The Will and the Wilds(14)

He returns the smile, though the night begins to blue his features. “I thought perhaps you were sparing the family. Being private.”

“I suppose I was.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies me, and I’m grateful for the dark. “Did you find your rabbit? I assume it was a rabbit snare you set.”

“Alas, Tennith, I have little time, and I can’t spend it chatting about my ventures in the wildwood.” I try to make my tone light, but Tennith instantly sobers. I steel myself, but there’s no way around this. No flowery words that will give me what I want without asking for it. I’m afraid I must be blunt, and my heart pounds in the anticipation of it.

I take a deep breath. “I was hoping you would kiss me.”

Tennith straightens against the barn door. “What?”

“I spoke clearly. Please don’t make me repeat myself.” My neck and face burn like I’ve fallen headfirst into embers. “And please . . . don’t ask me to explain. I’m hoping you’ll see this as, well, a simple request. You may, of course, turn it down. I will harbor no grudges toward you if you do.”

A single soft chuckle escapes his lips, and he runs a hand back through his hair. “Huh. I just . . . I’m surprised, is all.”

“Is it so surprising?”

He drops his hand. Focuses on my eyes. “Perhaps not so surprising.”

I roll my lips together. Clasp my lantern before me. Try not to fidget. Wait.

Tennith steps away from the barn door, closing the distance between us with a single stride. His fingers come up beneath my hair, and the warmth of them shoots shivers down my shoulders and back. My clammy hands grip the lantern tighter. Thoughts without meaning or purpose sing through my mind.

He tilts his head and presses his lips to mine. I stop breathing, savoring the feel of my first kiss. It’s warmer than I expected. His lips are a little rough, but his movements are gentle, as are his fingertips at the nape of my neck.

It lasts a moment, then another, before he pulls away. I breathe again, filled with the scents of earth and lavender. The world looks a little darker; twilight has slipped into night, and I can barely make out his face anymore. But perhaps that’s for the better.

“Enna—”

“Thank you,” I say, a little breathy. He begins to speak, but I talk over him. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Not now.”

He closes his mouth and acquiesces.

His kiss lingering on my lips, I light my lantern and walk away. There’s nothing more to be said. I only hope that Tennith understands.

Stars begin peeking through the shade of night as I make my way into the wildwood.





No one ventures through the wildwood at night. I am no exception. Or, I was.

I’ve herbs in my pockets, and after I ensure I’m not followed, I chant little spells my grandmother taught me as I pass between trees that, in the darkness, have grown into looming giants, their branches like claws and their leaves hundreds of teeth. I clutch my Telling Stone in my left hand, waiting for it to turn cold. It chills twice, once for a freblon and again for a rooter. I quicken my step. They are miles off, but I track them in the back of my mind, ever wary. I hear a sizzle, and then another, as blood from the cut on my hand seeps through the bandage and drips onto the hot glass of the lantern. From that alone, I know Maekallus is still alive, but barely.

If he dies, will my death creep upon me as his corruption has, or will I fall to the earth suddenly, my life fizzling away like these drops of blood? Will I be denied entrance into Shava, the world of spirits, if I die by the magic of mystings?

I would not know the way to his glade if not for the stone. I smell that putrid scent as I near. The light of the lantern spills onto him, a mass of tar and waste, bubbling and writhing. He looks up, hair matted to his skin, one heavy yellow eye taking me in.

The red light binding him glows through the darkness my lantern does not reach. I turn slowly, holding my lantern high, ensuring there is no one else in this part of the wood. No one can witness what I’m about to do. I’d only give fodder to the rumors that I’m a witch, though name-calling is the least of my fears.

When I’m certain we’re alone, I whisper, “Maekallus,” though my voice sounds loud in the forest. Even the crickets and nightfowl fear to go near him, driven away by the wrongness of his misery. He does not answer, but a heavy, struggling breath passes from him. The mound of his back and arms shifts up and down, straining for air.

I’m strangely calm as I approach him. Perhaps my body has expended all the nervous energy it can hold, and it can spare no more. Perhaps Tennith’s kiss has calmed my soul. Perhaps, unknowingly, I’ve finally resigned myself to my fate, whatever it may be.

I set the lantern down on matted grass three paces from the mysting. I clench my fists, and blood squelches from my right. Avoiding the ashen horn, I kneel before him. His wary, pained eye watches me. It’s a morbid sight, and I hold my breath against the smell.

I push my fists onto the ground for balance. Count to three once, then again, before leaning in and pressing my lips to the sludge smearing his. It is cold, it is vile, it is nothing until something shatters deep within me and claws upward like spiders.

It wrenches loose, tearing free from my body, and I gasp as it escapes.





CHAPTER 7

Rooters are generally docile mystings. They are intelligent, enjoy solitude, and prefer dwelling in a mortal forest over anything else.