Chapter 47
THE LABYRINTH IS quieter, darker, slower without the Collector. It’s hard to rest without their watchful presence—I’m always on alert. And inside, there’s this constant clench of my chest, my stomach. They died so I could get through that door.
I’m so plagued by the final image of them and the sounds of the Devourer, I only dully observe how there are fewer signs of corruption on this tier.
When I take a break, I flick restlessly through my notebook. I’m sure this stuff, whatever it is, starts as flickers of non-reflection blooming across the stone. Then comes the ooze, then the sharp little mold-like filaments.
The Devourer’s condition deteriorated in the space of mere days. It’s like the corruption has infected it.
But how? And what is it?
I don’t even know where to start on that problem.
The attempt is a comfort, though. Theorizing. Speculating. Skimming over my notes.
Logic and observation are perfect distractions from…
Ah. And now I’m no longer distracted.
The Collector. Lowen. My heart feels like a broken vase, shards crunching around in my chest, a fresh slice with each movement.
Sleep refuses to come, so I drag myself to my feet and set off once more.
The sun is nearing its zenith when I hear a faint noise. I freeze. The Devourer? It got up the broken staircase—I wouldn’t be surprised if it found a way past the barred passageway.
Breath held, I cock my head.
Not a screech. Not hoofbeats. It sounds like… flowing water?
Cold, hard dread locks around me. Another scrying challenge.
I’m not ready for another trial. Not with this weight in my chest. But tomorrow is my penultimate day and I haven’t even reached the last level, never mind the final gate.
Ready or not, I have to face it.
I take a sip of water and rub my chest, wishing I had some memento of the Collector—some little reassurance that they were here and we got so far together.
There is nothing. Just my memories.
Keeping them fresh, close, even though it burns my eyes, I approach the distant sound.
I think I catch the sweet scent of honeysuckle and lavender. But that isn’t possible. The smell must be clinging to my clothes.
The air hazes. I slow, caution in my steps and draw my little knife. Not that it will do much good, but I feel less vulnerable with naked steel.
At the next corner, I angle the polished blade to try and peer round, but what it shows me doesn’t make sense.
Green.
There is nothing green in the labyrinth.
I ease around the corner and—
There is absolutely green.
Leafy fruit trees shade a sunny courtyard full of plants I could spend an hour naming. Honeysuckle clambers over an arbor. A young willow tree weeps over a glistening stream that emanates from a fountain in the far wall.
It’s beautiful.
And that’s what makes me cry.
Because the Collector would’ve loved this. There’s even jasmine, like they mentioned from one of their dream-memories. I turn, taking it in, writing it in my heart alongside my memories of them and find a slash of darkness in the midst of all this light and color.
Drystan.
He stands there, brows pinched as he takes in my tear-stained cheeks. His arms open and I don’t even want to resist.
I fall into them. Into him. Let him catch me and hold me and stroke my hair.
I choke out something unintelligible about the Collector. About my brother. About how it’s too much. Too heavy. Too thick in my throat and lungs, in my damn veins, like grief and fear have infected my blood.
He listens, kisses the crown of my head, forms something solid I can lean some of this weight against.
And once I’m talked out, he peels back and asks so gently, it brings fresh tears to my eyes, “Do you want to forget for a while?”
I’m looking up and nodding before I even think. The weight is unbearable. I need to set it down. He sounds so reasonable. And I’m so tired. “Please.”
He gives a small, sad smile and inclines his head. His hand envelops my cheek, thumb smearing my tears. “Let’s both forget a while. What’s brought us here. The sacrifices. The hurt and the hate that dogs our tracks.”
Fingers entwined through mine, he guides me to the stream. The water glitters, mesmerizing. “These waters strip away the heaviest memories—for a time.” His deft fingers work on the buttons of my clothing. “Each mote is a memory carried by the stream.”
Color flashes in the glistening particles, and I wonder how many have shed memories into its burbling waters.
“Have you…?” I finish the question by raising my eyebrows at him as he strips away my coat and discards it on the bank.
“A few times. After her… I came here often.” My shirt is next. “Sometimes we need respite from the unbearable weight of being.”
Perhaps I can use that respite to make better headway this afternoon—unlike this morning’s slog.
Soon, I’m naked, sun bathing me, while Drystan peels away his layers.
He’s everything this garden is not. White skin, black hair, black tattoos—stark and cold against the teaming life, the bright flowers, the soft breeze.
Yet there is warmth to his skin now, like he’s reflecting this place.
And much as there is life here in the plants, life also needs death.
That’s why our garden has a compost heap—a place to gather the trimmings and dead wood.
A space for gentle moldering and rich loam, ready to scatter on next season’s crops to ensure a better harvest.
So he might stand out here. But he still belongs. The death in life. The glow in his eyes and warmth in his skin marking the life in death.
“Come.” He steps down into the stream, then turns and offers his hand.
“It’s… only temporary, right?” To lose the Collector forever would be a betrayal. And to forget Lowen? Unthinkable.
“A few hours at most. Just don’t drink the water.”
A few hours will let me rest and get some good headway toward the final level before it all comes back.
I let him guide me down into the water.
It’s chilly, raising goosebumps as soon as my toes enter.
The stream seems to burble along gently, but as my thighs enter, it tugs on me, like much faster flowing water.
It reaches my chest, and Drystan steadies me, his broad back a barrier breaking the worst of its force.
There’s this snatching sensation to it, like something in the water has tiny fingers that pinch ever so lightly.
I frown. It isn’t working. I still feel like… like…
A deep, fresh breath fills me. It’s like I’ve never breathed before. Like my lungs have found new capacity. Like they’re free.
Blinking, I look up at Drystan. He watches me intently, and I’m struck afresh by his beauty, like I’ve never seen it before.
I know I have, but it’s as though I’ve never truly taken it in.
The strength of his jaw and cheekbones. The severe line of his nose and brows.
He could be carved from stone, a statue to an uncaring god.
Except for his eyes.
They are not uncaring. Not as they trail over me. Nor his hands. They cradle my back, hold me close, graze up my spine. One cups my cheek, bathing it in the stream’s cooling water. “Are you all right?” His chest rises and falls: long, slow, deep.
Colors flash in the water. So pretty. So bright. Something that was within me feels like it’s drifting further away. There are names, but they’re buffed out, smoothed into soft sounds. Pa. Annem. Lowen. Collector.
Even as I think them, they get further away, carried into the distance like clouds. Not something I need to worry about.
I nod at Drystan, loop my arms around his waist, enjoy the slip of wet skin upon wet skin, the precision cut of his lithe muscles.
“Good,” he murmurs, thumb tracing a line to my chin. With ease, he lifts me on to the bank, into the warm sunlight, and follows a moment later.
He turns me and I find a soft rug has appeared on the bank, covering the black stone paving that peeks between the grass and creeping thyme.
There’s a picnic laid out and glasses of something gold and sparkling with condensation running down the side.
Cushions and blankets practically invite me to lie down.
We lie. We eat. We drink. The gold stuff is fizzy elderflower, sweet, refreshing, perfect.
Something tugs on my thoughts, but I shake my head and it slips past.
Drystan sits propped on the cushions and talks, almost like he’s a normal person. He’s softer, calmer, easier than I’ve ever known. Though when he catches me admiring the way the sunlight gleams on his tattoos and shoulders, he gives me this half smile that’s edged with danger.
It buzzes through me. A thrill. A need.
He sets aside his glass and watches me from beneath his dark lashes. “Come here.”
The buzz licks through me now, a lightning strike along my nerves. I obey. Not because he ordered, but because I want.
As soon as they’re in reach, he captures my wrists and pulls them around his neck, making me fall against his chest. “There,” he murmurs against my lips before he captures those too.
The scent of thyme crushed beneath us rises, mingling with refreshing, sweet elderflower.
Everything else wafts further and further away, pushed out by the sensation of his lips on mine, his tongue, his body, his hands skimming down my arms, my shoulders, my spine, over my backside and guiding my legs apart until I’m straddling him, the evidence of his arousal building between us.
He kisses my cheek, my jaw, the sinew of my neck, licking and nibbling and breathing so deeply it’s like he’s trying to inhale my entire being.
“Your scent, Avellan. Fuck, it’s…” He shudders a breath out and squeezes my backside, pulling me along his hardening length. “Intoxicating. Maddening. Devastating.”
I whimper at the way he glides along my slick wetness. “Devastating?” I barely manage the syllables. “That makes it sound bad.”