Page 21 of These Vile Hearts

Must be a trick of the light.

“I can’t eat without insulin,” I tell her plainly. “Let alonesurvivewithout it. That little black bag filled with needles and glass vials literally keeps me alive.”

The corners of Atlas’s mouth droop as she looks from me to the tray of food and back.

I’m about to say something shitty just to make myself feel better when I catch the smallest hint of empathy in the set of Atlas’s brows. If any of these human-hating dryads are going to help me, it’s going to be this one. I sit up. “Please, Atlas,” I whisper. “All I need is my insulin. I swear you can slit my throat if I do anything other than check my blood sugar and give myself an injection.”

Atlas remains mute, hovering and watching me for a few moments before leaving, not even bothering to take the breakfast tray with her.

Fuck.

Collapsing onto the base of my bed, I wonder absently how much longer I have left. Maybe I should’ve made a deal with Death instead. My eyes flutter closed.

The next thing I know, Atlas is looming over me. I scramble up, my heart flying to my throat. Then I register the little black bag in her hands. I freeze.

Atlas places my supplies on the bed like someone approaching a starved animal, and I snatch it up before she has a chance to change her mind. She backs away and leaves as quickly as she came.

I inject myself with my long-acting insulin first, just in case she decides to dash back in here and steal the supplies away again. Then I test my blood sugar to see what I’m working with, hoping to see anything other thanHI, which would mean it could be any number over six hundred.

The meter counts down from five, beeps, and then reads:HI.

Cute.

Loading up another syringe with short-acting insulin this time, I plunge the needle into the small pudge of my lower stomach and pray to the evil tree gods that this keeps me alive.

~

It takes hours for my sugar to drop into the 400s and even longer to lower to 298. When I was first diagnosed, I had no idea what numbers were good and bad. There’s a lot of information about this online, and it’s different for everyone. But, for me, above 75 and below 150 is my comfort zone. Anything above 150 makes my anxiety soar.

To avoid complete insanity, I force myself into a fitful slumber.

When I awaken, my blood sugar is 206. Better. Looks like I might not die…yet.

Without warning, the door slams open to reveal my favorite dryad. “Get up,” Drosera orders. “Queen Amanita has invited you to dine with her to discuss your terms.”

I sit up. “She decided what task she wants me to do?”

“Do I look like the queen’s number one confidante?” she returns. “I’m a protector, not a courtier. Now come on.”

I remember a small note scribbled in the corner of my dad’s journal. Protectors bound by the Myrtle Tree, not loyalty.

Sliding out of bed, I tug on my black combat boots, swipe my supplies from under the furs, and approach her side. I’m not making the same mistake twice.

She takes note of my bag, and I wait for her to snatch it from my hands. But then she steps aside, waving me through the door. “If you try anything with that, I will slit your throat.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I’m a bottomless pit of questions, but I don’t want to know the answer to any of them more than I want Drosera to keep her mouth shut. The dim light of the throne room shines up ahead, but the dryad protector stops just before the entrance at a stone archway tucked into the shadows. Inside is a long table covered in food and surrounded by dryads. At the head sits the Myrtle Queen.

I enter like a doe stepping into a clearing after hearing a twig snap.

This dining room is surprisingly quaint for a queen and morbidly decorated. Lined on shelves along the walls, taper candles sit within what appear to be individual vertebrae plucked from a large animal’s spine. A fireplace packed with purple pillar candles of varying size creates an ethereal lavender glow behind the queen, and a bonechandelier hangs above the table. There’s something strikingly beautiful about it. It’s cozy and whimsical, and if Javen were here, I just know he would say something like,Okay, but I’m fuckingobsessedwith this aesthetic.

Amused eyes watch me pass.

I sink into the seat beside the queen. Today she wears bloodred leathers with a silver leaf bodice, rubies that hang in ropes from her antlers, and a delicate circlet made from what looks like moonstone. I stare at it a long moment, wondering how she managed to get it over her multipronged horns.

“How have you enjoyed your stay?” she asks pleasantly.