The Will and the Wilds(67)

He leans down to her, pressing his mouth against hers. She meets him willingly, and it sparks a vigor in him that has nothing to do with her soul. Her ardor and trust make him feel human. Alive. It kindles a deep wanting only she can quench.

She whimpers against him, but doesn’t pull away. Heat runs down his throat—another piece of soul, fiery and thrilling. The want becomes so much more. It courses through his blood, sings in his muscles.

He breaks away and claims her again, drawing her into his arms. She shivers, and he hates himself. When the final shard of her soul fills him, she doesn’t make a sound. Her lips stop moving, fingers stop clutching.

It encompasses every last corner of him, illuminating shadows, brightening his memories. In that moment he knows Enna entirely, and he loves her. The whole of her spirit paints him—a flash of perfect clarity—and in it he sees a life left behind, a life that isn’t his, not anymore.





He wipes the bar with a wet rag. The cloth is starting to smell of mold, but he’ll scrub it clean, hang it to dry, and use it again. The little inn isn’t much, but he got it by scrimping and saving, and the habit has stuck, even into his middle years.

The moment Ganter Kubbs walks in, he knows it is going to be a bad day. A bad week. Maybe even longer. Ganter is local. He doesn’t drink here. None of the mobsters in the Factio do. But he pulls up a stool, spills a few coins on the bar, and says, “Stu, give me the strongest you’ve got.”

He’s never turned down a customer. And no one turns down Ganter Kubbs. So he pours him some ale and leaves to clean the kitchen.

But Ganter returns the next day, this time with two friends. Then it’s three friends, then five, and he says, “Don’t you have space in the basement? My boys would like space in the basement. Indefinitely.”

Stu rubs the stubble on his face—a nervous habit. He catches himself and drops his hand. “Just for storage. I don’t have the room—”

“We’ll make it work.”

He never said yes. The gang just makes itself comfortable down there, doing their busywork. Stu doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t get answers. He tries to move on like all is well, but mobsters are bad for business. Word gets out, and soon his only customers are the traveling variety who don’t know any better.

But then there’s Annalae.

Annalae, sweet Annalae. Like a daughter to him. Her mother brings him cheese for the kitchens twice a week in exchange for use of his fruit press. She brings her daughter, and the girl sits in the back while he cooks. Chats his ear off. He hated it, at first. But then he got to liking the company, so now that she’s a little more grown and has found other things to do, it breaks his heart.

Sometimes Annalae still brings the cheese, and when she does he wraps her up in a story, and she pokes fun at his thinning hair and big ears. Then the cheese doesn’t come for two weeks, and when her mother finally comes by with a delivery, he hears the hard truth.

Ganter Kubbs had taken a liking to Annalae, and he never takes no for an answer. It will only be a matter of time before he starts asking Annalae questions to which she can only consent.

Stu won’t have it. Can’t have it.

So he closes the inn the next day. Damn place hasn’t so much as rested for a holiday in twenty years. But he goes off and sends a request to His Lordship, and the following week armored men come in and take the mobsters away. All of them.

Or so Stu thinks.

A moon passes before two come back. He doesn’t even know their names. He never asked questions. But when it’s so late even the sturdiest drunkards turn in, they come, and they drag him into the forest and rake a rusted blade across his throat, once, twice, three times . . .

The blood falls onto the grass. Seeps into it. Trickles down to another realm. Changes. Takes shape.

And Maekallus opens his eyes.





Maekallus winces at the memories, startling himself when he bites the inside of his lip. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, and he wipes it away. His hand is free of corruption. The air around him is calm. Free of the pricks and nibbles that always engulf him on this plane.

The mortal realm sees him as one of its own.

Enna stands before him, staring straight ahead. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Barely breathes. Dull. Empty. Soulless.

The tusk dagger lies by her feet.

He picks it up and traces it across the earth, stumbling a bit. Off balance. He touches his forehead. The horn is still there, but it’s shorter, perhaps one and a half hands in length. Never mind that.

He takes her left hand in his and unclasps the Will Stone bracelet—she can no longer use it. Without a soul, she doesn’t have a will. He tries to fasten it around his own wrist, but the chain is too short, so he winds the silver around his middle finger and palms the most powerful thing he’s ever touched.

Do not devour her, he commands himself.

He draws the mortal’s descent circle, then takes Enna in his arms and stands at its center.

Blue light flashes, and the mortal realm falls away in one fluttering piece.





CHAPTER 28

The mortal realm will devour a mysting’s body. The monster realm will destroy a human’s mind.





The ground separates.

I fall.

He’s there.

It’s red.