Chapter 35
CARWYNN
“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!” Wyatt’s shout had my eardrums thrumming like someone jabbing a butter knife into my skull.
Groaning, I smacked my mouth open and shut. It was dry, so dry. Like scorched grass layered in the aftertaste of regret.
I’m never drinking again . . .
My head throbbed as if it’d been slammed into concrete repeatedly and hurt worse every time my brain replayed visions of the night before in vivid, mortifying detail.
Liplock potion, Rainbow Roulette, my confession, Finley’s tongue, Pogue’s stare. I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to smother myself with a pillow. Or throw up. Perhaps asphyxiate on vomit to get two birds with one stone.
I pushed the down feather blanket away and squinted toward the corner of the room. An athletic outfit was already laid across the blue, whimsical accent chair. A passive-aggressive reminder that it was Wyatt Bootcamp time.
Ugh.
Everything in this guest room was too damn bright—the floral wallpaper, the blindingly white comforter, the piercing rays of light shining through the transparent curtains.
“Cursed things are useless!” I grumbled under my breath, evil-eying the drapery like they’d swung first at me.
Why bother with curtains if they weren’t going to do their one job? Stupid. The most unintelligent form of fabrics. They didn’t deserve to have ruffles. I hoped they attracted moths.
My muttered curses echoed as I dragged myself out of bed like a corpse clawing out of the grave. My toes cracked as they hit the floor. Delightful foreshadowing for the day I was probably going to have.
Begrudgingly, I suited up in the compression-tight leggings and optimistically-pink cropped athletic top.
“Wakey wakey, my ass,” I huffed.
The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and sizzling bacon hit my senses the moment I shuffled into the kitchen. David and Wyatt sat side by side at the island looking obscenely peppy for this ungodly hour.
A mug lifted to David’s lips as he took a sip, frothy milk clinging to his upper lip. Wyatt chuckled.
“What?” David said.
Wyatt’s smile splayed wide. “Babe, you’ve got a little—” A finger motioned to the corner of his mouth.
“Did I get it?” David palmed his chin.
“Not even close,” Wyatt said, setting his cup down.
He grabbed the bottom of David’s stool and pulled him closer, devilishness twinkling in his eyes.
“I’d say leave it as a drink for me later, but I’m suddenly parched.
” His mouth found David’s. A hand rose up, grabbing the back of David’s neck, bringing him deeper into the kiss.
Blech. If it wasn’t random strangers making me nauseous, drooling over their Loveland allure, it was the two of them making me cringe.
I coughed, putting on the most dramatic performance of having tuberculosis, then shot them both a death glare.
“And here I didn’t think my nausea could get any worse,” I grumbled.
Their heads snapped up, lovey-dovey smirks slowly fading. Identical frowns formed as they witnessed me creep further into the room like a salted slug migrating.
“Don’t mind me, just your innocent daughter watching you both play tonsil hockey,” I groaned sarcastically, biting back my smirk.
They didn’t bother looking embarrassed. I’d stumbled upon worse make-out sessions back in the day.
Truth was, I only found it slightly gross. David was my father at heart, so seeing him happy in love, warmed my soul.
I shook my head, feigning disapproval. “How am I supposed to live in these conditions?”
“Good morning to you too, my sweetheart,” David huffed.
Wyatt shot me a wink. “You’ve survived death, ghosts, and Rainbow Roulette.” he said, way too chipper. “You’ll survive me.”
David slid a steaming mug across the island. It was rosy pink with unidentifiable blobs of mush floating around, like algae in an abandoned fish tank.
I squinted down at it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“Your hangover cure,” he replied with a grin. “Now, bottoms up.”
I held the poison up to my lips, hesitating.
Wyatt chuckled. “Ah, the Loveland Special. Best to hold your breath and chug.”
With a resigned inhale, I swallowed the tea in heavy gulps. It reeked of something earthy, bitter, and tasted exactly how I’d feared. Rotten fruit, putrid moss, and a disturbingly grainy texture. Gross hot swamp water.
I pressed a fist to my mouth, gag reflex threatening.
David and Wyatt cackled, absolutely reveling in my suffering.
“I’m throwing you both into a nursing home the moment chewing becomes a chore,” I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut against the rising nausea.
But that only seemed to make them laugh harder. Wyatt slapped the countertop and stood, still smiling like a gremlin.
“All right—grab some bacon and let’s get moving.”
The gardens were an absolute dream. Acre upon acre of whimsical floral heaven.
I knew David had worked hard to replicate the gardens of Loveland, but this felt like it was carved from the hands of Loveland itself.
Blooming with allure, rare beauty, and meticulous care.
If this was only a scaled-down replica, I couldn’t imagine the magnificence of what the real ones must have looked like.
The paths unfurled like storybook pages appearing through mist as Wyatt strode down each one.
We passed flowers in hues I’d never seen before.
Ballooning purple blooms, blood-red roses the size of watermelons, and tiny sky-blue bells that dangled like earrings from shimmery vines.
But my favorite by far was the moss-like grass beneath our feet.
It was thick and plush as if we were walking on the back of a furry earth-creature.
I had to fight the urge to kick off my shoes and dig my toes in.
Our pace slowed as we reached the heart of the gardens. A ring of rose quartz pillars were placed at the center, arranged in a perfect circle. Lovehenge, I decided to name it.
Inside the ring lay a flawlessly manicured open clearing, quietly humming with magic. The perfect place for sweat and blood, I presumed.
“Today,” Wyatt said, “you’re going to show me what you remember.
” He jerked his head toward something behind me as the loud clank of metal hitting stone rang out.
I turned to find the three Cherubs had appeared.
One of them—Pudge, of course—was standing over an upturned satchel, a shiny mess of blades spilled haphazardly at his feet.
Wyatt shot him a look that could sharpen the swords all on its own.
“Then,” he continued smoothly, “we move on to sharp, pointy things.” His sass slipped out on the last words.
I gathered my hair into a high ponytail, tightening it like I was gearing up for battle.
“Hey, Honey—” I glared at the winged menace who was currently cuddled up to Pudge and Huck like they were having a damn picnic. “Payback’s a bitch. Remember that.” I aimed my finger at him.
Honey didn’t flinch. Just waggled his eyebrows, smug as ever with an expression that taunted, wanna bet?
Pudge popped a small cheese pastry into his mouth. One that looked suspiciously like the ones I’d bought yesterday to enjoy over the weekend. Beside him, Huck was my own personal cheer squad, waving a large, fluffy bloom like a pom-pom.
I was surrounded by rosy-cheeked goblins.
Thank god my leggings were dark because I was sweating everywhere. And I mean, everywhere.
We’d finished a long and grueling hour of hand-to-hand sparring through every worst-case scenario imaginable.
Eyes closed—an attack from behind. Lying flat—someone launching on top of me.
Casually walking—an assailant grabbing my arm, dragging me off.
Like a live-action movie of all the ways you could get murdered. And, hopefully, somehow . . . not.
That is, until the Cherubs decided to improvise.
All three of them decided to script their own scenario, swarming me from all angles like tiny, pestering wasps of chaos.
Pinching, wet-willies, and the occasional tickle-torture, were all apparently part of their strategic plan.
Safe to say, I died, murdered by tummy squeezes.
Wyatt, in a stunning display of betrayal, took a leisurely water break while I struggled to maintain bladder control during the fiasco. All the while, he was rambling on about the fascinating traditions of Eostre Land.
My happy thoughts of chocolate-filled Easter eggs, fuzzy bunnies, and boozy brunches were promptly replaced with explosive devices, spider-legged rabbits from hell, and horn-dog orgies.
Eostre Land valued growth and fertility above all.
And they took that very seriously. Honestly, sex, sweat, and blood seemed a more appropriate motto.
I wasn’t disappointed by the descriptions of Eostre Land, I was horrified.
“That’s not going to be part of the competition, right?
” I asked, panic and embarrassment creeping up my neck.
“I mean—I’m not expected to participate, am I?
Like, not required to—” I cut myself off, the words choking me with mortification.
I wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and live there. Forever.
“No.” David’s voice rang out across the garden. Clipped, cold, and very, very clear. “You’re not.”
He approached, dressed in similar activewear to Wyatt. A fitted white shirt, navy blue sweats and the kind of mood that said someone had been listening for a while.
Great.
“You’re not,” he repeated firmly. “In fact, you’re to stay away from all nightly celebrations. And absolutely nowhere near their mushrooms . . . or chocolate fountains.”
My interest piqued at the sound of chocolate fountains, but then I internally scolded myself.
Wyatt narrowed his eyes at David in silent reprimand.
David cleared his throat, revising his words. “My strong recommendation,” he said, softer. “As your official advisor.”
Oh dear god. I was not having this conversation with them right now. The birds and the bees could buzz off. I was far from my teenage years and really didn’t feel like dusting off the old memory of him traumatizing me with photos of sexually transmitted diseases before I went off to college.
“Good to know,” I said, flatly. “Wasn’t planning on it. I’m sure I’ll find better use of my time.”
And I would. Specifically, snooping through their libraries for any information that might point to the black relic.
It’d been a few nights since I’d dreamt of the onyx box, but the weight of it never left me.
It clung to the back of my mind like a quiet, steady urge.
Running into Alvar—the Vinterland elf—confirmed I was close.
I refused to believe it was a mere coincidence he had the pink, egg-shaped rock—the Bondi Stone, as he called it.
The vision it gave me felt too tangible to be symbolic.
That valley, that cave, they were real. And they were connected to Eostre Land . . . somehow.
My mind sharply reeled back in, hyperaware of the upcoming events.
When exactly were we going to Eostre Land? What celebrations would we be expected to attend? Our lodging—would we bunk up with our team? I pictured it all. With Lochlainn. Pogue. Finley. Wyatt. David . . .
Ohhhhh no. No, no, no. This is bad.
A flush was definitely scalding my cheeks again. The thought of David and Wyatt being under the same roof as not one, but two men I’ve been intimately entangled with in some way, would be my own personal brand of mortification. In that case, I’d rather sleep with the hell rabbits.
With Wyatt and David now officially part of the team, I knew my secret-keeping days were numbered.
I’d been procrastinating in telling them about Alvar, about my Floramancy.
It’d be a double scolding. One for letting a cloaked Vinterlander swoop me into an alleyway—zero survival instincts on my part—and another for waiting so long to bring it up.
But the Floramancy—honestly, I had no idea how David would react. Shock? Disbelief? Shit a brick? Most likely, all of the above.
I looked up, realizing David had been studying me. Feet firmly planted, arms crossed, his eyes went to slits. Then his head tilted—that tilt. The one he always did when he was clocking my emotions before I had the chance to volunteer my thoughts.
Shit.
“Carwynn.” David said my name like an accusation.
My face pulled into a pained smile that bordered on a cringe. “Yessss?”
Wyatt stifled a laugh, knowing exactly what was happening. I was being emotionally ambushed.
“Out with it,” David ordered.
I took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly.
“Fine,” I groaned. “So there’s a couple of things I need to tell you.”
David side-eyed Wyatt, a glare of, I told you so.
Of course he’d already connected the dots. Me avoiding him usually meant I was hoarding secrets. Which . . . I was.
“I unexpectedly met someone from Vinterland,” I began, then paused to observe the slight twitches of muscle in their faces.
“It was after I broke Lochlainn’s vaulted house.
He unleashed his men on me, so I ran through the markets—” I rambled, picking up speed, “—and got pulled into an alleyway by some cloaked tree-man who wanted to help. Who, in turn, ended up being a Seidr. Or Seer. Or whatever you call it. And he was actually pretty nice. Said we’d be besties in the future and so .
. . yeah . . .” I finished in one overstretched breath.
Wyatt now joined David in tilting his head, like I’d just admitted to stealing a Pooka and keeping it as a pet.
David placed both hands over his face, dragging them down dramatically. I could actually see his heartbeat twinge under his eye as he fought to maintain composure.
Wyatt spoke first.
“Broke,” he said slowly, “his vault?” One eyebrow shot up. “What—I mean . . . how? And did this tree-man have a name?” A laugh bubbled out of him, head shaking. “Was he cute?” He sent me a devious wink.
A bit of tension released inside me.
“Wyatt!” David growled through clenched teeth.
Wyatt pinned David in place with blazing eyes. “Breathe, David. Breathe.” He gestured to his own chest, reenacting an exaggerated demonstration in case David had forgotten how lungs worked.
I inhaled, realizing I’d needed the reminder as well.
“So the vault accident is kind of a long story . . .” I gave a sorry smirk. “But first things first, you never told me how huge the elves were! Hope they’ve got their own basketball team.”
David frowned.
Right, not the time for jokes.
I turned to Wyatt. “But to answer your question, yeah, he was cute. In a, I’ve burned cities down and have the face scars to prove it, kind of way.”
Something flared across David’s face in recognition.
“I—” I started.
David cut in, his tone on edge. “What was his name?”
“Alvar,” I rasped.
Dead. Silence.