I lowered my gaze to the crystallization on my left arm, but I shook my head. “I’m fine. We need to help Arawn, otherwise?—”
“Lempicka, look,” Aignan cut me off.
The mist parted slightly, and out of it emerged a stag’s skull. The translucent moths fluttering around his antlers fell lifeless to the ground. Black blood dripped from his fangs, pooling beneath his claws. The poison of the arrow gleamed on his shadow-and-thorn fur, as if it burned him from within, draining his strength grain by grain.
In his jaws, he held the severed head of the sorcerer. He dropped it onto the grass, where it rolled before coming to a stop. At his feet lay the limp bodies of the two Category Eight Cursed, before dissolving into dark stone. A shiver raced down my spine.
“He won’t be able to maintain the barrier much longer,” Yeun warned, his single wing beating frantically above his head. “He’s burning through his last reserves of mana.”
Arawn collapsed by the edge of the lake. The water rippled, creeping, slithering slowly toward him in an invisible tide, reaching to touch him. His breath swept across the clearing. His body began its reverse transformation, slowly regaining its human form, save for the horns that had torn through his flesh, curling upon themselves.
I rushed to his side, falling to my knees. “Arawn, can you hear me?”
Yeun circled him. Burns. Scars. Arawn was in a pitiful state. “He carries the weight of everyone’s curses. It’s too much. A sorcerer cannot fight alone for so long.”
I spun around. The Spirits were facing me, blocking the passage back to the kitchen. Their red gazes gleamed, accusatory. Some seemed hesitant, but others stood frozen in implacable resolve.
“Let me through!” I pleaded. “I have to help him!”
They did not move. I swallowed hard, lifting a trembling hand to silence Aignan’s protests before he could speak.
“If devouring me will save him, then do it. But if it won’t…” I straightened, clutching my skirt in my fists. “Then let me do what I was made for!” I inhaled, throat tight, before crying out, “I couldn’t save Nyla. But him, I will save him! I swear it!” I knelt in the soaked grass and bowed my head, offering them a silent prayer. “Please. Let me help him. Let me help all of you.”
Only the melancholic song of raindrops broke the silence. I wanted to save Arawn. Not just today, but from himself as well. When I opened my eyes, the Spirits had parted. A narrow path stretched open between them.
“Thank you.” I brushed away a tear before sprinting toward the kitchen.
My fingers trembled as I retrieved the sugarplums, those candied plum drops, I had prepared for the boy from the orchard, for the picnic. They were meant especially for him, but I had no choice. I had to save Arawn.
A sweet remedy for a heart that had forgotten what it was to be loved.
“I hope he forgives me.”
Rich in sucre d'or, they were our best chance. Stuffing them into my apron, I rushed back out into the downpour, sheets of rain crashing down like a leaden curtain. I dropped to my knees beside Arawn and gently parted his lips. My hands shook slightly as I pressed a piece of sugarplum against his mouth. But the instant the confection touched his lips, it slipped, tumbling to the ground.
“Arawn, you have to eat. Don’t be stubborn,” I muttered, fumbling again in my apron.
I seized another sugarplum and tried once more to press it to his lips. But again, it fell, rejected. Thunder boomed, deep and furious, tearing the air apart. The rain poured harder, relentless, battering in icy torrents. Éclair and Chouquette scrambled around me, trying clumsily to shield me from the rain with their bodies, but I no longer saw them. I saw only him.
And I understood what I had to do.
Heat rose up my neck. My gaze slid from the candy in my palm to the pale, still face of the sorcerer. Drawing a deep breath, I lifted the sugarplum to my lips and bit into it. The taste bloomed on my tongue, sweet and comforting.
Ignoring the fire flaring beneath my skin, I leaned forward and gently pressed my lips to Arawn’s.
The half-melted plum of sugar slid between us, and I offered it, coaxing him to swallow. Against all odds, he responded. His throat moved slightly as he gulped, a faint sigh escaping him.
My first kiss was… with an unconscious sorcerer.
But I tried again. And again. And again. My heart pounded wildly. Each time, Arawn’s breath grew a little steadier, a little less erratic, until at last, his body eased.
The rain, as if in echo, softened. Then, I felt his hand. A burning grip closed around my waist, pulling me against him. I collapsed onto his chest. Beneath my palms, the rough fabric of his tunic, and beneath that, feverish heat radiating from him. His hold on me tightened. His long fingers anchored deep at my waist, trapping me against him. It was unconscious. Yet it was too strong to be only a spasm.
As though he refused to let me go.
As though he wanted me to stay.
He is unconscious.
