Chapter 31
31
“B RIELLE ,” THE DEMON CROONS, FLASHING those bone-white teeth. “How it rolls off the tongue.”
I am still, caught within a perpetual echo. Brielle. The most carefully safe-guarded secret, bargained away, no more significant than a bit of dented coin.
The trade is made, the antidote passed into the West Wind’s possession, and twelve thousand coin given to Yakim, plucked from the air itself. Zephyrus also tugs a glass bottle from his pocket, similar to the ones I witnessed being sold at the sea-nymphs’ celebration, and hands it to the demon. With dread, I realize what it must contain: my name. But how? Has he had it all this time? I am not familiar enough with the process to understand. The great room drifts out of focus, a melancholy blur tinged with sweet-smelling smoke.
Yakim collects his briefcase, downs the remainder of his drink, and turns to me.
“I can understand why Zephyrus wanted you for himself.” He peers down the blade of his nose, a spot of blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. “Your old master did not recognize what a treasure you are, but what can you expect from an arrogant, self-serving god?” That sharp smile makes a reappearance. “His loss.”
Tears sting my eyes. Fear has dogged my heels for the last ten years, but I have learned to live with it. I will get through this. Once Mother Mabel learns I’m missing, she will come for me.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear.” The demon’s gaze, bright with greed, cuts to Zephyrus. “I care for what’s mine.” He trails one thin, elongated hand down my bare arm.
Over his shoulder, Ailith has emerged from a nearby hallway. She waves him over. “Yakim. A word, please.”
His expression tightens with obvious irritation, yet he turns and smiles prettily at the faun. “I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”
She cocks her hip. “I’m happy to discuss your financials in front of my patrons, if that is what you wish.”
Yakim snarls.
Ailith’s smile spreads with slow satisfaction. “Meet me in the Red Room,” she states, and flounces down the hall.
Yakim steps away, briefcase in hand. “A moment, Brielle. You are not to leave without my permission. Not that you would get far. You are bound to me now.” He dodges a nearby table and vanishes down the corridor. A few patrons observe his departure, and only when he’s out of sight do they visibly relax.
“Brielle.” The West Wind catches my hand. “Look at me.”
I lurch from his hold, collapsing into the opposite chair. The silk skirt billows in green clouds before sagging around my trembling legs. “How could you?” My gut churns with the horror of what he’s done to me. I should have known better. Why do I not learn?
“I need you to look at me—”
His voice bleeds into the hum of background noise: clinking dishware, thudding boots, the roar of the fireplace. At this point, I’m uncertain of my way forward. How is Mother Mabel to know where to find me? Would she risk her life, the lives of my peers, to bring me back to Thornbrook safely?
Slowly, I lift my head. “Why?” I thought I’d seen a change in Zephyrus. How deep does my naivete truly run?
“Come.” He glances over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time.”
“Did you not hear what he said?” I spit. “I can’t leave. You gave my name away!”
You must never speak your name aloud, Brielle. Ever. Should any of the fair folk hear your name, they will have power over you. More power than you can ever imagine. Keep it safe.
My fingers curl into the arms of the chair. If I could exchange nails for claws, I’d gouge out those green eyes without a second thought. “I trusted you.”
The West Wind studies me, completely unaffected by my hurt. “Can you move your limbs?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Deeper and deeper I spiral, down into a lightless pit. Where will the demon take me? What will he make me do now that he has control over me? I am afraid. But more so, I am sick with rage.
Spearing his fingers through his curls, Zephyrus glances down the hall where Yakim disappeared. “Will you just try? Please?” A few patrons look on. I’ve not forgotten the bounty on Zephyrus’ head. Neither have they.
“What are you not telling me?” I demand.
“Walk to the door.”
“But—”
“ Please .” Another furtive peek toward the hallway.
I stay put. “Tell me why.” I’m tired of his secrets.
Zephyrus pivots, gaze stony, and strides to my chair. He leans over me and slips a finger beneath my neckline, pulling the trinity knot pendant free. “The Father shields you.”
The gold piece shines against his tanned hand. Lifting my eyes, I peer into the West Wind’s gold-flecked gaze.
It’s not real.
“Was I ever in any danger?” I whisper.
“Had you lost your necklace, or had someone snatched it, you would have been vulnerable. But I may speak your name freely when you wear it. I did not tell you because it was better to proceed with caution, and I feared the ruse would be too transparent if you knew. Yakim is not easily fooled.”
I suppose it makes sense. The fair folk, while not able to speak untruths, are able to sense them in others, though I do not agree with Zephyrus’ method of trickery. “What about the glass bottle you gave him? What was inside?”
“I’d like to think my powers are strong enough to create a bit of shimmering air.”
“Oh.” Quiet, uncertain.
He is somber as he says, “I would not betray you, not again.” He stares at me a moment longer before pushing away. “We must go. Hold this for me. Keep it safe.”
He passes the antidote into my hands. I slide it into my pocket, yet hesitate, fingers curled in my heavy gown. “I can’t run in this.”
He yanks me from the chair and slings my pack onto his shoulder, having stowed it near the fireplace. “You don’t have a choice.”
We run—across the great room, out the door, down the stairs, navigating the wet, buckling boardwalk spanning the steaming bog. We leap onto a strip of high ground, which leads to a dirt lane cutting through the marshland.
We’re halfway down the road when a shriek of rage erupts at our backs.
Zephyrus jerks me along, our escape aided by the weak propulsion of air he buffets at our heels. I try to keep pace, but his long legs propel him faster, farther. A few steps later, the wind fails, and he begins to pant, sweat sliding down his face.
He cuts right, plunging off the road into the swamp. We sink knee-deep into the putrid water. Slime sucks at my boots as I trudge forward, the drag of my dress catching on whatever lurks in this dead, waterlogged place. The sky lies vague and shadowed above.
A crash behind us draws Zephyrus’ attention. “Grab hold,” he pants.
As soon as I grab his hand, a robust wind stirs around us, and we are flying through the air, up into the sweeping boughs of a nearby tree. There, we settle down to wait.
A beast thrice the size of a horse enters the clearing. Four limbs, a dripping maw, its spine pushed so severely against its thin skin I swear I see bone.
“Is that Yakim?” I whisper.
Zephyrus nods, a finger pressed to his lips. Watch, he mouths.
The demon lurches below, winding through trees, scenting out our trail. The fog overlaying the swamp must help mask our scents, because after a time, it moves off.
“What now?” I ask.
“The way I see it, we have one option.” Crouched amongst the branches, Zephyrus rubs his palms against his trousers, his cheeks pale despite the hard run. “We’ll have to kill Yakim.”
I hesitate, a bit uncomfortable with the implication, but if Yakim’s death makes room for Zephyrus’ life, surely the Father would make an exception.
I pull my dagger from the small of my back. “Tell me how.”
“No.” The word thrums with authority as Zephyrus catches my wrist, forcing me to lower the weapon against the folds of green fabric veiling the branch I sit on. “I’ll go alone. It’s safer that way.”
“What about the venom? The numbness?” I see it in his eyes, the apprehension of another wave hitting him while he’s vulnerable. Until the sun appears, Zephyrus can’t risk taking the antidote. “We should stick together.”
He falls quiet then, eyes downcast.
“What is it?” I shift closer, grabbing onto a higher branch for balance.
“You thought I had given you to Yakim. You thought I’d broken your trust.” Beneath the sopping tunic, his chest heaves erratically, each breath tripping into the next. “I have given you every reason to doubt my word, yet here you are. Maybe that’s why I fear placing the burden of my life onto you. I do not want to believe you might care for me out of fear that you do not.”
“Zephyrus.” I take his hand in mine. “Of course I care. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Who is to say you will not abandon me?”
How wrong he is. How like a child in this moment. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he lifts his eyes, and my heart aches for the man he’d once been, the man he still carries with him despite the passing centuries. “If you think I would abandon you to a demon,” I murmur, “then you don’t know me at all.”
He slumps against the trunk, clothes mud-spattered, in complete disarray. “It would be nothing less than I deserve.” After removing my pack from his shoulders, he tucks it between the branches and drops neatly into the water. “I’ll be back.”
As I watch him go, I understand that life is a collection of choices, and here is one more I must make. Enveloped in these branches, I am safe. And yet, Zephyrus lacks a weapon. His power flags. My iron blade might be all that can defeat this demon.
Only I can decide what path my life will take, I realize. I hold the power. I have always held the power.
After tying back my hair, I grab my rucksack and climb down the tree, following the direction Zephyrus went, the path littered with broken branches and massive, clawed footprints. I push forward, but the dress is so heavy, the corset so tight, that it’s impossible to catch my breath.
Ahead, something large and menacing shifts between the trees. The beast slinks toward Zephyrus, ears flattened against its skull. Crouched at the edge of the clearing, I palm my dagger, thumb pressed against the frayed leather wrapping. Zephyrus stands alone, unarmed.
The demon hurtles forward with a roar, and I am running, dagger in hand, toward the West Wind’s back. I am not afraid. The Father guides me over pressed grass, drowned muck. Knocking Zephyrus aside, I leap forward and bury the dagger into the beast’s chest.
It recoils, falling back with an ear-shattering shriek. The motion wrenches me forward, my blade firmly imbedded. A short twist of my arm frees the weapon. I stumble back as the demon lurches upright. Its skin sizzles, melting from the touch of lethal iron.
“Brielle!”
That sharp-toothed maw drives toward me. It rams into a solid barrier, as though Zephyrus has fashioned a wall of air to separate us. At the next lunge, it crashes through the partition. I dodge, fighting the drag of my soaked dress, and slash the dagger toward its throat. It rears back, colliding with an ancient cypress. Then it’s up, charging, steam curling from its slitted nostrils. A slither of air coils around a hind leg and binds tight. The demon strains against it in a fit of gnashing teeth.
Darting around Zephyrus, I plunge the dagger into its torso a second time, then slash the blade across its throat. Blood pours forth, and the bog shudders as the demon collapses.
My chest heaves, my hand shakes, but I refuse to turn my eye from the beast. It might not be dead. It could rise again.
“Brielle.”
“What if it heals itself?” I demand. “We can’t take any chances.”
“Yakim is dead.”
I whirl, and there Zephyrus stands, a single scratch marring the otherwise smooth skin of his cheek. He is handsome. Beautiful, even. What manner of sorcery is this?
“Your face.” I’m still staring. It hovers on the threshold of perfection, indescribable splendor, sharp enough to cut. “How?”
He collapses with a cry.
As his head vanishes beneath the surface of the bog, I lunge, catching him around the collar and hauling him upright. He sags into me, dragged down by his weakened legs. By the Father, I wish the sun would reveal itself.
“The tree,” he grinds out. “Bring me to that tree.”
I drag him to the tract of dirt, where an old cypress oversees the sprawling wetland. He grabs a low branch, glaring at me like an irate kitten. “That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” he growls.
“It was going to kill you. You just stood there—”
“I was going to end it with my power,” he retorts. “It had to be at the last possible second. A single strike to the heart.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“I told you not to interfere.”
My blood hums dangerously, and my fingers twitch around the dagger, drawing his eye. We have been here before. I’m beginning to wonder if he prefers death. “I saved your life,” I hiss. “A simple thank-you would suffice.”
“Thank you?” He laughs, yet the sound fractures, becomes something else as his face crumples. A tear slides down one cheek, shocking me to the core.
I step forward, suddenly uncertain of my place.
“I can’t watch someone I care for die again,” he says hoarsely. Silver streaks his green gaze. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
His admission softens me and saddens me. He has experienced much strife in his immortal life, but haven’t we all? The difference is, I’ve had support—Thornbrook, my peers, Mother Mabel. Zephyrus is alone.
Lifting my hand to his face, I say, “We will get through this. I have faith.” My thumb catches a tear where it trembles, dewdrop clear, against his cheek.
“I lost faith long ago,” he says.
“That’s all right. I have enough faith for us both.”
Zephyrus abruptly releases the branch, his nostrils flaring. The numbness must have passed, for he’s able to stand without aid as a mournful cry, low and eerie, winds through the moss-draped trees.
“The hounds,” he murmurs.
A chill overtakes me—body, mind, heart.
Snagging my wrist, the West Wind yanks me deeper into the marshland at a run. A tree blinks into existence an arm’s length away. I lurch sideways, veering around its gnarled trunk as Zephyrus leaps with my arm in tow. My shoulder joint wrenches, then sears, forcing my back to curve to alleviate the pain. “Zephyrus!”
“Run, Brielle, unless you want to die.”
I’m tossed forward, the wind momentarily bearing my weight. My feet hit the squelching mud, and I stumble, my boots catching in one of the twisting roots.
“Faster,” he pants.
My pack slams my lower back. My calves cramp from strain, and my sopping clothes drag me toward the mucky earth. A massive crack echoes through the bog.
My foot slips. Down I go, crashing through the water. I’m dizzy, weakening, but then I’m up, I’m limping along for seven, eight, ten steps. The weight of my body, however, is too much.
“Zephyrus.” My knees fold, and I drop into the mud, fighting tears. “I can’t go on.” The hounds yelp with heightening frenzy, likely sensing their flagging prey.
Bounding over, he grips my arm, panting, “You can’t give up. The bog will end. It’s only a bit farther.” He tries to haul me onto my feet, but my legs refuse to cooperate.
“You’re not listening to me.” My voice climbs, and cracks from compounding exhaustion. “It’s not that I won’t go on. I can’t . I am physically incapable of outrunning those hounds.” Tears cut hot pathways through the cooling mud on my face.
With staunch calm, he kneels beside me. In this moment, his eyes are old. They have seen things I likely never will: life and death and the heartbreaking reality of a world that changes while he alone stands still. “I don’t want you to die in this place,” he says, bringing his hands to my shoulders.
“I don’t want that either.” I swipe the dampness from my cheeks, only to smear more filth across my freckled skin.
Zephyrus takes in our surroundings. A few muddy islands interrupt the span of gray water. The scent of rot drifts steadily nearer, and a dog bellows nearby, though I can’t pinpoint its direction.
I follow Zephyrus’ eyes as he regards one of the islands. “That could work. There’s a burrow over there, see it? We’ll hide until the hounds pass.”
Who is to say we will not be rabbits flushed into a trap? “You’ve forgotten their sense of smell.”
He tosses me a wry smile. “I assure you, I have not.”
He’s gathering up mud in handfuls, he’s smearing it across his face, he’s slopping it over his thighs and dragging the mess beneath his tunic to coat his skin.
His gaze meets mine. “Now you.”
I’m too drained to lift my arms. Neck, breasts, then thighs, Zephyrus smears the sludge over every curve and into every crevice until I’m covered from head to toe. The chilled grit encases me in its foul reek.
Using Zephyrus’ hand as a guide, I manage to squeeze into the hollow, losing sight of the bog in the process. The tunnel leads to a slightly larger chamber, half submerged under several inches of water, where the West Wind crouches. Roots dangle from the ceiling, eerily similar to strands of hair.
“All right?” He watches me in concern.
“Yes.” Leaning against the soggy walls, I collapse into a breathless heap, arms and legs askew, supplies crushed beneath my body, skin shivering from the fear firing my blood. As my vision adjusts to the burrow’s darkness, Zephyrus settles beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.
Huddled together, we wait. Small vibrations in the ground announce the hounds’ arrival.
They sniff and snort and growl above, water splashing as their limbs disturb the stagnant pool. I squeeze my eyes shut, retreating to the placid green garden tucked inside my heart. Please, Father. Help us. If we are caught here, my soul will never know peace.
After a time, the hounds move off, yipping and howling their frustration. When the sound dies, I release a fraught breath. “Now what?”
“If they don’t return within the next ten minutes, it’s probably safe for us to continue. We’re near the edge of the bog. I can smell greenery in the distance.”
My head jerks awkwardly, not quite a nod. It is both relief and sustained agony. Under offers no guarantees. We might never reach the end of the wetland.
“I want to thank you, Brielle.” Zephyrus draws his knees to his chest as a child in need of comfort might. “If not for you, I would have had to face yet another tithe alone.”
I’ve never heard words so bitter. “After what happened with Hyacinth, you never loved another?”
He turns his head. In this position, our noses align, mouths separated by a small span of dusk-colored air. “I have been alone for a long time. It is safer for me, for everyone.”
“You don’t desire companionship?”
“The problem with living forever,” he responds quietly, “is that the people you grow to care for will eventually leave you. A mortal body ages. Bones fall brittle and organs fail. Do I desire companionship?” A forced smile takes shape upon his mouth. “Yes. But I am well aware of its costs.”
I had not considered companionship from the perspective of one who lives forever. What a sad thing to experience. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not pity me. I accepted my fate long ago.” His attention returns to mine. “Is that what you want? To walk through life with another?”
It’s silly to even consider the possibility. I am a Daughter of Thornbrook. Once I take my final vows, there can be no man in my life save the Father.
But I have thought of it, briefly. A passing notion that will never come true.
“I do wish that,” I admit, “sometimes.”
His chest deflates with a slow expulsion of air, which smells of the earth. His eyes are very dark. They remind me that these woods are not safe.
“Have you thought of the qualities this companion would possess?” he asks, a shadow of his old playful self.
I’m ashamed to imagine the possibility at all, but cowering in this burrow, far from civilization… no one from Thornbrook ever has to know.
“This man would be kind,” I murmur, because what is love without kindness? “He would act selflessly. He would treat those around him with compassion and respect. He would always seek to better himself and would give his life to the Father. He would face conflict readily and speak honestly. His intentions would be nothing less than pure.”
This man is ideal. Unfortunately, he does not exist. When I think of the person whose presence makes my heart skip, I see only a pair of vivid green eyes.
Zephyrus appears saddened by what I have said. “And you would deserve nothing less.”
I bite my lip shyly. It means more than I can say, his words. “What about you?”
“I’m a simple man, Brielle. All I want is for someone to know my heart is theirs. That is all.”
I’m still considering this when he draws away. “It’s time,” he says.
I force myself to nod. Ready or not, we must act.
“We’ll split up, and I’ll draw them off. The hounds never miss a scent twice.” He slides out into the open, then sticks his arm back into the burrow. A wave of nausea rolls through me, but I grasp his hand, allowing him to pull me from our shelter. I’m remembering what it feels like to become prey.
“I’ll draw them north,” Zephyrus says. “Go south. Once the bog ends, find whatever shelter you can. I’ll return for you.”
The moment he pulls away, the air sweeps in with a disconcerting chill. His gaze catches mine, and holds.
“Stay safe,” I whisper.
His attention drops to my mouth, where it lingers. “And you, Brielle of Thornbrook.” Then the West Wind vanishes through the low-hanging fog.
It feels as though the wind nudges me onward with increasing urgency as I splash through the marsh, clouds of insects descending, then scattering at my arrival. The baying of the hounds snaps at my heels, yet my legs leap forward with seamless togetherness. I move like the Bringer of Spring, a god whose motions aid the wind.
A break in the trees ahead reveals a well-trodden forest path. I follow its trampled curve as the terrain ascends, until I realize how close the yelps truly are, growing louder by the minute.
It is not Zephyrus’ scent the hounds have caught.
It is mine.