Page 15 of These Vile Hearts

“Anything?” the queen parrots. “That is quite an array of options you’re offering me.”

I cast a sidelong glance to the Skittles sprinkled across the ground, surrounded by the nosy dryads still rifling through my things. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other viable options.”

If I gave it more thought, maybe I would be able to find some government program that helps people like me, down on their luck. Handouts for penniless and jobless type 1 diabetics. But would I have the time to fill out the paperwork? Would I survive thegrueling wait to see if my request would be approved or denied? Am Ineedyenough for them? As a former foster kid, it’s hard for me to trust any government programs. To trust anyone at all. Better to traipse into the forest and make a deal with a dryad queen. Because bargains with the fae are two-sided. Both parties benefit. The government has to be bullied into giving aid, and even then, has a million hoops to jump through in order to receive it.

The queen steeples her fingers beneath her chin. “What favor are you asking of me?”

“My life is…a fucking mess. I have no job, no money, no health insurance, no home, no family. I’m—” I’m about to say,type 1 diabetic, but regular mortals don’t even know the difference between types 1 and 2, so I doubt a dryad royal would even know what it is to begin with. “I’m…sick,” I say instead, “which wouldn’t be that big of a deal if I had piles of money, or if the American health-care system weren’t such a greedy fucking—”

“Yes, that is all very sad,” she interrupts, “but what do youwant, precisely? Piles of money?”

Locking down emotions that threaten to show themselves, I give myself a moment to think. Loads of money would be nice. But would it be worth whatever she’s going to ask of me, like she did my father? No, I’m going to need more than just that. Call me greedy. I call it pragmatic.

“I want to be cured.” This is all I truly need to survive, but I don’t trust this dryad woman to not twist my request into something she could benefit from. And my dad’s journal said specificity is key in deals with dryads, so I elaborate. “I mean—of my diabetes. I want enough money to be able to afford to live on my own. I don’t want to ever have torely on drugs to keep me alive.” They could just kill me and that would essentially fulfill my wish. “And I want to live for a very long time.”

She seems almost impressed by my thorough request; a crookedsmile lifts one side of her mouth. “And in exchange for these things, you would do…?”

“Anything.” I hate the desperation in my voice. Though, what could a person who begs a favor from the Myrtle Queen be other than desperate?

She taps her chin with a long, thin finger. “I will have to think about our bargain. There are so many options, you see. Meanwhile, Drosera and Atlas will take you to the visitors’ quarters.”

“Visitors’ quarters?”

“You are our guest now.”

Whether I want to be or not, it seems.

“To your feet, axeling,” the dryad to my left snarls—Drosera or Atlas, I’m not sure which. I only know I truly don’t like her one little bit.

I turn to the queen. “So you’re considering granting my request, then?”

She stands from her throne, showing off her full magnificence: crystal-encrusted leather armor, golden bodice dotted with rubies, thin leather weapons belt strung low across her hips, muscle cording her arms. She looks like a warrior queen. I don’t fear many people. But I fear her.

I glance down at my own ensemble: combat boots, baggy ripped jeans, and a cropped T-shirt decorated with a skeleton hand making therock onsign. She looks like a force, and I look like a troubled youth who never grew up. Somehow, though, the queen’s eyes gleam as they skirt over me…as if she sees something I don’t.

“I’d be a fool not to consider a bargain with the daughter of Deacon Sinclair.”

There’s reverence in her words, and I am unable to decide if this is a good or bad thing.

Drosera and Atlas pull me through the darkness to the “visitors’ quarters” like a prisoner being led to their cell. The dryad to my righthas been exceptionally quiet, unlike the one to my left. If my very life didn’t hinge on the Myrtle Queen’s decision, I would have already punched this one in the face.

The way her nails cut into my arm tells me the dislike is more than mutual.

I jerk my arms out of their grips. “I can walk perfectly fine on my own, thanks.”

The one on the right seems taken aback. The one on the left flashes her teeth, snatching my arm back and nodding for the other dryad to do the same. “Visitors don’t walk freely here, axeling. For theirsafety.”

My blood simmers. “What the fuck is anaxeling?” I ask finally. A question I’ve had since I first heard the word sixteen years ago.

The dryad actually laughs. “Mortal brains are quite small, aren’t they? I’ll simplify it for you. Aducklingis a baby duck, yes? And a fledgling is a baby bird. If this is true, then anaxeling—”

“—is a baby axe. Brilliant logic.”

“So close. An axeling is the child of an axe wielder. But axe-wielder-ling doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it?”

Child of an axe wielder. I suppose it makes sense that the prejudice between us would swing both ways. Unfortunately for these dryads, I cannot muster the energy to care about what makes sense for them. “Guess I should call you daggerlings, then.” The children of the murderous dryads who drove their wooden blades into my parents.

Amanita implied it was not Myrtlewood dryads but Redwood who committed that crime, but before I can weigh the thought that maybe notalldryads want to kill mortals, the one to my left says, “I would have far more nicknames to choose from if you’re trying to name us after our weapons of choice.”