Rory

The Dead Woods are exactly as their name suggests—dead. Standing timber, dry as bone. The trees look brittle as ash, their trunks coated in dark soot and exposed roots little more than kindling. The air is thin, my breath coming fast as we leave the desert behind us. Finally, I can’t resist, crouching down to run my fingers through the dirt.

It is dry as chalk. Every step we take sends clouds of off-white powder billowing around us. While it irritates my nose and threatens to make me sneeze, it has some benefits. When it settles, drifting slowly down with nary a breeze to bother it, our footsteps are covered. Vanished, as if we had never walked here.

Aries is ahead of me, his steps silent as he leads Zephyr. He is graceful as a deer as he climbs over a fallen tree, so desiccated that it would be impossible to identify the genus, and Zephyr leaps it with ease.

I clamber over behind them. The fallen tree crumbles beneath my knee when my weight lands on it and I yelp as I lose my balance.

“Careful,” Aries says as he catches me, his hands on my arms as he helps me to my feet and steadies me. I never feel clumsy until I am around him.

“Was there a fire?” I wonder out loud.

“Perhaps,” Aries answers. Zephyr stomps his foot and tosses his head, his loose reins whipping over his neck. He nudges Aries with his muzzle and I swear his golden eyes are watching me with jealousy.

Aries releases me, patting the horse’s neck before he continues speaking. “We know little about the Wilds. Few dare to venture here and even fewer return. Those who do… Well, best not to speak of them.”

He looks rattled at whatever memories my question has stirred. Goosebumps rise on my flesh, though it is far from cold. I want to press, to search for any hint at what is to come. But perhaps he is right. Maybe it is best if I do not know. So few of the horrors I’ve witnessed in Faerie have caused him to flinch. Whatever is bothering him now must be truly terrible.

Spiders crawl down my spine. I tamp down the fear.

We walk for ages before I see the first sign of life.

A small green stalk barely the size of my pinky finger with two limp yellow petals drooping from the white pistil at the center. It should feel hopeful. Instead, it looks sad.

We continue walking. Soon enough, the small sprig is not the only growing thing. As the second sun reaches its zenith, I feel like I’ve stepped through a looking glass and into a lush rainforest. The air is thick, hot and muggy, and I am grateful for the tall trees with their large fronds that give us shade. The ground is soft and squishy. I lose the shredded fabric protecting my feet quickly as it is sucked into the mud and sticks.

Even the smell is intoxicating. I try to think of a comparison, but nothing is quite right. It is sweeter than strawberries, crisper than a fresh cut apple. It sends my stomach rumbling. I’ve barely pressed my hand to my abdomen to quiet it when I see the fruit tree.

Golden orbs dangle from the tree branches, each one the size of my fist and lightly glowing. I take a step toward them. Then Aries grips my arm tight, stopping me in my tracks.

I bare my teeth as I spin to face him, hunger overriding everything else. My jaws ache, a telltale sign that my mouth is full of daggers. Would I prefer meat? Of course. There is nothing like smoked jackrabbit to fill a belly, but right now the mysterious fruit smells better even than that.

Aries’ eyes widen slightly but he doesn’t let go, not even in the face of my monster. His skin is cold against mine. “Rory…” he says, voice trailing off as I growl.

“Hungry,” my monster speaks with my mouth. I taste copper on my tongue.

“I don’t like the look of them,” Aries answers. How brave he is, to contradict my beast with his teeth out.

“I don’t like the look of you,” my monster says, ever a rebellious teenager, but the mulish answer is enough for me to regain control of my mouth. Pulpy silver needles fall to the dirt. I lift my hand to my throbbing face.

Aries looks wary, his hand slow as he extends it toward me. “We should keep moving.”

I allow him to lead me away but I can’t resist looking over my shoulder. The once-golden orbs are now cloying gray and red, sticky with mucus and lumpy with fat. They spasm weakly in time with my heartbeat. Each shuddering pulse sends off-white slime leaking down the moist flesh.

They still smell sweet.

I turn my face away.

I do not thank Aries for his intervention, though I know not what he saved me from. I fear I can guess. Here, near the base of a willow weeping salt, I see a cage of bone. Nestled within is an inflorescence of white orchids.

There, by a craggy boulder, is a spray of knucklebones.

* * * *

Dusk falls but we keep walking, until my soles feel shredded and it’s a miracle that I’m not leaving bloody footprints behind. I’m determined not to slow us down, and in truth, it is Zephyr who stops us.

As we reach a stream, the water flowing dark and oily, Zephyr rears. He tosses his head, his loud whinny splitting open the night. Aries grabs his reins and I watch, breath bated, as he struggles to restrain him. Foam flies from the horse’s maw. I shouldn’t notice, the timing is terrible, but I can’t help but see how Aries’ muscles cord and bulge, his skin glistening.

Then Zephyr lands one of his dinner-plate hooves on Aries chest and sends him flying—right into the oil-slick river. He sinks slowly, as if in quicksand, and I am moving without thought.

On my knees on the bank, I sink my hands, now tipped with claws curving like fishhooks, into the sickeningly thick warm water until they snag on something fabric. I drag him out, coughing and sputtering, barely noticing the large gouges my nails have left in his chest and arms. I am too busy pounding his back as he vomits sludge.

Only once he draws in his first ragged breath do I have time to feel guilty at the blue blood staining his skin. It is enough for me to shed my claws, leaving raw red fingertips in their place.

“Zephyr,” Aries says, gaze pained as he stares at the empty stretch of grass where the horse once stood. While I’d been dragging Aries from the river, the horse must have fled. Should I feel bad for not prioritizing the horse? Would Aries, being a faerie, have been able to survive in the dark water while I restrained Zephyr? Could I have restrained him, even if I tried?

“If he is anything like Nexus,” I say, speaking of his sire, “he will find his way back to safety on his own.”

“I hope you are right.” Aries’ voice breaks. There is more emotion in him now for Zephyr than I’ve ever heard from him for me. It turns me to stone while breaking me into pieces.

I push myself to my feet and hesitate before I hold my hand out to Aries. He takes it as if nothing is wrong and allows me to pull him to standing.

I want to cry, for myself and the things that could have been if he was a different person, if I was a different person. To let my anger strike him for the injustice of his worry for a horse that he’s rarely shown for me.

“We should not cross this water in the dark,” is all I say instead. My forearms itch where I submerged them, skin writhing as if bugs have crawled beneath it.

Aries stands statue still, but his shadow, cast from the dim moonlight filtering through the canopy above us, sways from side to side. I lift my gaze to Aries’ eyes and they are black, pupils blown.

He allows me to lead him farther up the banks, away from the water and toward an uprooted tree. I guide Aries into the exposed cradle knoll. He is compliant—too compliant to be natural. I am suddenly reminded of the Gravel Girls. The synthetic salts had been introduced to treat severe arthritis.

I don’t know who first discovered that chewing it gave users a heroin high without the come down, or how desperate they must have been to try it. I will never forget the sight of their paper-thin skin and broken teeth, or their chemical-born haunted happiness.

I can only hope that whatever magic the water holds, it releases Aries quickly. As he sinks into the dirt depression, his antlers catch briefly in the exposed root system. The weedy, tentacle-like vines knot around the spines and fix him in place, a nature made bondage. Old resentment urges me to leave him tangled. It will still be nothing like the suffering I’ve felt at his hands or by his orders.

I start untying the curling roots anyway. One antler is freed and the second nearly so when Aries moans. I freeze, stilling my fingers as he meets my gaze. Without thinking, I had straddled his waist to reach his surroyal tines. Now I can feel his manhood between my thighs.

I leave him caught in the vines as I scramble off him, heat flooding my face.

“Ruari,” Aries moans my old name, his voice broken and breathy. “I need you. Come to me as you once did.” His voice sounds lucid but sweat beads along his brow above his glassy eyes.

“Never that,” I murmur. If I allow him to take me again, to claim my body fully with his, it will only ever be like it was. We will come together as equals or nothing. “Sleep, Aries. You are not yourself.”

“I am more myself than I have ever been,” Aries argues. His hands, not bound by anything, lower to the closure of his trousers. I suck in a breath to tell him to stop but he is too quick for me. That, or maybe I don’t want it badly enough.

His erection is engorged and leaking.

Is it the effects of the water? I was immersed up to my shoulders and all I feel is itchy. But I was careful not to swallow the greasy slick, and he drank enough to drown a horse.

“Come to me, Ruari,” Aries repeats his plea, his slender fingers wrapping around the root of his cock. “I am burning.”

“You are drunk,” I scold him. Drunk or drugged, there is little difference. Perhaps it would be fair play to repay him for the wrongs that have been done unto me, yet I cannot stomach the thought. Stealing from him what was taken from me will not return it.

“Look, Ruari. I weep for you.” He trails his fingers through his pre-cum, then holds them out. They shine in starlight. I drop my gaze, cheeks aflame.

“Then weep alone.”

It is a long night. Aries pleads for me in between bouts of pleasuring himself and I lose count of the number of times that he spills. His poor cock must be chafed and raw but still at first dawn, he is begging, his hand on his shaft and his eyes on me. Finally, as second dawn crests, his words slow. His body grows sluggish and sleep takes him.

I am left, untouched but yearning, to keep watch into the day.