CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EMMERY
Thrown back into consciousness, Emmery found herself face down on the frigid stone floor, and once again, alone.
She rubbed her throbbing, bruised cheek.
No trace of the table of food and drink remained as if it’d never existed at all, though her full belly and the cold press of the steak knife against her skin told her differently.
The food must have been laced with some sort of drug and caused that dream. But if it was a dream, why did her lips still tingle?
Emmery righted herself, fixed her unravelled braid, and returned to the labyrinth halls.
As she stepped through the exit, her fingers sparked and her vestige pulsed to life as if to say, remember me?
A relieved sigh punched from her chest when she reached for her magic and it met her like an eager companion.
At her fingertips her khaos flame flared, bright, playful, and ready to destroy, inspired purely by her confusion and anger.
Confusion about the kiss. Anger at herself for allowing it to happen, even if it was only a hallucination, because she couldn’t shake the feel of Destonne’s lips from her mind as she navigated the hallways alone. And worse, she didn’t want to.
With only her flame to guide her, she wandered for some time, carelessly turning left and right, but she came to a dead stop when a pair of orange eyes emerged in the shadows.
Emmery’s knees weakened and a small, elated sound slipped between her lips.
She doused the fire contained in her palm, and she wasn’t sure who moved first, but she ran to him.
When they collided, she wrapped her arms around Brennen’s neck, not saying a damn word.
He rested his head on her shoulder, sinking into her embrace.
After they separated, Brennen glanced up at her with worried eyes.
Emmery’s stomach twisted. She glanced behind the wolf, but he was alone. The room swam around her, her blood icy, as she asked, “Where is he?”
Brennen looked down at his feet, and paused before he said ominously, “Follow me.”
Too afraid to ask questions, her numb legs carried her through the dank corridors. In her palm, her flame flickered with each erratic pound of her heart as she imagined the worst. But she never could have predicted what she found.
Destonne had a fever.
Heat bled into Emmery’s hand as she placed it gingerly against his forehead.
He didn’t stir at her touch, just lay there slumped against the wall.
The absence of his teasing, smart remarks, and even his voice painfully slipped beneath her ribcage.
And she stayed trapped in his silence for far too long before she noticed and snapped herself out of it.
After inspecting him for wounds and finding none, it became clear this wasn’t an infection. When Senka had attempted to rip the thorns from his body, his injuries had clearly been the cause, but now, he lay there pale, hot, sweaty, and helpless.
Brennen nosed Destonne’s hair aside, and said, “I couldn’t get it free from his crown.”
Emmery squinted at the three green leaves tucked between a couple vines of his crown. The unmistakable aroma of mint clung to them. The same mint she now realized she often scented on his breath.
“What is this? Did you find it here?” she asked. She carefully yanked a leaf free and smoothed Destonne’s hair back over the crown.
“It’s called veramint. I don’t know what we would have done if we couldn’t smuggle it through that portal. It helps with the fever.”
A lump formed in her throat as Emmery studied Destonne’s sweat-dampened face.
“Does he … is this—” She turned back to Brennen, horror written across her face.
“Does this happen often? Or is this from the food?” She silently begged him to tell her opposite what she believed but braced herself for the worst.
“He’s been like this since he lost his magic.”
Her insides twisted into knots, squeezing the air from her lungs. “Is this the fever?”
Brennen gave a sad, slow nod. “Can you place a leaf on his tongue? I would but I … can’t. No opposable thumbs and all.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh.
Emmery’s chest tightened, aching for both of them. As she helped ease Destonne onto the ground, he murmured something in his sleep that sounded suspiciously like her name. His arms lifted and reached for her.
Unsure what to do, she took both his hands and cradled them to her chest. His skin was so damn warm, her breath stuttered.
“Destonne?” She stroked her thumb along the side of his palm.
This time, he undoubtedly said her name in a feverish mumble. He limply squeezed her hand and fell into sleep once more.
Heart in her throat, Emmery turned to Brennen. “Has he been like this the whole time?”
“No,” Brennen said. His eyes unfocussed for a moment before he blinked it away. “This is the first time he’s said anything since he fainted.”
Gods, this whole situation worsened by the second.
She turned the leaf over in her hand. The rough surface, both thick and durable, likely survived days tucked into Destonne’s crown for that reason.
It didn’t look special, at least not to her, but she didn’t know much about the plant life in Karynthia.
“If this helps with the fever, why doesn’t everyone use it?” Emmery asked. She gently placed her thumb between Destonne’s lips and chin. The King’s brows creased, but he didn’t stir again.
“There’s very short supply and it’s only experimental.
No one knows the long-term effects. Sometimes he sleeps for long periods, but we don’t know if it’s from the plant or the thorns.
Or both.” Brennen nudged his nose under Destonne’s hand and rested his head on the King’s thigh in a familiar gesture.
“The veramint only curbs the fever. It always comes back.”
Emmery tried to think of anything but their kiss inside that insane vision while she gingerly parted Destonne’s lips and placed the leaf on his tongue.
As she settled against the wall beside him, she watched him sleep, wondering how long he’d suffered like this, why he did it silently, and how many times this fever had gotten in the way.
Something dripped on Emmery’s cheek. She swiped at the dampness, not ready to wake from her first good sleep in—
Well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply.
She snuggled into the warmth at her back to ward off the chill of the stone prison and found Destonne tucked against her, his lips pressed to the top of her head and arm draped over her waist. After falling asleep, she must have crawled to him.
Though she greedily stole his body heat, his skin burned far too hot.
His long, even breaths stirred her hair and she sank into the calm, comforting sensation, if only for a moment, since she’d discarded her pride long after entering this place.
As they waited for the fever to break, Brennen scouted for the next room, but hadn’t returned. She prayed he hadn’t gotten lost in this maze.
Another droplet landed on her forehead, the texture slimy, and breath clouded her face, hot, moist—
Definitely not human.
Emmery’s eyes shot open. Two colossal paws bracketed her head, caging her in, and among the darkness two glowing orange eyes stared down at her.
“Brennen?” she whispered into the eerie stillness. Though relief flared inside her, something didn’t feel right. “Did you find the next room?”
He answered with a low rumbling growl, a purely animalistic sound. A chill snaked up Emmery’s spine as their conversation flooded her mind, drowning her with the knowledge and consequences of him trapped in this form. That only Destonne could bring him back from the depths of his beast.
Brennen’s words, I lose my soul, sprinted through her mind. No recognition lit his eyes, only a churning hint of madness she knew well.
Hunger.
Emmery reached for Destonne, praying he would wake, and that the fever would release its hold. She grabbed his forearm and shook. Hard.
Still asleep, he only mumbled into her hair.
“Wake up,” Emmery hissed. Her gaze never strayed from Brennen’s. She wouldn’t chance it, but fear held her there anyway.
The wolf's lips pulled back over strong white teeth that could rip her to pieces with ease. A viscous string of drool slid from his mouth and landed between her eyebrows. Emmery’s stomach dropped.
Even if she managed to slither free from his paws on either side of her, she couldn’t possibly outrun him. There was only one way out of this.
Emmery jammed her elbow into Destonne’s ribs.
“Ouch,” he groaned, the word slurred like he still battled sleep. He rubbed his torso. “What was—” His eyes peeled open and locked on Brennen. The situation knocked sleep’s hold loose, and the world seemed to freeze in this fresh, frigid nightmare.
The wolf’s gaze remained on Emmery, his focus solely on his prey, ready to sink his teeth into her.
“Brennen,” Destonne coaxed, his groggy voice laced with a tremble. His head swayed as he attempted to sit up. “Step back.”
But Brennen’s consciousness remained tucked away somewhere.
And the wolf lunged.
Even for his ill state, Destonne moved impressively fast. He snagged Brennen around the neck and hauled the enormous wolf back. Brennen snapped and howled, his teeth merely a hair’s breadth from Emmery’s face. She scrambled away.
Brennen’s attention shifted from her and centered on Destonne.
As the wolf wriggled like a wily serpent, his mouth clamped around Destonne’s forearm.
Through his shirt, the wolf’s teeth sank into flesh, ripped muscle, severed tendons down to the bone with a terrifying wet squelch.
Blood squirted and drenched both of them.
Destonne roared between clenched teeth. Thorns burst through his skin, but it didn’t distract him from his task. He wasted no time in his adrenaline-laced fury and tackled Brennen to the ground.
The wolf kicked and flailed and bit, writhing like a ravenous monster, but Destonne managed to keep Brennen pinned on his back, even as the wolf reared, ready to strike again.
Emmery lunged forward and wrapped her hands around Brennen’s impossibly strong jaws before he could sink his teeth into Destonne once more.
“Go,” Destonne croaked, nodding into the shadows. “Go, now.”
“No!” she spat back. “I’m not leaving you again.”
“Emmery—”
But Brennen thrashed and Destonne’s attention snapped back to him.
“Bren,” the King snapped, authority sharpening his words. “Listen to me. You’re not yourself.” His strong tone seemed to needle calm into the wolf’s rage as Brennen’s thrashing slowed. Blood soaked Destonne’s sleeve, trickled down his arm, and dripped off his fingertips onto the wolf’s face.
“Let go, Bren.” His voice stiffened to a steady, even tone. “You have to remember. Come on.”
As time dragged by like yarn stretched in a wheel, Emmery feared the beast had permanently taken hold of Brennen and refused to let go.
But eventually Brennen’s growl died, his gnashing teeth stilled beneath Emmery’s hold, and his rigid muscles relaxed as the deepest regret soaked both their gazes. She slowly released the wolf’s muzzle, rose to her feet, and stepped back to give them space.
The moment Destonne freed him of the chokehold, Brennen crawled away, his eyes wide and glossy as he undoubtedly spoke into his friend’s mind.
“I’m fine,” Destonne ground out, his voice hoarse. With a groan, he sat up and cradled his arm. “It’s only a scratch.”
Emmery ignored his dismissal of his wound and kneeled beside him. In one hand she lit a tiny flame and with the other she lifted his sleeve to survey the damage.
Destonne was not fine.
The exposed thorns in his arm twisted, writhed, and likely explained why blood continued to stream from Brennen’s mouth.
Destonne sucked air between his teeth, but the thorns wouldn’t retract.
Panic had a hold of him and his chest shook with each disjointed gasp for air.
Until he calmed, healing him would be pointless.
He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but she placed a finger on his lips and leaned down to meet his gaze. “Breathe with me?” she asked softly, like he had the day at the pond when he’d removed the quills.
In the firelight, his stare collided with hers, then in an agonizingly intimate glide, skimmed down her face to her lips, and paused there.
His throat rolled as he swallowed before he lifted his gaze to meet hers once more.
Emmery gave him a small smile, which he didn’t return, but his reedy breaths steadied to match hers, in and out, slow, steady, synchronized.
The thorns stilled then retracted beneath his skin.
Emmery laid her hand on his arm and before he could stop her, channelled her magic.
Silver threads seeped from her, and though her flame surged, she tucked it away.
The moment the threads connected with Destonne, she whimpered.
His pain hit her in jagged waves, but it wasn’t comparable to the day Senka had attacked him. Nothing compared to that agony.
The ragged edges drew together, and his bleeding slowed but before she could finish mending the wound, weakness took hold of her, maybe from the lack of food and water.
Her head swayed and her vision tunneled.
Before she hit the ground, Destonne caught her around the waist then steadied her and took her face in his hands.
“When did you get here?” he asked. His words rushed, as if the question couldn’t come fast enough. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened?”
Emmery’s cheeks warmed under his touch. “Not hurt. Brennen didn’t hurt me.” She gently laid her hands on Destonne’s and slid them from her face, though her gaze remained welded with his. His eyes welled with too many emotions to process.
“I’m sorry.” Their attention snapped back to Brennen, who had retreated and slunk down the hallway. His head bowed between his paws in shame. “I’m … so very sorry.”
Emmery shuffled toward him, but the wolf took another step back.
“I’m alright,” Destonne assured, his voice calm now. He held up his arm. “See? Good as new.”
From where the wolf sat, she hoped Brennen couldn’t see Destonne’s wince of pain. The wound wasn’t healed. Not by a long shot.