Corinthe pushed her way off the path, mesmerized by the way the light hit the petals and shifted into different hues, as though each petal were made of a prism. Their buds were the size of overgrown pumpkins; their petals curled inward. It wasn’t until Corinthe stepped closer to examine a peculiar-looking vine that she saw it wasn’t a vine at all, but a slim wrist with green-tipped fingers.
Not Blood Nymphs. Not yet.
Inside each flower, a girl hung suspended, pierced with hollow vines that slowly drained her blood. Corinthe circled the flowers, a sick taste coating her tongue, and saw glimpses of paper-thin skin and unseeing eyes, of blood swirling through the hungry plant. It wasn’t the light that made the petals appear to change colors; it was the exchange of fluids from plant to girl. She knew vaguely how Blood Nymphs were created, but seeing the process up close made her feel sad and sick at the same time.
Sad. Sick.
Human feelings.
At the last flower, Corinthe stopped. This girl was early in the transformation, because her hair was still black—the same color as Miranda’s hair, Corinthe thought, and felt a momentary ache, wishing she had her Guardian’s advice.
The flower’s pistil had pierced the girl’s skin right at her wrist, just below a small tattoo of a jasmine flower. Corinthe watched as the girl’s blood slowly leaked out of her body, into the plant.
Was it too late to do anything for her? Corinthe couldn’t be sure. As far as she knew, the process of alteration was reversible if caught early enough. But past a certain point it could not be stopped—both plant and human would die.
It doesn’t concern you. Corinthe heard Miranda’s voice urging her to move on. This girl’s future was not in her control.
Already the girl’s skin was ghostly white. Soon her skin would take on the blue tint of the flower that changed her. Her blood would slowly be replaced with a fluid that would keep her alive, but only until she could feed like the rest.
It was a horrible thing to watch, but something compelled Corinthe closer, until she was just inches away from the girl. The aroma of cloves was overwhelming now, and Corinthe realized it hadn’t been Luc’s scent she’d been following.
She raised her hand, hesitated, then gently pushed a tendril of hair from the girl’s face. The girl stirred and moaned quietly. Her lips were blue-tinged, bruised-looking. Corinthe stared, unable to look away. A memory tugged at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t make it materialize.
“Hello?” Corinthe’s voice was soft as she leaned closer to the girl.
The girl’s eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes. Corinthe couldn’t look away.
She searched around the edge of the clearing and found a rock the size of her palm, smooth and tapered at one end like an ax blade. She closed her fingers around the stone and stood in front of the girl.
The vine was meaty, and sawing at it barely made a difference, but she didn’t stop, gripped by something she didn’t understand. The desire to free the girl was her only thought. It moved her past the pain, the sharp agony she felt in the vine, in the plant itself.
Clear liquid oozed from the cut vine and ran down her wrist. It itched, and Corinthe swiped at it. Her pulse thundered in her ears as sweat beaded her forehead.
It wasn’t working.
The vine was stringy and tough, and the rock just wasn’t sharp enough. She stopped to catch her breath, looked around for something sharper, and felt the air around her begin to vibrate.
A subtle rippling pattern ran through the canopy above her, and the leaves whispered words she didn’t understand. Branches closed in, eating away at the blue sky.
The Nymphs’ whines started quietly but crescendoed until they were nearly deafening. Bursts of pain exploded in Corinthe’s head; she dropped the rock and squeezed her hands over her ears. The noise sent her to her knees. It felt as though a knife was splitting her in two, making her whole body throb.
She fought the urge to scream as the pressure built inside her head. Just when it seemed that everything in her would explode outward, the sound abruptly stopped. The silence was deafening, beautiful.
Slowly, Corinthe took her hands away from her ears and dug her fingers into the earth, pushing her body upright. Her legs trembled, and a faint buzzing still echoed in her head. The clearing was revolving slowly in her vision; she took several deep breaths. A Nymph landed soundlessly in front of her, baring its teeth.
Corinthe moved into a crouch and scuttled backward. There was a hiss behind her. She swung around: another Nymph, close enough to touch, watched her through narrow eyes.
More Nymphs dropped from the trees, until she was completely encircled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anything.”
What had possessed her to try to free the girl? The urge felt like a distant, foggy memory, and it had clearly been a mistake.
“I was looking for someone, but he isn’t here. If you could direct me to a gateway, I will go and never return.”
Low, angry humming met her request.
A tangle of vines detached from the trees and slithered along the ground like a massive green snake. The trees had begun to lean closer, to weave their branches together like a fence, and she knew she had no hope of escape. The humming of the Nymphs swelled again. The vines lashed out together, encircling her legs and yanking so hard she fell onto her back. More vines twisted around her arms, pinning her to the ground.
Suddenly, a low rumble like the sound of distant thunder reverberated through the ground. For a second the plants stilled, and a hush fell over the clearing. Even the Nymphs stopped crying. They began, inexplicably, to retreat.
The rumbling grew louder and changed into a thousand tiny beating wings. The canopy of branches above her parted, and Corinthe saw an enormous dark blot against the sky: thousands of tiny winged insects were swarming toward her. Corinthe felt her blood run cold.
Hornets.
She struggled to breathe through the panic filling her body. Fueled now by fear, she strained against the vines, kicking her legs, thrashing and pulling, but the vines only tightened their grip.
The first hornet stung her on the thigh and a searing flash of fire shot up her leg. She screamed, heard her voice sucked greedily away by the vegetation around her, as though the trees were feeding on her pain.
More fire: on her stomach, her left arm, her hand, one agonizing jolt after another. She barely noticed when the vines loosened and slithered away. The hornets’ venom coursed through her body; it instantly made her limbs weak and her fingers numb. When she rolled onto her side, her vision wavered, and the trees swam in and out of her sight. The clearing grew dim. Was it nighttime already?
Her body was so heavy. …
She wanted to sleep. …
Dimly, she thought she saw a small carving in the tree just in front of her. Almost like a door …
Her body quickly grew numb; the fire turned to an icy cold like she’d never felt before. But in her mind, she felt calm, cloaking her fear in a softness, a quiet. She seemed to hear music playing … as though the locket was open and calling to her. … Her mind was turning slowly, like the ballerina on its stand. …
Corinthe realized, with complete clarity, that she was dying. This was what she got for interfering. This was her penance.
Barely conscious, she watched the carved door swing open in the tree’s trunk.
A gnarled hand reached toward her.
Everything went dark.
9
Red sand.
Luc opened his eyes and lifted his head: red sand stretched for miles and miles along the coast of a dark ocean that swept all the way to the horizon.