Page 12 of These Vile Hearts

Just a fox.

Rolling darkness fills me, burning from the inside out. I could resemble the hollow myrtlewood tree behind me. A frustrated scream rumbles through my chest and out of my mouth. I aim the lament at the fox. Rather than run off, it crouches farther down, watching me, its tail stilling.

I snatch up my bag to make my way back. Back to what, though? I have no home. No steady job. No family. No friends left in Arborfell. Javen is driving straight for San Francisco as we speak. I’m twenty-six and can no longer cash in on my former-foster-kid dues.There have been a few times in my life I thought I’d hit rock bottom. But I was wrong.Thisis it. Worse. It’s the fish shit beneath the rocks.

Panic chokes me as I face the gargantuan tree once again, shallow breaths and tears coming quickly. I’ve never felt so small, so positively insignificant. Falling to my knees, I bend in half, placing both of my hands on the trunk as if in worship.

“Please,” I whisper. “I don’t know what else to do.Please…help me.”

The softest wind blows next to my left ear as a voice murmurs, “Finally, the lady asksnicely.”

Before I’m able to look up, a stabbing pain erupts across my shoulder, a cloth blackens my vision, and hands encircle my wrists. Then I’m being dragged across the dirt to the tune of cackling laughter.

4

Maddox

The air down here is cool and damp. Much like the early morning air on Myrtle Tree Trail. But this is a different cool, a different damp.

The scent of wet earth overwhelms my senses. No light streams through the thin cloth tied around my eyes. For the first several minutes, I thrash and tug and scream, trying to get away from the creatures dragging me underground. The sounds of the forest have vanished, and I’m stumbling blindly down a shallow slope. The more I struggle, the more loudly the voices laugh. The air sizzles with what I can only describe as static. Like magic hangs in the atoms between me and them.

Eventually, I grow quiet, allowing them to lead me into whatever hell they reside. After all, I asked for this. Begged on my knees for this.

Up until this moment, my mind had been hyperfocused on all the things the dryad queen could do for me. Now all I can think of are the things she and the rest of these creatures can dotome. Long-forgotten nightmares come crawling back. Nightmares of grown men screaming like children, of cruel laughter emanating from trees, ofthe Myrtle Queen. How beautiful and terrible and powerful my dad had painted her in his journal. The kind of power that could grant a mortal’s greatest wish or turn their fragile body to dust.

As they pull me forward, I trip on sharp rocks, falling to my knees a few times before they yank me roughly back up.

“Where are you taking me?” I growl in the direction of the creature whose claws are digging into the skin of my left bicep.

“Picky mortal, aren’t you?” the voice says. “First, you ask for a favor from the queen.Pleadingfor her help. Then, when finally listened to, you try to escape. Don’t fear, axeling. We wish only to help you.”

Axeling.

I’ve only heard that one other time in my life: the day those dryads murdered my parents in cold blood.

Watch what we can do, little axeling.

I can’t remember the voice of the dryad who whispered in my ear that day. Can’t tell if it’s like the one now on my left. Maybe it doesn’t even fucking matter. This dryad’s voice is all hard edges and sharp points. A ragged dagger jammed into my ear canal.

“It might feel more like you were helping me if you’d remove this blindfold,” I say through gritted teeth.

Laughter crackles around me.

The stone of dread in my stomach grows heavier. They have no intention of letting me go. Suddenly, diabetes and homelessness are the least of my problems, which is oddly invigorating and terrifying all at once.

Gradually, the blackness pressing on my blindfold lightens. Damp earth mingles with the scents of salt, bay leaves, and copper. Murmuring voices multiply around me, echoing. My head swivels left and right, trying to make out the shadows through the blindfold, when suddenly it’s ripped away.

I’m standing in a cave-like dome the size of a football stadium.It’s like all my dad’s journal entries have come to life before my eyes. There’s something hauntingly dreadful about it, and yet breathtaking nonetheless.

A wall of human skulls; a path of flat, sparkling crystals; candles everywhere—in sconces, massive pillars tucked in corners, and ornate candelabras that belong in the Phantom of the Opera’s sex dungeon. Dryads with antlers, leather armor, and spears line the walls. When my eyes travel over them, taking them in, they stiffen. I suppose they don’t get many mortals with the Sight down here.

A natural skylight in the earthen dome hundreds of feet above our heads creates a moonbeam spotlight on a raised rock, which is odd because I swear it was daylight when I was dragged in here. Two staircases carved from tree roots flank the rocky dais. Atop the dais is a throne made of bones and rubies, and on this throne sits a thunderstorm in the form of a dryad woman.

In my mind, I always saw the cartoon version of Maleficent fromSleeping Beautywhen I imagined the Myrtle Queen. Like a demon come to life. But this woman looks more like an antlered angel—the kind of angel who gets kicked out of heaven but isn’t allowed into hell.

Everything about the dryad queen is striking, like lightning crackling through dark clouds. Sharp golden eyes, bloodred lips, fair skin with tattooed vines winding around toned arms, high cheekbones, and a pair of black antlers like those of a white-tailed deer. Her dark blond hair is all shaved on one side, divided by an intricate braid. Over her leather armor is a bodice made of gold in the shape of veined leaves cradling her rib cage. The dryads to my left and right press down on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees.

“Kneel, axeling,” the one on my left purrs in my ear. “This is the woman you begged to meet. Queen Amanita Umbellularia. Thegreat and powerfulMyrtle Queen.”