36. Willow
Chapter 36
Willow
B odin’s grip tightens on me, his eyes widening with alarm.
“You’re wounded,” he mutters.
I frown, piecing together the last few minutes. Bodin’s dream form had vanished, and the Terror attacked. Instinctively, I’d searched for a weapon.
Rory’s ghostly voice echoed in my mind, challenging the wraiths. “Stay focused. Adapt or perish.”
The Terror hurled memories at me—regrets, guilt—but I’ve lived in that space for half my life. Guilt feels like an old friend now. Fear and panic morphed into something stronger when I thought of Rory.
She reminded me of my strength.
“This will make you stronger,” she’d whispered. “This will hurt now, but one day you will remember . . . remember.”
And I did. My training flooded back—the breathing techniques, the laser-sharp focus, shoving everything from my head except my target—Rory’s dagger wrapped as a gift for Geraldine beneath the tree.
“One problem at a time,” Rory’s voice guided me. “What takes the highest priority? What’s going to kill you first?”
The Terror wouldn’t cause immediate death. Its power came from my fear. So I lunged for that package, ripping the paper off. My fingers closed around the familiar hilt, and I slashed at the Terror. It shrieked as Rory’s magic-cutting metal made contact. Something wet splashed my face. We both recoiled.
I gasped, stumbling back until I hit the wall near Fox. His faint heartbeat thrummed in my ears like a war drum, anchoring me. The Terror hesitated to attack.
“The blood’s not mine,” I tell Bodin, aiming for confidence. Relief washes over me as I look at him. “You’re really here.”
The wraith prowls beyond Bodin’s light, seeking an entrance.
“I should have been here,” Bodin mutters, shaking his head. He gathers the blanket from the ground, wraps it around me, and then tugs me against his chest.
Something crashes against the tree, shaking ornaments. Bodin tightens his grip on me and arcs the torch toward the tree, illuminating the scene.
“Another nightmare?” I whisper, my heart racing.
The baby Wild Hunt bursts from beneath it and claws up my body, flapping its wings for momentum.
“Now is not the time for cuddles,” I admonish the dragon, catching it and glancing at the wraith with panic. We lock eyes—its vortexes swirling, trying to hypnotize us and trap us in a torture chamber of our regrets. It’s trying to lure me out of our haven and into the danger zone.
Bodin’s hand covers my face, blocking my view.
“Don’t look at it,” he growls.
Heart kicking, all I can muster is a nod and drop my chin. He removes his hand, and I lower the baby dragon. It settles eagerly at my feet, a string of drool dangling from its maw.
It dawns on me—he’s waiting for a signal.
“There,” I point in the Nightmare’s direction. “There’s your yum-yums. Go get it!”
The little dragon’s high-pitched yowl of excitement pierces the air. It spins unnaturally fast and launches across the floor, leaping into the Terror’s dark sanctuary. Flashes of purple, skull, oil-slick scales, and screeches escape the shadows. My jaw drops as the wraith steps into the halo of light. The previously transparent body is peppered with corporeal, dripping wounds. It shrieks and writhes, trying to throw the vicious dragon off.
“What the fuck is this?” a voice cuts through the chaos.
Styx steps out of flickering darkness, dressed in low-slung cotton pants and nothing more. His black wavy hair is messed up. Shadows dot his collarbone, shoulders, and above his brows—his Sluagh form close to the surface.
“The Terror attacked Willow,” Bodin explains, his voice tense. “I was about to take it down, but the wildling seems to be enjoying himself.”
Styx prowls around the monster as it fends off the dragon’s attack. He seems unhurried, not worried—even a little excited at the prospect of a fight. He casually takes in the battle, then his gaze swings back to land on the blood in my hair. I clutch the blanket tighter as his eyes bleed to black, lips parting to reveal sharp, spiky fangs.
More footsteps thunder towards us in the hallway.
Emrys jogs into the room. I hardly see him in the castle; I’d forgotten he was here. He wears loose cotton pants similar to Styx’s, but his muscular torso is riddled with black ribbonlike tattoos. A thrill glimmers in his eyes as he takes in the scene.
Legion arrives next, fully clothed in a dark, tailored suit. He must have come straight from his study but still wears the spectacles.
Finally, Varen is the last to arrive, his eyes wide and filled with panic, his hair and pajamas ruffled from sleep.
“Contain it,” Legion decrees, his voice cutting through the chaos.
As my mates advance on the Terror, it stops still, despite the dragon still mauling it. The air crackles with tension. It knows when it’s outnumbered. It flings shadows and unseen magic, shrieks in a way that makes my bones ache, and then leaps through a glass-stained window—smashing it. Two seconds later, we hear crunching outside as it hits the ground.
“Stop it!” Legion barks, his voice thundering through the room.
Styx disappears. I rush to the window and glimpse a dark-winged shadow flying—stark against the snowy moonlit ground—closing the gap to the Echo Wraith. Ahead, the half-incorporeal body jerks as though it’s been shot by an arrow. Then, it convulses and slumps to the ground.
The shadowy winged silhouette lands gracefully and takes shape as Styx in his Sluagh form. As he stalks his dying prey, his great draconic wings fold and settle on his blue shoulders. The wind catches the tattered, silken membranes, and they billow behind him—like his hair. His blue-tinted face tilts up toward us. Moonlight slices along his curved horns, his brutal profile. The flickering light of his skull is blinding in the gloom. I wince at the brightness. When I look again, Styx is gone. Only the Terror’s drained and visible corpse remains. No blots rise.
Did Styx feed on its soul?
Emrys shoves me out of the way and looks down. “Imbecile.”
Bodin smothers his torch with shadow. “What has he done now?”
“See for yourself,” Emrys replies. “Our impulsive brother has robbed us of answers yet again.”
“He killed it,” Legion grumbles, shaking his head.
Emrys and Bodin lock eyes, something worrisome passing between them.
“We want it dead, don’t we?” I ask.
Emrys glares at me, his coppery eyes burning so intensely that I gasp and step back.
“Amateur,” he spits, his voice dripping with disdain. “Your naivety is as dangerous as it is irritating.”
Bodin growls, stepping between us. “Don’t speak to her like that.”
Emrys’s laugh is mirthless, sending chills down my spine. “Or what? Can’t you see what’s happening? How did it get in here?” He turns to me, his gaze accusing. “Did you invite it in? Are you so desperate for attention that you’d risk all our lives?”
“Why would I invite a Nightmare in?” I retort, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay strong.
“It was me,” Bodin admits, his shoulders slumping. “I’m the one who dreamed without a web. I was out in the stables.”
Emrys sneers, his body coiled with tension. When his muscles harden, the black lines on his body seem to strangle him. He pauses, considering this new information. “None of that matters,” he finally says, his voice low and dangerous. “It was here in the flesh.”
“Why did Styx kill it?” Bodin asks, frowning. “He knows better than that.”
“See what I mean?” Emrys takes a menacing step toward me. “She’s infected our senses. It’s almost as if Styx wanted to sabotage our safety.”
“Or maybe he was just afraid!” I shout back, anger rising in my chest. “That thing got into our home. Don’t we have wards for this?”
“That was Fox’s job,” Bodin returns, another splash of self-disparagement crossing his face.
“Then we’ll find a way to train Styx with the knowledge,” Legion suggests, exhaustion slumping his frame. “At least it’s dead. Go deal with the corpse. If Styx ingested the blots, then . . . bring back what you can salvage. And where is that damn dragon?”
Emrys gives me a scathing look as he strides away toward the exit.
My plea halts him in his tracks. “I didn’t do anything wrong. You have to believe me.”
He opens his mouth and shuts it when Legion glares a warning at him.
“You, of all people, should see what’s happening,” Emrys snaps back at his leader, voice thick with resentment. “You have your memories. You should be able to smell the effect she has on us, on all of you. It lingers and wraps itself around your very being. It’s poison, slowly corrupting us all. For Nicevin’s sake, you almost fucked her in front of strangers at Sith’s establishment! What happened to your vow?”
Legion’s eyes flash with guilt as he glances at me. When he looks back at Emrys, his expression hardens. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“What vow?” My heart races. If this is about me, I need to know. “Legion?”
“In a honeybee colony,” Varen mutters, his eyes unfocused, “when a foreign queen’s pheromones are introduced, it can cause chaos and aggression among the workers. The hive becomes unstable, vulnerable to outside threats.”
“Your rambling won’t help now,” Emrys snaps at him.
“It’s not rambling,” I retort, anger flaring. “Sometimes, he says things that make sense. He’s one of us.”
Emrys stares at me, then steps close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. I ache to move into him, to hug him and tell him it’s okay to be angry and hate. I’ve been there, and it’s a lonely, horribly empty place. But he’s not alone anymore. Whatever hatred he’s holding onto, we can weather it together.
But then his voice drops to a dangerous whisper, and my compassion flees. “You think you’re one of us?” he sneers. “You know nothing of what we are, what we’ve endured.”
I reach for him but barely brush his skin before he hisses and flinches away.
“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, baring his teeth. “Don’t ever touch me. You are not one of us. Never will be.”
The fear in his eyes stops my heart. He’s afraid of me, of a tiny brush of my fingers. His vulnerability lasts a fleeting moment, and then it’s gone beneath his armor of seething hatred.
Varen raises his voice, grips his hair, pacing by the door. “When a hive is under attack, guard bees release alarm pheromones. This rallies the colony to defend against intruders.”
“Precisely,” Legion sighs, humoring him. “And now we are defended.”
It seems to mollify Varen, disrupt Emrys, and quieten the room. But inside, I am boiling with something indignant. Something that won’t stay down.
“Stop calling me queen,” I shout, my cheeks burning. All the emotions I’ve stifled surge to the surface. “I’m not your queen,” I clarify, forcing my tone to soften despite wanting to shake sense into them all. Instead, I meet each of their eyes in turn and set my jaw. “I’m your mate. It’s completely different.”
I adjust the blanket and tug my hair aside, revealing Fox’s bite scar on my neck.
“We’re all connected,” I say, “whether you like it or not, but I am not your queen. I’m not here for the same purpose as the others. I didn’t lure the Nightmare in. The thought of controlling you, manipulating you—or anyone—makes me want to puke.”
I spent half my life being controlled and manipulated. Why would I subject anyone else to that suffering?
Emrys narrows his eyes. “You can’t help it. It’s in your nature.”
“Maybe nature can change,” Bodin offers quietly.
He receives a hiss of contempt in return. “Keep dreaming.”
Legion’s gaze flattens on Emrys. “Go deal with Styx and the Terror. Channel that anger into something useful for once.”
Emrys looks at me, then at the dragon licking drops of spattered blood on the dining table leg.
“Deny it all you want,” he says to me, “but you already control the beast. We will never be free so long as we have a queen.”
He leaves without a backward glance.
Legion turns his stern gaze to Bodin. “When I give you an order to meet her needs, I expect you to follow it. Sleeping in the stables is not meeting her needs.”
He takes Varen and walks out.
Bodin looks at me. I can’t read his expression, so when he storms off with a curt, “Follow me,” a stubborn urge to plant my feet takes over.
The room feels colder and emptier now. Tension lingers in the air like a thick fog. Emrys’s words echo in my mind, reminding me of my outsider status. Yet, beneath the hurt, determination grows, and warmth spreads through my chest.
They came for me. All of them. This should be a good thing, a sign of our bond growing closer. But they’re all acting like . . . My mind scrambles to find the right words.
A memory surfaces—an overheard conversation between my mother and her friends during one of their cocktail catch-ups. I’d been hiding in the larder not long after returning to Elphyne when their laughter and chatter drifted in.
“God, men can be so . . . ugh,” my mom had said, slinking into the room with her friends Laurel, Melody, and Silver.
Their conversation flowed with the fruity cocktails they mixed, full of old-world clichés and playful complaints about the men in their lives. I remember the sound of ice clinking in glasses, their drinks’ sweet scent, and their laughter’s warmth.
“Sometimes they just need some help dotting the Is and crossing the Ts,” Melody had said, reaching across the counter to squeeze Mom’s hand.
“And killing the monsters,” Laurel added with a wink.
Silver nodded solemnly. “I might be good at killing, but when the shit hits the fan, when I need protection, there’s nothing Shade won’t do to keep me safe.”
The memory fades, leaving me with a bittersweet smile.
As Bodin strides away down the hall, I realize this family needs help. Unlike me, this family has lost their memories. Legion can only do so much on his own. Since Fox removed himself from the picture, I’ve been waiting for Legion or any of them to guide me forward. I’m not their queen. I don’t control or have power over their actions and lives. I want to be their equal, their mate. I want respect.
That means I need to start pitching in, tackling problems head-on, and proving I’m not like their slaver queens.
Bodin stops, turns, and realizes I’m not hurrying after him. A baffled expression crossed his face, and I burst out laughing.
I need two things to survive this: more cocktails and a regular venting session with my friends. When Bodin, my all-powerful demigod mate, returns to me with a nervous glint in his eyes, I realize I need a third thing . . . honesty.
“Let’s go,” he grunts.
“Not until you tell me?—”
The clock tower bell tolls. The floor trembles. Oh, shit. The castle is changing its structure. Walls drag and slide. Blocks of stone come at me. I’m going to be crushed.