The Will and the Wilds(11)

“Enna, pleased to see you. What brings you into the wildwood?”

“I’ve traps of my own.” I indicate the rabbits.

“I never thought you for a hunter. But . . . of course, it makes sense.”

I shrug, though my father is more than capable of sending an arrow into the heart of a boar or deer. That is, if he doesn’t first get lost. What we don’t get from traps set close to the wildwood edge, we purchase from the town.

He eyes me a moment too long, but before I can think of something to fill the quiet space, he says, “If you’re ever in need, I can—”

“Tennith, you’re kind.” And he is, and were my father and I in better repute, perhaps I would wear a comelier dress and try to catch his eye at fair time. I’ve dabbled with the fancy, but dreaming can hurt a heart, as Grandmother would always say. “I assure you we are well. There are only two of us to feed.”

“Yes but . . . please remember the offer. Would you like escort?”

“Thank you, but no. Only one left to check.”

Though his eyes linger on my empty hands, he nods and moves toward the town. I watch him go until the thickness of trees hide any evidence of his presence. Squeezing the Telling Stone, I walk deeper into the forest, focusing on the cool presence of a narval.

The stone doesn’t lead me to the place where I burned a summoning circle into the forest floor, but away from it, northward, where I had last sensed the goblers. I tread carefully, scanning the trees, especially where they grow thick and force me from a direct path. A cool prickle warns of a mysting miles off. It vanishes minutes later. I cross a hunting trail and avoid tall grass for fear of traps, step over a brook, and climb up a short, rocky incline. The Telling Stone’s temperature doesn’t falter, and I wonder at it. Is Maekallus moving away from me at the same pace I’m moving toward him? The stone has previously acted in this manner with rooters, which are docile. And Maekallus is no such thing.

I reach an oval-shaped glade, where oak and aspen part. What I see instead makes me gasp. A grotesque creature is slumped near the center of the clearing, skin blackened and bubbling, though I can still make out arms and legs . . . and a long, stony horn patched with charcoal.

I press my hand against a trunk to keep myself upright. He smells of compost and something foul, something otherworldly. A thin tendril of light, like a glowing red spiderweb, leads from the black mass to the earth, disappearing amid grass and clover.

My voice is a near whisper. “Maekallus?”

The body shifts, head lifting to look at me. His face is patched with black, and a blackened bubble moves across his neck like boiling tar. His eyes are vivid and yellow, but one is heavy, the lid swollen. I see for the first time his cloak beside him, rent and smeared with black ooze.

“You,” he says, the word heavy, venomous, and rasping. “You . . . are the bane of . . .”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, for a wet cough erupts from his throat. He tries to stand, but his hooved foot slips in its own muck, and he falls to his knees.

I take a step forward, staying well out of his reach. “What’s happened to you?”

He glares at me. “Your cursed realm . . .”

He doesn’t have to complete the sentence. I need only look at him to know my realm is eating him alive. My lips part in surprise. This is why the stone’s temperature has remained unchanged. Maekallus has been in the mortal realm this whole time.

“I have your payment here!” I pull the medallion from my pocket. “Good graces, Maekallus! It’s not worth any coin to stay here!”

Maekallus laughs—at least, I believe it’s a laugh. It’s a wet, cruel sound, sticky and terrible. “You think . . . I suffer for you?” Another laugh. “Stupid mortal. I’ve been bound here by your quarry. Two . . . I killed the wrong . . .” He takes a deep, wheezing breath. “Did you not know? . . . The bargain is not . . . complete.”

I stare at him, then at my bandaged hand. Carefully, I pull back the wrapping to look at the stitched cut, wiping off drops of fresh blood seeping from my father’s handiwork. A dark ooze has begun to bleed through the bandage, not unlike what consumes Maekallus. I cringe and swallow, my stomach uneasy. “This? This is why it hasn’t healed?” Behind him, I notice blue ink in the wild grass and realize it’s gobler blood. Its body is nowhere to be seen.

The mysting shifts to face me. “It will not heal . . . The deal is not done.” He pauses for a long moment, long enough that I think he won’t speak again, but he does. “You will suffer more slowly than I do, but you will suffer.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, cradling my sore hand to my chest. “And what did you mean about being bound here?”

“Can’t . . . leave.” He gestures weakly to the thread of light, beholding it as a thief would his executioner. Holding my breath, I inch closer. Again staying out of his reach, I touch the light. My fingers pass right through it. I try to grab it, to break it, but it’s no more tangible than sunlight.

“How do I break it?” I straighten, step back.

He snorts, coughs. “Find the gobler . . . kill it. Soon. If I die . . .”

He hacks, and black sludge hits the ground in front of him.

I cringe. “If you die, what?” I clench my wounded hand. “What will happen to the deal? To me?”