Chapter 6
6
I WHIP AROUND, SQUINTING THROUGH the cerulean glow as my pulse begins to climb. Only minutes have passed since I felt Zephyrus’ solidity beside me. Now? I cannot pick out his head of oaken curls, nor his fluid, slim-hipped gait among the trees.
“Zephyrus?”
The blue strands sway, bright beads nestled in translucent casings. There is a distinct lack of wind.
I’m moving before I realize it, my pace surging to match my racing heart. I’m running, sprinting , feet pounding the grass in a furious rhythm. By the time I return to the lake I feel ill, ensnared once more by the red glare flooding the massive cavern. The fair folk, with their horns and claws and teeth, continue to slink across the floating platform, gulping wine with abandon.
My dagger is all that grounds me. What are the odds that, were I to draw my weapon, I could fight my way out of here alive? The fair folk are incredibly swift, impossibly strong. I may be experienced with a blade, but I am mortal. I cannot fight my way forward, for I do not know the way.
Something brushes my neck. I whirl, blade extended, to face a rotund creature with white skin the texture of parchment.
“Red,” coos the creature—a girl. The tips of one clawed hand tangle in my copper hair. I recoil, imagining the lash of those talons across my throat, a scarlet line that swells, then bursts with blood.
The girl smiles, twisting one of my curls around her knobby finger. She is tiny, with a face made of points. She wears a loose white dress beneath a fraying waistcoat. Her hair, the same snowy shade as her eyebrows, has been lopped at the chin.
Thankfully, she steps away, tilting back her head to look at me. “Do I frighten you?”
It seems too innocent a question. The fair folk cannot lie, though I’ve heard they’re able to sense untruths regardless.
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. I fear Zephyrus has abandoned me to this place.
Her lips part to reveal a mass of rotting gums. “Wonderful,” she sings. “Absolutely wonderful.” Slipping her small hand into mine, she tugs me through the crowd. We skirt the edge of the rocky shore, pushing through a group of creatures with necks encircled by rings of thorns. Their pierced skin weeps blood.
“How are you enjoying Under, sweet?” The girl appears unaffected by the incessant drumbeat and wild cries.
“It is… unusual,” I say.
She pats my arm in comfort. “And this is only the beginning. Soon, we will have our tithe. But you know this, coming from the abbey.”
“How do you know I’m from the abbey?”
“Your dress. It is quite drab—no offense intended.” A pause. “What is this?” She lifts the ends of the white cord around my waist.
“It’s called a cincture,” I reply stiffly. There must be something I can do, a way to escape this place. “I mean no insult, but what manner of creature are you?”
“I am what they call a sprite.” She does not appear offended. Pleased, rather. Practically gleeful from the attention. “My mother was a nymph. She taught me everything there is to know of the healing arts. Unfortunately, I never knew my father. I was hatched from an egg along the lakeshore.” She rubs the crown of her head against my shoulder like a cat. “What about your parents? What manner of creature are they?”
I do not know who my father is. As for my mother, I try not to think of her. Most days, I’m successful. “They are human.”
“How quaint.” She hums as a drink appears in her hand, though I did not see anyone place it there. Her white fingers curl around the glass, which contains a dark, viscous liquid.
We’ve stalled near the fringe of the celebration, where the shore has climbed to a natural outcropping jutting from the wall. From this vantage point, I’m given an unobstructed view of the chamber. Its hollow holds fast to echoes. The lake appears still despite the activity rocking the platform, and the reddish lights swirling inside the spheres that dot the lake’s surface appear restless, seeking escape.
The sprite turns to me. “You must be thirsty.” A harmless smile, meant to reassure.
I accept the glass with a nod of gratitude and make a show of taking a sip. My lips, however, remain pressed firmly shut. Lowering the drink, I search for a man dressed in a green cloak, but Zephyrus is well and truly gone.
“Good?” the sprite wonders. I nod vaguely and abandon the glass on the ledge, then begin to wander back toward the boardwalk. Every so often I glance down to make sure I keep to the grass.
“You seem melancholy, sweet.” She presses her nose to my shoulder and inhales. “What is your name?”
The answer materializes fully formed in my mouth. I only need to let it unfurl.
What was it Zephyrus told me? Does it even matter?
“Lissi?” A hulking creature with ram horns curling from its skull pushes through the throng. Its chest is round as a barrel, agleam with sweat. Upon catching sight of me, its eyes narrow. “Who is this?”
“Don’t even think about it,” the sprite snaps. “I found her first.”
The horned beast takes me in suspiciously. “A mortal. But the tithe is still two months away.” Its voice is so deeply resonant I feel its reverberation down to the soles of my feet.
“I’m looking for Zephyrus,” I say.
“Zephyrus?” The sprite wrinkles her nose. “You’d be better off without him. He is not one to trust.”
Neither are they. “Why is he untrustworthy?”
The sprite—Lissi—takes a delicate sip, then proceeds to chomp through the glass with satisfaction. I watch, in horror and fascination, as a black, worm-like tongue slithers out to lick the blood from her lips. “Oh, sweet! Haven’t you wondered why one of the Anemoi has found himself bound to Under?”
“The Anemoi?” I do not understand.
“Leave it, Lissi.” The ram-horned creature slaps its meaty hand upon her shoulder. I’m surprised her knees don’t buckle. “The girl is the abbess’ property. Do not meddle.”
What a strange thing to say. I am no one’s property.
Lissi scowls. “Hush, Balfer. A little information never hurt anyone.” She angles toward me. “You have heard the tales, haven’t you?”
As a matter of fact, I have not. There is no mention of this strange word in the Text.
“The Anemoi,” she says, “are four brothers who were banished to this world millennia ago. You might have heard them called the Four Winds? Zephyrus is known as the West Wind.”
The Four Winds. Why does that sound familiar? “Why were these men banished?”
“Not men, sweet. Gods .”
Zephyrus, a god? Of all the absurd claims I have heard, this tops it. “You must be mistaken.”
“But I am not. You know him as Zephyrus. We know him as the Messenger, or the Bringer of Spring.”
“That’s enough, Lissi. Let the girl be.” He grasps the child’s slim arm. “This is between her abbess and our king. We do not want to be caught in the middle of it.”
The sprite hesitates. Fear is an emotion I know most intimately. I sense it in the taut line of her back. Eventually, however, she nods. “Very well. Luck to you, sweet. Try not to wander too far.”
Turning on her heel, the sprite saunters off with her burly companion, leaving me with so many questions my head begins to pound.
Zephyrus is a god. From another realm.
If he is not from Under, where does he hail from? Lissi mentioned that he is bound to this world. As punishment, or as a precaution?
I’m so lost in thought I pay little attention to my wanderings. I’ve returned to the woods. The strands of blue lights brush my shoulders, and a strange sound intrudes, giving me pause. Movement in my periphery draws my eye.
Beneath the draping branches there sits an ornate, four-poster bed swathed in a panoply of blankets. Atop the bed, two figures lie intertwined.
The woman is bare: dark skin, silver hair, voluptuous curves. She lies spread over the white blankets, chest heaving. Her nipples peak—large areolas, rosy tips. She turns her face toward me, eyes pinched shut.
A man, equally bare, kneels between her parted thighs. His wheaten skin ripples across a muscled back, and beneath his round, soft stomach hangs his erection, a flushed protrusion that juts from a coarse thatch of brown hair. Two short antlers sprout from a head of tight sable curls.
From this angle, I watch a serpentine tongue slither from his mouth. As soon as the forked end skims the wet glisten of her flesh, her hips drive upward, a hoarse cry cracking the air.
A warm flush suffuses my skin, and I take a small step closer, parting the willow branches further. Again, the man angles his head, tongue fluttering. The woman whimpers, tosses her head from side to side, eyes still closed. An involuntary pulse throbs between my legs.
“Don’t move.” A hot expulsion of air steams the side of my neck, the order drenched in a honeyed tone. Then the long, lean shape of a body warms the length of my spine.
I practically vibrate with the urge to pull away. I cannot stay here. To watch—
“Closing your eyes will make no difference,” Zephyrus whispers. “You have already seen.”
It is true. How I hate that it is true.
In the dark behind my eyelids, there lingers the imprint of two people coupling. The man’s groan sends a dart of heat through my core. The bed squeaks. There is the slap of skin colliding, wet and immediate.
“Tell me your thoughts, darling novitiate.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. “Why do they do this here?” My voice wobbles. “Anyone could stumble across them.”
“I believe that is the point.”
The woman moans wantonly, and I flinch. A weight sinks onto my hip—his hand?—then is removed. “Why does she allow him to do this?”
“He brings her pleasure,” murmurs Zephyrus.
“He touches her inappropriately.”
“Does he?”
Their breathing spikes, audible over the squeaking bed frame, the man emitting low grunts, the woman’s gasps climbing to higher frequencies.
“Have you ever touched yourself?” Rich and throaty, his voice reminds me of every temptation. “Look again,” he says.
I must be under some charm. It is the only explanation as to why I follow his instruction. There is the couple on the bed, their languorous movements and flushed, open mouths. The man mounts the woman from behind. An uncomfortable warmth spreads through my lower belly.
“Why did you abandon me?” I demand, voice low. “You left me alone, among all those creatures.”
Zephyrus leans closer, and the smell of rain washes over me. “I wanted to see what kind of woman you are. Do you close your eyes, or do you face the uncomfortable truths of the world?”
“What does this prove,” I mutter, “except to make me feel small and afraid?” Whirling around, I brush past him. “If that was your goal, then congratulations, you have accomplished it.”
Zephyrus catches the sleeve of my dress. “Don’t you want to see how it ends?”
The couple, he means. I am ashamed to have been caught staring. More so, I am ashamed by my inexplicable fascination with the display. Why should I care how it ends? It has nothing to do with me.
“No.” I yank my arm free. “I want to return to Thornbrook.”
Zephyrus sobers then, stepping back to give me space. “About that.” He brushes aside a curl falling into his eyes. “There is something I must do first.”
I’m quickly realizing the depth of my stupidity. Trusting a man I know nothing about. I feel helpless, for Zephyrus is my only way out of Under. I must follow him whether I want to or not.
We depart the woods in silence, trees exchanged for a soaring, pillar-lined hall located at the far boundary of the grove, the chaos of the lake muffled by growing distance. Eventually, mist clouds the air, its cooling touch dampening my dress. The walls narrow into a small chamber where a waterfall pounds white foam into a pool below. Pink lights flicker from crannies in the walls.
Partially submerged rocks provide a crossing over the water. Zephyrus leaps across with ease. I pick my way across slowly, following him into an even narrower tunnel behind the waterfall.
“From this point forward,” Zephyrus says, “I will go alone.”
My stomach bottoms out. “You’re leaving me again?”
He glances sidelong at me. “Not for long. The person I’m meeting would take an interest in you. For your own safety, it is best to remain out of sight.”
A nice sentiment, but rather pointless considering how many of the fair folk noticed my presence at the festivities. Then again, why take unnecessary risks?
“Stay here.” He moves off without bothering to wait for my reply. The arrogance of him.
Crouching down, I press against the wall, grateful for its solidity. Darkness stamps the space before my eyes. I fight the shudder that runs through me. I am safe , I think, but am I, truly? I imagine a candle, a fire, lamplight, the sun. A floral aroma teases my senses, reminding me of Thornbrook’s lush, manicured grounds.
“Zephyrus.” An unfamiliar male voice drags through the dark in a low, faint rasp. “I did not expect you so soon.”
“Ever the obedient servant,” he drawls. “You call, I answer. Is that not how this relationship works?”
There is a pause. “Zephyrus,” says the man. “I called for you three months ago. I do not appreciate being kept waiting.”
My mouth parts soundlessly. This must be the keeper of Zephyrus’ name. He who holds power over the Bringer of Spring.
“Not that it’s any of your concern,” he responds insouciantly, “but I was visiting my brother.”
Whoever he speaks to laughs. It is a sound made of fragments, spewed forth. “I’m surprised your brother wanted to see you. But how is Boreas?”
“He is well. He and his wife are aptly suited.” The hesitation is so slight I nearly miss it. “I have not seen him this happy in a long time.”
“Do I detect jealousy?” I hear the smile in his voice, and its oily quality slips beneath my skin. “You had your chance at happiness. You do not deserve another.”
“Do you not grow tired of this?” Zephyrus snaps out. “I am here. Let that be enough.”
A scuffling sound in the darkness: something massive being dragged across stone.
“It will never be enough.” Ice coats the clipped response. “I had hoped you would have realized that.”
It is heavy, this quiet, all the world a void.
A heavy whump interrupts the silence, as though something wallops the ground. In a conversational tone, the man adds, “Who is the mortal woman you have brought to Under? I daresay I would like to meet her.”
My heart stutters in my chest, and I press deeper into the crevice. How? I’ve made absolutely no sound.
“I do not believe the lady would be comfortable in your presence. This is her first visit to Under, and she is already overwhelmed.”
“Do you imply I will frighten her?”
“No implication necessary. I know it to be true.”
Another hoarse cackle. “You have always entertained me, Zephyrus. Bring the girl. I wish to exchange words with her.”
The jagged wall jabs into my spine so severely the vertebrae will likely bruise by morning. I cannot flee, lest I lose myself and remain trapped here forevermore. Before me, the grassy path extends toward whoever speaks with that abrasive tone.
A shrill cry of pain cuts through the passage, and my heart shrivels as a wave of cold sweeps through me. It sounded like Zephyrus.
“You continue to test me, Bringer of Spring. Bring the girl, and make haste. I have waited long enough.”
Crouched within the recess, I stare unblinkingly at the lightless passage, willing something to take shape. No footsteps reach my ears. But I am not surprised when, moments later, Zephyrus emerges from the inky mouth of the tunnel, a small pink orb aglow in his palm.
Something in his face has changed, the warped angles cut into new severity. Then it comes to me. His mouth no longer holds the shape of laughter.
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.
“You are wise to feel this way.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, up into his hair. The glass sphere trembles in his grip. “Come. We do not want to anger him.”
One, two, three heartbeats later, I still haven’t moved. “Will he kill me?”
Zephyrus strides forward, grass hissing beneath his boots. He is frighteningly grave. “No. He is curious as to why I’ve brought you here. He’s likely contemplating how best to use this to his advantage—use you as a tool to control me.”
I swallow to bring moisture to my mouth. What manner of creature awaits me on the other side of this gloom? “What’s his name?”
“Pierus. He was once a sovereign of distant lands. Now he has asserted his rule here, under the name of the Orchid King.”
My legs wobble as I push to my feet and adjust the dried, crusted fabric around my legs. No matter how hard I try, I am unable to smooth my ragged breathing.
“Heavenly Father,” I whisper. “Guide me through the darkest waters. Lead me to your house of worship.”
Zephyrus peers at me. All emotion has been wiped clean from his features. “Your god cannot help you here.”
The light he holds goes dark.
The tautness in my chest fuses into a cold, hard diamond, an ache of sharp points. “Can you turn the light back on?” I feel lightheaded. “Please?”
“Pierus has temporarily blocked its ability to glow. He knows I have it and would prefer to make me as uncomfortable as possible. We will have to walk in the dark.”
I fall mute. My tongue, slack with rising terror, will not take shape.
A warm hand cups my elbow, and he murmurs, low enough that I’m certain the sound does not carry, “Do not fret. The darkness is not forever.” Gently, Zephyrus draws me forward. “Put your hand on the wall,” he says. “Let it be your guide.”
Damp rock whispers against my glove. If I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself this darkness is one I have chosen.
“I heard a scream earlier,” I murmur, oddly reassured by Zephyrus’ presence. “Did he hurt you?”
“Pierus enjoys his punishments.” As the passageway narrows, the air turns to frost in my mouth. “Remember not to speak your name. Of all those in Under to be bound to, Pierus is the worst.”
He does not have to worry about that. I am as tight-lipped as they come. “How did he capture your name?”
A touch guides me to the left. Zephyrus steps so lightly I cannot hear his boots making contact with the grass. “Pierus and I have long been acquainted, unfortunately. Although he possesses my name, that is not what binds me to him.”
Since venturing into Under, my questions have multiplied, and here is another tossed onto the pile, this mystery surrounding the Bringer of Spring. If he is not bound to the Orchid King by name, then what?
“When you see him, try not to stare, and do your best to make polite conversation. Pierus appreciates the effort.” His hand spasms around my arm, and we slow. “You can open your eyes.”
We stand inside a shining, moonlit cavern, its walls dripping silver. Pink blooms capped in tiny, curling petals carpet the earth, interspersed among the grass. Roses. It explains the honeyed aroma. But what awaits us against the opposite wall strikes me with numbing cold.
The man’s lower body appears to have been consumed by the nightshade plant—enormous, carnivorous flowers flushed scarlet and shaped like open mouths. Roots, pale and lumpy as spoiled milk, slither from beneath the leaves and vines shielding his lower half from view. His torso is humanoid, though a few blossoms have erupted through the naked skin of his muscled shoulders, their stems heavily spined, pricked red, red, red.
“Hello, young novitiate.” The man cannot be fair folk, for his eyes do not resemble stone. They are like mine, like those of the Bringer of Spring, though this man’s are blue. “You smell of the incense they burn in the church.”
Remembering Zephyrus’ advice, I nod politely. “We burn it every Holy Day.”
He lifts a clawed hand. A ropy vine slinks toward me along the ground, gently parting the overgrown grass. I recoil, slamming into Zephyrus’ chest as Pierus coaxes, “Let me have a closer look at you.”
The vine locks around my wrist. It tugs, forcing me to step forward or be dragged. And there the vine remains, a heavy bracelet, faintly spined.
Pierus gives me a thorough once-over. My cheeks grow warm from the attention. “May I ask what they call you?” he inquires.
I thought I was prepared for this question, but truthfully, my mind blanked the moment the light vanished in the tunnel. “You may call me novitiate.”
A small, secret smile graces the man’s mouth. Were his body not so hideously unnatural, I might consider him handsome. “Zephyrus has taught you well.” Pierus turns his attention to the Bringer of Spring, who stands isolated in a corner. “Though I wonder why he has brought you here. Mortals are forbidden to visit Under except on the eve of the tithe.”
I look from Zephyrus to the Orchid King. “He claimed I would be granted amnesty. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“Nonsense.” Strands of silver hair slide across his smooth, hairless chest, that chiseled abdomen. “The ritual will not take long. If you have a weak stomach, I suggest you avert your gaze.”
A low buzz begins to vibrate my eardrums. Run , a voice hisses, but my feet are rooted. “Ritual?”
The Orchid King lifts his eyebrows. They veer sharply together, forming a severe mountain peak. “He did not tell you? But I should not be surprised.”
“She doesn’t need to see this,” Zephyrus growls, the first words he has uttered since entering the cavern. “Allow her to wait in the tunnel until the ritual is completed.”
“Zephyrus.” His chuckle skates across my shivering flesh. “You are the one who invited her into Under.” The Orchid King’s gaze returns to me. “Do not be frightened, young novitiate. Zephyrus and I have an understanding.”
“I implore you again,” Zephyrus says. “Let her leave.”
A second vine lifts to curl beneath the Orchid King’s chin. Lips pursed, he considers me, and I quake from the intrusion of his pervasive gaze. I imagine those curved talons pricking the ripeness of my flesh, their possessive hold.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Lessons must be learned, and I want this woman to know what happens when my orders are disobeyed. You have kept me waiting long enough. Let the ritual proceed.”
The Bringer of Spring goes still. Truly, I did not realize how expressive he was until the brightness was extinguished from his face.
He moves in pieces—shoulders, arms, wrists, fingers. Grasping the hem of his tunic, he peels it over his head, tosses it aside. My attention flicks to his naked torso before skittering elsewhere.
“This will not take long,” the Orchid King assures.
One of the flowers uncoils, latching its spined mouth against Zephyrus’ neck.
I trip backward with a horrified yelp and land hard on my rear. A second flower extends from a slender vine, affixing itself to his cheek, a third to his forearm. Zephyrus twitches, face rigid with pain, and falls to his knees.
Scuttling backward, I ram into the wall, paralyzed by the atrocity unfolding before my eyes. Five flowers fuse to Zephyrus’ naked torso, then seven, now ten.
Another twitch renders his arms useless, yet he emits not a sound. When a blossom sinks into the pectoral muscle above his heart, his back arches, taut abdomen flexing in shallow pulsations. His mouth yawns in a muted scream.
The petals’ pink hue darkens to carmine. They grow engorged, inflamed, the drink too bountiful to contain. Red seeps from their suckling mouths.
By the Father . My gaze lifts to the Orchid King, who watches me with avid fascination. I flinch, pressing harder against the rock.
Under is a poison. This I knew. I should never have agreed to this fool’s errand.
When the blooms finally detach with wet sounds of suction, Zephyrus slumps forward, panting through his teeth. The spines have punctured his skin, leaving half-moon markings. Across his ribs, there appears to be a tattoo—flowers colored white, pink, and violet. Strange. But the sight is quickly masked as he replaces his tunic and climbs to his feet. He will not look at me. For whatever reason, I wish he would.
“Refuse my call again,” Pierus intones, “and I will drain every last drop from your body. This is your final warning.” A wave of his clawed hand. “Dismissed.”
Zephyrus’ dull, distant eyes stare straight through Pierus. There is no sign of the charismatic man from earlier. Turning on his heel, he strides from the room.
The Orchid King shifts his focus onto me. At his back, the entire field of roses has hemorrhaged, pink replaced with a dense red. “You would do well to heed my warning, young novitiate. Do not trust Zephyrus. He will use you for his own gain.” One of the flowers curling from his back unfurls, then clamps shut. “Should you need aid, you may seek me out. Under is a treacherous place, after all.”