The last time I’d climbed onto him, he’d been thrashing from poison. And the time before that, we’d both been thrashing as I tried to bury my knife in his neck.
Now, I had to climb on to live.
I patted into the darkness and found his shoulder. He had turned his back toward me, and I lowered myself, wrapping my legs around his waist and clasping my hands at his neck.
His voice was right beside me. “Tighten your grip.”
“It’s tight.”
“Tighter. This will happen quickly, and I won’t be able to catch you if you lose your hold.”
I pressed myself closer, locking my arms beneath his chin. I grasped my opposite forearm with each hand. My mouth was next to his ear. “This is as good as it gets.”
He shifted his weight beneath me. “Close your eyes,” he said, low. “You’ll need to trust your other senses.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, Eury. Please.” His voice sounded strained and sincere.
Trust. I had to trust him to get through this.I won’t fail you, he’d said. I obeyed, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Good. Once we get to the bottom, I’ll give you a signal. Don’t speak—don’t scream—don’t make noise. Just think of a happy memory.”
My eyebrows rose. “Don’tscream?”
He ignored me and rose. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let go.”
He told me not to scream, and in the next sentence to think of a happy memory.
The past was impossible; I had never felt more present. Never felt more inside my own body.
When he started moving, the branch didn’t even creak. The leaves barely rustled. He moved so silently I could only tell by the pull of my own body—and I could feel every part of him in motion. His legs, running and dodging. His arms, swinging to balance. He ducked and surged forward, and we were airborne a moment before he landed on another branch with only the faintest groan of wood.
Then we began to descend. He jumped from branch to branch, sometimes a lateral leap, sometimes a drop. When we fell, I felt that dizzying weightlessness every time. Once he caught a smaller branch and swung us before we dropped again.
With each leap, my grip was tested. I was jarred again and again, forced to listen for the subtle shifts in his movement before he jumped. A few times my legs slipped loose and I felt my own death clawing at me before I wrapped tighter around him.
It felt endless. Would we ever reach the forest floor?
Finally, he stopped. His hand squeezed my forearm twice—that was the signal.
Don’t speak, don’t scream, don’t makenoise.
He dropped, and this time it was a longer fall than any of the others. I felt the difference when his boots struck ground: the jarring solidity of it, but also a strange comfort.
Still clutching him, I kept my eyes shut. I inhaled his scent and found it, unexpectedly, a comfort.
On the ground, Dorian took off through the inky darkness. He moved through the forest as silently as he had across the branches, which I almost couldn’t comprehend. As far as I could tell it was autumn here in Sylvanwild, and I’d seen dead leaves scattered everywhere.
I didn’t know where he was leading us. Away from the citadel, away from the other fae, yes. I hoped away from the Wild Hunt. But where to? I had no choice but to trust his knowledge of Sylvanwild.
As he ran the cloud cover thinned, and a faint brightness pressed against my eyelids. I frowned in the dark. Moonlight.
On instinct, I cracked my eyes open and the world snapped into harsh silver.
The clouds had parted fully, and the moon’s light poured down. It shone like daylight between the leaves and branches, throwing everything into stark relief.
And I understood why Dorian had told me not to scream.
