Page 106

Fury, terror, and longing at the sight of a nearby lake, an escape route so near yet so far. Back then, my eyes had been able to see this world.

I purge myself of the memories. Yet shaking off the iron is less possible, for it slithers through my blood with each leaden step.

Before The Deep’s great flood and during Cove’s game, I had possessed a brew that enabled me to leach the noxious element from Juniper’s crossbow bolts—a blend of river water, stingray venom, and an elfish metal from the Northern Frosts, all meant to “cure” the bolts by peeling the iron from their tips. Except the mixture had worked only in small quantities. It had been sufficient for the archery, but even if the flood hadn’t washed away most of my supplies, a massive iron cage is another matter.

My pulse clatters. Sweat bridges across the scales encrusting my joints.

The sound of hinges resurrects my stamina. I trail the stream as it condenses to the brook I’d predicted.

On the way, my fingercaps sketch the air for shifts in its direction, any signs I can follow. This is never easy outside of The Deep, and so the effort is of little help.

I prowl through a snarl of bushes and suck in a gust of air. The putridness of iron and the tang of my brother’s blood smothers me. His rhythmic breathing reaches my ears. Relief and fury expel from my chest as I cross the final distance and sink to a crouch.

With each unconscious outtake from my brother, the cage trembles subtly. Iron radiates from the grille like an airborne virus, so thick it slides along my tongue and down my throat.

“Cerulean,” I rasp.

He jolts awake before I’ve finished uttering his name. My brother growls, lurches upright as if wrenched from a nightmare, and lunges my way.

At the last instant, the tip of a knife stalls against my jaw, the weapon halting in realization. “Elixir,” he utters, the inflection scraped raw.

I listen to my brother slump. His wings drag him down, as though the plumes cannot hold themselves up. The scent of crimson seems to cover him from all angles.

A hiss vibrates off my tongue. “What have they done?”

Cerulean struggles for breath, as if each word bears the weight of a mountain. “Nothing we’ve never done to them.”

Fuck his mercy. Fuck it to the bottom of the river.

Also, my exclamation hadn’t required an actual response. Tinder had provided our group with the gory details of Puck’s mutilation and the similar treatment Cerulean had likely received. Albeit Tinder told us privately, away from Lark and Juniper’s ears, so we’d known Cerulean would need someone capable of bearing his frame.

Yet to witness firsthand what’s happened to him…

To smell the evidence of his torture…

If I gnash my molars any harsher, they shall grind to dust. “Cerulean, I’m—”

But his body collapses like a pile of bricks. The cage tremors from the impact.

“Minn ó brodir,”I snap. “Cerulean.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Fuck,” I seethe.

I reach behind to unstrap one of the forked daggers from my back, then shove my free fingers into the baldric. Locating the makeshift key Cove had fabricated—which Tinder had returned from Juniper—I run my fingers quickly over the hardwood wands, one straight and one spiral. My lady had revealed a formidable ability to construct such objects, which cracks the most complex of mortal locks.

A convoy of centaurs would do better to balance my brother’s wings. But what most Solitaries forget is that mermen shifters can balance the density of a river upon their shoulders. And as for water, it can sustain the weight of a continent. If we can do that, water and I can handle a set of Fae wings.

Or so I hope. Already, my knuckles ache from the iron. Haste is crucial, lest I’m unable to get him to the stream.

Without Cerulean conscious to guide me, I’ll have to follow the sound of the padlock. I jab the cage with the prongs of my dagger, shaking the enclosure enough for the lock to swing. Trailing the noise, I locate the bolt, drop the dagger, and jam the apparatus into the keyhole.

Heat sizzles my fingers, and the stink of charred flesh permeates the air. I embed the tool deeper, yet the keyhole refuses to give.

My lady had imparted the mechanics of how to use this cursed tool. However, from her lips to my ears, some crucial step must have gotten lost in translation, an essential detail shuffled out of order.

Cerulean groans in his sleep, the sound frail. Anarchy surges up my arms. My wrist twists so hard the bones threaten to pop, but the bolt remains intact.