3. Willow
Chapter 3
Willow
“ Y ou’re free,” Emrys states, his familiar raspy voice tight. In two quick strides, he’s before Styx, bloody hands gripping his bare shoulders. “How?”
“Fox used the spell that was meant for me.” I cough and attempt to stand, but the stench overwhelms my senses. I end up on my hands and knees, fingers splayed for balance as I breathe through the haze of death. How can he work here?
Flashes of death—of undead things rising from the ground—hit behind my eyes. I remind myself that was long ago. I’m in Avorlorna. Not Elphyne. I don’t even have my magic. I can’t wake up the dead. They can’t hurt me. I’m safe.
When my breathing settles, I lift my gaze to find both Emrys and Styx staring at me. Something passes unsaid between the two, and I have the surreal sense that I was wrong. I’m still on that battlefield, still at risk of having my flesh torn from my bones.
Styx stalks to a wall and leans his shoulder against it, oblivious to the sharp hunting hooks dangling above his head from iron manacles. He folds his arms and says, “She claims she’s our mate—the hive’s one true queen.”
I lick my lips and dart a nervous glance at Emrys. For a moment, I fear he’ll lie and say he has no idea who I am. He approaches me with a slow, rolling gait. He moves like a wolf tracking its prey.
“Apparently,” he replies.
“Apparently?” Styx repeats, brows raising.
“Fox claims she is.” Emrys’s dark brows knit together. “But look at her—no queen, just a frail mortal shell devoid of magic.”
“So she lies,” Styx continues. “She trapped Fox into taking my place.”
“Search her mind,” Emrys suggests, crouching to my level.
Dried blood is caked on his gloves. It’s on his boots, black pants, and white hair.
“I can’t,” Styx says, scraping a hand through his unruly hair. “She is blocked to me . . . like a queen.”
“Queens cannot be trusted,” Emrys hisses, lashes lowering as he inspects my face. When interest sparks in his eyes, I know it’s not because the curse has been broken. Fox never saw the ugliness, so it’s fair to assume Emrys didn’t either. His interest is something far more nefarious. I’ve always felt like he was an inch away from strapping me to his torture chair. It’s enough to make me doubt he’s the right choice for the enchanted spectacles.
“Which is why I came here first,” Styx says.
Emrys straightens to his full, imposing height, yet his gaze remains on my face. I am at his mercy in this lowly position, on my hands and knees.
Scraping on the slate draws my attention to his boot sliding toward my vulnerable hand. The blood-spattered toe lifts and hovers over my splayed fingers, ready to crush my fragile mortal bones.
My heart hammers against my ribcage so hard that I can’t breathe. This isn’t choking on air. This is lung-squeezing panic.
“Oh, little moth.” His sensual lips curve with cruel delight. “Your heart sings such a beautiful melody. Shall we see what other tunes it knows?”
His boot lowers, and I brace for crushing pain, but nothing comes when Styx asks, “But is she the one who betrayed me?”
Playfulness evaporates from Emrys’s posture. His boot slips away from my hand as he glances at Styx. “What do you mean, betrayed?”
“Why do you think I was put in the cabinet?” Styx’s voice drops to a wary tone, eyes narrowing.
The Knight Inquisitor returns his wariness. “What are you implying, Sixth?”
“That the story she told of my sentencing is false, Third .” Styx pushes off the wall and meets Emrys, toe to toe. “Do you not recall what happened?”
“You broke the Old Code.”
Styx’s lips flatten. “Did I?”
“Emrys can’t remember.” I scramble to my feet. “Titania cursed you all. Or the Keepers have. I’m still unsure what’s happening with your seals, but your memory is unreliable even when the seals are broken.”
Two sets of distrustful eyes swing my way, and I am out of patience.
“And for the record,” I continue, “I wasn’t here when you were encased in stone. So I can’t have been the one to betray you.”
At their continued silence, my eyes burn with unshed tears. “I’ve lost so much tonight,” I growl. “I am raw. I am exhausted. I am devastated. I feel like Fox has ripped my heart out with the move he pulled, but I understand why he did it. You lot are a mess. He was at his wit’s end trying to unite his hive.” A hysterical laugh chuffs out of me. “He tried for five years and couldn’t make it work. You need me. Admit it. Return us to the castle to finish this conversation with the others.”
“Look at that,” Styx drawls. “The mortal with fangs thinks she can order us around.”
For some reason, his words cast doubt into Emrys’s eyes. I sense his irritation swarming in the air, pulsing against my skin. Then, as quickly as it arrives, it dissipates.
“Return her,” he intones as he strolls to his victim and swipes a finger along a limb. He sucks blood from his finger, considering something. When his gaze lowers briefly to my neck—to where Fox’s bite mark still marks my flesh—and then darts away, I know he must have felt the mating bond trigger. Fox and Styx both received Well-blessed mating marks matching mine on their necks before Tinger’s borrowed mana fizzled out. Emrys’s next words to Styx are through a clenched jaw. “Go. Tell the First what happened to the Fifth. Let him decide her fate. I will investigate the circumstances of your capture.”
When Styx starts toward me, I realize that no matter whose memories are lost, they still instinctively follow a chain of command.
Styx flickers us to the courtyard before the Keep but doesn’t stay to walk me inside. He storms up the steps, his anger palpable in the tense set of his shoulders. A pang in my chest urges me to follow him, to chase him down and ensure he’s okay. Waking after years of false imprisonment, finding your brother has taken your place, and the rest have barely any memory of the circumstances surrounding it would be jarring. I dare think he feels lonelier than me.
But exhaustion weighs heavily on my limbs, and even though the enchanted spectacles burn a hole in my pocket, I don’t head to Legion’s chambers. I return to mine. The closer I get, the stronger Fox’s scent becomes, and I remember I won’t be able to get inside without him. But when I arrive, his outer door has returned. Frowning, I wrap my hand around the doorknob. Did the castle shift our rooms back last night, and I didn’t notice when I woke?
Did it know he wouldn’t return?
When I open the door, Fox’s cologne tugs at my heart. Our rooms are still attached, but I’ve been gifted an extra door to enter and leave.
The castle knew he wouldn’t return.
Blinking away tears, I pick up one of Fox’s crumpled shirts but hurry into my room as if his ghost is chasing me. The jar of stolen wisps casts flickering light onto my collection of treasure . . . including the portal stone back home. Suddenly, I’m back in the temple, Fox’s desperate eyes boring into mine, his voice cracking as he pleads with me to understand.
I inhale against his shirt, hoping his scent will banish my doubts. Without him, I have no allies here except Geraldine, Max, and Peggy. Maybe the best thing to do is take them back to Elphyne. At least they’ll be safe there.
Varen’s hint of honey and jasmine is subtly curled within Fox’s comforting woodsy scent. The tightness in my chest eases as I think of him. He might communicate in nonsensical code, but I often see intelligence lurking in his warm gaze. Maybe Fox hugged Varen when he fed him sustenance. Or maybe Varen planted his scent here because he knew I’d return and have doubts.
He might have seen in a vision how distraught I’d be after returning without Fox . . . and Tinger. My wounded palm touches my sternum, a reflex of seeking out the pendant.
My mother often gave me little comforting messages after seeing the future in her prophetic visions. When it came time to live out those moments, I would think of her and smile.
But now I frown. It’s not because I don’t miss my family in Elphyne, but I feel the pull towards my mates more. They are mine. All six of them.
My head throbs, a war between two loyalties raging behind my eyes. For a moment, I see my childhood home—the familiar scent of my mother’s herb garden and the sound of my father’s rare booming laughter. Elphyne pulls at my heart, but Avorlorna tugs at my very being, six new connections humming beneath my skin. I press my palms to my temples, trying to quiet the clash of past and present. The bond is there, waiting to be found again.
Exhaustion crushes me like a tidal wave. I change out of my soggy clothes with heavy limbs and slide Fox’s shirt over my shivering body. It comes down to my thighs, but it’s more than I usually wear to sleep.
I add my new treasures to my growing collection on the table and make a mental note to investigate their magical properties later. The gloves and acorn call to me. Taking the spectacles and jar of wisps, I pad barefoot through the dawn-lit hallways, determined to find the familiar scent that calls to me like home. The sweet, smoky jasmine of Varen beckons me forward.
The castle shifted overnight. The doors have changed positions, but I know which direction to head—towards the clock tower. I’m quietly glad it’s on the same floor as my room because I wholeheartedly regret not bringing slippers for the journey by the time I reach their wing. The cold seeps in through my bare feet with every step across the stone floors.
Sweet, smoky jasmine lures me through heavy wooden doors into warmed chambers. I pause at the threshold and scan through the dusty, gloomy room. Dawnlight joins forces with dying firelight to reveal the room’s disrepair. Scratches and nonsensical drawings cover the peeling wallpapered walls. A velvet Chesterfield by the bay window is moth-ridden, its clawed legs tarnished. Bits and pieces of broken things litter the floor, suggesting the baby Wild Hunt has been nesting here. A hint of musky animal scent laces the air, yet I see no sign of the troublemaker. The stronger scent comes from the tightly wrapped figure on the four-poster bed, tangled in a blanket.
Relief surges through me, lifting every emotion I’ve tried to repress since Fox begged me to cherish him. Since I felt his presence slip away. Since he told me to wait for him.
I pad forward, place the jar and spectacles on Varen’s bedside table, and then peer down at the softly breathing Sluagh. It’s hard to believe he’s a creature of chaos and destruction. To me, he is angelic, beautiful, and at peace.
He is in a place I long to be.
New muscle on his pale body confirms what I suspected—Fox fed him. The change in his physique is remarkable. The shadows beneath his eyes are gone, and his cheeks are no longer gaunt, but the hard angle of his jaw remains. Fox might have shaved him last night, too, because the stubble is so fine that it’s almost nonexistent. One arm, part of his naked torso, and a cotton-covered left leg are visible outside of his blanket tangle. His biceps are defined. His forearm is thick and corded. He’s nowhere near as built as the others, but he is no longer closer to his wraith form than life.
All this from bee bread.
I can understand why he was so disenchanted with normal food.
My fingers graze the cold spectacles on the bedside table. Legion might be the First, but Fox spoke about Varen’s visions with unwavering respect. He would be the best candidate for having his memories returned, except that the weight of two seals causes his madness. If the spectacles work, and Varen is still speaking nonsense, I’ll be back where I started.
I peel back Varen’s blanket, intending to slip into his cocoon, but the tangle is unyielding. I’m almost finished unknotting his twisted covers when I tug too hard on a sheet corner wrapped around an ankle. He mumbles something and frowns. I freeze and wait for him to fall asleep. I’m left with a fluffy blanket, two sheets, and a bath towel. How in the Well’s name was he planning on extricating himself from this mess?
Finally, I wrap the blanket over the two of us and shuffle closer to him. The fatigue I’ve denied droops my eyelids. To it, I am safe now. To it, adrenaline is no longer needed. My body quakes with the final letdown, and I burrow closer to my mate. That word sounds less foreign the more I think it.
He’s so warm and delicious.
He stirs. A husky sigh leaves his lips, tickling my face.
“Shh,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
“The queen searches . . .” His tone is rough as he squeezes his eyes harder. It’s all too real. He knows. I don’t want to break the news to him now.
“My room is cold and empty. Please, can I stay here for a while?”
Warm, large hands slide around my hips. His fingers flex as though trying to convince himself I’m real. His breathing becomes sharp and stilted. Panicked.
“Shh,” I coo. “Go back to sleep, Varen.”
Please.
Don’t be alarmed. Let us dream all is well.
He tenses. Fire crackles. The sunlight is growing brighter through the gaps in the curtains. It’s an omen, promising a new day already gusting with wind and snow. Still, with his eyes closed, Varen’s hand glides down my thigh, slips beneath Fox’s shirt, and up my bare back.
The sensation draws a gasp from my lips and a shiver down my spine. He tugs me closer until we’re flush, and my head has nowhere to go but to the enticing spot tucked beneath his chin. I have a face full of male neck and collarbone. The smell of him is stronger here. It’s sweet, heady, and masculine. It’s as warm as his embrace and soothes my frayed nerves.
He gently strokes my back with lazy, repetitive sweeps.
This.
This is what I needed so desperately.
“When it’s cold,” he murmurs roughly, his chin bumping on the top of my head, “worker bees cluster tightly around the queen . . . to generate heat through . . . muscle contractions.”
My chuckle knocks loose unshed tears. I hug him tighter, screw up my face, and wish I could hold onto the humor for a little longer. It lies and tells me everything is okay.
He continues to mumble more about the hive’s temperature being essential to the queen’s survival. His factual drone is as soothing as his idle hand, and I relax.
“Tell me more,” I sigh.
“The bees outside the cluster expose themselves to colder temperatures, sacrificing their lives to insulate her.”
I pull back to look into his shadowed, sleepy eyes. “What?”
“Shh.” He mimics me from earlier. He smooshes his finger against my parted lips and repeats, his body tense. “Shh.”
My bottom lip trembles. I don’t want to trigger an episode, so I nod and hold my words captive. Mollified, his thumb smears wetness across my cheek. He warned Fox about having sex with me—said that drone bees die after mating with their queen. Fox had laughed it away, joking about his penis falling off, but maybe that was because he’d already decided to take Styx’s place. He was diverting me from the truth.
He’s not technically dead, but he’s not here either.
Another wave of emotion closes my eyes, and I hold my breath in an attempt to stop the sob from breaking free. Varen’s lips press onto each of my eyelids, leaving an impression that stays long after he’s gone. An ache grows in my lower belly, and there is a need for more of this kind of connection.
He laps away my tears. The raspy and wet sensation all down my face is a little weird but so agonizingly tender and wolfish that I almost start crying again.
“Bees communicate with a waggle dance.” He tugs me closer.
“Go to sleep, Varen.”
“Honeybees never sleep,” he mumbles, his breath warm against my ear. “When a bee finds a good source of nectar, it flies back to the hive and tells the others.” A pause. “You are our nectar.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s better than being queen, I suppose.”
“Shh.” His fingers trace hypnotic circles over my hip bone, lulling me back into my comfort zone—a place where nothing exists but a warm embrace and dream that one day, none of us will be alone, none of us will make sacrifices.
We’ll be a working, functional family. A hive.
We’ll be happy.