He bids me no farewell.
My father’s sword is heavier than it looks.
I knew this, of course, but I have not tried to heft it for several years, and it reminds me of its weight as I carry it, wrapped in linen, through the wildwood. I want to be swift. Even with his faulty mind, my father will notice his sword gone. Before leaving, I wrote down a list of chores that need to be done and things that need fixing (which I may have broken myself for this purpose) to keep his eye away from the mantel. So long as he doesn’t misplace the list, I should be successful in my ruse.
I’m exhausted when I reach the clearing. Again, too exhausted for the effort I’ve expended. Something is wrong with me, and I know precisely what. If I let myself focus on it, if I wait for my breath to calm so I can listen with something other than my ears, I can hear that sliver of my soul burning inside the mysting with the great horn. I try to beckon it back to me, silently, but it doesn’t heed the call.
I note that the food I left is still there, save the fried pork. Solely carnivorous? More study needed.
“And this will work when the dagger didn’t?” Maekallus asks, but the remark only has an edge of cynicism. He’s curious, and he looms close when I set the scabbard against the earth and, with both hands and some effort, pull the blade free.
He instantly steps back. “Ah. Clever Enna.”
The blade is carved with runes and flecked with silver—a sword forged for the battling of mystings. Specifically, for that brief war two decades ago. Hefting the blade, I swing it through the gleaming thread—only for it to pass through, just as the dagger did.
I don’t give up. There are half a dozen runes on this blade. I cut through the binding spell, or try to, six times—each time aligning the cut with a different rune on the sword. Alas, this blade has no effect, and I’m soon wheezing from the effort.
Planting the sword’s tip in the soil, I lean against it, trying to summon more energy.
“Cut it out of me.”
I look up at his words. “What?”
“Cut it out of me,” he repeats, and points to the center of his chest, just below his heart, where the red line of light pierces him.
I straighten. Blood rushes from me so quickly I sway on my feet. “You’re joking.”
“I heal faster than a human.” His tail flicks. “Try cutting it out of me.”
My stomach squeezes. “If you die, I’ll go with you.”
“I won’t die from this. Even so, I’d risk it. So should you.” He shakes his head, as though the trees surrounding us whisper to him. “I can’t stay here. I’ll do anything.”
Though I tote about my mother’s dagger, I’ve never actually stabbed a living thing before. I’ve flayed, and I’ve butchered . . . but the thought of pushing this heavy sword through a body where blood readily flows, feeling the resistance of flesh . . .
I press the back of my hand to my mouth and try not to retch.
Maekallus emits a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan and grabs the hilt of the sword, picking my fingers from it. The humanness of his touch is unnerving, and it strikes me that he feels warmer than I remember.
He looks over the workmanship and turns the blade about. “Unwieldly. But there’s not enough silver to kill me.” His arms are just long enough to point the blade at his chest.
I realize with cold mortification that he’s actually going to attempt to cut it out, and I turn away, covering my ears. My imagination, however, betrays me, and I see it all in my mind’s eye—the gaping wound, the blood—
My hand stings, and I lower it enough to look at the cut. The scar has reopened.
A thud of the sword hitting the grass pulls my attention behind me.
Maekallus sucks in a shaky breath. “That . . . didn’t work.”
Bile climbs up my throat at the sight of the deep wound, like a mouth, staring at me from his chest. It bleeds readily from torn muscle. All the while, the thread of the binding shines through it.
Maekallus drops to one knee, and I come to myself, urgency pushing past my revulsion. I look around and spot his cloak hanging from its branch. My strength returned, I grab it and run to Maekallus, pressing the fabric against the wound.
He coughs, and a thin line of blood dribbles down from the corner of his mouth.
“Oh gods in heaven,” I mumble, gathering the fabric and pushing.
He winces, and suddenly his weight presses against me, knocking me to my knees as I try to hold him up while keeping the cloak in place. He mutters, “Not . . . healing as fast . . . as I thought.”
My stinging palm openly bleeds against its bandaging, reacting to Maekallus’s self-inflicted wound.
“Lie down,” I urge him, and help him onto his back. Looking around the clearing, I search for any witnesses, but we are alone. I lift the cloak just a bit to look at the wound. Blood bubbles up, and I press down with both my hands.
I focus on my own breathing to keep my thoughts clear. “How long does it take you to heal, normally?”
“Not . . . long,” he wheezes, but the sound is not as bad as when he was a sludgy mess, so perhaps there’s hope. “Even here . . . faster, in the Deep. The immortal waters are swift . . .”
I’ve never heard of “immortal waters,” but I assume the “Deep” is his name for the monster realm. Were I not staunching the flow of blood from a very large and stupid wound, I would hasten to write down the information in my book. “Perhaps the binding spell is preventing you from healing.”
“Obviously.”
I push harder against the wound, and he cringes. “But there is something,” I go on, “for I think a normal man would be dead by now. Or closer to it.”
He manages to grin. I stare at it a moment, surprised. How can he grin when his chest has been cut open?
I should probably inspect the wound, but I don’t want to disturb any clotting, if mystings clot. “I need to go home, get some supplies.” The thought of the journey fatigues my body, but the sting in my hand reminds me of worse fates.
“A soul . . . will help.”
“I will not kiss you.”
“Doesn’t have to be yours.”
“And you think I’d lure some unsuspecting person here for you to feast on?” I shift my hands slightly and increase the pressure, almost enjoying the grimace the pressure elicits.
“For your own well-being? Yes.”
“No. And even if I did, I’d make it the ugliest, oldest man I could find.”
Maekallus frowns, winces.
I sigh. “Perhaps I can catch a hare—”
He coughs. “Do I look like a hare to you?” When I don’t answer, he explains, “We . . . consume human souls . . . because we’re of human make.”
The blood of bastards. “Here.” I take his hand and put it atop the cloak. “I’m going to get supplies. I’ll move quickly.”
“See that you do.”
I leave my father’s sword in the clearing—if anything will slow me down, it’s that, and the blade is smeared with mysting blood, which may result in questions I can’t honestly answer. Papa is not home when I arrive, or he’s in the cellar. I collect whatever I can and drag my weary body back to the glade, wrapping my own bleeding hand as I go.