The Will and the Wilds(41)

She’s weak because she’s helping you stay alive.

Because you lied to her. Because you’re still lying to her.

Maekallus clenches his jaw. Enna stumbles.

“Here.” He grasps her forearm and, careful with his horn, stoops over and scoops up her knees with his other arm.

Color returns to her face. “I can walk—”

“Do you want to make it back before dark or not? We’ll go faster this way.”

Her body tenses with complaint, but as Maekallus picks up speed, winding through the uneven wildwood, she relaxes into his arms. “Just until I catch my breath,” she insists.

Gods, she’s small. She doesn’t look that small, just . . . feels it. Like he could crush her without trying. Like if he drops her, she might not get back up again.

His stomach tightens at the thought of it. He wishes it wouldn’t.

It’s farther than he anticipated; the mortal realm’s sun has crested and begins to fall by the time he senses Attaby.

“He’s close.” Maekallus searches the wood. A fox darts to the south.

“Put me down.” Enna presses a hand to his chest; it ignites something strange in his skin, something that seems at odds with the corruption coursing through his veins. He obliges. She takes a moment to look around, rolling the Will Stone between her fingers. “Are you sure? The stone hasn’t chilled.”

“Chilled?”

“It gets cold when mystings are nearby.”

“It should have been cold this whole time, then.” He points to himself.

Enna turns and looks him up and down. He feels her gaze like the winds of the Azhgrada, the desert of the Deep.

“It stays cool for you. It hasn’t thought you dangerous since the binding.”

That takes him aback. Not dangerous? Hadn’t he been dangerous to those grinlers? And to the mystings who passed through the portal to the Deep?

He growls deep in his throat. Steps closer to Enna, until the space between them is as narrow as his little finger. Enna tenses. He stoops low, letting the base of his horn press against the highest point of her forehead. His hands slide around her neck—softly, but he can feel her pulse hammering under his thumb. Is it for fear, or something else?

“Does it still think I’m not dangerous?” he murmurs. His nose hovers just above hers. He thinks about the way her lips feel, warm and willing—

“M-Maekallus,” she croaks.

Two heavy footfalls sound ahead of them. “Am I interrupting something? Maekallus, I wasn’t expecting you. Ah, you’re missing a tail.”

Maekallus straightens, letting his hands fall from Enna’s neck. She backs away instantly, a small squeak escaping her when she beholds Attaby.

He looks as any rooter will—about eight feet tall, with hard, dark skin that resembles the bark of a tree. His head is broad and rectangular, and if he closes his eyes, his face will be nearly indistinguishable from the rest of it. He has long arms and skinny, wood-like legs. Thick, flat fingers on each hand. In a place like the wildwood, a rooter can stand stationary and never be noticed by a mortal.

“It’s been a while.” Maekallus bends his head in greeting.

“Indeed. You are not one to traipse the wildwood.” He studies Enna. “Especially with a mortal. Has this anything to do with your tail?”

Enna glances at her stone, then back at Attaby. She pulls her sleeve over the bracelet.

“In a manner of speaking.” Maekallus gestures to the thin stream of light emitting from his chest.

“At least you didn’t lose your horn. Narval horns make for excellent sorcery.” Attaby moves closer, ungracefully, crushing vegetation underfoot as he goes. He squints at the red light. “Ah, that’s a terrible chain to have.” He looks to Enna. “And you can’t untie it?”

Enna blinks. “I, uh, I’m not the one who bound him here. It was a gobler. I hired Maekallus to eliminate him, and it . . . didn’t end well.”

She opens her right hand and pulls back the bandaging on it, showing the weeping red cut.

Attaby chortles. “Trouble with a gobler? Really, Maekallus?”

“There were two of them,” he growls. “The second crept up on me.”

“In a forest, no less? Hmm. Follow me. I’ve a nicer spot to chat.” He turns, far too slowly, and stomps back through the forest. It isn’t hard to see where he came from. Rooters leave clumsy trails. At least the mellow pace will be good for Enna.

They don’t go far. Attaby brings them to another glade, much smaller than Maekallus’s cage, the grassy ground littered with leaves green and yellow. Dogwood—Maekallus thinks that’s what it’s called—springs up in patches around it like the claws of a fergshaw. The rooter has set up a sort of table, a long split log propped up on other logs. Speaking of sorcery, atop it sits a collection of things: a hare’s foot, leaves and needles from various plants, gemstones, ash, a bowl of slop from the River of Blood in the Deep. Enna takes an immediate interest in them, toeing behind Attaby to investigate. No doubt she wishes to sketch the lot in her book.

“And the girl?” Attaby asks, as though they’d been conversing this whole time.

“We’re bound by the bargain. She . . . has an ability to break up her soul.”

“Truly?” He turns about and looks at Enna, who takes the opportunity to look right back. She doesn’t seem afraid. Granted, Attaby is hardly terrifying.