Nox, who is back. Nox, who held my face just now. Nox, who is probably out in the woods somewhere, writhing in pain as he tries to control his bloodlust for Asha.
“Lies,” says the Old Magic. “I’ve heard an assortment of them before.”
I shake my head. “Not a lie. I promise to help fix it.”
“You hurt Asha.”
“I know,” I say. “I know, and I’m sorry, but I won’t hurt her again. I just wanted Nox back.”
“Yes, you keep saying that.”
My heart patters to a stop, then skips.
“I did as you asked, young one. I separated your lover and the evil rot who should have been left in the ashes.”
“And I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
“No. No, I don’t believe you shall.”
“Please, just tell me how I can fix it.”
“I’m afraid there is no fixing it. Just like there was no fixing Farin. His death came swiftly after I cursed him. Are you aware of the stories? Did you know it was I who cursed the fae with the inability to lie?”
My mind is swimming, still numb with bloodlust.
“What is it you’ve cursed me with?” I dare to ask.
For a moment, I don’t believe the Old Magic will answer.
But then.
“My dear, why do you assume it’s you I’ve chosen to curse?”
CHAPTER 44
ASHA
When I open my eye again, Blaise is gone.
Az is not.
He’s sideways. Well, I suppose I’m the one who’s sideways, laid out like Gwenyth’s corpse upon the swaying grass.
He stands there, hands clenched against his sides as he stares in front of him, his face the picture of awe.
Because of course he’s awed.
I am too.
I wasn’t able to see the Rip before, not when it was sutured, but I can see it now.
It’s good we came at night. The reasonable part of me knows it was so Blaise could walk freely with us, but it’s good all the same.
Because the sliver of light that shines through the Rip is all the more beautiful in contrast to the darkness.
Gentle rays of the sunlight of another world peek into our own, shy and glorious.
Even the runes written in Az’s blood glow, purified and white in a circlet around the Rip.
I think maybe it’s not so bad, this Rip, I whisper to my magic.
I don’t think he answers back.
Probably as drunk on Blaise’s venom as I am.
But then Az takes his own wrist, the one still dripping with blood from his self-inflicted wound, and dangles it in front of the ray of light.
He waits there for a moment, and then it comes.
I recognize it from my magic’s visions.
Its decadent coat glistens silver in the moonlight, as if it’s a fallen star that the moon itself shone down on in approval.
Its feline paws, as large as saucers, pad against the grass, long sharp fangs protruding from its maw.
Something thick and viscous drips from the end of those fangs. Where the substance drips onto the ground, the earth hisses in rejection.
Vaguely, I remember what my magic called this creature in his stories—a mere, one of the Others that haunt the Nether.
