The Deep lends him the ability to digest what he stole in the realm above, and the mysting in him longs to do just that. His stomach growls with hunger. A strange thirst forms at the back of his throat, begging to be quenched.
He squeezes the stone and focuses. He has to be swift. He will not let her soul die.
Grabbing Enna by the hips, he throws her over his shoulder. He can move faster that way. She doesn’t so much as peep at the discomfort.
Her reaction—her lack of one—spikes fear through him.
He runs.
Enna doesn’t draw attention; she’s soulless, a husk. But Maekallus does. He feels eyes, seen and unseen, follow him as he navigates through the Deep. His destination is the immortal waters, but no one can travel directly there. Its magic nullifies circles.
He passes through spiny trees, a poor imitation of the wildwood. Hears a low growl issue from the shadows between them. By habit he reaches his free hand for his horn—but his trusted “blade” won’t come, even here. The soul cements it in place. It’s barely a knife now, besides.
Then he remembers the stone, and he pushes toward the predator, and the pursuit halts before it begins.
He grips that stone until his hand aches, afraid to use it lest it draw attention. He doesn’t understand how it works in the mortal realm; he certainly can’t comprehend the consequences of its power in the Deep.
He nearly cries when he sees it—another absurd new sensation. The immortal waters. A great rusted hill with a crater where its crest should be, and in that open mouth laps an enormous pool of silvery water. It feeds the Deep, little by little. It’s why Maekallus and his kind live so long, though he has no knowledge of its source.
He shifts Enna to his back and wills her to cling to his neck to keep from slipping off. The Will Stone goes into his mouth. He needs both hands to climb. His lungs burn first, then his legs, weak from so much travel. His arms throb last, but he climbs until his fingernails crack and bleed. Until his feet numb. Until his throat scorches like he’s drunk acid-laced wine.
He comes up the lip of the crater and topples over it, sprawling onto the thick, almost beach-like ledge. Enna falls with him, losing her grip around his neck. He lies next to her for a moment, wheezing, staring up into the endless red. He grips the Will Stone. Can he still feel her soul inside him? He hurts too much to tell, but that very worry gives it away. Maekallus isn’t accustomed to worrying.
Pulling himself up, he gains his bearings. Ahead, the ledge tapers downward into a lake. Two grinlers sit near the edge of the water, eyeing him, eyeing Enna. He ignores them; in the Deep, size and power trump all else. Without their pack, Maekallus can make short work of them with little effort.
Maekallus cradles Enna in his arms, balancing her across the crooks of his elbows. He wades into the waters. Something, an aquatic mysting, slithers by him. He wills it away. The waters calm.
“Stand up, Enna,” he whispers to her, setting her feet down. The water reaches the tops of her thighs. She stands, but stares blankly ahead. Pale and sickly, quiet. The life has gone from her. She still breathes. Her pulse raises the vein in her wrist. But the thing that had truly made her alive has vanished.
Reaching around her, he pulls the silver dagger from her belt. Silver, a metal nowhere to be found in his world. Deadly to all mystings.
Narval horns make for excellent sorcery.
Grasping his horn in his left hand, he squeezes the hilt of the dagger with his right and swings with all the strength he can muster. The silver does its job. It hacks halfway through the horn, which is likely weakened from his borrowed soul. He hits it again, and this time the tip comes off. Two-thirds the length of his hand.
Something quakes below the hill. Not uncommon here, but it sets him on edge. In the lake, he can’t see over the ridge of the crater, so there is no telling if the tremor is natural or not—it merely reminds him to hurry. He fastens the Will Stone around Enna’s wrist. The wrong one, but it doesn’t matter. As his fingers move, his mind pulls up Attaby’s decades-old theory, the one he initially sought out in the hopes of saving Narah.
He takes Enna’s hands in his own and kneels in the water. It rushes up to his chest. Bending his head down, he pulls water into his mouth and holds it there. Stands again. Places the Will Stone in Enna’s hand, putting his own over it. Wills this to work. Wills her to live.
He thinks he feels the stone shiver.
With his other hand he cradles Enna’s head and covers her cold mouth with his, letting the water trickle between their lips. Kisses her like it will be their last . . . for it will be. It needs to be.
The soul within him ignites. Enna gasps against his lips. The tearing sensation hurts, like something deep within him has broken. It rushes out of him like water, or perhaps like blood, leaving him cold, empty, and unfeeling.
Remember, he tells himself as the last tendrils of bliss flood from him to her. He squeezes her hand, squeezes the stone. Remember your task.
He pulls back from her. Her eyes shimmer. Her body trembles.
“M-Maekallus?” she whispers.
He wraps her in his arms and plunges the tip of the horn into her back.
CHAPTER 30
The “immortal waters” is a great lake in the monster realm that fuels the longevity of those who call that horrid place home.
I wake with a start, hot and cold all at once. I squint at the uneven light before me, yellow and white and green. The familiar sounds of birds and insects filter through air that’s warm yet slightly crisp—summer morning.
Something creeps over my hand. I shake it off, pushing against moist earth and weeds to sit up, groaning at the pain in my head. My back is damp and covered with bits of old leaves. Trees stand sentinel around me.
The wildwood. Morning. I know this place—it’s not far from my home. A good area for rabbit snares.
I lift my hand and press it to my forehead, trying to calm the ache there. The Will Stone swings before my eyes. I stare at it, a trickle of sunlight glinting off its dark edges. It hangs from my right wrist, not my left.
I gasp, and when I do, a sharp pain sparks in my chest just below my breasts. I cough and touch the tender spot. The ache is deep, traveling clear to my spine.
Gods above, I remember. I remember the gobler, I remember the tusk dagger. Then there is a hole, my thoughts plucked free, but I’m used to that now, used to—
I pull my hand back again and flex the fingers. Warm fingers. And my fingertips . . . they’re not numb.
My soul. It’s there. It’s there.
Tears spring to my eyes. I stand up, sore but not fatigued. I laugh and leap and hug myself as I would a long-lost friend.
But then the blank spot in my memory fills in, and the joy distills into sobs. Great heaving sobs that make that sore spot in my chest burn.
The last thing I saw down there was Maekallus standing over me, watching me with vivid yellow eyes.
I clutch the Will Stone in both hands, but its surface is warm.
He is gone.
I was truthful when I said I had lied to my father for the last time, for when I arrive home, I cannot even bring myself to speak.
He follows me to my room, worried, but when I softly shut the door, he doesn’t intrude. I stand there for a long moment, head resting against the wood. I reach up a hand and rub dried tears from my eyelids. The sun pours through my window, making the room too warm. It’s almost silent within, but even these walls can’t block out the noise of the forest.