Page 10 of These Vile Hearts
Durian’s smile flickers. “You think I want you to end up in theBloodwood Tree if you fail to complete the heartwood pact? A single week in there was enough to turn you into an anxiety-riddled nepenthe addict. I shudder to think what a year would do.”
My teeth grate painfully together. We both know exactly what a year in the Bloodwood Tree would do. It would drive me to madness. Utter insanity. Two dryads from the same family tree cannot kill each other—even adopted abominations like me. Mere involvement in the other’s death would destroy their heartwood as swiftly as that of the brother they’d slain. But if I fail to complete this pact, I will be as good as dead. And, if I succumb to madness, Durian will be the final heir. The Sovereign Tree’s magic will cease, the wards will fail, and the kingdom as we know it will fall to ruin.
And nepenthe—an ancient fae psychoactive drug—is the least of the vices I’ve acquired since my time in that cursed tree.
“Can we speak of anything else? Tell me of your journey to the City. The Iron King still up to his old tricks? Has Archer managed to steal you another mortal or two?”
“Why the subject change? Do you not wish to fulfill the pact? To rid yourself of this curse that’s haunted you for so long?” His voice has a smooth, melodic quality to it. I’m convinced he could enchant a tree siren with that golden tongue of his. Even I fall under its spell from time to time. Such as now.
Because here I am, allowing myself a moment of thought on how it would feel to be uncursed. Unbroken. People smiling rather than grimacing. Shaking my hand instead of avoiding my gaze. Gentle, casual touches in place of desperate nights. To be cared for,trulycared for. Maybe Durian is right. Maybe I should focus on it. Maybe that’sallI should do for the next two weeks. I’ve been too in my head. Too concerned about the mortals I’m meant to enchant. The sand in my hourglass has dwindled quickly down, and I’m no closer to fulfilling this pact than I was a year ago. Meanwhile, my curseseems to be growing more powerful. Who knows, soon people could drop dead just by speaking to me or fall ill after looking me in the eye. Like that mortal myth with the snake-haired woman.
My ever-present anxiety spikes to a fever pitch. Without speaking, I leave my throne, descending the dais on unsteady legs, panic and desperation powering my muscles now.
“Ticktock, Castor,” Durian calls out. “I’m sure there is a lovely mortal somewhere out there just dying for you to sweep them away.”
3
Maddox
I’m still in my car, my hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.
What…the fuck…am I doing?
Wasting time, when I could be filling out job applications. No matter that fast-food restaurants and gas stations don’t pay a living wage and don’t offer medical insurance.
A slow-building tremor shakes my fingers, and a wave of heat courses from my face to my core. Could be from nerves or the lingering alcohol. Could be my body reacting to the horrifying fact that I’m returning to the same forest where my parents died, where I screamed and cried for hours as I watched helplessly while my parents’ blood turned the dirt dark and muddy.
But no. My body only reacts like this to one thing: too much insulin.
With unsteady hands, I test my blood sugar, going through the mindless steps:
Attempt to jam the tiny test strip into the meter with the grace of a teenage boy trying to find “the hole” for the first time. Ittakes three tries and twelve curse words, but eventually I get the strip in, and the meter flashes on, demanding:DELIVER BLOOD NOW.
Prick finger with dull lancet that should have been changed weeks ago.
Deliver blood to the test strip god.
Wait while the machine thinks.
Wait a little more.
