And Clover came through. He did exactly what he had said he’d do. He held the blood-slick rib tightly in one hand while the other cupped Asphodel’s cheek as he murmured comforting words to her. Before their eyes, Asphodel’s ribregrew, then her skin patched itself up, and all the color returned to her face. It was as if none of this had ever happened. Except for the bone in Clover’s hand—which he then fitted into the groove on the door.
The door opened.
Kai and Luce were almost through it, called to it like magnets by the pull of that damn song, when Kai looked back to Clover and Asphodel expectantly. Asphodel was sitting up, still a little faint and frail, but alive, at least. Her feet dangled from the basalt columns, barely touching the ground. She braced herself on Clover’sarm, trying to stand, but Clover kept her there, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“You did well,” he said in a low voice, though still loud enough for Kai to hear.
Suddenly Kai doubled over, feeling that conduit between him and Clover open. Luce, too, was bent at the waist, her hand shooting out to grab Kai’s arm as all the power knocked out of them like a gut punch.
“What’s happening?” she breathed.
The shimmering threads linking them both to Clover crackled like live wires as they normally did, yet this was worse than any other time Clover had fed on their power. But as much as it was affecting Kai and Luce, it was nothing compared to what he was doing to Asphodel.
The witch screamed as all the bones in her bodysnapped, bending and rearranging at odd angles. For a second Kai thought it might be the Sculptress’s doing, that Asphodel was somehow being reshaped the way witchlings were said to be when they were buried.
But by the look in Clover’s eyes, the intensity with which he was focused on Asphodel, it was clear this was his doing.
“You were right, dear Asphodel,” Clover said with a tremor in his voice, a slight note of pity or regret. “I will lead our worlds to salvation. But for that, I need to make myself into someone stronger than all the gods. Your physical bone was enough to open the door, but you still have a piece of the power I need. A piece of the Sculptress.”
“I don’t understand!” Asphodel cried.
“The Tides’ blood, the Sculptress’s bone, the Forger’s heart, the Celestials’ soul. I must gather all these pieces into one vessel. Intome. Only then will I be able to heal these worlds.”
Clover shimmered in ethereal light that poured into him fromKai and Luce, as if they were powering him up, making him strong enough to do what he did next: he lay a hand on Asphodel’s cheek, holding her head as her body spasmed uncontrollably. He shut his eyes, his throat bobbing with emotion. When he opened them again, they were hard. Resolute. “Forgive me.”
Asphodel went limp as he snapped her neck.
The crack resonated like thunder. A weighted silence followed, before a whoosh of power erupted from Asphodel. Kai shielded his eyes as a maelstrom of dirt and vines and leaves enveloped both Asphodel and Clover. When it dissipated, there was nothing left of Asphodel’s body but the clothes she had worn.
As if she’d disintegrated into earth and greenery—the power of the Wychwood itself, which clung to Clover in swirling tendrils, until at last it seeped into him fully.
He hadimbibedAsphodel. All her power. Everything that she was.
When Clover turned to Kai and Luce, his eyes flashed in an unnatural way. As if he really was a demon.
A god in the making.
The shimmering bonds between them fell away, leaving Kai and Luce panting, holding on to each other for strength.
“What did you do?” Luce asked in a tremulous voice.
Clover merely righted his clothes, brushing dirt from his sleeves. “What I must.”
10EMORY
STARS BLURRED OUT EMORY’S SIGHT, a tide of pain threatening to pull her under. She fought back, desperate to stay afloat, to remain alert. Disorienting shadows and smoke and dust swirled around her. Her ears rang, and she couldn’t tell where Clover was, couldn’t hear any of her friends in the cave above.
There were scorch marks on the ground, as if the lightning bolt had burned through the very rock. In the midst of the blast, at the very origin of it, was a young man. He crouched in the thick cloud of smoke, head in his lap, holding his knees as he rocked slowly back and forth. Emory could only see his back. Bare and corded with lean muscles, skin darkened by soot.
Slowly, she approached him, ignoring the alarm bells in her head and choosing instead to follow this instinctive pull. When she was near enough to touch him, to hear what sounded like quiet sobs coming from him, she realized it was not soot that marred his skin, but wisps of shadows. They dissipated as if on a breeze, revealing pale skin smattered with copper freckles.
And a tapestry of silver spirals.
They were carved all over his back, painful-looking scars, brands that shone faintest silver. They looked new, the skin raw beneath the light pouring from the wounds. Spirals big and small ran all over his shoulders and arms and neck. He wore dark pants and nothing else, barefoot and trembling. His head was still buried in his lap, and he did not appear to hear Emory’s approach, did not flinch or look up as she lay her hand gently on his shoulder.
Only when Emory crouched before him did he lift his head to meet her gaze.
She wasn’t surprised at the ecliptic eyes; had known it was him in some primal way. And she knew instinctively that this was no possession as it had been with Keiran. This was Sidraeus in his true form.
