Chapter 11
Alette
We don’t let go of each other’s hands, not the whole time we’re sitting in the brittle grass and trembling until the shakes finally stop, not even after our heartbeats slow and the cold blue sword-light dulls to a nervous shimmer.
Ashton squeezes my hand tighter, like we’re welded together, or maybe fused at the wrist by the horror of what we just survived.
I keep thinking it should feel awkward, or like a joke, but it doesn’t. There’s not a joke left in me.
The maze is dead quiet. Even the wind isn’t talking.
Above us, the stars shine, their light barely penetrating the strange grayness that seems to hover over the labyrinth.
The place where the worm’s tunnel broke surface is already scabbed over, the roots weaving so fast I can see them growing, writhing back and forth to close the wound.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was healing.
That the maze cared about what happened to itself.
We watch it for a long time, neither of us saying a word. Maybe we’re waiting to see if the worm comes back. Maybe we’re just grateful for something to look at other than the dark maze.
Eventually, Ashton squeezes my hand, once, and lets out a sigh that comes out more like a laugh. “You realize,” he says, “we just spent our wedding night in a worm’s death trap.”
I snort. “Beats my old honeymoon fantasy.”
He glances sideways at me, then up at the sky, like he’s afraid to look at me too long. “Did you ever have one?”
“A honeymoon fantasy?”
He nods, looking serious, like this is a real question and not just a way to kill time.
I think about it. I can’t remember ever dreaming of getting married. Maybe because I always knew if I did I probably wouldn’t have the luxury of marrying for love. “No,” I say finally. “If you grew up like I did, you didn’t fantasize. You just hoped it wouldn’t be bad.”
He considers that, then shrugs. “Seems reasonable.”
We sit. We don’t move. The air gets colder, and the sword dims even further.
After a while, I say, “We should go, right?”
He nods, but makes no move to stand. “You think they’ll come looking for us?”
I picture Zomas, his gold-ringed horns and belly laugh, the way he called me “Queen” and then sent me off to die. “If they do, we’re not going to want to be here.”
He grins. “Lead on, wife.”
I want to groan, but instead I just pull him up, trying not to notice the glint of the light off our rings. The hand-hold is still happening, and neither of us lets go.
We walk, and I pull the goddess’s sword back out.
It’s our only source of light besides the far off stars and moon.
The hedge is closer than earlier, if that’s possible, so close I can smell the damp and rot under the green.
Sometimes the leaves twitch, as if listening.
We go down a different path than the one we took to get here, and the thorns don’t care that we’re already bleeding and battered.
I should feel more paranoid, knowing the satyrs and nymphs are probably out there, regrouping, maybe plotting a second round of worm-honeymoon for the happy couple. But all I feel is tired. A tired so deep it’s like I’ve been wrung out and left on a line to dry.
After a while, Ashton says, “Do you ever think about what it’ll be like to go back to your old life?”
He’s brought up this subject before, but I still haven’t come up with a good answer. “I think about going back, but not really what it’ll be like. I can’t really seem to let myself think about that,” I say, and it’s the truth.
He keeps walking, keeps my hand tight in his. “So we’ll get back, and we’ll give you the fae to kill? That’s the plan.”
Somehow, I’d been so focused on revenge against the fae who killed my mother that I hadn’t really thought about what it meant—that I’d be the one to kill him.
“I guess, yeah…. I guess I’ll kill the fae,” I say, flat. “Stop the sacrifices, no matter what new reasons you fae come up for killing us. Then—” I shrug. “Go home, I guess.”
He nods, like this is the answer he expected. “You think you could really do it? Kill a fae?”
“I killed at the farm when needed,” I say. “I think I could kill anything, if I had to.”
He lets that sit for a minute, then says, “That’s impressive.”
I’m surprised. “I’m not trying to impress you.”
He shakes his head, a real, slow smile this time. “Just saying I find you impressive. With the worm. With everything.”
I blush. I want to tell him to shut up, but I don’t.
He goes quiet again. We walk. At some point, the hedge opens up, just enough for us to see the moon better. It’s thin and mean, like the smile of someone who never got what they wanted.
I ask him, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What will you do, when you go back?”
He makes a face, like he’s just bitten into something sour. “I guess I’ll celebrate with my people. The fae people will have everything, once they get their powers back.”
“And that will make you happy.” He’d said his life was fake, but would this be the thing that finally made him live for himself?
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll just keep ruling, alone. Arguing with the other kings. Pretending to be whatever my people want.”
“Sounds lonely.”
He laughs, and it’s not a sad laugh. “It is. But I’m used to it.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
We walk until the ground goes soft under our feet, then spongy, then almost liquid. It stinks like a bog, and the air is heavy, like a wet cloth pressed to the face. I start to worry the maze is leading us somewhere bad. Maybe somewhere dangerous.
Then I see them.
Crows. More. Freaking. Crows. First just a few, then dozens, perching on the bare branches, silent and still as stones.
They track us with glassy eyes, unblinking.
I try not to think about how many stories I’d heard, back in the human world, about crows as omens, because crows seem to be everywhere in this place.
Ashton stops, and I stop with him, releasing his hand.
“Are they watching us for amusement purposes, or just waiting for us to drop dead?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
He gives a low whistle. “Could be both. Could be neither.”
We keep moving, but the path is narrow now, and the crows get closer, until they’re close enough that I can smell the grease and dust from their feathers. Ashton leans in, voice low. “If they attack, cover your eyes. They go for the soft parts first.”
“You’re not helping,” I hiss.
He grins, but this time I can tell he’s nervous too.
The crows don’t attack, but they do follow. As we go, more of them gather, hopping along the branches or fluttering just above us. It’s like a parade, only the parade is made entirely of things that want you to die. Because, as weird as it is, I get the feeling these birds are working against us.
Finally, after what feels like miles, the hedge opens again, and the crows stop. I almost expect them to applaud. Instead, they just stare.
We step into the clearing, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
Ashton lets go of my hand, just for a second, to run it through his hair. “You did good,” he says.
“So did you,” I offer with a smile. “Besides, crows are nothing after a giant worm.”
“Easy peasy,” he says, grinning.
We sit on a rock, catching our breath. The sword is still glowing, but dimmer now, more like an ember than a torch.
It’s weird like that, glowing and changing seemingly when I want it to, or maybe need it to.
The wind has picked up, just a little, and the smell of the bog is strangely gone as fast as it came.
Ashton looks at me. “You never told me what you did, back home. Like, for fun.”
I blink. I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me something like that. “I didn’t have a lot of free time. When I wasn’t working, I was usually fixing something that was broken.”
“Sounds miserable.”
I shrug. “It was just… life. You do what you have to.”
He nods, silent again.
I pick at the moss on the rock. “Sometimes, I’d sneak out at night. Walk in the woods. Pretend I was lost and wish someone would care enough to find me.” I look up, realize how stupid it sounds. “Sorry, that’s—”
He cuts me off. “Not stupid. I get it.” He’s looking at me with a kind of intensity I haven’t seen before. It wasn’t flirtation or attraction. Just… attention.
I ask, “What about you?”
He gives a half-smile, but it’s crooked, like it hurts. “When I was a kid, I used to make up stories about running away. I’d go to the farthest cloud in the sky and build a palace. Invite everyone who ever wanted to escape.” He shrugs. “Never got around to it.”
I try to picture little Ashton on a cloud, building a house out of rain and sunlight, and I almost laugh. Instead, I just say, “Sounds lovely.”
He shrugs, but he doesn’t disagree.
Then he reaches for the sword at his belt and lifts it to his hair, cutting a lock of his long golden hair. He cuts a little piece of leather from his shirt, wraps the hair and ties it, and presents it to me.
“Thanks?” I say, taking it in confusion.
He smiles. “It’s something we wind fae do.”
I go to put it in my pocket and find Oberon’s fire rock that he’d given me. “Is that like this stone Oberon gave me?”
His jaw drops open, and he takes the rock out of my palms. “He actually gave you this?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“When?”
“Before we left for the maze.”
He rolls it in his hand, grinning. “That old softy was marking you from the very beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
He hands the stone back. “Fire fae present a stone to a fae woman when they’re wooing them.”
Now, it’s my turn for my jaw to drop open. “What?”
“I know!” he says, laughing. “I don’t think the old fire king has ever given a woman a stone before.”
I tuck both the stone and the lock of hair in my pocket, feeling embarrassed. “Then what does your lock of hair mean?”
His smile disappears in a flash. “Don’t you mind that. It’s just something for my lovely wife.”
We sit there, hands on our knees, neither of us knowing what to say.