Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

A few moments later, Emil reappears in the doorway, looming there like a quiet, angry beast.

He's covered in scratches, his chest is heaving, and he's holding the broken leg of what could be the table he hoisted me onto.

He draws back his arm and, with a roar of effort, he pitches the table leg through the open doorway and across the air.

It shoots like a spear all the way across the garden and impales the nearest apple tree with a thud .

His chest heaves, but then, unnervingly, he gives me that same heated smile that he gave me through the window.

I blink at him.

And then, slowly, I half-turn to consider the orchard and the apple tree he impaled.

Suddenly, a new impulse fills me and now…

I'm pretty sure I've finally lost it.

"Riot," I say quietly to the dark elf, who has remained protectively at my side. "Can you go back to the campfire and make sure nobody comes over here?" I glance at my pack. "Especially Jonah."

The fire jotunn has reappeared at the edge of the forest and looks as if he's two seconds away from rushing over to me.

I guess meditation time is over.

"Are you sure?" Riot asks me, his arms rising as if he'll whisk me away from the cottage.

"No, actually." I can't help the ridiculous laugh that bubbles up into my throat. "I'm not certain of anything. But I want you to stay away from this cottage. No matter how noisy it gets."

Riot arches an eyebrow at me before he throws a glance at the keeper. "Noisy in a good way or a bad way?"

Again with that crazy laugh. "I have no fucking idea."

A little of the tension in Riot's expression eases. "Maybe we'll disappear for a bit. But we're only a shout away, okay?"

I nod. "Thank you."

Riot waits another moment before he hurries back to the pack.

True to his word, he gathers them up and ushers all of them, including Jonah, into the forest.

Anarchy argues with him the whole way, taking a final glance at me. Her soft voice reaches my sensitive ears. "I hope you know what you're doing, Darkness."

"So do I," I whisper.

Then they disappear into the forest.

I take careful steps toward the keeper, stopping only a short distance away from him.

"You hate that orchard," I say, taking guesses from his actions. "You want to smash it apart."

"Yes," he says.

I wait a moment in case he wants to say more, but it seems that's all. But, hell, that's more honesty than I've had from him for hours. So, I persist.

"I'll destroy it for you," I say. " If you tell me why you hate it so much."

Instead of responding to my offer, he asks, eyes narrowed, "Why did you throw the apple away?"

"Because it was disappointingly sour."

He arches his eyebrows at me, repeating what I said, as if he doesn't believe me. "It was sour."

" Disappointingly ."

He gives a soft exhalation, a bewildered sound. "I thought you would?—"

Frustratingly, he seems to pull himself up and doesn't finish his sentence.

"You thought I would what?" I press. When he remains silent, I can't stop my own sigh. "Do you want me to destroy the orchard or not?"

The furrow in his brow deepens and a new snarl leaves his lips. In his voice, I detect the smallest hint of a dragon's growl for the first time since the fight with my father.

"That orchard should fucking burn," he says.

"I can make that happen if you tell me why you hate it so much."

"I hate it," he says, "because the orchard it represents is where all the pain started."

My eyes widen. It isn't an elaborate answer, but it isn't an evasion either, and I'm surprised by it. Even more so when he continues.

"I hate it because of the malice that thrived because of it. I hate it because it tore my family apart. And I hate it because its history will continue to tear families apart."

His family.

He has never spoken of his family before. In fact, he led me to believe that he didn't remember anything about his life before he became the keeper. But then, as has become painfully clear to me, he lies.

He could be lying now, too.

I take another look at the orchard, recalling what Jonah told me about how he met my mother. He said he came upon a cottage that was situated beside an apple orchard, just like that one. She was sweeping out the pain.

Even my mother and Jonah associated the original orchard with pain, just as Emil does.

Which makes me believe there is truth in what Emil said.

I find myself scouring my memory for any instance where my mother described the cottage or the orchard to me. She must have at least mentioned the cottage, or I wouldn't have dreamed about it in so much detail. Maybe she spoke of it when I was very little so that the images live in my subconscious and only come out when I sleep.

"I need to sweep out the pain," I say, a quiet declaration.

"Sweeping is not enough." Emil backs away from the doorway, and I'm certain he's about to retreat into the shadows again.

I can't allow him to do that. Not when he's finally giving me answers.

"No."

I'm not sure exactly what I'm saying no to, but my left hand is raised.

As if I could stop him by the force of my will alone.

When he pauses, partially concealed in shadow, I lower my voice. "I know better than most that there are some wounds that never heal."

He is not so deep within the darkness of the cottage that I miss the way he flinches.

He will understand my meaning.

He can't atone for taking my mother's life. Assuming any part of what the book showed me is true.

"But I made you a promise," I say. "So stay and watch. Or don't. That's your choice."

I turn on my heel and stride back toward the orchard, intent on violence.

As I approach it, the energy within the trees strikes me hard.

All of its sparkling prettiness. All of the impulses that buzz at me. And then, once again, and horribly unbidden, those cold commands that rush through my mind.

Take control of the ? —

"Fuck you," I snarl.

With all of my strength, I swing my left fist, claws fully extended, punching through the nearest tree's trunk.

The wood shatters and shards fly in all directions, a sequence of satisfying crack-crack-cracks splitting the air. The shards cut up my hand, biting back like a living thing, but with a single punch, my indestructible claws have achieved my intended purpose.

I've created a massive gash all the way through the right side of the tree.

Without hesitation, I strike again, widening the gash even as I sense the energy within the tree fighting back.

Such a strangely familiar energy.

It reminds me of my mother, but also not. Once again, I'm certain that even in some brief exchange, she must have told me about an orchard like this. Or maybe apples like these.

But what did she say?

Suddenly, it comes to me. That moment in time. Her golden eyes were downcast. Her left hand clutched around the leftover core of a red apple our jailer had brought to us.

"Even a sour apple is delicious if you're starving."

She was right. We shared that core, seeds, and all, and it was the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted.

Not these apples.

The tree creaks and groans and I jump clear before it topples and crashes into the next tree's trunk.

Crack! Branches snap and apples fall.

I'm already leaping toward the next tree.

As I move, there's a tearing pain in my back, my wings extend on instinct, and I gain enough air to raise myself higher, punching and tearing through the tree's trunk, felling it with a scream of effort.

My wings clip a nearby branch, and, to my amazement, the edges of my feathers cut right through the wood.

They've never done something like that before, but then… I've never tried to use them that way.

I've watched Lucian use the edges of his feathers in a fight, and, even though mine aren't tipped with stone, they're metallic like my claws, so I guess it stands to reason that they could cut through things.

Well, damn. I guess my wings are useful for something, after all.

I ram my heel down onto the nearest apple, squishing it to a satisfying pulp, before I launch myself at the next tree in a near frenzy.

I tear and shatter and punch, cutting down the trees with my claws and my wings, breaking branches and shattering trunks.

Destroying this sparkling beauty, ripping it to shreds.

Until I'm screaming, but not from elation.

From pain.

Because no matter how many trees I cut down, and no matter how many apples I render to a pulp, I can't bring my mother back. I can't eat that awful apple core with her again.

I can't get back the years I spent in darkness.

I can't heal these wounds.

And, just as painful, I can't get back the trust I gave the keeper.

The man I thought he was—the one who stood at my side—is gone.

I've lost him, too.

I stop in the middle of the carnage, surrounded by torn-up tree stumps, trying to balance on piled-up wood, black blood dripping down my face and chest and arms and legs.

Wood splinters are caught in all parts of my body, little splinters and big ones, but I don't fucking care about that pain.

I turn to the cottage and then I spread my wings, lifting myself just enough to aid my progression across the rubble until I hit the grassy ground again.

Then I'm running.

Running toward the keeper, who stands back from the doorway of his cage, where he's shrouded in the shadows.

I don't slow down, crashing through the opening and right into his chest.

"Fight me," I scream at him.

He tries to grab my wrists, but I slash at him with my claws.

"Fight me!"