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She hisses and recoils. I slash again and she backs away farther. I go for the orb in her grip. The fairies squeal and sputter as I latch on. Two have already turned to dust. The other three are dim.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, with no idea whether these fairies can hear or understand. “Your kind was only ever trying to warn me.”
I sink my fingers into the strange glass, and fresh energy floods through my veins. The last few fairies sputter. If I must be a villain, I will be one of my own making, but tonight I will use this power to drive her out.
Tugging and tugging at the shadows in my mind, I turn her corruption against her, forcing the growth at our feet to reach for her instead. It isn’t much, but I only need a distraction. She yanks me free of the orb, but I don’t need it anymore.
My other arm swings upward and I thrust the dagger into her chest.
Shock lances her dark eyes.
Still, the witch laughs, sputtering blood with each cough. “You have wrought your own hell,” she spits. “It remains your destiny.”
Her body warps, shrinking with each staggering step. I reach out to grab the end of her robe, but it shifts along with her, melding to her like skin. Blue-black feathers spray from her arms, spreading into wings. Then there’s no woman left—only a raven flapping unsteadily out the window into the moonless night. Bloody feather tufts drift from my grip.
My head splits in an ache as the wind blows in, chilling my fevered body. I remember to breathe and it comes out asob.
I hear her laughter in my mind.I will see you again—if not in flesh, then in dream.
I crawl over to Cyrus, who lies crumpled and weakened from the magic I drew. His limbs and fingers have elongated and he stretches across the entire length of the rug. His veins pump more sap than blood, spilled sticky over his tattered formalwear. What remains of his human skin is pallid; the rest of him is bark or fur or tender shoots growing before my eyes. Curving behind each ear is a horn grown to the size of a ram’s, dotted with rosebuds.
Had I killed him, I might have simply carved him from my mind. But I had too much heart to play villain and not enough to be savior, so instead I’ve cursed him twice: once with a thorn and once with his love for me.
He’s no longer the untouchable prince I hated. He’s something else entirely now.
My heaves grow short and shallow, regret threatening to fracture me in its magnitude. I have a little bit of fight in me left, and I spend it all on holding myself together.
I take the fallen dagger. My vision is blurry and I’m weak from my own injuries, but I manage to slice off a strip of fabric from the bedsheets. Pinning Cyrus downin case he thrashes while transforming, I search for the gash on his arm. I would have caused more damage as I wrenched the dagger out, and I’m surprised he didn’t pass out entirely.
But when I wipe away the milky sap, I find the wound mostly crusted over. Scabbed with brownish fibers and golden amber like the wound over his heart.
He’s healing himself.
Cyrus jerks suddenly as his horns curl another inch outward and the roses on them begin to bloom. “Violet…” His voice is deeper, as if scraped from a tree hollow. I slide a hand over the rough skin of his cheek.
I don’t know how long he has until he turns completely.
If he does not feed, he will turn into a full beast,the witch said.
Beasts feed on people, but I haven’t heard of any cases where their curse was broken this way. But maybe my blood, tainted with the magic that turned him into this, has the power to change him back.
I thrust my still-bleeding palm toward his mouth. “Drink.”
Cyrus lurches forward, as if the scent of iron agitated some primal instinct, then hesitates. Disgust warps his expression, and I realize the human part of him doesn’t wantto.
“You have to.” I push my hand against his lips.
Instinct takes over and he bares his fangs; the pierce of his teeth is hot as a brand. If I wasn’t prepared and already hurt all over, I might not be withstanding it, but as it is, I dig my nails into his bark-crusted side and clench through the pain.
He grips my arm tightly to hold me up, and he drinks, eager and deep, teeth slicing new veins open. I cry out, skirting consciousness. He clutches my slack body against him.
His horns stop growing. The roses wilt and brown. His body trembles with each swallow. When he drags his tongue over the wound, gaping from his messy eating, it seals itself closed, leaving a ragged red scar.
His limbs finally begin to arrange themselves in their proper places. He licks my smaller wounds, the thorn punctures on my legs, the scratches along my shoulders. The last of his bark-skin crumbles, and he gazes up at me, once again the Cyrus I know, crimson smeared over his lips and chin. If not for the horrors we just endured, it might pass for the smudged lipstick of a paramour.
But— “Your eyes,” I whisper. Or is the color shift just a trick of the light? His eyes have always been green, but not like this—vibrant as new fairy growth. Almost glowing, like a pair of enchanted jewels.
Cyrus turns toward the vanity’s mirror. He’s visibly pained as he clambers to his feet; while his cuts don’t bleed, there are many of them. The remaining bits of his clothes cling on like a mockery of modesty.
