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“Allysteir, my Corpus King, I am going to show you something...dear to me. A truth I’ve always known. And felt. More than ever.”
I cock my head. My breath hitches. Kryach’s blood fire dances upon her neck. My brows lift high as vines grow through her flesh, rupture from her naked arms and palms, and emerge beyond her finger lines. Cyara’s bewilderment is no match for mine.
Thorns rise upon Isla’s skin but do not draw blood. She arches her neck, eyes closed. If the act causes her pain, she doesn’t show it. On the contrary, her lips part, her skin flushes. Rosebuds bloom along the vines. They germinate into full corpus roses with inner skull buds. My bride presses her eyes harder and bites her lower lip, concentrating, twisting the roses around Cyara’s coffin, showering the air with the intoxicating fragrance.
By the time Isla finishes, Kryach’s shadows billow along her body. She buckles, and I catch my bride-to-be before she falls. Her breath quickens as she steadies herself.
“Isla.” I cup her face, studying her eyes. I say nothing, fearing I will stammer. And flick my eyes to her skin. “Your arms...” I growl. No, the thorns may not have pierced her flesh, per se, but they’ve littered scratches upon her hands and arms.
She shrugs, a sweet smile budding on her too-tempting lips. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels...oh?it’s rapturous, Allysteir! Utterly rapturous!”
She squeezes my arms before flitting to the next coffin, offering her blooms to the next Ith and the next. Mystified, I cannot deny her bliss, this exquisite radiance within her regal eyes. All I manage is to follow her, grant my shadow lullaby, my last serenity blessing to the people, but it doesn’t compare to their jubilance when she bestows her rare blossoms. At one point, she creates enough roses to fill a coffin, granting a floral death bed.
What is she, Kryach?I ask the God while pacing with my bride.
A wonder, Allysteir. She’s a wonder.
The God of Death provides nothing else. For now, I enjoy these moments, and delight in Isla uniting with me on my Death duties in the merriest of ways. Only one other bride accompanied me, showed any interest, but she gave me comfort and solace after my soul singing. She guarded her heart from these passing ones. On the contrary, Isla’s heart swells with all she touches. As if she grows the unfathomable muscle while sharing her roses. No signs of wilting.
How can I hope to break her heart? To fracture such a spirit?
Give her to me, Allysteir. And you won’t have to, hums Kryach.
You have her blood. You already want her soul. I’ll be damned if I let you take her flesh, too, Kryach. She promised it to me. Not you. And I will only accept her flesh given, not taken.
He growls low in a subtle challenge. Always our point of contention. If there is one scrap of willpower, one iota of control I possess in this cursed affair, it’s this: I must always love my bride, and she must love me. The reason why I break her, why I test her. My façade is good, but if Isla has taught me anything: love is stronger than death.
A handful of dying remain. A few death rattles. But my bride is winded, her skin flushed, infinite scratches on her moonlike skin. Still, she frolics to the next coffin. Her felicity shames me. Her cheeks shine with rosy starlight. Her chest thrusts out as she dances while she grows her flowers. As if she unleashes a deep burden.
The ground rumbles, and the wall shakes, too familiar. Distant heat curls from a nearby bridge. I turn, furrowing my brow because Ifrynna never disturbs my Death work. The tri-headed Guardian hound thunders her paws across the bridge, skeletal tail whipping like a rabid serpent.
Servants scatter upon her arrival. Not Isla. In the pause where Ifrynna huffs hot breath from her multiple nostrils, my bride-to-be skitters to the Guardian. Eyes wide and bright, they marvel at Ifrynna’s form, awed tears glistening. She moves closer, pressing her fingers to her lips.
“Oh, gods! The Guardian of the Underworld.” She bobs her head between the bone heads. I can’t help but smirk. Of course, she would fall in love with Ifrynna.
Caught off guard by Isla’s unexpected interest, Ifrynna sniffs the air around Isla’s head, her breath tickling Isla’s hair, prompting my bride to giggle. Dazed when Isla lifts her hand, fingers trembling but eager, Ifrynna and I blink when my dark rose strokes the hound’s muscled hide.
“Oh, I wish I could grow hands like my roses!” gushes Isla, but Ifrynna shudders and leans away from the girl, directing her three bone heads to me.
“My King,” the Guardian addresses me, “As much as I desire to learn about this brazen, little bride and vow to soon, your presence is needed. A refter attack. Upon the bridge to the Isle of Bones. Your soldiers have been dispatched, but they cannot stem the tide.”
I growl. Grip Ifrynna’s white scruff and haul myself onto her back. “Isla, Betha and the spirits will carry you home.” I nod to the boat where they await.
What’s going on, Kryach?I demand.
They are not mine, Allysteir. We both know I was beyond pleased with our sweet wonder’s blood. And more with her acceptance of my shadow-mark.
What the devil is going on?I glance at my bride, nod to her.Protect her, Kryach.
I will. Now, go.
Arerefter attacks common beneath the White Ladies? Yes, sprinkled throughout this Underworld are refter pockets. I recall the one I killed with Franzy on our way to the Bone Games. But only one. My blood should have appeased the God of Death to stem the tide.
Whatever the case, I’ll confront Allysteir later. For now, he didn’t specifywhenthe spirits will take me home.
Mynewhome. An ache clots my throat with the knowledge of what I’ve done, what I’ve accepted. I rub the mark again. Do I possess the power to summon Kryach? Or does it all depend on the God’s whim? Or Allysteir’s?
Regardless, the roses help.
