“As you wish,” E whispers darkly, pacing the room.
Pacing his cage.
We sit there on the brink of insanity, the space between us cold and listless, and I already regret everything I’ve said. My restraint tastes like the wrong kind of courage. I can’t stop imagining how it would feel to kiss not just the ghost of himbut his living, breathing self, warm and solid under my hands. I imagine the weight of him, and how his embrace might soothe the begrudging serpents under my skin.
The back of my neck flushes in shame.
I shouldn’t crave something this impossible. I shouldn’t yearn for a man who doesn’t exist. I feel weak and selfish, but the spark of madness doesn’t relent.
Neither of us bridges the gap.
Neither of us speaks.
I keep my hands to myself and make the sensible choice.
But I know that tomorrow, I might not be so reasonable. Tomorrow I might give in and let death defile me in every way that counts.
It might devour me. Damn my soul. Whatever.
Oh, that would be glorious.
A manwith wide wings guides me through the trees, his face half-lost to the shadows. He’s very tall. His nose is almost as sharp and pointy as his ears, and his cheekbones are a mix of hard lines and hollows. He is perfect in a way that makes my skin prickle. He’s the kind of man that not only expects, but demands perfection from everything and everyone—including himself. The sort that doesn’t forgive mistakes.
I know, somehow, that if anything along the path dared to trip him—if a root rose too high or a stone rolled under his foot—he wouldn’t laugh it off. He’d blast the root or pulverize the rock to make sure it would never happen again.
His wings are white. Not the soft white-gray of pigeon feathers in picture books, but clean and bright. I’m sure they’ve never known dirt. They stretch wide behind him, impossibly large, and looking at them makes me feel safe. Nothing bad can happen while he’s here. I’ve got an angel watching over me.
The forest holds its breath around us, and I walk carefully not to shatter the silence. When he turns his head, I see his eyes are pale and blue, like winter light on frozen glass.
Looking at him makes my heart pound in a sweet, eager way.
I want him to love me. I need him to be proud.
The Red Forest blooms all around us. Leaves the color of fire drift down in slow spirals, the trees wearing scarlet and wine-red crowns. The light between them glows with a golden sheen, as if the sun itself has chosen to burn for them—and them alone—today. It’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
Then I see the body.
A dead man lies on the grass, his shoulder sinking into the ground as if the earth is slowly rising to swallow him whole. His auburn hair is darkened at the roots, and his eyes are open but empty, like the glass marbles Nick and I toss around to pass the time.
A soft blue light shines above his chest.
“What happened to him?” I ask, my voice high and full of sorrow.
“I killed him. And his reaper,” he answers flatly, as though it’s perfectly reasonable for him to do such things.
“Why?” I ask, but not in a panicked or tearful way—more quizzical.
“I did it for you, Maxine.” He tilts his head, smiling. “Come closer.”
I’m not sure what to do with a present like this.
I step forward, my bare feet sinking into the blood-drenched earth. The blood crawls over me, the blue light fading without a sound. A frigid wind blows past my cheeks. My fingers twitch. The world blurs.
“It hurts,” I cry out.
“You did well, little witch.” His voice is gentle now, almost soothing. “But let’s not tell your mother about this. It’ll be our secret, alright?”
“Alright,” I squeak.
