Chapter Ten
Of course Button would be the last hen to catch.
And of course the feral feathered fowl would turn it into an escapade.
I can’t help but laugh at the irony of wanting to leave the Moon Temple for the last time and the process to do so being rife with difficulty. And injury. Granted, none of it as severe as it was months ago.
Having witnessed us catch and take three others before her, Button decided to share her opinion regarding her relocation.
She wasn’t a fan of the idea.
In a flurry of feverish clucks and flapping wings, she vanished into the waist-high grass, forcing Eve and I to scramble after her.
Were there any onlookers, they’d find the chase hilarity gold.
Were I watching the spectacle myself, I’d be near tears with laughter.
As a participant, I’m much less amused.
In my attempts to catch the heinous hen, my feet caught on knotted grass, exposed and twisted roots, hidden stones.
I swear to the gods they grew sentient and moved into my path.
Gods, I even tripped over Eve’s feet… I spent more time picking myself up off the ground than running.
By now, I’m positive both my palms and knees bear bruises.
In addition to my pride.
“We can’t leave her,” I argue using a hushed whisper as I steal a quick glance at Eve.
She crouches behind me, her hands at the ready and her eyes fixed on the darkened tree hollow at the base of a towering darkwood. Button squirreled herself away inside it, and now we’re tasked with getting her out.
“I’m not saying leave her forever, Ves,” Eve retorts, exasperated. “I’m saying if she sees Darla, she might come running.”
I scoff a bitter laugh. “Are you going to bring Darla back over here? Risk having to re-capture her? Or are you going to finagle a horse lead into a chicken harness? Walk her across the courtyard in hopes Button will follow?”
With each question, her glare becomes more scrutinous.
“I think I’d pay to see that,” I muse with a grin.
“I’m gonna finagle a horse lead around your neck and lead you back across the courtyard if you keep on,” Eve says and my stifled laughter becomes a snortle. “Oh, yeah, laugh about it. You think I’m joking.”
“This will work,” I counter as I lower myself onto my stomach. “You,” I stretch the word in a tease, “just have to be ready to catch her.”
There’s not quite enough room for me to reach in with both hands. Because that would make it too easy. And since I can’t trust my own feet today, Eve will catch the nefariously elusive hen. I simply have to scare her out of hiding.
Reaching, I find the hollow is deeper than I anticipated, forcing me to wiggle myself closer. With my face nearly pressed against the trunk of the tree, my fingertips graze the back of the hollow.
But no Button.
No brush against feathers.
I reach farther, turning my cheek against the tree.
Overhead, dark, leafless branches hang, draped against the blue of the sky and the bright sun threatens to set my eyes to watering.
A few, low warning warbles rumble, albeit muffled, from the dark of the hollow.
Today will be the day I do indeed discover Button pecks—mark my words.
Swiveling my wrist, the back of my hand brushes against scaled legs—unleashing sheer chaos.
Button’s loud, panicked clucks resonate through the tree.
Cold clammy feet step on my wrist. Talons scratch up my arm through my sleeve.
And finally, in an explosion of golden-blond feathers, the hen streaks past my face.
Shrieked Malbolge curses fly from my lips.
Eve, despite laughing uncontrollably, snatches the damn hen with ease.
“Look at that,” she laughs. “Your plan worked.”
Leveling a flat glare at her as I withdraw my arm from the tree, the smirk she gives me is a triumphant one. Sitting upright, I pull back my sleeve, revealing a series of moonlight scratches growing into wheals.
Nothing serious, no blood.
But still…
They loosely resemble Malbolge runes—the kind carved into flesh to cast blood magic. Truth be told, I wouldn’t be surprised if Button did know the language of the hells.
Damned creature.
Turning, I catch Eve straightening herself. She tucks Button into the nook of her arm, careful to fold the hellish hen’s wings. Before today, I never would have thought it possible for chickens to have thoughts—serious thoughts.
But, Button…
Her red-orange eye pins against me, as she gives me a look that tells me she’s looking forward to the day she can peck at my still-warm corpse. Another sharp cry escapes her beak.
As I pull myself to my feet, I dust off the clinging dirt and grass.
With a grin, I open my mouth—
“If you’re going to gloat,” Eve interjects as she lavishes a still-staring Button with affection, stroking her back, “shut your damn mouth.”
My jaw snaps shut.
And Eve laughs.
?????????????
When we decided to cut through Castle Erus with Button, we were already backed by logic and efficiency. Our first three trips were successful. The hens were kept warm, we saved on time, and they weren’t separated for long.
We silently snaked our way to the stables with Darla, Coco, and Mabel one at a time. No one noticed. No hen cried. It was the perfect solution to getting the girls to the stables versus carting them around the grounds.
Naturally, we thought we could do the same with Button.
I’ve never been more wrong in my life.
The instant we set foot inside the grand foyer, the heathen of a hen went off like an alarm. She clucked as loud as her little lungs would allow—which, turns out is near deafening—causing dozens of eyes to find us in seconds.
To make matters worse, she didn’t want to escape Eve. Or at least, she never tried. She just wanted to be loud about her capture. Her clucking continued, ringing through the castle every godsdamned step of the way.
Damn feathered fiend.
Never have my cheeks burned hotter.
Through the grand foyer and through the winding eastern wing, heads turned, jaws dropped, and brows creased. But not a single question was asked. Instead, I’ve fueled castle gossip again.
Button didn’t silence her outrage until Eve set her upon her feet in the stall with her flocking friends. Despite the many minutes that have passed, my ears are still ringing.
My grip tightens on the bouquet as I walk beside Cyran. Eve declining the offer to accompany came as no surprise. She gave the excuse of needing to secure a carpenter to build the hens’ coop and run before Button decided to vocalize her thoughts again and spook the horses.
Which, honestly, fair enough.
Perhaps she’ll go on her own later.
It might be better that way. She deserves the privacy to be as vulnerable as she needs to be without concern of company. Mine included.
“This is what people do, right?” I ask, peering up at Cyran. “Visit friends on their birthday?”
Cyran’s usual stoic expression softens. “Yes,” he answers in a tone respectful of our surroundings. “It is, Lady Ves.”
Without a doubt, Cora would visit me were she to know mine—were I to know mine. Fated Celestials never specified a day, and it’s not like birthdays are celebrated in the hells. All I know is Vaelyn and I came into existence on some random winter night.
I visited Cora’s grave once before.
The same week I returned.
How could I not? I never got the chance before everything crumbled to chaos—much like it is now.
Cyran accompanied me during that visit, too. I spent hours lying on the mausoleum floor beside her, crying. Letting my guilt tear me apart. I would trade Cora for the rest of the devotees and priestesses at the temple were such a thing possible.
The line of quaint and quiet shops on my right falls away, replaced by the ivy-laced stone wall of the cemetery grounds. Bricks shimmer with a blue-silver sheen—a perimeter ward to ensure any recently risen dead remain within.
Even on a day like today, with clear skies and bright sun, the Wells district remains muted.
It’s not a central shopping or socialization hub like many of the other districts.
The buildings here are more residential than commercial, and there’s a greater number of small parks with benches and fountains and tended gardens.
For remembrance.
This whole district is dedicated to honoring the dead.
As such, life feels slower here.
The streets are barren, shops have shorter hours, and instead of a bustling square in its center with merchants and buskers and filled tables, there’s a cemetery.
And in this realm, to these people, death is one of the few things left without celebration.
Not celebrated, but not forgotten either.
In recent months, Ollorans have been given more than a fair bit to remember.
The stone wall stretches on for nearly two blocks before the entry gate comes into view.
Cyran steps ahead, taking the lead as we approach.
His fingers dance, beckoning the runes to lower the ward over the gate.
A wavering gleam ripples down the ward—and along my skin—as dancing runes fall to the foot of the gate.
Peering through as he pushes the gate open, he pauses, scanning the cemetery with heightened scrutiny, silent. Any sight, any sound of an undead construct and I won’t be able to see Cora. I understand the threat, but the damn fae takes his role too seriously.
I can hold my own against the undead.
After an extended moment, Cyran steps around the gate, clearing the way for me to follow. As I enter, he swings the gate shut, raising the ward behind us.
The Moon Temple Mausoleum lies in the center of the cemetery. It’s the largest structure on the grounds. All of Celesta’s devotees rest there. When I first came to visit Cora, I’d mistaken it for a cathedral or some other place of worship—one potentially dedicated to my father.
I’ve never been more relieved to be wrong.