Page 11 of The Reaping Rose

I have to admire her bravery in the face of impossible odds, even as fear coils in my chest.

Not the kind of fear that has me running as fast and as far as I can because this creature will kill us without our magic. But because its presence means that if the Well has stretched this far into the realm, then it has certainly reached out into others.

What does that mean for the other territories in Lyrichia? What does that say about Vaelier?

About Wilder?

The rune on my chest burns so hot I nearly stumble. My fingers find the mark, and I dive deep to where my magic slumbers. To that pitch-black thread where he was once the golden light at the end.

“Wilder?” I reach for him with my entire being. “Tell me you’re there. Tell me you’re alive.”

There’s no answer. My thoughts float away into nothingness as my chest tightens.

I should have fought harder to get to him when I had the chance. Now I may never see him again.

Before me, the beast stretches. Its arms and legs are endless. As one disappears, another forms in its place. It is both something and nothing, crawling through the forest toward us, leaving a slimy path of death in its wake.

Not death—a rip.

A crevice.

The trail behind the creature is a wedge in the ground. An endless void, tunneling so deep that it travels to another place.

This split is not like the one in Solace, where creatures spilled from its depths. This is a single vein. Only one creature crawled out, but with it comes something else. An essence that floods the forest floor. It wafts at my ankles and stirs terror in my core.

As if there isn’t already enough of that here.

As if these people haven’t already suffered.

The Well stretches, and I shove down my unease. My concern for my well-being. My worry for my mate.

I sweep all other thoughts aside, and I twine my fear into a ball until it twists and turns and molds into something else.

Something heated.

Something furious.

Because that’s what I am. I’m angry I’m here and Wilder isn’t. I’m angry the realms collided. I’m angry Malachi used me. I’m angry about this lack of power—not magic—but power over my fate.

Gripping my daggers in hand, I channel that rage and step to Greer’s side.

Her smile grows when she gets a glimpse of the anger on my face. “You ready for a fight?”

“Aching for it.”

I move first, quicker than thought. Than the wind that is now hushed from the presence of the Well, choking out all else. I drive forward, daggers out and aimed at the beast, slicing the heart of the shadowy birdlike being.

The beast rears back, and this close, it is not only smoke and shadow. There is a film of something else that can be cut, and when it bleeds, the same black ooze that drips from its mouth leaks out. Only, the wounds heal too quickly. The moment my blade leaves the creature, it stitches itself back together.

I don’t give it time to recover as I strike again. It doesn’t rear back this time. It aims for me. Greer moves in tandem, striding between us to land a blow. Her blade draws a perfect line along its throat; dark tar rains down.

The creature’s head lobs backward, nearly beheaded, its face dangling in the wrong direction. Except this creature has no real form, nothing to cut off that can’t fold inward and protrude whole once more. The place that held its eyes melts into its toothy beak as it turns inside out, and a new face pushes up from the dark pillar of smoke. This face has no teeth. There are only dark sockets where its eyes should be. It reeks of rot and burning flesh.

For years, I stood beside a burning pyre, acclimating to the smell of searing death. Still, this stench takes my breath away.

I stumble as the creature moves forward, but Greer doesn’t miss a step. She is a warrior at heart. A warrior in her soul. In her blood.

She twirls, drawing her blade like a paintbrush of death, carving a statue of destruction. Cutting one piece at a time. And with each one, the beast rolls in on itself and regenerates.