33. Willow
Chapter 33
Willow
I creep through the maze leading toward the Cabinet, the scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy in the air. I have no idea if my luck still holds or how much of my pageant experience was Peablossom and how much was the acorn, but I tap the adornment in my hair three times in the same way she did, just in case.
Moonlight casts eerie shadows across the hedges, transforming dead statues into looming threats.
Gravel crunches softly beneath my feet as I dart through the now-familiar pathway, wary of hidden resonance stones. I push down the feeling of heartache tearing at my insides, growing louder and more painful with each step toward the temple.
My grip tightens around the knife I stole, its cool surface a meager comfort in my sweating palms. It may be as blunt as a pancake, but it’s better than nothing. The absence of a proper weapon feels like a missing limb, leaving me exposed in a way that sets my nerves on edge.
The bone sword I brought from Elphyne is too cumbersome, too conspicuous. But I can’t take Rory’s dagger back. Geraldine shouldn’t even use it—the metal disrupts magic.
As I approach the temple, my wolf senses strain, picking up the faintest sounds—the scurry of a small creature in the underbrush, the distant murmur of the ball, the steady drip of water from somewhere unseen.
Two looming figures step out from the shadows. My pulse races, and I strike out. Before the butter knife hits, I see it’s Bodin and Styx. My strike loses power, and the blade impotently skates off Bodin’s chest. His brow arches as he glances down.
“A butter knife?” Horror dawns on his face. “This was your defense plan?”
Styx sniggers, and I swing the blunt blade, pointing at his face. “Don’t underestimate me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, fangs.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you both doing here?”
Bodin’s brows lower, his expression a mix of concern and something darker. Styx smirks, then catches himself, his face sobering.
“You had the same idea as me, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Almost.” Bodin’s gaze flicks to the temple. “You should have waited for us.”
“You were busy.”
He grunts, unhappy with my response, but they need me. He can’t send me back. “We’re going to bring him home.”
My heart soars. “So, not just a visit?”
“Puck seems to be refusing to let his Hunt out for patrols.”
“Why?”
Styx replies, “He’s afraid someone will come and take his dragon from him.”
“Or,” Bodin says, “the Hunt is using him for its own purpose. Whatever the case, we must take advantage of this opportunity.”
“Do we have time?” Hope and anxiety war in my chest.
Bodin’s hand slides over my shoulder, warm and large. “We do if we work together.”
“Okay. What’s the plan?”
“Take us inside,” he says. “Styx and I will push Fox towards the exit, and Styx will flicker us home.”
“Fox isn’t too heavy?” I ask.
Styx gives me a skeptical look. “You’re seriously asking me that?”
I shrug, assessing his frame. Sure, they’re both strong males, but how much of their strength is within the normal realm of fae? “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about me,” he scoffs, strolling towards the temple.
“Styx,” Bodin warns. “Only Willow can sense the warded entrance.”
The cocky bastard keeps searching for the entrance, but all he can see is rock. I wait a few minutes, arms folded, foot tapping, before Styx turns to me with a stubborn smile and says, “After you.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. Despite the danger, despite everything, there’s something comforting about their presence. We’re in this together, for better or worse.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I say, moving towards the temple entrance. I take both their hands and use my foot to connect with the entrance. Once the itching sense of magic crawls over me, I let it spill to them and take us through.
The first sign something is wrong is the darkness. With hundreds of jars of wisps, it should be bright. When my wolf eyes adjust, I’m stunned—the jars of wisps and treasures—all gone. All that remains is Fox’s statue, tables with ancient carvings, and the thick discs sealing the Sluagh’s full powers.
“What happened?” I whisper, the eerie silence pressing in around us. “The wards haven’t changed.”
Bodin scans the room. “There is only one person apart from yourself, Willow, who has access to this temple.”
“Puck.”
“No wonder the Baleful Hunt no longer guards it,” Styx drawls, his voice tinged with dark amusement. “There’s nothing to guard.”
At first, I try to help push Fox toward the exit, but I’m more of a hindrance. The two take over, but it’s slow going. I occasionally poke my head outside the warded exit to check, but it remains empty. Eventually, Bodin orders Styx to shift.
Styx’s wings erupt from his back, tearing his shirt to shreds.
“Fuck!” he barks, scowling down at his exposed chest with embarrassment. He plucks fabric scraps from his skin, discarding them carelessly, but can’t seem to reach the trapped shreds at his back.
Bodin sighs. “Pick up your trash. Leave no traces of our visit.”
I quickly volunteer to help, kneeling to collect the discarded pieces. When I offer to untangle the remaining shirt from his wings, Styx refuses, a blush darkening his cheeks.
“Let me do it,” I insist softly. “It’ll be easier for me.”
He doesn’t stop me from stepping closer. I set to work, hyperaware of his gaze on my face. His hand, warm and large, curves around my waist, anchoring me.
“Done,” I murmur, our eyes locking.
“I’m still getting used to shifting,” he says in my mind.
I give him an understanding smile and reply, “ My claws used to catch and rip things before I was used to it.”
Bodin clears his throat, breaking the moment. “Willow, you touch both Styx and myself as we push. Styx?—”
“I know, I know,” Styx interrupts, his voice still intimate.
He gently moves me aside, plucks buttons on his breeches and slings them low on his hips, then fully transforms. Horns, spikes, blue-tinted skin, tail. His skull briefly illuminates, and then his wraith exits his body with a rush of wind against our faces. Bracing his hands on Fox’s middle, he quickly flaps his taloned, silken wings, creating a buzzing sound. He pushes the statue with casual ease toward the exit.
He is a sight to behold. A force of strength, muscle, and, dare I think it, divine.
I help them exit through the wards. Outside, Styx’s otherness fades, leaving him almost vulnerable as he buttons his pants.
Bodin stares at him, annoyed. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you did that at the start.”
Styx shrugs and swipes his hair from his eyes. He won’t look at me, leaving me wondering if he’s embarrassed, ashamed, or angry to show me his true form. The portraits he sketched of himself in Elphyne had a sense of self-disparagement. The name Spike had been scratched out and replaced with Styx. The other night, he went to great lengths to convince me he’s unashamed of this form, but I’m not convinced.
“Everyone needs to touch me for this to work,” he grinds out, his earlier playfulness replaced by intensity. “Get close.”
I step forward, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on Fox’s cold, stone chest. Bodin moves to the other side, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill of the statue. He tries to encircle me and Fox but can only cover so much surface area.
“You sure this will work?” Bodin checks.
Styx’s response is a glare cut from steel.
Before we flicker away, I lean in closer to Fox. The rough texture scrapes against my cheek as I press close.
“I miss you,” I whisper. “We’re going to fix this, I promise.”
I press my ear to his chest, amazed to hear a faint, slow heartbeat, like a distant drum. My eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Ready?” Styx asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
I nod, tightening my grip. “Ready.”
The world blurs, colors and shapes melding in a dizzying swirl. When everything solidifies, we’re standing in the dining room at Shadowfall Keep, Fox’s statue still cold and immobile between us.
“We did it,” I breathe, relief and determination mingling in my voice. “We brought you home.”