Page 29

T he bitter juice of the fruit burned every part of her it touched.

It seared the tips of Aisling’s fingers.

Her lips. Her tongue. Her throat. All the way down into her stomach as she forced down bit after bit: the seeds, the pulp, and the rind.

Every swallow was agony, every breath now little more than a choking gasp.

Tears streamed from her eyes, but her throat was too raw for her sobs to make a sound anymore.

Each time she retched—from the pain, from the taste, from the panic—she had to swallow that down, too.

All the while, Yalde looked on, lips frozen in that unnatural, too-wide smile.

Stone-faced and still, Kael didn’t so much as glance in her direction.

She knew he wasn’t there, that he couldn’t hear or see her struggling beside him.

Even still, Aisling couldn’t quiet the voice in her head—her own, this time—that chanted over and over and over: He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love you.

Fifteen more bites.

Ten more bites.

Seven.

Five.

Aisling wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

Wasn’t sure she’d be able to finish what was left of the blackened, withered skin.

It was tough and chewy and the longer she had to keep it in her mouth, the more it burned her blistered tongue and sloughed the skin from the insides of her cheeks.

She’d already scooped out the insides—the seeds, the pulp.

She’d shoved them into her mouth by the fistful.

The flesh still caught under her nails stung all the way down to her joints.

“Don’t stop now,” Yalde purred as she slowed. “You’re too close to give up, and there’s far too much fun to be had yet.”

Aisling hardly heard him over the sound of her ragged, labored gasps. She’d never felt pain before—not truly, not like this. This was visceral. Primal. It set off her fight-or-flight instinct such that adrenaline surged wildly through her and made it impossible to think straight.

Three more bites.

He doesn’t care.

Two.

He doesn’t love you.

Yalde reached out and seized Aisling’s wrist as she shakily raised the final bite to her mouth.

Her bones ground together under his tight grip and the tips of his talons drove into her skin.

He was leaning forward, strands of his long hair dipping into the chalice of invisible aneiydh.

She couldn’t tell whether he’d finished it off or not.

“Remember that the answer to my riddle is the key to your escape. Fail to solve it, and you’ll be mine to keep and do with as I please. I do love a new toy.”

Aisling yanked her arm sharply out of his grasp and thrust the final bite of fruit into her mouth.

Her jaw screamed as she chewed the leathery rind, grinding and mashing it as much as she could manage.

Once it was just soft enough, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced it down.

Her entire body, every muscle and nerve, revolted against that final swallow.

Her stomach cramped; her throat seized. If he’d lied—if this was how she was to die—she only wished that it would end quickly.

She pushed away from the table, hard. Had she not immediately hunched forward to cradle her aching stomach, she’d have tipped backward in the chair and tumbled head over heels.

She clutched at her waist and pressed her forehead tight to her knees.

It was so slick with sweat she could feel the dampness through her jeans.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love you. This is how you die.

The world spun under her, around her, but still Aisling kept her head down.

Her breaths were shallow and hysterical at first, until slowly, she was able to drag more air into her lungs.

To take it in deeper, to hold onto it longer.

As the agony ebbed, she swallowed the saliva that had gathered beneath her tongue. It barely soothed her burning throat.

Aisling, Yalde crooned. Now he was in her head, too. He repeated her name, singsong, drawing out each syllable: Ais-ling .

It took several long minutes for the cramping in her abdomen to abate enough that she could sit up in the chair, and another few still until she could open her eyes.

She was in a forest, this time one she recognized. It wasn’t the twisted, sinister woods of the god realm, nor did it possess the serene, ancient beauty she’d found amongst the trees in the Wild. This was her forest, the one she knew like the back of her hand and could traverse by heart.

Aisling was back on Brook Isle.

Except this version of her beloved woods seemed too perfect.

Staged, almost, as if someone had taken great care in laying each twig and stone just so.

Had taken a yardstick to place each tree an equal distance from the next; not too close, not too far.

It smelled like home, if the smell of home was mixed and manufactured and mass distributed as a forest-scented candle.

Carefully, she rose from the chair. The ground shifted away from her feet and she caught her weight against the closest tree, digging her fingers into its bark until she could balance on her own.

Her head swam with every movement and her vision wavered and darkened around the periphery.

The lingering pain clouded her thoughts too much to recall clearly the words of Yalde’s riddle; they blended together into a low hum that threaded through her racing thoughts.

Concentrate. She needed to concentrate.

Aisling looked back at the chair, sitting by itself amidst the trees.

The table was gone. Yalde, Kael, and those still, silent shrouded figures were gone.

And her satchel, which she’d unceremoniously dropped at her feet under the table—her satchel, which held a bottle of water that she would have traded just about anything for now—that was gone too.

She cursed her own stupidity; it would have been so easy just to keep it slung over her shoulder.

But she hadn’t managed to hold onto a rational thought since the moment she saw Kael on the throne of thorns, with his blackened eyes and swirling shadows.

If she could have traded anything for that bottle of water, she’d have given every last drop of it if it meant she could bring him back.

Groaning, Aisling pushed herself off the tree, one arm wrapped tight around her waist to cradle her aching stomach as she took a few shaky steps forward.

She had to pause after each to let her vision settle.

There was no trail, no indication of which way would lead her out.

The forest was identical as far as she was able to see, hundreds of trees and ferns and rocks and branches, all exactly the same as though nature had overtaken a hall of mirrors.

She reached out, half-expecting her hand to brush against cool glass, but there was none.

Strange as its appearance was, the forest was just a forest.

The silence gave way to a dull roar then.

It was distant, and quiet, but growing. The sound drew her muscles bowstring tight, ready to snap.

It was the same crackling, whooshing sound of kindling finally catching and flaring to life on the hearth, the rushing updraft as the flames were both fed and dampened by the flow of oxygen through the chimney.

But that sound as she knew it was small, contained.

That was a whistled tune; this was a symphony.

She felt its warmth next. Gentle at first, like a shaft of sunlight kissing her skin. But quickly, too quickly, the warmth turned uncomfortable. Aisling spun, arm raised to shield her face from the onslaught of heat.

Her forest was ablaze with brilliant blue fire.

It moved like a tidal wave, spreading out in all directions and gaining speed as it went.

For a moment, Aisling was entranced by it.

Hypnotized by the swirling hues of indigo and cobalt and turquoise and aquamarine.

At its base, where the flames burned the hottest, the fire faded to a pale shade of powder blue.

The colors rivaled the brightest sky, the deepest sea.

And the way the flames danced—snaking, twirling, leaping—was magnetic.

Those towering flames licked hungrily at the trees and raced across the forest floor, consuming everything in their path.

If she remained frozen there any longer, they might have consumed Aisling, too.

But the smoke that followed, thick and black and choking, shook Aisling from her trance as it forced its way into her lungs.

She coughed hard, and the lesions still fresh in her throat screamed in pain.

The feeling allowed her to take in the scene with renewed focus, a renewed rush of fear and adrenaline surging through her veins and crystallizing just one thought: she had to move, and quickly.

Her mind raced as she scanned her surroundings for an escape route.

She’d gotten lost in the savage beauty of the flames for too long; now, her options for escape were few and dwindling rapidly.

She bolted to her right, where the flames had yet to engulf the trees, her feet pounding against the soil.

The searing heat at her back drove her forward, though on this iteration of Brook Isle, she wasn’t entirely sure where forward might lead.

Aisling ducked and zigzagged through the trees as her breath came in short, pained bursts.

Her chest ached from the effort and the smoke, but she couldn’t afford to slow down.

She was running blindly now, eyes stinging and vision blurred.

When she felt the heat intensify, singeing the ends of her hair, she pushed herself harder still down the narrowing path.