Page 46
Summer
T he wind is colder on the eighth night. Salt spray lingers in the air, stinging my chafed lips. It hasn’t stopped howling since the pathetic excuse for a sun disappeared behind the jagged horizon hours ago, and neither have I.
I’ve barely slept. The stone bench the fae gave me to sleep on hasn’t been used. If I lie down at all, I lie over Wyn, begging him to come back to me.
The grass around his grave has long since flattened beneath my pacing steps. I’ve worn the edges of my boots thin, but I’ll never stop. Never leave. Not until he wakes.
Phaedra comes at dusk and dawn, always silent, leaving food I hardly touch—flatbread, goat cheese, figs soaked in red wine, and fresh water. Once, she left tea steeped in rosemary and another herb bitter enough to sting my nose. I didn’t touch it. I was too afraid it might be poisoned.
Day and night, I talk to Wyn, pleading with him to wake, my voice low and cracked with exhaustion.
Sometimes I sing songs or tell him silly stories, like the time I told a Gravenshade tour group the ghost in the drawing room hated loud voices.
A total lie. But five minutes later, a guy sneezed, and the chandelier fell.
No one’s dared to speak above a whisper in there since.
I tell him every stupid ghost story I can think of. I bargain with gods I don’t believe in. And sometimes I just sit here and count.
Wyn’s been buried longer than the curse required. Almost eight nights. Does that mean he’s already dead? Gone forever?
I’ve nearly given up hope of seeing him again, and the stress of not knowing if I ever will feels like having my heart carved out through my ribs with a blunt knife. It’s agonizing.
Landolin came yesterday, on the seventh day. Didn’t announce himself, of course. Just stepped out of the shadows like he’d opened a door in the air, then sighed like he was disappointed to find me still here.
“Come inside, Summer,” he told me. “You’ve done enough grieving for several lifetimes.”
I didn’t respond. I just stared at him over Wyn’s grave.
“You’ve made your point,” he went on. “You’re loyal, tragic, and stubborn as a rotted root.
No comment? Fine, then. I’ll make a blood vow for your safety, if that will help you walk away.
Seven days have passed. He’s gone. At least come inside and live in comfort.
Unharmed. I promise the Hunt won’t touch you. ”
“Why do you need a girl with necromancy skills?” I’d asked.
He smiled like he thought I was daft, then told me the less I knew, the safer I’d be.
I told him to go to hell. Told him I’d rather be buried alive with Wyn than be protected by someone who plans to collect human girls like trophies .
And then I turned my back on him and didn’t say another word.
He stood there for a while, watching. Maybe expecting me to change my mind and follow him back to the castle.
But I didn’t.
Tonight, the clouds hang heavier than usual, stretched low over the sea like a wad of wet cotton. The moons have vanished behind them, and I feel lonelier for it.
I’m so tired of waiting. Of hoping. Of not knowing if there’s something I should be doing to bring Wyn back to me. Maybe there’s a key to this, and I’m meant to chant something special. Or dance naked under the seven moons while pledging eternal devotion to the Shade Court gods.
For all I know, I was supposed to recite some ancient spell at midnight on the third day, and now I’ve missed the window and Wyn’s just… stuck in there forever because no one gave me the curse’s cheat sheet.
The wind picks up, and I shiver, wrapping my cloak around my stomach. Time to start pacing again. It’s the only thing that keeps me warm. I brace my hand against the ground to stand, and something sharp bites into my palm. A broken root or a splintered stone.
But just before I push upright, a gray haze at the edge of my vision stops me. I close my eyes, then open them, relaxing my focus.
A translucent figure kneels beside the gravestone.
Then another. And another. Three ghosts, half-formed and flickering like candlelight in the breeze.
They say nothing, but I feel them, the weight of their stares and the hum of their presence heavy against my skin.
One of them reaches toward my wrist, and the moment her finger grazes my wound, a shiver races through me.
The message is clear.
Give him your blood .
Of course. It’s always tears or blood that does the trick in the old tales. Or your first born. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those to give away.
I nod my understanding, and the spirits vanish as my blood wells up fast. I let it drip into the soil, whispering a silent thank you.
One.
Two.
Three drops.
Nothing… Nothing… Nothing…
And then the earth stirs.
At first, it’s barely a tremble, a slight undulation of the surface of the grave.
Then something breaks through the soil.
It isn’t a wolf’s leg or a paw. It’s a man’s. Or a fae’s to be correct. Dirt-streaked, strong, perfectly formed. And Wyn’s!
I scream. I laugh. I sob.
I’m on my knees before I know it, clawing at the grave with both hands, my nails breaking.
“Wyn? Please . Please be well. Don’t be a zombie and eat me.”
Fingers curl around mine, and I dig faster, frantic, until his face breaks through, filthy, gasping, and so, so beautiful. The most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen.
Something shifts beneath my hands—not just Wyn’s body wriggling out of the dirt. The land is responding to his rising.
A deep, resonant pulse rolls through the soil like the heartbeat of a giant living underground.
The beaten grass around the grave glows white, then shoots upright, thriving.
Soil splits in jagged lines that shine a bright gold color, and stones and crystals burst through them, circling Wyn once before clattering down again.
Wyn moans, and a low hum builds in the air. The sound of roots twisting and rocks moving below the surface grates against my ears. The air is thick with magic, raising tiny hairs on my arms.
What the hell is happening?
And then like a dam wall finally cracking, the Elemental magic pours out of him, a flow of golden energy rippling from his mouth. It feels warm and nurturing, not destructive or frightening.
The land drinks it in.
The soil crackles where it touches Wyn’s skin, absorbing power like it’s starving. Vines twitch beneath the surface, then burst upward in quick spirals before crumbling into ash. The stone behind his back glows like molten silver, sputtering, before cooling again.
Wyn’s breathing roughens, and his eyes flash open. They’re too bright, too green, power lighting him up from within. “The land’s taking some of my magic,” he rasps. “It’s also… binding part of me to it.”
I touch his arm. His skin’s hot, and his pulse is galloping.
“Can you stop it?”
He shakes his head. Dust rises in a wave from his shoulders, and the scent of petrichor and crushed rock fills the air.
“No. The curse is broken… but I’m still not entirely free.” His breath stutters, and he grabs my wrist to steady himself, and then a narrow spiral of dirt coils up from the ground, wrapping around his forearm like a rope .
The magic flares gold, green, then an unusual earthy color—like moss painted yellow—as it sears into his skin. Wyn gasps and jerks once in shock.
When the glowing light fades, burned into the inside of his left forearm is a raised, branching scar that resembles the root system of a tree, deep and permanent.
“Shit,” he mutters, his fingers tracing the pattern.
“What is it? Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s a brand. The land took what it wanted, but it’s marked me.”
The wind cuts through the cliffside whipping waves of dark hair over his face.
“But what does that mean? Can they track you now?” I ask. “Will you be able to leave?”
He doesn’t answer for a beat. Then, “I don’t know. But I guess we’ll soon find out.”
“Have they taken all of your magic?” I ask. “Left you powerless?”
He frowns and conjures his usual glamour, the familiar black leathers forming over his skin. Smiling, he pulls me down onto his lap, and I breathe him in deep. Somehow, he still smells like clean earth and warm male.
Not that it matters. As long as he’s alive, he could reek like mold and cow dung, and I wouldn't give a damn.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46 (Reading here)
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52