What did he used to be, he wonders, that this was all he needed?
The Devil’s Forest is a shadow in the north, embracing the valley, calling him.
Baeddan stands tall at the crest of this house he’s chosen, so the wind hits his sore chest and flaps the ends of his coat. The sun slithers through his hair, finding the antlers that circle his head, picking at the thorns grown from his collar, and transforming his mottled skin into something like a pearl, or unpolished amethyst, rough and beautiful.
Here in the sun, between the village at his feet and in view of the wicked Bone Tree, so far away and yet threaded through his heart, Baeddan feels wild and raw. Why did he not bring Mairwen Grace with him here, to hold his hand, to promise him this home again?
Spreading his arms, as if he is the embracing dark forest, as if he will hold Three Graces to his chest, protect it as he died to do, Baeddan whispers his name to himself.
In the center of the village, young Bree Lewis stares up at the devil from the spiral of cobblestones, thinking he’s come on black wings, come to destroy them all now that he’s free. She screams.
•••
RHUN WAKES WITHOUT FUSS. ONLYan opening of eyes.
Arthur kissed him. In the forest. He remembers perfectly now.
Something opens inside his chest, and Rhun thinks,I would have died for only that.
There’s heat and comfort at his back.
Slowly, it occurs to him that Arthur is stretched there, spine to spine; they lean together where the straw mattress sinks in the middle.
He sits carefully, sliding off the foot of the low mattress, and kneels there looking down at loose, sleeping Arthur Couch. How he used to long for such ease between them.
Arthur frowns, turning toward the warmth where Rhun’s body used to be.
Rhun touches Arthur’s ankle and feels the strength seep through his fingers again. No doubt this magic has connected their health and power not only to the bargain, but to each other. And somehow, Arthur doesn’t seem to mind.
The Grace cottage is quiet, sunlight pressing through the tiny loft window, diffused all throughout the room below him. He picks up his boots and creeps down the ladder. Haf Lewis dozes in a chair; Baeddan Sayer is vanished from the hearth. Rhun drinks down the dregs of a cup of cold tea before ducking into the rear bedroom. Mairwen’s ruined blue dress is in pieces on the floor, but Mair herself is gone.
Rhun goes outside to put on his boots. The borrowed trousers are slightly too long, so he tucks them in and swings his tattered hunting jacket over the new shirt. He scrubs at his face and pulls all his huge hair back, irritated to not have anything with which to tie it. It’s a wild cloud against his shoulders. He pulls apart handfuls and braids them loosely. The texture and sweat and dried blood keep the strands stiffly woven when he lets go.
Stomping out of the yard and up the first hill, Rhun takes stock of the valley: It all seems lovely and well. He should be filled with satisfaction, should be glad and awed because no matter what else, he ran into the Devil’s Forest four years before his time and survived.
But there’s a secret at the heart of the bargain. A lie.
Rhun hates both secrets and lies.
“I should’ve set fire to the Bone Tree when I had the chance,” Arthur says quietly behind him.
Rhun winces in the bright afternoon. “Maybe you tried and I didn’t let you.”
“That sounds about right.” Arthur laughs.
Sighing hard enough to shrug his shoulders, Rhun turns to his friend, who stands several steps away, slouched on one hip, scowling and chewing his bottom lip. Arthur looks ridiculous in the too-large shirt. But good.
“We should go home and get our own clothes,” Rhun says.
“I look so bad to you now?” Arthur spreads his arms out.
Rhun stares at him, at the sharp lines of his cheeks, his neck, the way the shirt presses to his ribs on the windy side and flutters on the other, at his spiky hair and bright blue eyes, at his mouth. He feels it still, but from that long distance where all his desires and needs and hopes live. He remembers the fork in the forest path and choosing to go after Arthur. “I think I died after all,” he says, rough and simple.
“My God, Rhun,” Arthur breathes. He closes the space between them and grasps Rhun’s shoulders, then his neck, thumbs pressed to Rhun’s jaw.
“Get off him!” Rhun cries, tearing at Baeddan’s hair and coat, ripping him off the fallen Arthur. Baeddan growls, and Arthur goes wild, knife up, sneering, and lurches forward again—
Rhun closes his eyes tightly, bowing his head, and Arthur puts his face nearer. “Rhun,” he says. “You didn’t die. You’re here, with us. With me. Stop being dramatic.”
