And Maekallus would have been consumed by the blight.
A dark, twisted image fills my mind until it’s all I see. Maekallus, melting, devoured by a realm he couldn’t escape. His skin liquefying into tar. His yellow eyes desperate and pained. The sound of his breathing . . . even my father’s sickest breaths couldn’t match that sound. My nostrils burn in memory of the smell. I trip over a stone.
I think of the blackness that oozed from the cut on my hand—the cut I thought tied my fate to Maekallus’s—and imagine it seeping from my every pore. Imagine it bubbling and burning and popping, filling my eyes and ears and nose—
I gag, then choke on rain. It forces me to stop, to clear my lungs, to breathe until I can convince my weary legs to move once more.
Even then, Maekallus’s suffering had moved me. It was my fault he’d come, at least partially. It was I who drew the summoning circle, who saw beyond his invisibility.
And yet . . . he’d been shocked to consume only part of my soul. He’d been willing to kill me, just for another few days of health. Had he also known a soul wouldn’t break the spell? Undoubtedly, yes.
But he’s changed.
I curse the thought just as I cursed the mysting, but it sticks to me, resolute. Yes, I can admit that much. Maekallus has changed. Every kiss changed him, and not only physically. I remember being shocked at his first thank-you, his first apology. Like I was single-handedly making him more human, inside and out.
But how much can a soul change a person? A mysting? For even a human soul could not recreate him into a human. He’d already been that once. The blood of bastards.
And what happens if he descends? Leaves? Consumes the soul I’ve given him? Will he not revert back to a pure narval, a monster from the other realm? Will he forget all he’s felt here?
Will he forget me?
Do you think I’m a monster?
I remember the look on his face when he’d asked. The sorrow, the desire. The way he stepped into that circle and made himself look human to . . . what?
My steps slow. I’m so tired; I could lie right here in the mud and foliage and sleep, but the nightmares whisper from underground, and I rub wakefulness into my eyes. I force myself forward again, gauging the distance to my home. Rubbing the hurt in my chest through my coat, wishing I could reach the emptiness deep within and stuff it with . . . something.
I want to be whole again.
I want my soul back—all of it. He owes it to me for saving him, for giving him more time.
And yet the thought of Maekallus’s yellow eyes and pointed tail and equine hooves makes this endless pain inside me hurt more, enough that I grit my teeth and hold my breath, willing it to pass. It does, a little. Only a little.
Do I lose the man Maekallus has become by retrieving my own soul? The man who bathed in my tears, who held me as I fell asleep, who kept the nightmares away?
Does that man even exist?
I look down at my hand, the palm glistening with rain. All this time he could have broken that bargain. Why now? It’s almost finished. I’ve almost no soul left, if Attaby is to be believed. So why now?
What changed?
I turn, looking through the arrows of rain back up my trodden path. I’m unsure about so many things, except one.
There can be no happy ending for us.
CHAPTER 23
Mystings should never be trusted. Ever.
I’m wet and quivering when I break through the trees. My house looks darker, drabber, in the rain. I stop when I see Tennith walking away from it, a thin cloak draped over his shoulders.
I watch him, wondering if I should call out, but I’m cold and exhausted and broken, and what would I say to him?
For a moment, I let myself imagine. What if I had kissed Tennith but not Maekallus? Tennith would have approached me later, asking why, and perhaps I would have told him the truth, at least in part. Would he have been flattered? Would he have been bold enough to pursue me, despite the lack of gain?
Is he trying to pursue me now?
My heart flips in a tight, painful way. I’m silent at the forest edge. The rain should nullify the sound of my breathing, but Tennith glances my way and sees me. A moment passes, one I can’t interpret, before he changes direction and strides toward me.
“Enna? Are you all right?”
I wonder what my face looks like for him to ask, or perhaps he’s merely reacting to my winter coat or the fact that I’m strolling about the wildwood in the middle of the storm. I clear my throat to lend strength to my voice. “Well enough.”
“And your father?”
I start toward my home. My legs are sore and heavy. “He is doing better, thank you.”
“Let me help you inside.”
I don’t protest. I step into my home as Tennith holds the door for me. I ache to keep my coat on, but it’s drenched and so am I, so I peel it off and lay it near the fire, which Tennith builds without prompting. Kind of him. He’s always been so kind. So perfect. So human.
I slip into my bedroom, sitting on my bed for a moment to rest my legs. I want to sleep, yet I feel that my body will refuse me again. After several long minutes, I force myself up and peel my dress and underthings from my body and shake water from my hair. I dress in gray—it suits me today—and go to my father’s room. He’s awake, which eases a tension I didn’t know I carried.
“Oh, Enna. A book, would you?”
“Would you like to sit in your chair, Papa?”
“Ah . . . not yet.” He offers me a sad smile.
I retrieve a book from my own shelf, a fairy tale of a scullery maid who wins the heart of a prince. I wonder, briefly, what the story would be like if the prince were a mysting.
All copies would be burned in the town square, surely.
I hand him the book. “I’ll be right back, Papa. Tennith is visiting.”
“Oh, he is? Nice boy.”
I return to the front room, where the fire is blazing. Nice boy. He is. A nice, mortal boy with a nice farm and a nice face. I let myself daydream again, just for a moment. Imagine waking to that face every morning. Imagine falling asleep in his arms.
Would he ever kiss me the way Maekallus did?
I shake the thought from my mind. Tennith stands near the hearth, perhaps thinking it impolite to take a chair.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink? Tea?”
He shakes his head. “You look ready to sleep on your feet, Enna. I don’t need anything.”
I sit in Papa’s chair to spare myself the energy of standing. “My father is well. He had a hard turn, but he’s mending. Reading now. He’s too weak to come out, if you’ll forgive him.”
“In all honesty, Enna, I came to see you.” He frowns. “You don’t look well. Have you caught your father’s illness? I could send my sister to care for you—”
I shake my head. “Trouble sleeping is all. Some rest will see me fit.”
His countenance doesn’t lift. We’re both silent for a long moment. The fire cracks and dances in the hearth. I grit my teeth to suppress their chattering. I’m so cold I want to dive into the flames.