Chapter 42
Flint
Time escapes me. Trees knit together overhead, concealing the sky.
I have no way of telling day from night.
Not a single ray of light – whether sun or moon – can break through the permanent veil of gloom that hangs over the darkest depths of the Greenwood.
Neither Sheen nor I have slept. We’ve just been wandering the forest, searching for a way back to the Bandits’ camp, to no avail.
My voice is hoarse from calling Spinner’s name, though Sheen had pointed out the futility of this plan – even if she could hear us, she would likely assume it was just another of the dryads’ tricks.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that if I don’t manage to set an example to follow, others can at least learn from my mistakes.
‘Keep up, would you?’ There’s a particularly cold bite to Sheen’s usual frosty tone.
‘I’m trying,’ I mutter, blinking hard in an attempt to stave off the exhaustion seeping into my bones.
A will-o’-the-wisp glimmers to life beside me.
I aim a kick at it, but it simply vanishes, another appearing in its place several yards ahead.
Only a handful remain, flickering lazily among the trees, which have spent the better part of the night twisting out of shape – gnarled branches twining together to block our path, forcing us back in a different direction.
I wonder if their present stillness is indication that the nymphs have got fed up with their games, or whether they sleep during the day like other forest-dwelling creatures.
At the mere thought of sleep my limbs seem to turn to liquid and my pace slows to a disjointed stagger.
Sheen, who’s striding swiftly through the undergrowth, glances back over his shoulder, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘What now?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘You’re always tired. Or hungry. Or bored. Really, it’s like travelling with a child.’
I swallow my irritation. ‘Maybe if we could just stop and rest for an hour or so –’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, Harglade, you’re the reason we’re in this mess. The least you can do is help find our way out of it.’ Sheen snorts derisively. ‘You seriously believed it was your sister calling to you? That she just happened to be here, in the Greenwood?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about that –’
‘You weren’t thinking at all.’
I glare at him. ‘Do you mean to tell me that if someone you loved was calling your name, you could just ignore them?’
‘You forget I possess something called rationality,’ says Sheen. ‘You’re too hot-headed for your own good.’
‘I’d rather be hot-headed and irrational than a miserable prick like you,’ I shoot back. ‘I can’t imagine you know how to love anyone.’
His eyes spark with rage. ‘You don’t know anything about me, Harglade.’
‘No, you’re right, because you don’t tell me anything. You don’t talk to me, and when you do, it’s to make me feel like I’m some airhead you can’t stand to be around. I wonder, does it take practice, being that sour all the time? Or were you just born that way?’
Sheen’s voice goes deathly cold. ‘Are you finished?’
But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
The anger proves energizing. ‘You know, I like to look for the best in people. Always have. But when it comes to you I draw a blank. From the moment we met you’ve treated me with utter contempt.
Do you have any idea what that’s like? Being forced to spend time with someone who makes it painfully clear how repellent they find you?
Because it’s not exactly an ego boost.’ I let out an empty laugh.
‘Seriously, Sheen, I don’t know what I did to make you hate me so much. ’
A deafening silence follows. My heart pounds as I wait for him to respond.
Eventually, quietly, he says, ‘I don’t hate you.’
I stare at him, bewildered. ‘Well, you certainly fooled me.’
Sheen looks as though he’s about to say more, then thinks better of it. I watch as he turns on his heel and marches away through the trees.
‘No, just stop a second,’ I demand, half running to keep up.
He ignores me.
I lunge and grab his shoulder, yanking him round to face me. ‘I said, stop.’
He shakes me off roughly, as if my touch burns. ‘What is it, Harglade?’
‘Why did you even come after me?’
Sheen blinks. ‘What?’
‘Why did you follow me into a cursed forest crawling with dryads? You knew the voice was a trick – you knew what the consequences might be, and yet you did it anyway.’
He says nothing, his brow furrowed.
‘And that’s not all,’ I continue. ‘When Darrow threw his axe you saved my life with that forcefield. Not even Spinner reacted that quickly.’
He avoids my gaze, looking beyond me into the twisting maze of trees.
‘You kept tabs on us – Blaze and me – across the Firelands and into the Ridge. Spinner had cause, but you didn’t.
At first I thought your being here was out of loyalty to her, but if that were the case you wouldn’t have abandoned her in order to come after me.
And it doesn’t explain why –’ I hesitate.
‘For days after the third trial I was barely conscious. I don’t remember much, but I remember you. Sitting at my bedside, day and night.’
Sheen’s face is a careful mask, yet a muscle throbs in his jaw.
I swallow. ‘You act like you couldn’t care less whether I lived or died, and yet you’re always there. Why?’
There’s a long pause. Several will-o’-the-wisps sputter to life amid the shadows, but I keep my gaze fixed on Sheen.
‘Because I’m your chaperone,’ he says at last.
‘Oh, give me a break,’ I snarl. ‘The Choosing is over. You have no obligation to me any more. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand you. Just tell me why.’
Sheen’s chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands balled into tight fists. For a moment I wonder if he’s going to punch me.
Then he crosses the space between us in two strides, grabs hold of my face –
And kisses me.
My entire body turns rigid with shock. My arms hover uncertainly, whether in defence or surrender, I can’t be sure. I’m rooted to the spot, my lips parting instinctively as he crushes his mouth to mine.
He’s kissing me. Sheen … is kissing me.
Am I hallucinating? I must be, because this can’t be happening. It’s impossible. Nonsensical. Totally, utterly wrong.
Only, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels –
I gasp as his tongue glides lightly over mine, sending a shiver from the nape of my neck to the tips of my fingers.
Sheen clutches me tightly, one hand gripping my waist, the other knotted in my hair.
Even the slightest graze of his knuckles sets gooseflesh skittering across my skin.
His lips are punishingly soft. I’ve watched them curl in disgust and tug downward with disapproval, but never once did I imagine how they would feel, sliding against my own.
I’ve been kissed countless times before – by kings and courtesans, poets and princesses.
But I’ve never been kissed like this.
It’s rough, unforgiving, so fervent in its intensity I can’t tell whether it’s fuelled by hatred or desire. Perhaps both. The line between the two seems to blur more and more with every spine-tingling sweep of his tongue.
Should I pull away? Push him off? Demand an explanation? Because Sheen can’t stand me. Nothing about this makes sense. Am I really expected to believe that, underneath all the coldness and disdain and downright hostility, he … likes me?
My limbs are still frozen in astonishment, yet treacherous heat pulses at my core. Am I enjoying this? Is he?
Tentatively, I reach out a hand and let it rest upon his shoulder. Then I tilt my head back further, deepening the kiss, tasting him, breathing in the scent of fresh snow.
Call it an experiment.
But if anything, my response seems to wake Sheen from whatever trance he appears to have fallen into.
He jerks away, releasing his grip so suddenly I almost topple over.
His shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of russet skin low on his hips.
He’s panting, violet eyes wild as he takes a stumbling step backwards.
Gone is that marble-smooth composure, the graceful fluidity with which he moves.
As for me, it’s not often I’m rendered speechless. I open my mouth to say something, but the words stick in my throat.
The air around us seems to crackle and thrum.
Before I can recover the ability to string a sentence together, Sheen turns and walks away into the gloom, leaving me alone.