There!
It was the pixie-like woman who carried grief and sorrow in her executioner-tree voice.
The wall shifted. It spun. It slanted and grasped. The pixie-like woman tilted her head as if she were listening to the mournful gasps of 107 dying men. Then she slowly turned toward the shifting, spinning, slanting wall.
The wind shrieked and darted forward, grabbing the black cuff of her shirtsleeve.
The wall recoiled at the pixie-like woman’s smile. Then it lashed out, and the viscous heart of the wall gobbled them whole, sucking them into its Den of Depravity.
They landed with a jarring, bone-rattling force. The pixie-like woman somersaulted, her limbs flailing, her teeth snapping. The wind smacked into the earth, splattering dirt and coughing in the tumult. The woman knocked the wind to the side, and it catapulted over spraying gravel.
Finally, the woman skidded to a stop. The wind panted next to her. It was dizzy and out of sorts. The pixie-like woman wasn’t much better. Her shirt was ripped, and it flapped freely in the wind, baring her stomach. Her face was streaked with dirt, and gravel had torn her skin. She pressed a hand to her temple and winced.
“Oi! New one! Get o’er here!”
The wind shrieked at the croaking, querulous shout. It shook itself off, spraying more dirt, and then nudged the pixie-like woman. She lifted her gaze in the direction of the shouting creature.
It was a strange place. A strange den. The wind had never visited a Den of Depravity before, but it had heard the stories. It was supposed to be a place that enchanted and enticed until it swallowed you whole. It was a place that dazzled and lured, like a moth devoured by a flame.
This place was not beautiful. It didn’t dazzle.
The wind sniffed. The air was thick with the perfume of star jasmine, as if the wind had just sped down the anther of its flower and rolled in its sweet pollen scent. The odor was dizzying. It was a cotton-candy, spinning-teacup smell.
Black, ropelike clouds churned overhead, blocking everything but the thinnest stream of light. The wind had once traveled through a fetid, decaying swamp, where thick vines had choked every bit of life and light until the trees were bones, the leaves were husks, and every living thing that remained shied away from the ghostly light. The black-rope clouds reminded the wind of those deadly vines.
The ground, of course, was dry—lifeless dirt and gravel. Usually, the wind could hear insects scrambling, worms tunneling, seeds unfurling, and roots seeking water. But the soil here was as lifeless and silent as a closed, airtight coffin.
This was a dangerous place. A place that had never seen the wind. It didn’t want to stay longer than necessary.
It nudged the pixie-like woman.
“I said get o’er here! Line up. Do you want to die?”
The wind huffed at the shouting creature. There was no need to be impolite. The pixie-like woman had twisted her ankle when she fell. It was obvious in the purple and blue bruises mottling her skin. Her ankle throbbed with heat and was already swelling. The wind sent a cooling breeze over it.
“Are you talking to me?” the pixie-like woman asked.
She was surprised. The wind was surprised too. Since the moment she’d stepped out of her lightning-split tree, no man had ever spoken to her so impolitely.
The creature barred his teeth and marched across the barren ground. He grabbed the woman by her arm and yanked her upright, shaking her so hard her teeth rattled.
She winced and hopped on one foot as he dragged her across the gravel to a long line of miserable-looking beings.
The pixie-like woman was a small being. If she was mistaken for a human, people assumed she was a short human. Her cheeks were round. Her face was heart-shaped. Her black hair was closely cropped. She had smooth, glowing skin and wide, luminous eyes. She was pretty like a porcelain doll was pretty. However, no one had ever mistaken the pixie-like woman for something as harmless as a doll.
She stumbled against the grandmotherly woman in front of her, and the grandmother knocked into a young man.
“Watch it,” he snapped.
“Are you all right, dear?” the grandmother asked.
The pixie-like woman gingerly set her right foot on the ground and then covered a wince as she stood on both feet. “Fine, thank you,” she said. Then, before the shouting man could leave: “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone.”
“Don’t care.”
The pixie-like woman raised her eyebrows. “His name is Justice Marr. He’s about six inches taller than you.” She held her hand in the air to show his height. “Russet hair.”
“What’s russet?”
