Page 40 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

There’s still time to fix this. I brought myself back. That means my abilities can pass to a human. I’m sure of it. Sweat beads across my body. Broken sobs fill the chamber. As my abilities fail me, my heart sinks into despair. Too much time is passing.

“Mother.” I brush my hand through her dark hair.

All the luster is gone from her once-shiny locks.

I look so much like her. I’ll never forgive the genes that gave me her face.

A face I’ll now have to look at every day, knowing its creator, the one who wore this face first and with far more beauty and grace than I’ll ever possess, is gone.

In previous years, I enjoyed the comparisons.

“You look so much like your mother.”

“A beauty, just like the queen.”

“The spitting image of Elowynne.”

Now those comments will be ghostly words, haunting me. I’ll continue to age, looking more and more like her each day until I reach this age and surpass her. I can’t bear the thought. My own reflection will be a ghost, trapping me. Forced forever to be haunted by her loss.

There’s actual pain in my chest, not just emotions, but a sharp aching that’s tearing at my heart.

“Why?” I whisper.

There are so many people out there who are less good, less kind.

She was a light in this dark world. I know they always say that when someone dies, but the truth is, not everyone is a light.

She was. She shone so bright she dulled the jewels ’round her neck and the crown that topped her head.

Why couldn’t it be one of them instead? Some stranger who spent their life taking advantage of others.

A nobody who spent their days in cruelty and anger.

I would do it, trade a hundred unworthy others to bring her back.

My tears stream more heavily. She would never want that though, for me to sully my soul in her name. She was too good.

I will never be able to fill her shoes.

As a growing crowd watches on, I finally rise. Many people have entered the so-called “sacred” room while I was distracted. The intensity of their wounded stares strikes me, repeatedly, like a clutch of arrows. I do not want prying eyes upon me while I grieve.

Shoving past them, I trudge out into the rain. A fresh pang twists in my chest. My mother would disapprove of my treatment of those people. Or would have disapproved. She can’t do anything now. She’s gone.

I take off, hoping and failing to outrun my misery. My legs pump with speed, and as I put more distance between myself and my mother’s body, sadness transforms into red-hot fury.

I run somewhere I know no one will follow. The labyrinth. Its twisted tunnels beckon me.

Lightning jumps from cloud to cloud. The bright flashes illuminate the entrance to the labyrinth.

A barrage of heavy raindrops pelts my skin, whipping sideways on a violent gust of wind.

The sounds of trees creaking and moaning reach my ears from the other side of the maze.

The dark forest is chanting, immersed in the daytime darkness, reveling in the lack of sunlight, flourishing under the harshness of the storm.

The worst of the wind-wrapped rain subsides as I duck between the walls of the labyrinth.

The downpour still hits me from above, but without the wind, the rain loses its sting.

Using the back of my hand, I wipe my wet hair from my eyes.

Water runs down my face. Raindrops or teardrops?

There’s no difference today. The sky weeps for the dead, its tears softening the very earth that will consume my mother’s form.

My feet sink into the wet, muddy ground. The rain has come so hard and so fast that the land can’t rid itself of the excess moisture quickly enough. Puddles form in the lower corners and a small but steady stream runs down the middle of the corridor leading to the open center of the labyrinth.

My robe is weighed down with water. Every step is a struggle. My foot sinks ankle deep in a particularly wet patch and I fall. Water splashes up around me as my hands and knees hit the earth. The deluge of rain continues, sheets and sheets of it.

Instead of rising, I bury my fingers in the mud and scream. I scream and scream, into the wind and rain. Thunder roars, drowning out the sound. I scream through it, fighting and failing to be heard over the storm, not stopping until my voice gives out.

How can this be happening?

Sitting back on my heels, I let my whole body droop. Cold seeps into my bones and with it a numbness that strips me of any ability to pick myself up off the ground.

I don’t hear him land. I don’t even sense him the way I usually do.

The only sign of his arrival is the abrupt stop to the rain.

It takes me a minute to notice. Looking up, I find black wings shielding me from the sky’s onslaught.

Harrow’s cool, pale face peers down at me from between the masses of feathers.

His icy white hair isn’t even damp. He offers me a hand.

I slap it away. Harrow barely reacts, as if he knew I would reject his help.

He reaches out again. Mud flies through the air as I slap his hand again.

I do not want his help. With great effort, I push to my feet.

I’m caked in mud, chilled all the way through, and shaking with a rage I want to die from.

“Bring her back.” My voice is raspy from screaming, but the conviction is clear.

Harrow’s eyes reflect my sadness. It’s unbearable on him. “I can’t.”

His clipped response fuels my anger. “You’re the Prince of the Underworld! So do something. Prove you’re more than some shadowy stalker. Bring her back. Go back to wherever you came from and bring her back .”

Harrow is as silent as one of the garden’s marble statues.

“Bring. Her. Back.” I slam my hands into his chest. The dark glassy armor bites against the sides of my fists. “Don’t just stand there. Do something . Bring her back!”

“I’m sorry, little raven?—”

“I don’t want you to be sorry.” My fists pummel into his chest again. “I want her back.” The next time my fists hit his armor, my skin splits. “Bring”—more pounding—“her”—more blood—“back!” More pain.

When it becomes evident that my hands aren’t affecting him, I switch tactics. My palm cracks across his cheek, leaving a smear of blood behind. I slap him again and again and again. Red wells up on his cheeks beneath the bloody prints. He doesn’t fight back. Harrow doesn’t even attempt to stop me.

Does he think he’s doing me a favor by standing here like some lifeless sack of straw?

Acting as my punching bag? His lack of retaliation only makes my blood boil hotter.

I want to fight. I need someone to tell me to stop and calm down or to meet me head-on.

Anger is better than sadness. If I don’t have an outlet, a distraction, I’ll have to face this for what it is.

“Fucking coward!” I grit my teeth so hard there’s a crack somewhere deep in my jawbone. I slap him again, but the fire is draining from me. No . If it goes out, I’ll be nothing. Just a pile of empty lost ashes at the mercy of the wind. I need the flame.

Harrow stares down at me. “Seeing you this sad is the worst thing I’ve ever had to witness. Worse than torture, worse than endless darkness. The brokenness in you is spreading into parts of me that only exist because of you, shattering them in solidarity.”

The aching emptiness his words trigger splits open the flimsy defensive wall that guards my emotions. It was once so strong, an iron fortress of protection. Years of tragedy have eroded it like perpetual waves against stone.

I cover my face as the tears pour from my swollen eyes. The sounds of rain pattering against feathers and muted thunder continue outside the wall of wings encircling me.

When I’ve cried myself empty, I look up at Harrow.

“Why did you do it?” My voice is a pitiful broken thing.

“I didn’t do this.” His voice is gentle. Suddenly I cannot stand to look at him. Rot and deceit beneath the face of a flower.

“Yes, yes you did. You told me you were Death.”

“I am.” The words are spiked with regret.

“Then this is your fault!”

“I don’t choose when it is time for people to pass. I just rule over the place where they all end up.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’ll never lie to you.”

I want to believe him. My hair flings water as I shake my head. “I can’t accept that. Bring her back.”

Harrow reaches a hand toward me. “Lenore…”

“Don’t touch me. Bring her back or get out of my sight. It’s your choice.”

Real, raw hurt stains his metallic gaze. “I can’t bring her back.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I turn my back on him. “Then I guess you’ve made your choice.”

“Please, Lenore.” His fingertips brush the top of my shoulder. I shrug him off. There’s too much pain overflowing in my veins. Hate is better than hurt. Right now, my hate is directed at Harrow.

“Don’t come back until you can give me what I want.”

The storm rages. For a moment I wish to take it all back and throw myself in his arms. Something stops me. Stubbornness, pain.

Harrow’s final words are just a whisper. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you need.”

Rain falls over me again as those beautiful black wings retract.

Lightning strikes nearby and I stumble backward, whirling toward Harrow, reaching for him out of fear.

He’s gone. My head whips side to side. He left .

Why does it feed the agony between my ribs?

That’s what I wanted, right? I’m the one who told him to leave.

How utterly stupid and childish. I can’t stand myself.

I want to tear out of my skin and be someone else, deal with someone else’s problems, feel someone else’s feelings.

Sadness stacks within me, stealing my air, dousing my ability to feel joy, to feel anything else at all. “What the fuck am I doing?”

Lightning flashes so close that the thunder that follows is instantaneous.

Smoke rises from somewhere in the hedges.

Another loud, fierce strike. I sprint back the way I came.

I need to get inside. Sloshing through the maze, more thunder booms, rattling my bones. I scream just as I slam into someone.

He catches me by the elbow before I hit the ground. “Princess?”

I’m hauled to my feet beneath the worried, tawny gaze of Cassius. I throw my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. His arms are warm as they wrap around me, tucking me in close.

“I heard about the queen. I’m so sorry.” His fingers glide over my wet back, warming some of the chill that’s iced over my heart.

Another clap of thunder has us both jumping. Cassius tugs me with him. “Come, we must return to the castle.”

“Take me away from here.” My hands clutch the front of his shirt.

To his credit, he doesn’t look as surprised as I thought he would. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Please.” Here I am, desperate, pleading for a prince to save me as I cling to his clothes. This is not who I want to be, but this is what grief has reduced me to. A damsel in distress.

Loose, soaked strands cling to his handsome, tanned face. He nods. “Hide until the storm passes, then wait for me by the pasture gates. I’ll make preparations and return with haste to collect you.”

I can’t find it in myself to smile. Instead, I just nod my acknowledgment.

Cassius disappears into the darkness, revealed only when another flash of lightning illuminates his broad figure.

My dress is too heavy and rain-soaked to remain in. With extreme recklessness, I climb the trellis outside my room and crawl in through the window. The sounds of the storm help mask any noises I make.

Thankfully, Melly is not inside. I choose a simple grey travel gown, forgoing the skirt hoop and corset beneath. It’s not proper, but it will make riding a horse much easier.

I’m about to strap the dagger to my thigh but stop. I don’t want to have to explain it to Cassius. The tips of my ears heat. What makes me think he’ll see it to ask questions? He would need to be beneath my skirts to even know it exists.

Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe that’s the distraction I need.

Being alone now is the worst form of punishment.

If I don’t occupy myself, I think of my mother, of how pale and still she was this morning.

No . I will die too under all of that pain.

My body might live, but my heart won’t survive it.

Instead, I bury the sadness and aching beneath a pile of fond memories.

I think of our favorite times together. Sitting on a picnic blanket, eating her special apples.

Dancing in my room at night when no one was around.

I think of my father, and this pain that we share. I can’t bear to see my own grief on his face. If he sees me, with the face of my mother, will it hurt him tenfold? Or bring him comfort? I don’t have the strength to carry his burdens as well as my own.

My thoughts drift back to my mom as I wring the excess moisture out of my hair, remembering all of the times she brushed it. I’ve always loved having my hair played with.

A sliver of blue sky is already peeking through on the edge of the storm. The flashes and thunder have grown further apart. It won’t be long now.