forth in his hand then plops it into mine. “The Eye of Malachite.”
It’s smooth and moist as if it just popped out of the socket, the blue-black iris gleaming. I scratch wildly at the depression between my ribs with my other hand. Where my birthmark is. The one shaped like an eye.
Panic is a joke. I’m so far past that.
I squeeze it, briefly wondering if an eyeball can burst. “Why do you have his eye, you sick freak?”
“Legend says, once Malachite looks upon you, death is only a blink away. So before I was banished, I carved it from his face to spite him.”
“Hundreds of thousands of years ago? It doesn’t look more than an hour old.”
“My body is just as old, and look how well-preserved I am.” He sits back proudly with a flex of his muscles then glances around the room at the sniffing creatures. “Speaking of preservation, your death can’t be too messy. I need every drop of essence from you. No blood, minimal bruising.”
Cold death infiltrates my thoughts, my body frozen with some sort of stoic terror. Where’s the brightness when I need it—Milo’s smile and sweet soul? Kaleida’s stories and passion? Kelter’s quiet presence? Eli’s relentless claim to me between those panicked looks and studly smirks? How does everything go so wrong?
Zandrite lifts my drained body onto his lap and presses a kiss to my forehead, like a father might. “You were born from death. Do not fear it.”
