He stretches next to Rhun, between both of them and the rest of the world.
•••
MOONLIGHT CRAWLS ALONG THE TWISTEDblack branches overhead, glowing along shelves of fungus and patches of scarlet lichen. They’re all headed toward each other: Arthur and Rhun, muddy and damp, follow a bird woman who shrieked at them, singing songs created of Mairwen’s name, until they agreed to follow; Mairwen pants with a heady combination of exhilaration and fear on the heels of a devil who grins at her with sharp teeth, touches her with tenderness, and laughs and laughs and laughs.
“There, there!” crows the devil, throwing his arms out. “I told you, Mairwen Grace, that I could find your saint.”
The bird woman flares her wings to turn, fleeing for her life, and Arthur skids to a halt. Rhun puts a hand on a nearby tree, shoulders heaving because of the wound on his thigh slowing him down. “Mair,” Arthur says, but all Rhun sees is the devil. He notches his ready arrow.
Even as Arthur and Mairwen slam together in a relieved embrace, the devil lashes out, and Rhun shoots.
His aim is true as always, and the arrow hits the devil’s shoulder, piercing his black leather coat.
“Rhun!” cries Mairwen.
The devil roars, tearing the arrow free, only to be hit with another.
Arthur hears the note of distress in Mairwen’s voice—he hears her fear not only for Rhun, but for the devil, and anger makes him shove her away to grab his last long knife. He joins Rhun in the attack.
Everywhere the devil’s skin breaks, purple blood bursts forth, and green vines, tendrils curling and trailing tiny leaves and tinier petals.
The devil is unhurt by the wounds, though he screams and roars, though he bleeds. The devil stabs Rhun with his own arrow and knocks Arthur back with a hard punch. Rhun brings out his ax, and the devil catches his wrist, squeezing almost hard enough to break bone. The devil grins, dancing in place. “You will taste good, saint. You will fill this forest with life again.”
Arthur leaps onto the devil’s back, arms around his neck. The devil swings, throwing himself around and against Rhun.
“Stop it, now,” orders Mairwen, dragging at the devil’s arm.
The devil steps toward her. “Go, get out of here,” she says to the boys. “Keep running.”
“No,” the devil growls, pushing her away to face Rhun again.
“Go!” Mairwen screams.
Rhun barely hears through his focus. The devil is unaffected by blood loss and injury, looming over him and Arthur with smears of blood over his face. There are antlers in his hair and thorns growing from his chest, and his black eyes are impossibly dark, reflecting nothing of life or light back.
“We aren’t leaving you,” Arthur says.
But Mairwen reaches around the devil and slaps her hand flat against his chest. “Baeddan Sayer. Stop.”
Something shifts in the devil, and the devil blinks. Awareness, like a man might have, not a monster, is the thing Rhun sees, and it terrifies him more than anything else, though he does not know why.
The devil shakes like a wet dog. “Mairwen, Mairwen, I cannot stop I will eat them I want their bones I want to be free!”
Mair slips around to the devil’s front, nudging Rhun away with her boot. “I know. I know. Take me away from here. Let me help you, Baeddan.”
And Rhun hears it, suddenly: The name penetrates his battle rush. His cousin, the saint, his beautiful cousin who taught him to love everything. He sees it in the line of the devil’s crooked Sayer nose, the shape of his shoulders. “Oh my God,” Rhun breathes.
“God!” echoes the devil in despair.
Rhun twists his wrist out of Arthur’s hand. “It’s not possible.”
Arthur says, “It’s a trick. It must be.”
“Saint!” cries the devil, and Rhun leaps away. The devil claws at the saint, tearing at Rhun’s back.
Rhun’s knees give out and he falls through a fire of pain. Arthur barely catches him, and Mairwen slaps the devil’s chest again, demanding his attention.
“Go! I’ll be fine—I have been these last hours. Trust me,” she says to Arthur.
