Chapter 35 #3
But another trio waits for them at the base. “Fuck,” I say. “Tamarind was supposed to distract them.” Then again, he was also definitely in on Castor’s whole lying scheme, so his word clearly isn’t worth much.
“I’ll do it,” Fern says, moving forward.
I clutch her wrist. “Wait, no—you don’t have to do that for me.”
Turning back, she covers my hand with hers, squeezing gently. “You’re my family, Maddox. I want to.”
Evidently, my heart is not completely made of iron, because it swells at Fern’s words, a lump materializing in my throat. “Be careful,” I whisper.
She giggles, as if it’s ridiculous to think she would be anything else.
From my spot in the shadows, I can’t hear what Fern says to the six guards, but I imagine it’s more singing siren magic, judging by the dazed looks on their faces and the way they traipse after her in the opposite direction.
The second they depart, I dash to the climbing ivy, grasping the vines and hoisting myself up.
When I was young, I’d climb trees all the time.
There was this massive oak in our backyard that had a hollow place between three branches that made a seat of sorts.
When my mom’s back was turned, I would grab a book and slip outside, disappearing into the arboreal haven.
Sometimes wood sprites would make an appearance, blinking down at me with their curious eyes.
It wasn’t until I was older that I learned not everyone could see them, that only me and my dad could.
If only he had told me about all of this.
About what he’d had to do for the Myrtle Queen in his endless service to her.
When I learned about his pact, a new image of my dad emerged in my mind.
I can’t make it fit my memories of him. I keep trying, but there’s always something off.
Like a drawing that isn’t ever quite right.
So you erase and redraw, erase and redraw, and erase and erase and erase until the page is more gray than white.
A third of the way up.
Determination floods my nervous system, calming and invigorating me at the same time.
Something feels different now. Unlike all the times I tried to summon the courage to kill Castor, this actually feels right.
The haunting image of the hanging boy, the wolfish glint in Durian’s eyes as they raked down my body, possessive and hungry.
The mortal girls he has delivered to his rooms.
After his betrayal, I’m not sure what Castor deserves…but I know without a doubt King Durian deserves to die.
I climb like a spider outrunning a striking hand, finding the footholds along the vines with ease.
Hope blooms as I imagine myself handing over Durian’s severed horns to the Myrtle Queen, being cured of diabetes—never to stab myself with a needle again or be bled dry by the relentlessly cruel health-care system.
I imagine showing up at Javen’s apartment in San Francisco and getting some barista job that makes little money, but it won’t matter because I’ll only need enough for bills and food.
Not a rich life or a fancy life, but a life I can manage on my own.
Suddenly, my foot slips on a slick patch of the vine, and I scramble to right myself, biceps straining as I attempt to pull my body weight back up. In my silent struggle, the strap of my bag hooks itself around a jutting branch, tipping sideways.
I watch, in slow motion, as the vial of tree poison slips out of the gap at the top and plummets. A million curses scroll across my mind like a theater marquee.
The vial dives to the ground.
Kisses the gleaming wood of the platform surrounding the throne room.
Shatters into a million pieces.
Poison eats through the wood like acid.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
“No,” I growl.
Heart hammering, I move to right myself, but as my hand grasps for a knob on the branch, a black vine wraps around my wrist, tugging it away. Slowly, a dozen vines with the same inky coloring coil around my legs and waist.
Looking down, I see a splotch of gold at the base of the ivy. The Redwood King smiles. Then with a violent tug, I, too, am plummeting toward the ground.
Instead of splattering all over the platform, I’m suspended in midair just above Durian’s head, like his vines are a king cobra holding its prey.
Over his shoulder, a cluster of shocked onlookers gape up at me, glasses of wine frozen mid-sip.
And just beyond that stands the Myrtle Queen, watching me with a mixture of dark amusement and disappointment.
The vines lower slowly until I am right before Durian’s face. “Seems I underestimated my little brother’s mortal darling.” A wicked smile cuts across his face like a jagged scar through a painting. “He will be so devastated to learn of your true intentions in this kingdom.”
I twist until my eyes connect with the Myrtle Queen’s. “Amanita!” I shout. “Help me.”
Durian’s brows lift as he turns his gaze on the queen. The dryad cluster parts. “You know this mortal girl, Amanita?”
The Myrtle Queen takes a slow sip of cherry wine, face impassive. She licks her red-stained lips. “I’ve never seen this girl in my life.”