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This wouldn’t go over well with the people.
All the food that would be prepared over the next several days could go to those who needed it. But then the Crown wouldn’t be able to keep up the pretense of stability—one that was cracking and showing signs of breaking. No number of fancy gowns or elaborate feasts could hide that.
I climbed the dusty hill, the sack of apples and potatoes an unnaturally heavy burden in my arms, even though there was less than half left. The lack of sleep made each step feel like twenty, but still, despite everything, I grinned a little as the large oaks lining the dirt road blocked the glare of the morning sun.
Last night felt surreal, like a fevered dream, which seemed more plausible than spending a few hours beside the lake, speaking with a Shadowlands god—being touched by one. Pleasured by one.
Sweat dotted my brow as I reached up, tugging the hood of my blouse farther to shield my face from the sun. Ash. Warmth pooled low in my stomach. Thinking about his kisses, his touch, did very little to cool my already overheated skin, but it was far better than dwelling on the state of the kingdom or any of the other numerous things I could do nothing to change. Doing that only made me feel useless and guilty. But those kisses, the way he touched me, and what he said? They made me feel exhilarated and wanton and a dozen other different, maddening things. And there wasn’t even a hint of regret. I’d enjoyed myself…thoroughly, and I’d unexpectedly created a wealth of memories that would stay with me for however long.
There was a twinge of sadness, though, because it was over. And with each passing day that came, I knew those memories wouldn’t be as vivid and clear. They would become just like a faded dream. But I didn’t let it take hold. If I did, it would taint the memories, and I refused to allow that to happen. There were too few good ones as it was.
What Ash had said about not having a lot of experience when it came to debauchery returned for me to obsess over, which I’d already done a decent amount of. Could he have really been insinuating that he didn’t have a lot or any experience when it came to intimacy? That seemed impossible. He was a god who was probably, at the very least, several hundred years old. And he seemed awfully good at kissing and touching for someone who didn’t. But…
He had asked me to show him what I wanted—what I liked. And I had.
Did it matter if I had lain with more than he had? Or if he had been with none at all? No. It just made me curious about him—his past and what he did when he wasn’t hunting gods or apparently keeping an eye on me. Had he never found someone he was attracted to? Or at least attracted enough to be with? Someone he had fallen in lust or even love with? And if so, how could I be the first? There had to be others who were more…well, more everything. Starting with, like, every single goddess.
Except Cressa.
Thoughts of Ash quickly faded to the background as the sun bathed me in its light, and I saw what awaited.
The Rot had spread.
My steps slowed as I looked over the trees to my right, and my stomach sank. The limbs of the jacaranda trees had once been heavy with trumpet-shaped purple blossoms. Now, they blanketed the ground, the blooms brown, their edges curled. Limbs bare, there was no mistaking the strange grayness of the Rot that now clung to the tree’s branches and trunk like moss.
The farmers had tried what they believed King Roderick had done. They’d spent day and night, weeks and months, digging and scraping, but the Rot was deep. And under it, a hard, rocky type of soil absent of the nutrients needed to grow crops.
A coldness drenched my chest as I stared at the Rot. The spread was definitely occurring faster. Even if the Primal of Death did come for me now, I wasn’t sure I could even make him fall in love with me in time.
Lasania didn’t have years.
I walked over, toeing aside a dead blossom with my boot until I saw what I already knew I’d see. The dirt itself had spoiled, turning gray.
“Gods,” I whispered, staring at the ruined ground. Breathe in. The breath I took snagged as the scent of the Rot reached me. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, exactly. It reminded me of…
Of stale lilacs.
Just how the Hunters had smelled. The same scent that had filled the air before Andreia Joanis sat up, dead but still moving.
It wasn’t my imagination. The Rot smelled the same.
