A shadow falls over me, and for a long, strained second, I am sure it’s my mother, returned to me by the horrific magic of the Sundered Lands. But then my mind clears, ever so slightly, and I can see an impossible creature blocking the entry into the crumbling ruins.
Its head is raptor-like, and for a moment I dare to think perhaps this one might just be curious, not violent. But then the bird’s head opens, and where there should be only a smooth beak, serrated teeth crusted in old blood line its jaw.
I grip the Lupa Nox’s dagger and try to stop myself from screaming, but a strangled yelp works its way out of my throat anyway as the Hexen’s serpent body slithers closer, beady eyes trained on me. Like the creature Nyatrix is fighting, its gaze is cast in the milky white of death. Closer it comes, and without the currents of the Godwinds, the smell of rot invades my senses.
If my leg worked, I could at least pull myself into a crouch, but given the shape of the ruins I’m tucked into, all I can do is sit and wait for this thing to approach. I’ve never killed anything in my life. I’ve seen the butchers work, of course, and eaten meat on Feast Days. But I’ve never taken a life—not even an insect’s. I am not like the Lupa Nox, dealing death with ease.
I set my jaw and kick up sand with my good leg, pairing it with a shout. “Get away!” I yell, trying to be as loud as possible over the Godwinds at the entrance.
The Hexen shies back for a moment, shaking sand from its head, but then it slithers onward. Saliva drips from its serratedteeth, landing on the sand below in a foamy, wretched-smelling pool.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, trying to kick at it again, but it barely blinks when I shower it with more sand. Instead, the Hexen slides between my legs, pinning me down by my skirts. It’s larger up close, its body the width of my thigh or more, the raptor’s head bigger than any bird I’ve ever seen.
“Please,” I whimper, panic setting in as it looms over me, that disgusting saliva landing on my skirts. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
And then it lunges, teeth bared, a rattling cry bursting from its mouth. I throw my hands up instinctively to shield my face, the dagger barely in my grasp. With all my strength, I hold the Hexen back as it snaps its jaws at my neck, a sob ravaging my chest. Perhaps it would have been better to burn. At least I could’ve seen Carina one more time, maybe gotten a glimpse of my gardens restored to their full and godly glory.
My forearms strain, and I know it’s a losing battle; it isalwaysa losing battle for me when it comes to asking my body to obey. Frantically, I twist my wrist, trying to use my palm to push the Hexen away, lifting my good leg to drive a knee into its trunk.
My palm meets the place where the raptor’s feathers merge with the serpent’s scales, and suddenly, I feel the Hexen slacken against me, like it’s drawing away. I open my eyes—I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them—carefully looking through the crossed shield of my arms.
The Hexen writhes, its raptor mouth open and bleating, as if someone has cast a Curse upon it. Wildly, I fling my body to the side, looking past the beast, but there is no glorious Nyatrix standing at the entrance, framed in the buffeting Godwinds and weak moonlight.
Whatever is happening to this creature, I have done it.
The Hexen throws its head back as its serpent body begins to . . . uncoil? It collapses to the sand and thrashes around,kicking up a cloud of gray dust. I press myself against the wall, frozen in place, my fingers slick around the dagger’s handle.
When the dust settles, I find an entirely normal raptor and a common cliffside snake. They lie in the sand, chests heaving. A heartbeat later, both creatures have closed their eyes, and their bodies disintegrate into bone and ash.
Fear and confusion and a thousand other emotions grip me, vise-like, and I struggle onto my knees, crawling forward to examine the ash. But the Godwinds slip in a moment later, like a long arm reaching through a door, and snatch the ash away. I hold myself up on all fours, breathing hard, perspiration prickling my forehead even though the winds are vicious and cold.
Perhaps I am simply hallucinating, because between my palms, there in the dead sand of the Sundered Lands, grows a mossy green carpet. I blink, and violets poke delicate purple heads through the verdant covering, blooming all at once.
The same hallucination I saw outside the Devorarium. In my bed. Though I squeeze my eyes shut, the violets are still there when I open them. I’m still on my hands and knees, mystified, when another shadow falls over me, weak, filtered through the wan moon’s glow.
I look up, my heart thudding, to find the Lupa Nox standing at the threshold of the ruins. She’s breathing hard, and there’s a tear in the shoulder of her blouse that looks like it was made by claws. Her cowl is pulled down, exposing her face. I glance at the spray of blood across her trousers, working my way up to the wild gleam in her eyes and the bruise on her jaw. She looks, of all things, to be utterly delighted.
“Told you not to worry,” Nyatrix yells over the Godwinds, a gleeful smile crossing her mouth, as if all of this madness has brought her nothing but joy. She rolls her shoulders and extends a hand down to me.
At that moment, she catches sight of the violets. She freezes, brows drawn together, dark eyes examining the tiny garden between my hands. “What the fuck?” Nyatrix demands, her gaze meeting mine.
“I have no idea,” I reply, but the Godwinds carry my voice away.
She cups a hand to her ear, encouraging me to speak up, but exhaustion grips me as the adrenaline fades away. All my body’s pain comes roaring back in, so I simply shake my head and settle for crawling to the entrance of the ruins. I don’t even want to think about how weak and ungainly I look, dragging myself across the sand to a woman who just slayed a Hexen, who stands in the middle of the Sundered Lands and doesn’t for a moment react to the false promises of the Nocturnes.
As I grip Nyatrix’s hand, the sound of my mother’s voice dances across the sands again, and I resist a knee-jerk reaction to search the surrounding area for her.
“You’re not listening, are you?” Nyatrix asks me, leaning low, her body sheltering mine from the winds. “To the Nocturnes?”
“I’m trying not to,” I reply in a hoarse shout. I lean into Nyatrix, realizing that I’ve left my cane. I bite my lip and decide not to mention it. I am already such a burden. I don’t want to draw attention to my body’s weakness, how I cannot even walk more than a few steps without the assistance of a tool.
“Where’s your cane?” Nyatrix asks me, her eyes searching the surrounding sand. Before I can answer, she spots it in the little half-moon of ruins. “Can you stand on your own?”
I hesitate, wanting to say yes, but she takes one look at me and arches a brow. She is ruinous in her beauty, even with the stolen sword sheathed and her wings gone, a column of black in a sea of gray. Without a word, Nyatrix wraps both hands around my waist, and with what seems like no effort, she sets me atop a piece of smooth stone reaching up from the sand.
Then she dives into the ruins, returning with my cane. She offers it to me, and I accept, shouting out a ragged thank-you. With a flourish, the Lupa Nox sinks into a courtly bow—the kind I thought only Noble Houses knew—and extends her palm.
Trembling, I reach out and take her hand.
