Page 16

I go down and down and down. Shivering as the air grows colder.

Then, at the very depths, a doorway marks the end of the corridor.

Beyond it is the small chamber housing another altar to Therion.

We rarely use it except at the end of the salt harvest, when we recite a prayer that marks the close of the season.

There’s a low shelf notched into the wall. On it sits a silver flask of chthonic liquor, a circle of seashells, and the carved figure of an ivory-pale swan, a clutch of tapers in the hollow between its wings. Beneath the shelf is an iron brazier.

I’m strung tight; tensed and anxious, I reach into the velvet bag and take out the bundle of herbs and the obsidian mirror.

I kneel beside the brazier, folding up my skirts beneath me, careful of the trailing ends of my veil.

With a taper from the carved swan, I strike a flame.

I scatter the herbs in the brazier, then set them alight.

Smoke curls up, delicate as a thread stitched through the air.

I close my eyes and lean forward. A plume rises from the brazier and traces my lips, then spills down my throat.

The taste of salt, of ash, of wormwood, is achingly familiar.

Even though I’m far beneath the ground, I can hear the sound of the sea.

I look into the mirror. “Therion,” I say, and my voice is too loud in this chambered space.

Carefully, I uncap the flask and slip it beneath my veil, raise it to my lips. The chthonic liquor is richer, older than the one on our seaside altar. It tastes of crushed berries and roses, and burns when I swallow.

“Therion,” I say again. This time, his name is a whisper.

The air is filled with smoke; it hazes my vision, burning my half-closed eyes. The circle of obsidian shimmers and ripples. I blink, and he is here —whole and impossibly real, so much more than the abstract reflection in the caves beside the sea.

He is everything and nothing like the lithe figure that slipped through the forest in Caedmon’s mural.

His face is impossibly youthful; he looks only a little older than me, with a smooth jaw and softness in the lines of his cheeks.

But the rest of his features mark him as distinctly other : the pallid feathers that frame his shoulders, the brilliant amber of his eyes.

He’s a god. A god standing before a foolish, mortal girl. And before I can think to hold it back, I blurt out, “Why me?”

Therion laughs. The sound of it goes right through to my bones, pressing against my rib cage, my spine, the inside of my skull. “Why not you?”

“What do you want with someone like me?”

His mouth twists, a boyish expression of amusement that settles into something keen eyed and curious. “Lacrimosa. My betrothed. Are you sorry to be chosen?”

The truth of it is: I’m not. I think of my last moments at Marchmain, packing my suitcase as the fresh stitches throbbed on my wounded arm.

Sitting numbly on the train, too bereft to even cry.

How desperately I’d wished for something larger and braver than myself, a hand of fate that could reach down and pluck me from this situation.

Therion can’t spin back time or give me the future I’ve lost. But this, our betrothal, offers another way forward. “No,” I tell him. “I’m not.”

He smiles at this, dipping his head in a pleased nod.

Then he lowers himself to kneel before me, so our faces are even.

His eyes are like orange coals through the dark fringe of his lashes.

Hazed by curling brazier smoke, his teeth are sharp, his hand far too large to be anything mortal.

He is seafoam and storms and starlight. “Do you fear me?”

I press my rouged lips together, my mouth gone dry. “No,” I say, but it comes out wavery and uncertain.

Therion reaches for my hand. Feathers trickle between his fingers. He has translucent, crystalline claws. “Don’t be afraid. You are mine, Lacrimosa. I will never harm you.”

I’m trembling, shuddering, but somehow, I manage to lay my fingers against his palm. The ring he gave me is on my finger, the finely cut salt crystal shimmering in the dark.

He draws the veil from my face. His eyes glow bright as flames as he watches me, smiling his sharp-toothed smile. I’m still holding the flask, and he curls his fingers around my own, guiding the flask to my mouth. His palms are warm and, strangely, calloused in the way my brothers’ hands are.

The chthonic liquor pours hotly over my tongue. I swallow, feel it smeared, bitter and indigo, across my mouth. Therion takes the flask from me and drinks, a slow swallow. I watch the motion of his long, elegant throat.

“Don’t be afraid,” he tells me again.

I sit up on my knees. I put my hand against his cheek. His skin is as smooth and cool as the hidden stone walls of the sea cave. His breath riffles against the inside of my wrist. I think of Alastair, watching me across the crowd at the bonfire. I think of Camille, the softness of her lips.

“I’m not afraid,” I say. And then I kiss him.

His mouth against mine is the night itself, a starless dark that speaks of ancient things, of the deep, strange lands beyond this world. His tongue sweeps roughly over mine. I taste the liquor on his lips. Everything begins to blur and blur and blur.

His touch makes me dizzy. Beneath me, the ground rocks like the swan boat did on the waves, a lullaby rhythm. I curl into his arms—my bridegroom. Therion grazes kisses against my cheeks, my throat. He breathes my name into my hair. He draws me close with a rustle of feathers.

I clasp the obsidian mirror in my hands, its weight heavy against my chest.

For one entire winter, I had pretended to fall asleep beside the fireplace each night so my brothers would carry me upstairs to bed.

They had played along, Henry and Oberon, each taking turns.

Pretending not to see the smile that twitched on my mouth, the way my lashes fluttered as I kept my eyes closed.

That is how it feels to be taken into Therion’s world. A slow, delirious not-quite-sleep.

Then, a crackling pierces through the quiet. It’s muted at first, like the sound of rain against my bedroom window. But swiftly, the noise grows louder, louder, louder. Becomes a rising storm, the aching groan of branches bowed fiercely by the wind. Then—the crack of broken bone.

I open my eyes. The room is still hazy with smoke, but I see a figure moving toward me. They’re speaking—chanting—words running together like smudged ink. The same phrase, over and over. “Sennvh devlient, fume devlient. Sennvh devlient, fume devlient.”

“No!” Therion snarls, all bared teeth and fury, his claws flexing against my waist.

There’s a flash of brightness. The brazier flares, then darkens—its flames doused. Everything turns black. Therion howls, pained and furious; there’s a scrape of claws on stone, the snap of razored teeth.

I try to go to him, but something catches hold of my hair. The unbound length of it is twisted into a rope, and the chanting stranger is pulling, pulling me away from my wounded god. “Stop!” I cry, struggling against them. “Let me go!”

A chunk of stone comes away from the ceiling and topples down, shattering against the floor.

Charred leaves from the brazier crush beneath my bare feet.

I claw at the stranger, my fingers scrabbling against their shirtsleeve.

A flare of light casts through the room, dazzling me as it shines into my eyes.

I blink, seeing nothing but brightness. Then, with a snick , the grasp on my hair is loosened.

I stagger forward, caught in the tangle of my veil. An arm slides around my waist, catching me. A voice, familiar, whispers into my ear. “Stay still. I’m going to get you out.”

“Alastair?”

More rocks crash down around us. Alastair drags me out of their way.

A fall of light captures my attacker, illuminating him.

He’s a boy—older than me, but younger than my brothers—with a narrow-jawed face half-hidden by his golden hair.

His shoulders are angular, knifelike, beneath his tailored shirt.

I can’t see Therion anywhere.

“What are you doing here?” I cry out to the stranger. “What do you want?”

Before the stranger can answer, Alastair lifts me into his arms. He turns swiftly and carries me out of the chamber. He’s stronger than I expected, muscles drawn taut as I try to get free. “Alastair, put me down! I have to stay with Therion.”

“I didn’t come all the way down here just to watch you be crushed to death,” he sneers.

Another cascade of rocks tears from the ceiling.

Stones fall, heavy and shuddering. The air fills with dust. Alastair pulls me close, protectively, and he begins to run.

He carries me through the salt mine, the beam from his flashlight bouncing erratically as it lights our path.

He doesn’t glance back even once, doesn’t hesitate. Only goes forward.

Eventually, I see a stretch of sky. More rocks tumble down with a brutal crash. We hurry out into the night, away from the mine’s entrance and back onto the pier.

Alastair lowers me down near where the swan boat is still tethered. He’s breathing raggedly, sweat beaded at his temples, his hair full of dust. He cups a shaking hand against my cheek. “Lark.” There’s a hitch in his voice, a quaver of furious fear. “Lark, are you hurt?”

I stare at him, helpless with shock. He’s been so remote and cruel ever since the day when he thoroughly severed our friendship.

When he made it clear I meant nothing to him.

Now he’s saying my name with incongruous tenderness, when for so long he’s only ever called me Lacrimosa , his mouth drawn into a sneer, like the syllables taste bitter.

“Alastair,” I rasp, my throat roughened from the smoke. “Who was that boy?”

“I had to cut your hair,” he says.

None of this makes sense. Beneath us, the pillars of the pier creak and groan.

The wind has changed, rushing swiftly across the ocean, sending the waves into a frothing riot that crashes against the base of the cliffs.

Sea spray fills the air. More chunks of rock fall down into the water.

The swan boat is wrenched back and forth at the end of its straining rope.

I choke, gagging at the taste of bitter liquor that floods my mouth. My hand, weighted by the ring, feels senselessly heavy. Everything spins and blurs and I’m lost to thoughts of the scattered brazier, the strange chant, and Therion—vanished.

Alastair’s hands curve around my own. He prizes my fingers apart and pulls the obsidian mirror from my grasp. I shove myself upright, my heartbeat spiked with panic. “Give that back!”

I grab for the mirror, but the movement sends a rush of dizziness over me. The last thing I see, before I black out, is Alastair Felimath placing the mirror into his pocket.