Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(20)

I wrench free from Rowan’s grasp and slap him, hard, across his face. He stumbles back, his hand to the brightening mark on his cheek. Before he can react, I shove past him and run toward the water. Clover and Arien are hidden now, circled by shadows. I take a breath and plunge into the darkness.

I fall to my knees, into the cold, black mud. Distantly I hear Rowan’s angry voice as he calls for me. “Get back, damn you—get out of their way!”

I reach out and find Arien’s hand.

“No, Leta!” He tries to shake himself loose. “You’re going to mess everything up!”

A jolt slams through me, and heat sears across my skin. I feel as if all my bones are lit up. At the center of my chest, there’s a swift, taut pull, and my fingers grip tight. The space between our hands hums and hums and burns. And the shadows—they calm. They soften.

The unruly cloud folds back on itself. The billows of dark narrow to focused strands that unfurl through our clasped fingers.

And Arien’s darkness—his shadows—the strands curl and thread together with Clover’s magic, neat as a row of stitches. Never before have they been like this. Within his control.

For a moment everything holds. A latticework of magic across the earth, perfectly controlled.

“It worked,” Clover breathes. Then there’s a tremor. The ground lurches beneath us. I lean against Arien, my shoulder on his shoulder, as I try to keep my balance. Clover looks over at Rowan searchingly, her forehead lined with worry. Another tremor rolls across the ground in an elongated shiver.

“Quick.” She jumps to her feet, pulling at Arien’s arm and reaching out for me. “Both of you, get up. We have to—”

The ground splits apart with an enormous heave that sends us all stumbling. The circle Clover carved in the mud is now an open wound.

Rowan strides toward us. He grabs my arm and starts to pull me back. I struggle against him. “You can’t do this; you can’t make him do this!”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on Clover, on Arien, on the shifting ground.

Threads of magic trail from their fingers. Clover pulls Arien closer to the newly torn wound. Her magic sparks around them as she tries to help him guide the shadows back into the earth.

“Arien!” I cry. “You have to stop!”

The lake churns, and a torrent of water spills over the tear in the ground. It cascades down through the darkness. Arien leans against Clover. Her hands cover his as they both press against the mud. And beneath them, the ground wrenches farther open, widening, widening.

I can’t let them do this. It’s like the—what did Rowan call it? The Corruption?—like it’s fighting back. Like it wants to protect itself from whatever Clover and Arien are trying to do.

I stretch out my hand desperately to Arien, but Rowan’s grip tightens on my arm; I can’t get loose.

“No,” he rasps, a harsh plea beneath his breath. “No, no, no.”

My heart spikes sharp with terror as the mud rises up over Arien’s hands. It covers his wrists, his forearms, rising until he’s submerged to his elbows, his face only a kiss from the ground. Blotches of shadows—of magic—shift and swirl under the surface of his skin. He grimaces, teeth bared in a snarl, the muscles cording in his neck with effort.

“Please!” I sob. “Please, it’s going to kill him!”

Arien screams.

The sound comes from everywhere, all at once. This isn’t his voice, not any sound I’ve ever heard him make, even when gripped by the worst of his nightmares. A scream, a roar, a howl, all tangled together. The cries fill my ears, my blood, the world.

Rowan shoves me away. He goes toward the wound, toward the torn-up mud. He grabs Arien roughly by the back of his shirt, pulls him to his feet and away from the water. I rush forward and catch Arien in my arms. My foot twists, and we fall down together, hard against the ground.

I hold him tight against me. He’s stopped screaming now. His eyes are blank.

“I’ve got you.” I brush his hair back from his sweat-damp cheeks, leaving dark streaks of mud on his skin. “I’ve got you.”

Clover stands beside Rowan at the edge of the wound. “You’ll have to…” She trails off, her face anguished.

Rowan takes off his cloak, dropping it heedlessly into the mud behind him. His hand goes to his wrist. His fingers hook under the edge of his sleeve. He pushes it up past his elbow, baring the skin above the black line of his glove.

He has a knife in his hand. Small and neat, the blade fitted into the handle. He unfolds it in a quick, practiced motion. The steel has a sharp, silvered edge that gleams as it catches the fading sunlight. My stomach twists, sickened by the horror of what is happening.

Rowan puts the blade to his wrist.

Everything happens so swiftly. The images separate into flashes.

His skin.

The knife.

A cut.

He carves into himself without any hesitation. That image—of everything—is what lingers when I finally wince my eyes shut. How steady his hand is when he drives the blade deep into his arm and slices himself open.

Rowan kneels in the mud and shoves his opened wrist against the ground. A coil of earth rises up and binds his arm, wrapping around him, climbing higher until it snares his throat. He stays terribly, terribly still, not even resisting as it starts to pull him downward. His arm—the one he cut—is now completely buried in the earth. His head bends, his mouth opens, and the strands of darkness slither inside.