I picture my mother telling me a story, kissing a scraped knee, teaching me to swim in the cove below Bartell Manor, holding me tightly after I’d had a bad dream.
Tears spring into my eyes and I feel the drizzle intensify, turning to raindrops. Yet it isn’t long before they subside.
How long will it take before my magic returns to its full capacity? A day? A week? The idea is torture. Letting out a hiss of frustration, I aim a kick at a nearby tree stump.
That’s when a voice overhead drawls, ‘What a nasty temper you have, Storm Weaver. Have you ever tried counting to ten?’
Startled, I look up. Fox is draped ceremoniously across a branch several feet above me, rolling a ripened blackberry between his thumb and forefinger. His dark hair gleams as though he’s recently bathed, and his unkempt shirt gapes open, exposing the smooth golden planes of his chest. He looks perfectly at home up there in the trees, idly regal, an outlaw king as dazzling and dangerous as the Wildlands themselves.
‘What d’you want?’ I ask waspishly.
Fox smiles. ‘And good morning to you too.’
I scowl. ‘Do you enjoy sneaking up on me?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he says. ‘Have you ever considered the possibility that perhaps it’syouwho sneaks up on me? For all you know, I was just out here engaging in a spot of light birdwatching.’
‘Somehow I find that hard to believe.’
Fox tosses the blackberry into the air and catches it again. ‘How shrewd you are. All right, perhaps I may have been checking in on you, but that’s only because you ventured beyond the bounds of screaming distance.’
‘Screaming distance?’ I repeat.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Say I was back at the camp and you were all the way out here, and say you happened to run into trouble, I’d be too far away to hear you scream for help.And while I admit the notion of your screaming my name appeals to me –’
I glare at him.
‘– I’d really rather not spend my morning searching for your mangled corpse, or parcelling up various limbs to send back to your grandmother.’
In one lightning-quick motion, Fox drops from the branch and lands directly in front of me, his face tilted downward, mere inches from mine. My stomach lurches and I take a stumbling step back.
He smirks. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’
I watch as he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a handful of dark berries. I eye them distrustfully.
‘Ah, yes,’ Fox drawls. ‘Because I saved your life, tended to your wound, gave you my clothes, shared my food, and even offered you safe passage through the Wildlands all just so I could poison you with a berry.’ He holds his arms up in surrender. ‘You got me.’
My cheeks flush and I instantly feel foolish. But then again, can he really blame me for hesitating? He’s still the Earth Cleaver. It’s not as if he hasn’t killed anyone before. Besides, he’s entirely unpredictable. For all I know, he could have changed his mind about the missing Eye and decided that he does in fact want it for himself. And how easy it would be to dispose of me here in the woods, weak and feeble as I am.
‘Trust me,’ says Fox, in a voice that doesn’t inspire me to trust him at all. ‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be six feet under. And I assure you that if I were ever to kill you, my methods would prove a vast deal more interesting than this.’ He holds up the berries.
‘Of course,’ I respond dryly, determined not to let him win. ‘How could I ever overlook your twisted desire for spectacle?’
‘Twisted desire?’ Fox echoes, a vicious glint in his eyes. ‘And what do you know of mytwisted desire, Storm Weaver?’
I refuse to blush, jutting my chin. ‘I know that you take pleasure in others’ pain. That you enjoy hurting people.’
Fox mulls this over, then says softly, ‘Only people who deserve it.’
A small shiver skitters along my spine. ‘That doesn’t make it right.’
He looks unmoved. ‘I admit there are times when I do find enjoyment in watching my enemies suffer. Though I’m not the only one, it seems.’
I feel my skin grow cold. In my mind I see Ember’s hands dripping blood, Marina suspended inside a frozen wave, the gargled, choking sounds Cole made as he tried desperately to prise his frozen tongue from the roof of his mouth. I remember how I felt during those moments. Not horrified, not regretful, but powerful. Triumphant.
I think about the way Fox looked at me then, and I think about the way he’s looking at me now, and suddenly I no longer find him merely insufferable. I find himinfuriating.
In the time it takes to blink, the handful of berries crystallize in Fox’s palm.
