The Raven King (The Raven Boys #4)(74)

“Mother, mother,” Gwenllian said out loud. Her disordered thoughts transmuted if she didn’t say them out loud at once.

And there her mother was: in this real present, this current possibility, this reality where Neeve herself was dead. A forest, being unmade, and Gwenllian’s mother, unmade with them.

Unmade

Unmade

Un

With a scream, Gwenllian smashed the mirrors to the ground. A cry came from downstairs; the house was waking. Screaming again, Gwenllian cast about her room for a tool, a weapon. There was little in this attic that could make a dent – ah. She snatched up a lamp, the cord slapping from the wall, and clattered down the stairs. Thump thump thump thump each foot on the stair, double time.

“Artemusssssssss!” she cooed, her voice snapping halfway through. She slid into the dim kitchen. It was lit only by the little bulb over the oven and the diffuse gray through the window above the sink. It was only fog, no sun. “Artemusssss!”

He was awake; probably he had had the same dream as she. They had the same starry stuff in their veins, after all. His voice came through the door. “Go away.”

“Open the door, Artemussss!” Gwenllian said. She was out of breath. She was shaking. The forest, unmade, her mother, unmade. This coward magician hiding in this closet having killed everyone through his inactivity. She tried the door; he had secured it with something from the inside.

“Not today!” Artemus said. “No, thank you! Too many events this decade. Perhaps later! Cannot do the shock! Thank you for your time.”

He had been an adviser to kings.

Gwenllian smashed the lamp against the door. The bulb shattered with a silvery sound; the end of the lamp split the thin laminate of the door. She sang, “Little rabbit down the hole, down the hole, Little foxen down the hole, down the hole, Little houndlet down the hole, down the hole! Come out, little rabbit, I have questions. About demons.”

“I am a slow-growing creature!” Artemus wailed. “I cannot adapt so quickly!”

“If someone is robbing us, come back after business hours!” Calla’s voice came from upstairs.

“Do you know what has happened to my mother, foul branch?” Gwenllian ripped the lamp free from the door so that she could smash it against the surface once more. The crack widened. “I will tell you what I saw in my mirror mirrors!”

“Go away, Gwenllian,” Artemus said. “I can do nothing for any of you! Leave me alone!”

“You can tell me where my father is, little shrub! What hole did you throw him in?”

Shwack

The door cleaved in two; Artemus shrank back into the darkness. He was folded over among Tupperware and reusable grocery bags and sacks of flour. He shielded his long face from her as she wielded the lamp.

“Gwenllian!” Blue said. “What are you doing? Doors cost money.”

Here was Artemus’s little daughter – he did not deserve her in any way – come to rescue him. She had caught hold of Gwenllian’s arm to stop her from cleaving his coward’s skull with the lamp.

“Don’t you want to riddle him, blue lily?” Gwenllian screamed. “I’m not the only one who wants answers. Did you hear my mother’s scream, Artemussss?”

Blue said, “Gwenllian, come on, it’s early, we’re sleeping. Or we were.”

Gwenllian dropped the lamp, pulled her arm free and instead snatched Artemus by a hand and his hair. She dragged him from the closet as he whimpered like a dog.

“Mom!” Blue shouted, her hand cupped over one eye. Artemus sprawled between them, peering up at them.

“Tell me how strong this demon is, Artemus,” Gwenllian hissed. “Tell me who it is coming for next. Tell me where my father is. Tell me, tell me.”

Suddenly, he was up and on his feet. He ran for it, as Gwenllian pawed and grasped for him, slipping and sliding on the shattered glass bulb. She went down on one hip, hard, and clawed her way back up. He was through the sliding glass door to the backyard before she found her footing, and by the time she burst into the foggy backyard, he had already made it up to the first branch of the beech tree.

“It won’t have you, you coward!” Gwenllian shouted, although she feared it would. She hurtled after him, beginning to climb herself. She was no stranger to trees and their branches, and she was quicker than him. She snarled, “You schemer, you dreamer, you —”

Her dress caught on a branch, rescuing him for half a moment. Artemus threw his hands up, found a branch, and clambered up a level. As she began to climb again, leaves clattered urgently and smaller twigs snapped.

“Help,” he said, only he did not say it like that. He said, “Auxiril!” The word came out rapid and terrified and desperate and hopeless.

“My mother,” Gwenllian said. Thoughts to words without pause. “My mother, my mother, my mother.”

The dead leaves of the beech shuddered above them, raining down around both of them.

Gwenllian leapt for him.

“Auxiril!” he begged again.

“This won’t save you!”

“Auxiril,” he whispered, and he hung on to the tree.

The remaining fall leaves rattled down. Branches thrashed. The ground buckled as roots tugged urgently through dirt. Gwenllian snatched for a handhold, got it, lost it. The branch beneath her shrugged and bucked in a violent wind. The dirt whispered down below as roots heaved – they were too far from the corpse road for this, and Artemus was going to do it anyway, typical, typical, typical – and then Gwenllian fell free as the branch twitched below her.