The Winter Long

“Of course,” said Luna. The vines writhed again, this time twisting and grasping until they had somehow lifted the lid entirely off of Rayseline’s glass prison.

I breathed in, tasting the strange mixture of her heritage under the floral scents that dominated the room. Then, after one last uneasy glance back at Tybalt, I climbed into the still-writhing morning glory vines and started to wade toward Rayseline.

Luna might have wanted me to help her daughter, but the plants she controlled were nowhere near as sure about the idea. Vines tangled around my waist and legs, slowing my progress and threatening to send me face-first into the undergrowth. I gritted my teeth and forged on, trying not to break or uproot any of the individual tendrils as I made my way to the coffin.

“That’s quite enough,” said Luna. The vines let go of me so abruptly that I wasn’t braced for it. I stumbled, falling forward, and caught myself against the coffin’s edge. I glanced back. Luna was looking at me coldly. “Fix her.”

“I’m not a switch, okay? You can’t flip me on and off.” I straightened, pulling the knife from my belt. “This is going to hurt her. I don’t know whether people who’ve been elf-shot usually scream, but Gillian did, so there’s a chance Raysel might. Scream, I mean. If that happens, you need to stay where you are. Don’t try to touch her, and don’t use your plants to try to throttle me. I have to finish once I start.”

“If I think you’re hurting her on purpose, you’ll never be seen again,” said Luna, and there was a coldness in her voice that I’d heard before from her mother, Acacia. It was impossible not to believe her.

And I couldn’t let that matter. “You’re the one demanding I perform blood magic on your daughter while she’s unconscious and can’t consent,” I snapped. “Is it going to make her life better? Maybe. It’ll stop her blood from warring with itself, and that’s something anyway. But any pain she suffers is on you. Now are you sure you want me to do this?”

For a moment—just a moment—Luna looked fragile and uncertain, and in that moment she was more like the Luna I had known for most of my life than she had been since Raysel poisoned her. Then the moment passed, the shutters on her face falling closed again, and she said, “Yes. She is my daughter. She is lost. Now save her.”

I sighed. “Right.” I turned my back on her as I raised my knife and slashed the palm of my left hand in a quick, unhesitating gesture. Pain followed the blade, and blood followed the pain, welling up hot and red in my palm. I clamped my mouth over the wound, filling it before I could start to heal. The smell of my magic rose around me, cut grass and bloody copper overwhelming everything else.

When I had changed the Queen of the Mists, she had been awake and fighting me. It had been the same with Chelsea. With Gillian, though, she had already been elf-shot before I started to work my magic. I kept that in mind as I swallowed the blood, leaned forward, and pressed my lips against Raysel’s forehead, starting to search for the tangled threads of her heritage.

Choose, I thought. Tell me what you want, because I don’t want to make this decision for you. Tell me what comes next.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Raysel’s voice came from directly behind me. I opened my eyes. Her body was still in front of me, but the glass coffin was gone, replaced by a bier of roses. I straightened, turned, and saw two women standing there.

Both of them were Rayseline.