Page 90 of These Vile Hearts

“Castor, I—”

“I promise I’m going to kiss you, but I figured the longer I make you wait for it, the longer you’ll stay.”

I roll my eyes, but instead of pulling away, I use my hand as an anchor to tug me closer to him. Wrapping my other around the back of his neck, I rise on tiptoes to press my lips to his. He’s not expecting the suddenness of it, but his mouth parts to envelop mine anyway. This kiss is nothing like our last—all fiery and full of hateful passion. This one is soft and solemn, cradling my goodbye. I apologize to the king with my lips. The only way I know how.

We break slowly apart. Then I walk away before he can watch me shatter.

Each step toward Magesté feels heavier and heavier, which isn’t helped by my profound lack of sleep and this morning’s low blood sugar.

If only Javen could see me now. He’d be disgusted. All of this to be cured of diabetes? I already know what he would say.

I mean, I know it sucks, Dox, but, like…you’re really going to murder someone? Damn, I knew you could be a coldhearted bitch sometimes, but this is some next-level shit.

Okay, he probably wouldn’t be so harsh. He’d probably get all introspective and be like,Can you live with that, Dox? Taking a life? Do you think it will be worth it?Which, to be honest, is so much worse.

Javen wouldn’t understand, of course. He has his new job and his perfectly clean bill of health. Untethered and without any medical burdens. If he’d lost his job and burned through his money and had no health insurance and couldn’t afford a place to rent, he could have slept on the streets and eaten food out of the garbage. A shitty life, sure, but he could live. A merechanceat life is all I’m asking for.Maybe if I’d asked for less, the Myrtle Queen would have lowered the stakes.

In a daze, I walk forward, sipping the coffee the king made me while I contemplate his death.

The leaves in the treetops crash together like a waterfall against sharp rocks as I travel back to Magesté. It’s unseasonably chilly, and I pull the traveling cloak Castor loaned me more tightly around me. He also let me change out of my bloodstained corset and bloomers into a white blouse and black pants. To whom they belonged, I didn’t ask.

Last night I was so preoccupied by Castor’s horrendous singing and the looming threat of blood nymphs, I didn’t notice how secluded it was out here. No establishments or redwood homes to be seen. Just rickety walking paths strung between trunks a million feet above the ground. A tiny wood sprite crawls along the railing. I think they like the smell of nepenthe or something. The stench of it must be permanently stuck to me—especially after spending a night dozing fitfully on Castor’s couch.

The trembling in my limbs intensifies as I picture Castor sprawled out on that same couch with vacant eyes, an empty glass of poisoned wine shattered on the floor beside him. I squeeze my eyes shut a moment, halting on the path to take a steadying breath.Stop.

Guilt is for people who have a choice. These dryads made certain I would be robbed of that choice the moment they murdered my parents. I’ve known Castor scarcely more than a week. That isn’t enough time to feel this way. I’m just getting too wrapped up in my emotions because I’m exhausted and terrified and my blood sugar is a wreck and I’ve never murdered someone before. My head is clearly not in a great place. It’s convinced my heart to feel things it shouldn’t.

I center myself and take a step forward that uncenters everything.

The plank of wood beneath my foot splinters and collapses in onitself. I throw my hands out to catch myself before I fall through, stomach swooping. My pouch of supplies clinks against my throwing axe and my leg dangles over hundreds of feet of air.

Suddenly, a soft lyrical song rings out in my ears.

Careful there, darling girl, a mesmeric voice croons in my mind.Mortals weren’t made to climb trees. Much less fall out of them.

I nearly let go of the other planks as a tinkling laugh travels on the wind. “Where are you?” I hiss.

Why, right here, lovely.

Glancing up, my eyes land on the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen—and, working at Magesté, I have seen many stunning creatures. Perched on a branch several feet above me is a willowy female with pale lavender skin, striking aquamarine eyes, and long, silver hair that glitters like diamonds in the afternoon light.

Pulling my leg up, I scoot backward onto the wooden planks. “Who are you?”

“I am the Erlking’s daughter,” she says out loud. “Lorelai is what you may call me if you’d like.”

“Who is the Erlking?”

“My father.”

“No—yes, I figured that, but—”

The world fills with a burst of song again, an intoxicating, lyric-less melody. I close my eyes, drinking in the sudden calm sensation trickling through my body.

“You are troubled, my darling,” Lorelai says, her voice acting as a depressant to my nervous system, slowing everything down. “You are seeking something quite desperately. Come with me. I have what you need.”

I try to explain that she couldn’t possibly have what I need, but then she starts to sing again, and every bad feeling crumbles away. Maybe she does have what I need…In fact, I’m sure she does.

What am I even doing?