The Will and the Wilds(30)

“You don’t know—”

“When you douse an oil fire with water and the fire spreads, do you try again with more water, Enna?”

I pause, wondering not only at his question, but at the way he says my name. It’s different, somehow. “I suppose I’ll trust you on this one.”

His expression perks.

“Does my trust surprise you? We’re bound in this, Maekallus.”

He doesn’t answer, only steps out of the circle and walks to the edge of the glade, looking out into the forest. I wait for him to . . . I don’t know. Do or say anything, but he doesn’t. I lick my lips and try, “Are you hungry?”

He turns enough to eye the lamb. It’s such a human gesture, made more so by his human expression. My mind wanders to the growing page on narvals in my book.

“Maekallus.”

His gaze meets mine.

“Did you ever consider that, maybe, you are the bastard?”

He turns toward me and folds his arms. “I’ve been called many things.”

“No, I mean . . . your birth. Your creation. The lore is that narvals form from the blood of bastards. But what if your origins were human? What if . . .”—I hardly dare to say it—“you were once human?”

He almost doesn’t react. Almost. His body remains motionless, arms folded, brow lax. But I see it in his eyes: a spark, a loathing, a hope. Somehow, all at once. He looks away, back to the forest, for a long moment before he says, “Do humans suffer boredom?”

The question takes me aback. “Pardon?”

He drops his arms, but forms a fist with one hand—one bloodied hand—and hits the trunk of a tree with it. “This realm is driving me half mad. I’d almost rather it consume me.”

I laugh.

I don’t know why. It isn’t funny. It’s rather pathetic, really. But I laugh, because our demises shine on the horizon, and Maekallus complains that the situation is too dull.

I suppose it would be, trapped in the same spot of forest for days on end.

But I laugh anyway. It feels so strange, so foreign, so good, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

Maekallus growls.

“I’m sorry.” I hold myself, placing my hand over my ribs. “I’m sorry. It just . . . I . . .” I don’t have an explanation. Despite the laughter, I’m saddened by the realization that I’ve gone so long without it.

I can tell by the scrunched look on the narval’s face that he doesn’t understand me. It’s no use explaining.

I cross toward him, purposefully scuffing the descent circle as I go—I don’t want any unfortunate hunter or lost child to drop into the monster realm, should they wander this way. I unwrap my hand as I do so, tearing free a length of bandage that is still clean. I didn’t think to bring extra bandages with me today. I won’t make that mistake again.

I reach him and move his bloody fist from the tree. Coax his fingers open—are they warmer?—and examine the cut that mirrors mine. No mystic corruption yet, only a bit of debris at the heel. I brush it off and bandage the wound.

“Does yours not bleed?” he asks, low and petulant.

“I have more of this at home.” I tie a small knot at the back of his hand. Look up at him. I didn’t realize how close I’d gotten. Close enough to kiss.

But the blackness has only begun to spot him, and I wish to keep as much of my soul with me as I can. I turn away. Glimpse the descent circle.

“Maekallus,” I say, quieter, “you say you can’t descend, but could we coax the gobler to ascend? He was in this very glade. Is there some sort of . . . trace, we could use? Mystical . . . residue?”

Maekallus snorts at my lack of knowledge, but he studies the circle as well. “I don’t . . . perhaps. I don’t know the methods of goblers. But he will return, or his like will.” He shifts his gaze to me. “As for bait . . . reckon they want whatever it is you’re hiding.”

His words shoot through me like lightning. I step back from the trees, away from his aura.

He looks me up and down, as though searching for my secret. “But where will you get the blood to summon him, Enna? What human would you dare to torture?”

“Not human,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “Not human. But I can find a young boar or a hare in the wildwood. Perhaps one will trespass here, and you can collect the blood in that canteen.”

He smiles—a wicked grin that at once reminds me of what he is. “Oh, Enna. The animals here have learned not to pass by. Or haven’t you heard the silence?”

I stiffen, hold my breath. Listen. I never noticed it before, the lack of birdsong, the absence of buzzing and chirping of myriad insects. When did the creatures of my realm abandon this place?

The silence is a reprimand. He is a mysting. A mysting, Enna.

As though I need the reminder.

Grabbing my basket with my uninjured hand, I turn it away, concealing the Telling Stone. “I’ll find something. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Truly?” A smirk, not one of humor, tugs on his mouth, showing a pronounced canine. It isn’t so much animalistic as it is roguish. I chide myself for staring. “Even in the dead of night?”

I hold his gaze. “That depends. Are you frightful enough to scare away the demons who linger in this wood, or only the birds and the flies?”