The Will and the Wilds(62)

“We have time. I promise. Two days. One for me to watch, one to make our move.”

My gut sours. “But if you’re caught . . . Scroud—”

Even in the darkness, I can see the glint of his smirk. “I won’t be. I’m still a narval. And Scroud won’t be looking for me, if you made him forget. Hopefully he was checking on his troops, nothing more. I’ll stay to the south and keep the spell out of sight.” He sounds like he’s forcing himself to believe the sentiment.

I’m not sure if narvals can mask themselves from other mystings like they can with mortals, but I’ve no other realistic options available to me. I nod, and he drops his hands, and I hurt all over again.

We’re motionless for a few minutes more. The portal ring activates again. Maekallus uses its flash of blinding light to scoop me up and move away from the red-lit grove. I don’t ask him to carry me, but he does, through the depths of the wildwood, until even his breaths are short and his skin moist. He carries me all the way to the trees by my home and sets me down.

I think I feel his lips brush my temple, but when I turn back to him, he’s already gone.





I spend the following day with my father.

He’s well enough to sit upright in bed, and even gets up late in the morning to take a bath. I play fell the king with him, read to him, and listen to his stories. I chat with him while I darn one of his socks, and when weariness pulls him to sleep, I harvest mushrooms from the cellar farm and take them into town. It is Mrs. Lovess who mans the booth today. I’m grateful for that small relief. My heart has been stretched and knotted, and I can’t pick my way through it for Tennith’s sake. Not even for my own.

Maekallus is always there, lurking in my thoughts. I think of him in the half seconds between my father’s breaths, in the spaces between sentences in my books, and in the silence between footfalls when I walk to and from the house. Maekallus isn’t at the edge of the wood today—he’s deep in the thick of it, watching the portal circle. I find myself searching the edge of the wildwood for him, and even trick myself into thinking I spy him, but the red glint is only the tail of a fox.

I grip my Will Stone and think, Stay alive. It might be too much to ask, however, for the stone doesn’t tingle at my command. It flashes cold on and off, signaling the arrival and departure of mystings. Between flashes, it is cool, so I know Maekallus is alive enough to be considered a threat, if only a small one.

My body shivers with unnatural cold, and I continue to have moments of blankness as I work about the house. Feeling has not returned to my fingertips. Maekallus’s betrayal still burns in my belly. Yet the kinder parts of me—perhaps the parts fueled by what bits of soul I possess—warn that I’m too harsh a judge. That I’m faulting a soul-filled Maekallus for the actions of a previous, soulless version of himself, and they are not one and the same. Yet even when I lean toward that reasoning, my heart aches. A rusted stake has been hammered between my breasts, and I’m without the tools to pull it out.

Perhaps what bothers me most of all is the fact that I feel so strongly about a mysting, whether or not he has a soul. I’m so sick with this that I can’t even bring myself to write in my book, though I have so much information to record.

The day ends without event. My father complains about the fire being too hot, so I keep it down during the afternoon. As soon as he turns in for the night, however, I stoke it until smoke chokes the chimney, and I lie before its flames, willing my chills away.

I stay there, tortured by my thoughts, until dawn nears the horizon. Then I sleep for an hour or so, only to wake in a puddle of my own perspiration, the images of teeth and red, violent light seared against my eyelids.





My father is up and about again, much to my relief, though it will take another couple of days for his full strength to return. I chide him when I find him washing dishes after breakfast. He insists on working, so I set him to checking the oon berry for holes and steal away into the wildwood. Maekallus has had his day to watch, and I’m overeager to know what he knows. I clutch the Will Stone as I walk.

The Will Stone whispers of Maekallus’s closeness long before I reach the glade; perhaps he is seeking me out, just as I am seeking him. I press my numb fingertips to the stone as I trek slowly through the wildwood and focus on keeping my breathing even so I might not tire so quickly. I change direction twice, the Will Stone guiding me, and find Maekallus near a brook. He scoops cool water into his hands and drinks before raising his head and noticing me. The sun shines off the point of his horn. It doesn’t look as sharp as I remember it being. Black spots mar his body, some as small as a particle of dust, others as large as a grown man’s hand. The right side of his chest and right shoulder are more black than peach, and a black smudge engulfs his left eye as though someone had hit him there. It makes the amber iris look especially bright.

His pants are dirty and torn, and his now-human feet are entirely mud stained. When I near him, I say, “I should have brought you clothes. And shoes.”

“Won’t matter soon.”

He seems nervous, which prompts my question. “What did you find?”

He glances over his shoulder. Standing under sunlit trees, surrounded by bird and insect song, it’s hard to believe anything evil could reside in the wildwood. Yet we both know better. Maekallus is tense; the melodies and brightness have no effect on him.