She didn’t have to see to know that the prince and the Pegasus were fighting, fully submerged. The fools would drown if she didn’t stop them.
She attempted to stand, but her surroundings spun. She fell back onto the rocks and clenched her fuzzy scalp with aching hands. Sowing a thicketful of flowers had left her more depleted and agonized than she anticipated. How had she done it? Never before had her sun-power covered such a distance, and so swiftly. Then rationale prevailed, and she knew: it happened because she touched Prince Vesper’s arm; his curse infected her, rushing sunlight through her entire body. She’d had no choice but to channel it somewhere, the ground and brambles her only options.
She would’ve pulled free of him sooner, before the sun’s intrusion, but she saw something in those penetrating eyes: a glimpse of those times she’d felt most alive—most like herself. When she’d waltzed in the embers, when she’d fed Scorch a handful of apples, that first glimpse of identity through his eyes. She would’ve embraced any agony to be there again, to remember. But those were moments made with Scorch—so how had the prince revived them?
The bubbles expanded in the bog’s depths and sloshed a glowing wave against the banks. A tangle of thick, dark hair surfaced, then jerked beneath again. Scorch’s tail or the prince’s head . . . she couldn’t be sure with the pain blurring her vision. The gnawing, burning throbs that often pooled in her fingertips ran all the way to her elbows and shoulders. Even her bones felt hot, aching through to the marrow.
She curled her chest over her knees, fighting a bout of nausea.
Scorch was going to kill the prophecy. The Pegasus had rushed upon the scene. He took one look at her and deduced she’d been hurt at the prince’s hand. As always, he’d assumed the worst and attacked.
In her state, she had been too weak to stop him. What would she have said, anyway? That when she’d touched the prince, every moment that followed had spun out of control? That at the same time, the event seemed orderly, as if it had been laid out, brick by brick—a bridge between two paths that never should’ve crossed?
Never could’ve crossed.
Yet they had.
Magic was at work in the prince’s destiny, but why would it involve her? She was no one. Unless . . . unless she was more than she’d dreamed, as the mother shroud had said. There must be some explanation for the parallels she’d seen between her and this man—for the way their skin-to-skin contact had been so all-encompassing it bordered on combustible.
Clearing her head with a breath of charred decay and flowers, she shoved her sore palms against her knees and stood shakily. This wasn’t the time for introspection. She had to save the prince from Scorch’s bestial temper, for it was her doing that brought them both here together.
Dragging through the sludge’s suction, she struggled for balance on her way toward the bank. At the edge, she gripped a bramble vine between its thorns. She bit back the bile rising in her throat, wanting to avoid another wound, another scar. She’d suffered enough pain today—emotionally and physically. Yet that hadn’t stopped her in the past, and it couldn’t stop her now. She prepared to tie the thorny rope around her waist as she had all those years ago, so she could dive in.
A chorus of sound from behind gave her pause. She looked over her shoulder. An invasion of chirping black crickets hopped out from the rocks. She’d forgotten about the jars breaking when she’d dropped them. A whirlwind of shadows followed the bugs—having no reason to hide in this dim, barbed thicket.
She barely had time to react as they surrounded her and forced her to drop the brambly vine and retreat from the banks. The shadows nudged with gusts of chilled air and the crickets rubbed their legs, composing a song so high-pitched she had to step back to save her ears.
She wasn’t afraid; not for herself. The shrouds had said such creatures were once her protectors. Even with their presence so new to her, she sensed they were trying to keep her safe.
What they didn’t realize was that by shielding her, they were endangering their night prince. Her chest tightened on the thought, bewildered as to why she cared. It was Scorch who was her dearest friend. So why was she driven to save both of them with the same desperate need? She wanted to believe her desire to help the prince centered around Crony’s welfare, but there was more. She’d heard him pour his heart out to his sister—witnessed his humanity and vulnerabilities. He was a good man.
Let me through . . . she pleaded, craning her neck to see around her creeping, boisterous protectors. They’ll kill each other.
Their barricade didn’t relent. They had pushed her several foot-lengths from the bank when a muffled roar bulged the bog’s surface; a swell of fire and water thrusted her back and thudded her head against the ground. Everything went dark.
The sound of rhythmic chirrups roused her . She groaned, unsure how long she’d lain there. A headache pounded the back of her skull. Her eyes struggled to open, but bog sludge had tangled her lashes—making the effort near impossible.
Yet she needed to look. Something was lying beside her, large, warm, and breathing. Long, silky hair tickled her cheek and the featherlight movements along her scalp felt like a horse’s muzzle. With a start, she realized it was crickets crawling across her head. She launched to a sitting position and spit on her hands, rubbing her eyes until her lashes came free.
She blinked. Her surroundings resolved to clarity. The prince was sprawled out, unmoving on the ground beside her. Drag marks pocked the mud, as if he’d been thrown from the bog and crawled over to her before collapsing. The shadows bowed in a circle around him.
Stain swished them away and they drifted toward the crickets, expanding their radius yet refusing to leave—forming a ring around both her and the prince.
She leaned in for a closer look, transfixed. Wet locks of plum-black hair covered his face, so thick only a glimpse of closed eyelids could be seen where his spiky lashes broke through. His sopping shirt, torn and singed to rags, revealed a trail of dark hair that started between his collarbones and faded to flaxen threads upon another metallic carapace. This one glimmered across his abdomen in the bog’s glow. Like his forearm, it was as if a layer of gilt had been painted across ripples of muscle, transforming him, bit by bit, to a statue. His finely cut chest, shoulders, arms, and face appeared even darker when juxtaposed against the sporadic plates of bright gold and hundreds of white, raised scars—ossified reminders of the pain he’d endured throughout his young life.
His chest rose and fell, the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat kicking beneath his sternum. Stain had seen other men’s torsos bared, but none of them so close to her age. None shared this man’s unique imperfections either, or suffered his debilitating curse.
Curiosity overcame caution, and she lowered her hand, her fingers skimming that path of coarse hair along his chest, careful not to make contact with his flesh for fear of the effect it might have on her own. She paused atop his shining abdomen, where the hair yielded to stiff flaxen strands. These clutched at her fingertips like thistles. Radiant light seeped up each strand and into her fingers. Stinging pinpricks spread all the way into her knuckles. There on his forearm, her imprint still remained. She considered trying to help him . . . wondered if the resulting agony would be worth it. What would happen if she attempted to draw all the sunlight from his body and grow a thousand flowers in this ravine? Would it kill her?
Scorch would insist she not even try, that royalty wasn’t worth it. Perhaps he was right. This man had endangered Crony, and possibly Luce—intentional or not.
The prince’s eyelashes twitched, as if he could sense her mental debate and the brazen inquiry of his body.
She jerked her hand back, her face warming.
Scorch . . .
His name had niggled on an afterthought, but now it punctured like a knife, leaving her exposed to the quiet stillness.
Stain leapt to her feet and looked across the shadow guards, seeing nothing more than brambles. The flowers had either all been burned away by the explosion or were aglow with embers that would soon snuff out.
The prince was here, so where was the Pegasus? Her stomach tightened anxiously. Taking a step, she dislodged something beside the prince’s limp hand and crouched to pick it up. His dagger, or what was left of it. The handle gave way to a stubby shank, melted by voltaic blood.
Scorch’s blood.
That blade-sharp awareness hacked at her heart, robbing her of breath. Stain scrabbled toward the marshy banks. The shadows tightened their barricade, but she fought against the gusts—leaning into them in an effort to break free.
Fingers cinched around her boot from behind. Even through the leather, they were fire-hot and strong. She nearly tripped adjusting her stance. She glared over her shoulder as the prince groaned and rolled closer.