Page 17 of Bought By the Manticore

I stared at him, unnerved by how quickly he had recognized the nature of my affliction. “Yes, my people used to say that, too. Is there actually any truth to it?”

“Not exactly.” He retreated a step, gesturing vaguely toward the crystal-lit shelves. “Nothing alive from Korinos can survive in Asphodelia, save the death-touched brides. This is something different. More insidious, perhaps. But every problem has a solution, even the most complex.”

He turned back to his worktable, his hands ghosting over a row of glass vials and smooth stone bowls. “In the meantime, tell me, Ianthe. How long has it been since you were pain-free?”

How long?

The question forced a lengthy pause, unearthing a truth I normally preferred to keep buried. I tried to remember a day when my ribs hadn’t ached, when the simple act of drawing a breath hadn’t required bracing myself against the inevitable pressure of the vines. Months had bled into years. The agony had become a constant companion, twisting its way into every facet of my existence. I had forgotten what it felt like to be whole.

This morning had offered a brief respite. But the pain was still there, distant but lingering.

“A very long time,” I admitted, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“Then we start there.” Eryx reached for a small stone mortar. “I need time to study this condition properly. While I work, there is no reason for you to suffer needlessly. Iaso, pay attention to the measurements. You will need to maintain this regimen in the infirmary.”

Iaso stepped closer to the table, her own serpents leaning forward to observe.

“Three drops of water, straight from the Acheron, to numb the nerves,” Eryx instructed, his swift fingers uncorking a dark vial. “Crushed dead wood to bind the mixture. And a sliver of raw death crystal, ground to a fine dust. It will put the pain to sleep.”

He worked with an efficiency that defied his lack of sight. Within moments, he poured a pale liquid into a small glass flask, then walked back to my bench and offered it to me.

I drank it without a second thought. If there was even a fraction of a chance to simply rest, to exist for a single hour without the Sickness tearing at my marrow, I would take it.

I swallowed the draught.

It tasted like frost. A strange numbness bloomed instantly in my throat, spreading outward and sinking deep into my veins. The grinding ache evaporated.

The relief was so staggering it stole the breath from my lungs. For a fraction of a second, I felt entirely weightless.

Then, the true potency of the potion hit me. My eyelids fluttered as the tension I’d carried for years finally released its grip on my muscles. The sudden lack of sensation pulled me downward. I slumped sideways on the bench.

Iaso caught my shoulder, murmuring something reassuring, but her voice sounded as though it were filtering through deep water. I couldn’t form a reply. The potion pulled me under, and I surrendered to the dark.

She hasn’t come back.

For the entirety of the day, the healing chamber above me had remained vacant. Earlier this morning, the snake-woman had taken Ianthe away, and neither had returned.

I slithered beneath the floorboards, weaving my tendrils through the narrow gaps in the basalt. I expanded my awareness across the masonry, searching the surrounding space for her scent. There was nothing.

I knew every creak of this building. I knew the exact vibration of Ianthe’s hesitant footsteps. The frantic hum of the disease living beneath her skin was completely missing. I’d hated it so much before, but without it, the healing chamber felt hollow.

The death energy crawling through my vines spoke to me.“Patience,”it said.“She’ll be returned to you soon.”

I’d been patient when I’d tricked Aion into bringing me here. That approach had worked once. And so, I waited. If I didn’t, I risked being spotted and removed from the room. That could sever me from Ianthe forever.

The energy hadn’t lied to me. After an agonizing wait, a tremor vibrated through the stone.

Footsteps approached the door. These lacked the uneven tread of my mate. These were the armored boots of Weaveguards. The wooden door swung open, the hinges groaning in the quiet room.

Two guards marched inside. A dead-walker, and a white-furred one very much like Theron. He carried Ianthe in his arms, holding her carefully against his chest. She lay completely limp, her head resting against his shoulder. Her breathing was shallow and unnaturally even. Panic spiked through me, a sharp jolt of pure instinct.

Had they harmed her? Had the sickness finally consumed her?

“Careful with her,” the snake-woman instructed, following closely behind them. “Set her down gently. The potion is potent. Her body needs the rest.”

The white-furred guard deposited Ianthe onto the bed. “Will she wake soon, Healer Iaso?” the dead-walker asked.

“Not for many hours. Eryx’s draught induces a deep slumber. You are dismissed. I need to prepare the next dose.”