Page 37 of These Vile Hearts

Tamarind snorts.

The king shoots me a skeptical glance. “Every living creature is afraid of something. It’s what keeps us alive.”

“The desire to survive is not the same as the fear of death.”

“Perhaps not.” The samara takes a sharp turn over a pathway darker than all the rest. “But fear keeps creatures from doing idiotic things.”

“Yes, well. That just confirms my earlier claim.”

I’ve done nothing but idiotic things tonight.

Aside from the masked party down below, the Redwood is much quieter than the Myrtlewood. Where the latter is filled with twittering birds and scurrying animals, the former is too high to hold many forest creatures—other than the predatory birds perched on branches and a wood sprite that’s hitched a ride with us. The tiny creature clings to the glassless window, keeping its massive black eyes on the occasional owl and hawk.

I nearly pull out my dad’s journal to double-check the name, but I distinctly remember the way their skin mimics the swirls of wood grain. They look a little bit like a mix between a chameleon and Tinker Bell, the size of my thumb.

My analysis of the creature is cut short by a distant screech that doesn’t sound anything like a bird…or any animal, for that matter.

“Are dryads and those arbor-fairy things the only kind of fae that live up here?” I ask.

The king and his guard exchange a wary glance.

“No,” they say at the same time.

“What else is there?”

Castor casually reclines, spreading his arm across the back of the samara seat, fingers millimeters from my shoulder. “Oh, you know, just the occasional banshee and blood nymph.”

“Also need to watch out for spider wraiths,” Tamarind adds.

The king nods. “But those are all sugar pixies compared to the Erlking and his tree sirens.”

As if summoned, that far-off wailing song starts up in the distance. Castor mutters something under his breath, and the air sizzles slightly around the samara, as if it’s been trapped in a bubble of static electricity. All the sounds from the forest cease, including the siren song.

“Vines of silence,” he explains. “It’s a sort of sound barrier.”

“I assumed.” My arms fold across my chest, which immediately starts to itch with anxiety, all my nerves fraying like a ship’s rope unraveling in the waves. I’ve never liked total silence. I fall asleep listening to angry girl music and promptly jam it into my ears the second I wake up. Alone with my own thoughts? No thank you. “You know, I think I’ll take my chances with the tree siren. Could you pop this little sound bubble?”

Both Tamarind and Castor quirk a brow in my direction.

They share yet another look, which only heightens my agitation. I start pumping my foot, jogging my leg like a restless kid in class.

Amusement darkens the king’s brown eyes, and I ready a series of harsh words before he finally dispels the vines of silence. Forest sounds flood in, and the siren song has disappeared. I let out a slow breath, my leg stilling.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” Castor asks with a crooked grin.

My face is a featureless mask. “No. The pair of you are just particularly loud breathers.”

They both frown.

I wonder why the Myrtle Queen didn’t use magic as readily as this king. Does he have more? Or is he just careless with it? My dad’s journal had tragically little information detailing fae magic. Anytime the subject was mentioned, it was accompanied by question marks.

Fae magic is sourced from nature. Dryads access magic from trees? Multiple or just their own? Can it be shared in the roots?

Some dryad magic seems more powerful than others. Species? Age of tree?

Pact magic vs innate magic?

What are druids?