38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EMERIC
T he air carries a bitter chill as the first light of a crimson dawn seeps through the shadows of Azazel’s wooded estate. We stand at the threshold of the house, the warmth from last night replaced by the agonizing uncertainty of what lies ahead. Our bond stirs in my chest, and for the first time in what feels like eternity, I truly belong. I drag a hand across the back of my neck, the ache of it grounding me as much as it pains me. Her fire is mine now, a piece of her etched into my very soul. But the happiness is tempered—tainted by grief.
Az’s absence weighs on us all, a barren space none of us can fill. My ribs feel constricted, squeezing the air from my lungs as I glance toward the forest, the memory of his voice seeping into my thoughts. I grit my teeth, the satisfaction of finally being hers warring with the gaping loss of my best friend. It’s cruel, this juxtaposition of joy and sorrow.
Caius pauses at the edge of the small courtyard, his tail coiling in tight circles before releasing with a flick as he surveys the scratches from last night’s creatures. They’ve gouged the metal siding, deep, but not enough to break through.
His focus falls on me—a steady, deep look. He inclines his head, his eyes slipping to Morte with a wink before locking back onto mine. A deep flush colors her cheeks as she tugs him down for a kiss.
He spent half the morning whispering promises of all the things he and Aggonid will do to her as soon as they’re reunited. His way of getting her mind off her anxiety and grief.
Then another hour later, we’d all buried ourselves in her until we were sated.
“You bring her back, Hellhound. And Wilder too.” He speaks to me, but he stares down at her. His tone is firm, like this is something we’ve rehearsed. A promise drilled into my bones. He glances back up at me. “No half-measures.”
As Aggonid’s right hand, he’s used to dealing me orders.
“Always.” I match his nod.
His tail brushes my shoulder, a fleeting contact that steadies me, and he pivots, his wings spreading with a quiet whoosh. He launches himself into the sky, his silhouette shrinking until he vanishes into the low-hanging clouds.
Aggonid steps up next, his shadows curling along the cobbled ground as if reluctant to leave. His red eyes settle on mine, holding something like respect in those depths—a rare trace of trust, of gratitude. His mouth curves, not quite a smile, but it holds weight—one I understand. He’s counting on me, on us.
“We’ll find him,” I assure, my own voice softer now. A part of me knows that even if we don’t succeed, I’ll never stop looking—not until I bring Azazel home. Aggonid reaches out, his palm pressing to my shoulder, the shadows retreating momentarily under his control.
“I trust you. The three of you.” His eyes shift to Morte, and in that instant, an emotion surfaces—raw, pleading, beyond words. He leans in, his forehead brushing Morte’s, his hand cupping the side of her face. “You come back to me, Soul Bond. You hear?”
“Always,” she whispers, her fingers lacing with his for just a heartbeat as she presses her lips to his, then letting go.
He pulls away, his wings spreading wide, the shadows lifting, tendrils slipping through the air as he joins Caius in flight. The sky swallows them whole, and silence settles over the woods, broken only by the rhythmic pulse of the forest’s scariest predator.
Morte plants her feet, squaring her shoulders, her focus a wall between her and her grief. Our bond pulses, a steady warmth that obliterates the fear twisting inside of me. Synced with the rhythm of her heartbeat, mine finds its own steady pace. I long to reach out and pull her close, but there's a sacred tranquility in the stillness before the storm. A hush that I’m unwilling to disturb.
Wilder stands to her right, his eyes scanning the forest’s edge—a place where Azazel’s tiny property meets the sprawling woods, home to terrifying creatures that stir when darkness falls. He runs a hand through his long silken hair, the tension in his shoulders visible, though there is a readiness woven into every line of his body. He shifts his weight, eyes settling on Morte, and something in his stare softens. I can sense his unease, the anxious energy—a need to protect, to make up for the time he’d spent bound in prison, separated from her.
“Ready?”
Morte’s tone carries a fragility she tries to hide. The bond between us is new, and now, we’re being thrust into the most important tasks of our lives. It’s no hardship, and one I’d do over and over again. But she doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
I take a step forward, brushing a kiss across her temple, letting the warmth of her skin soak into me—fuel, a promise of what waits for us when this ends. “Always,” I murmur against her skin.
She breathes in, her eyes slipping closed briefly before she pulls away.
We walk as one—a unit. Our footsteps crunch across the vorpal grass , moving toward the path that will take us to the River of Souls.
The underbrush thickens, the skeletal branches overhead knitting together, blocking out what little of the light remains now that clouds have gathered. A chill courses through me, but it pales beside the frost gripping my heart—the River of Souls is no ordinary body of water. I’ve been there countless times, made plenty of deals with the reapers, fought on the outskirts of its hunger. It’s ravenous. But now we’re going into the belly of the beast, and if we’re not careful, it will consume us.
I lead the way, my senses straining—ears perked for movement, nose to the air—the rich aroma of moist earth mingled with sulfur’s bite. Something metallic—the lingering scent of death that always clings to the river’s path. I’ve memorized these woods—each tree and curve etched into my memory, yet they never cease to shift, as though the land itself bends to protect the secrets it holds.
The Wild Pursuit and the Forsaken Hunt do a number on the forest, too. New growth always seems to take residence where one is cut down.
Morte’s shoulders lift, her chin tilting upward, her eyes burning bright with an intensity that leaves no room for fear. The wind shifts, a low howl moving through the branches, carrying the balm of the underworld’s depths. She steps forward, breaking the silence, her breath sweet in the air.
“Do you think he wanted to sever our bond?”
My head snaps to hers. “No. He did whatever he could to ensure his father couldn’t have you.” But I know why she’d feel that way. “He saved us all.”
Wilder stops her in her tracks. “For over two hundred years, I knew you were mine but couldn’t have you. The first thing I’m doing when we reunite his soul with his body is thank him.” He smirks. “Then I’m going to punch him.”
“You will do no such thing!” Morte scowls.
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah? You going to be the one to stop me?” He smirks down at her.
“You seem to have forgotten who I am now.” She stands on her tiptoes, whispering against his lips.
I see it for what it is, though. He leans in to kiss her, and that’s when she makes her move.
Morte's hand darts out, quick as lightning, and she grabs Wilder by the collar, yanking him off balance. In one fluid motion, she sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling onto his back with a surprised grunt. She straddles his chest, pinning his arms above his head.
Wilder blinks up at her, stunned for a moment, before a slow grin spreads across his face. "I haven't forgotten who you are." The merfae chuckles, his eyes lit up with admiration and a hint of desire. "I'm just reminding you who I am."
“And who’s that?”
“The one who’s loved you from the moment you spied on him half naked in the water.” He grins.
A scandalized gasp escapes her lips, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “I did no such thing!” she protests, but the mischievous shine in her eyes betrays her. She climbs off him, offering him a hand.
“That really how you two met?” I raise a brow, walking alongside them now.
“I snuck out of Castanea and found the most beautiful fae I’d ever seen, diving off a waterfall,” she says, wistfully.
“For hours, she watched me. But I knew she was there.” He smirks.
I hum. “Poor thing was half-drunk on a succubus’s magic when I met her. Then the next time I saw her, she was killing her.”
It’s Wilder’s turn to look scandalized. “You did what?”
Morte shrugs. “I was trying to win a wild hunt so I could earn my way home to get you out of prison.”
“Did you win?”
She grins at him. “That’s how I earned a favor from Aggonid.”
We move forward, into the deepening forest, the underbrush thinning until the ground slopes away, leading us toward the river’s edge. The first glimpse of it sends a chill through me—a silvery, twisting current that stretches out, splitting into countless branches, each one winding and curling into the unknown. Souls drift just beneath the surface, their forms translucent, like shapeless shadows caught in the moonlight, shifting with the current. They shimmer and dance, their movements erratic, as if caught between worlds—unable to move forward, unable to let go.
The river seems to pulse, a heartbeat within its depths, a whisper that beckons us closer. It’s always hungry, always waiting, and the sight of it sends a thrill of the unknown down my spine—and a healthy dose of fear. Wilder steps forward, his eyes narrowing as he studies the currents, his lips pressed in concentration.
As a hellhound, I was born of the underworld itself. Most who find their way to hell are remade into demon fae, but I was never anything else. They keep their same powers, they just can’t ever leave her for long before the realm yanks them back to where they belong.
“Do you feel anything?” Morte murmurs, her eyes scrutinizing the river, her hand slipping from mine as she moves closer to the bank. She kneels, her fingers brushing the surface, A ripple spreads from her touch, and her stare narrows as she scans its depths. The bond hums between us, her emotions pouring through—grief, fear, hope. She rises, turning to face us, her jaw set.
“Nothing.” I shrug.
Wilder shakes his head. No .
I scan the edge, crouching low, but there’s nothing. No pull. No sign. Just the river doing what it does—swallowing everything in its path. Az is in there, drifting somewhere far beyond where I can reach right now, but I’ll find him. "The hunt doesn’t end until I do."
The souls trapped beneath the surface seem to stir, drawn to the energy between us. I take a step forward, my senses straining, feeling the rapid build of power—the call of something to be found—an old friend, a deadly foe.
We step forward together, and the ground beneath us shifts, the river opening before us, the unknown waiting. And somewhere, within its depths, Azazel waits, too.