11. Livana

Chapter 11

Livana

A week on the road, and I smell Sparrow Hills at least a mile before Rain carries us across its borders.

Dust and decay.

It lingers in the cold, frost-tinged air, making even taking a deep breath feel oily. Sadness sweeps through me as I dismount Rain, stretching my legs and electing to walk by his side as we make our way through the meager village roads.

"Tired of riding?" Jagger asks, his voice quiet among the solemnness of the city.

I shake my head. "It doesn't feel right to sit atop a horse while passing through here."

Jagger nods, understanding flashing in his teal eyes.

Sparrow Hills used to be one of the most luxurious and flourishing cities across the continent. The Fae marked this as their royal territory, their nature powers transforming the drylands into a lush oasis fit for kings and queens. Forbidden songs sing the stories of this place's former glory, boasting of crystalline rivers with healing powers and fruit so sweet it sent you into an intoxicated state when consumed.

That was before The Great Purge.

Before most of the Fae had joined in arms against the Collector's armies…and lost.

The Collector had all the fruits plucked from the trees until they died and drained the rivers dry as a punishment for them joining the opposing side. He then shifted into his terrible form and seared half the town to ash, leaving only those who would submit alive to rebuild. Though, those left were never able to restore it to its once former beauty.

My stomach turns as we continue along the broken, dry earth they use for roads here in Sparrow Hills. I can't not see the desolation that lingers across every inch of this place—the half crumbling huts the residents use for homes, the putrid pales of liquid outside of makeshift taverns, the younglings carrying loads of paltry goods to and from their lone market, their feet bare and caked in frozen mud, clothes tattered and faces weary.

The same younglings who might beg a coin or food from me, if I wasn't with the drifters, people they've been taught to fear because of their connection to the Collector.

Guilt clings to my skin like a grimy layer of dirt. I heard things were bad, but seeing and hearing are two entirely different things. My magic pulses beneath my skin, feverish and desperate. A few flicks of my fingers and I could create a flowing river here, a few ripe plants there.

But at what cost?

Bringing the collector core here by using my magic would only hurt these people in the end.

The six grand hills that rest at the edge of Sparrow Hills's border to the south pepper the horizon like an ominous omen, each more dreary looking than the next. And they were the source of the decay smell in the air. The sparse trees decorating the hills mutated after they were neglected of magic for so many decades, twisting into something rotten.

A little boy, no more than seven bravely rushes in front of us, effectively stopping us with his hands raised. His blond hair is choppy, lining the sides of his face before it sheers off at his shoulders. It hangs over his ears, and there is dirt smudged on his little cheek, just beneath bright baby blue eyes. He holds up a flower, too beautiful to be grown naturally, and my heart climbs up my throat.

Magic .

He must have a little, to create something so beautiful, a fully bloomed emerald green flower with eight pointed petals, streaks of gold creating veins atop it.

I drop to his level, offering him what I hope is a kind smile before digging into my satchel. "Here," I say, offering him a handful of gold coins.

Jagger hisses at the amount, more in surprise than disagreement, and the boy's eyes widen as he trades me the flower for the gold.

"Keep that hidden," I say. "You don't want anyone to steal it."

He nods, pocketing the gold and racing down the path before ducking into a hut.

"Someone will accuse him of stealing that," Zev says as we continue walking.

"Or maybe he'll be able to buy food for his family and shoes for his bare feet," I counter.

Zev merely grunts his doubt.

"Take heart, dear people," a booming voice slices through the thick silence as we turn left down another road, aiming for the market in the hopes of finding food for both us and Rain. "Our situation is bleak, but it can always be worse."

An elder male draped in dirty white linens, the fabric stained and smudged with oil and mud, stands atop a wooden crate, a book nestled in one arm as he points to the small crowd gathered at his feet with the other.

"Our Goddess Aletha chose The Collector, who liberated us from our foes, our captors. From those who intended us great harm, and yet we curse his name? We sit here and mope about our lot with no gratification for being allowed to live when others were not?"

I slow my pace, gently pulling Rain to a halt beside me.

"We're starving!" someone shouts from amid the crowd, which gains a few nods of agreement from the crowd.

"You're alive!" the man fires back. "That's more than I can say for those who wanted us dead, or worse, wanted us to be their slaves."

A stone sinks into the pit of my stomach. I've heard the preachings of The Collector's acolytes before.

"The Fae," he spits the words. "They were bad, yes. Kept us mortals fed but never let us excel, but you know who was worse. You know who was coming to align with them, to join forces with the Fae as they plotted to take over the entire world as we knew it."

"The Enchantresses," a youthful voice says, her voice laced with fear as she cowers back into her mother's side.

"Yes, girl," the man says. "The tresses. They came in small groups—covens, as they call them—and whispered things to the Fae. Changed their minds with their powers. Turned them against us. Planned to turn everyone against us. They used mortals for their rituals to strengthen their powers. They danced in mortal blood beneath a full moon. They would've killed us in our sleep without even having to draw a blade."

I grip the reins I'm holding so tight I can hear the leather crack.

"If not for The Collector, if not for his Great Purge of the tresses, we wouldn't exist at all. Mortals would be nothing more than a bedtime story sung to the offspring of tress magic." The man takes a deep, solitary breath. "But there is hope, even when things seem bleak. Our provider, The Collector, and our Goddess Aletha, will come together to lift us from these trying times. The only reason they haven't yet is surely because of some ill on our part." He eyes the enamored crowd in disappointment. "We have made no effort to root out those who are defying the Collector's commands. No effort to weed out those beings who conspire against him. Those select kelpie and sirens, goblins, phoenixes, incubi and succubi, and the centaurs and gnomes. We've all heard the stories of the Hidden Territories where they reside, breaking the laws and using unlicensed magic, plotting a rebellion against our ruler and yet we sit and wallow in self-pity instead of taking action. The Collector would reward us if we storm them in their hidden territories. He would elevate us."

I tilt my head, curious if what he's saying is true or horseshit. I've heard of the hidden territories, but only whispers. I always assumed it was more lies created by loyalists to cause unrest between all magical creatures.

"We have no armies!" someone shouts.

"The collector core should be doing that, not us!" another yells.

The acolyte nods slowly. "Perhaps," he concedes. "Then maybe the reason Aletha has yet to elevate us is we're not offering her enough of our praise, prayers, or perfection, nor are we giving the Collector many reasons to save our humble village. We must rise, we must worship, and we must bow."

The crowd shifts, accepting this notion and joins him in saying the last sentence, a common practice among believers—both of the Collector and Aletha—across the continent.

"What's wrong, dove?" Jagger asks, his voice a whisper at my ear.

I turn to face him, looking up at the concerned lines etching his face. He smooths his fingertip between my brow, drawing attention to the way it's pinched together. I take a breath and soothe my expression.

"You're not a fan of organized religion?" he asks.

"Not when it spouts nothing but horseshit," I say, and his eyebrows raise.

"You don't believe in Aletha?" he asks, shock coloring his tone as we pick up our pace, Zev merely grunting as we slowly work our way through the crowd now dispersing to the small market booths.

"I do," I admit. "My father made sure I knew the stories our of goddess, working the grand tales into our bedtime routine before h..." Emotion takes over my voice, but I do my best to press on. "My mother never spoke on the goddess much, so I'm not sure if she believed or not."

"Why do you think she didn't believe?"

"My father always explained it's because he and her were raised so differently, him being an incubus and her being?—"

I clear my throat, feigning a coughing fit and shake my head. Close. That was too close. Have I truly gotten so comfortable with Jagger that I let my tongue run away like that? I study him as we walk, wondering if he slipped a little siren power into our conversation. I find nothing but mild curiosity, and he didn't so much as hum at me.

No, it's my fault. The slip, the memories, the heinous words of the acolyte. It's building beneath my skin in a way I'm terrified will burst out of me involuntarily.

"Anyway," I say, pausing as Zev moves to a nearby wooden table and buys a bag of apples for ten times what they're worth, the only fruit that isn't spoiled on the entire table. "I don't believe in what he was saying. And I don't think Aletha would be too happy about it either."

"He's a Collector acolyte," Jagger says. "He teaches people how to pray and when to worship. You don't think Aletha appreciates that attention?"

"I highly doubt she'd be happy that her followers are spreading lies to the masses in order to justify cold-blooded murder. You heard him talking about the creatures who are in hiding and supposedly plotting against the Collector. He's practically begging for riots."

Zev grunts as he returns with the apples, forcing us to walk through the crowds again. "Lies?" he asks, eyebrows drawn as he looks down at me while we move, Rain following behind us dutifully. "The elimination of the tresses may be the only justified purge in history."

I stop dead in my tracks, my lips parted as shock barrels through me. I blink a few times, repeating his words in my head to make sure I heard him correctly.

"Tell me you're not that dense," I snap, and his golden eyes flare at my tone.

"Excuse me?" he grumbles, tugging on the reins to pull Rain off the main path, situating us between two crumbling huts. "Have you forgotten who you're dealing with, little succubus?"

"Have you forgotten that I saved your life last week, drifter?" I hiss right back. Anger slices through me like flames, and my magic rises to the surface, begging to be unleashed.

"I will never forget," he says plainly. "What the fuck does that have to do with you calling me stupid?"

I glare up at him. "You can't honestly believe that the elimination of an entire species is justifiable."

Zev takes a calculated step toward me, all his muscles and power and dominance on full display, as if that will sway my argument. He doesn't fucking know me. That only makes me want to fight harder.

"The tresses," Zev says, his voice low. "Were a band of evil witches focused on taking over everything. They weren't capable of empathy or remorse?—"

"You're spouting horror stories mothers tell their younglings to get them to behave," I cut him off, absolutely fuming.

"There is always a hint of truth in legend," he fires back.

"If that's the case, then a succubus is nothing more than a seductive temptress who fucks males without their consent while they sleep." I roll my eyes. "And they shouldn't be capable of leaving an open wound untouched," I argue, raising my brows as I fold my arms over my chest.

I watch his face, watch it all play out in his eyes—last week, when he and Jagger were attacked. I could've easily drunk my fill on any one of those wretched drifters who tried to take me, but I didn't .

"You're too young to remember what it was like when tresses walked freely?—"

"You're barely older than me, so don't play superior. I remember everything."

A muscle in his jaw ticks, and Jagger, who's remained loudly silent this entire conversation, steps up to my side. I don't know who he's trying to protect—me from Zev or Zev from me.

"Why do you care so much?" Zev asks, his hands in fists at his sides. "Or do you just delight in arguing with me so much you'll do anything to pick a fight?"

Why do I care what he says? What he thinks? There's barely a soul alive that feels any differently toward tresses, but Goddess, every time I think I've taken a step toward respect with Zev we take two giant steps backward.

"I care about people who cower behind religion in order to justify their own disgraceful needs, and wiping out an entire race is one of them." My words are low, harsh whispers in the heat of this argument.

"Some didn't deserve to die," Zev offers, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "But those who practiced the dark rituals, sacrificing innocent mortals to increase their power…they deserved to die."

"Maybe," I say. "But the Collector gets to play Aletha, like he has the right to pass judgment." I shake my head. "I agree that some people deserve to die." The Collector, his son, and his Treasure. They're all on the top of my list. "But one bad being within a group shouldn't damn them all."

"Zev understands that," Jagger says, hands slightly raised between us. "Don't you?" he asks the question even though he clearly already knows the answer. He's offering up Zev the chance to be honest and real with me.

Zev doesn't take the bait.

He growls, takes hold of Rain, and leads him forward. "We need to move."

"And I need a fucking minute." I step the opposite direction. When Zev grabs my arm, I yank it free. "I'm not running," I snap. "But if I stand here with you for one more second, I'm going to sink my fangs into you and drain you dry."

Shock shapes his features, but his grip loosens. "You have ten minutes."

"I'll take twenty," I snap back and stomp the other direction. I have no idea where I'm heading. Away from him is all that matters, especially when all I want to do is bite him. Hard enough to hurt.

I make it to the bottom of the closest of the six hills when a flash of warmth spirals over the inside of my forearm.

Relief and comfort immediately wash over me as I tuck into a group of trees, flipping my arm over to read the message.

Are you angry right now?

What an odd question. Six never opens with anything like that.

But I am angry.

How did you know? I write back.

I don't know scrawls along my arm in delicate gold ink. I can feel it. I can feel you.

The world shifts beneath my feet.

How? I ask. I thought Matched sensing each other wasn't supposed to happen until we complete the Matched bond.

Or is it because we're close? He told me he was in Lingate, but what if he was traveling and didn't tell me? What if he's here? My heart races at the thought—terror and excitement crashing together in a conflicting storm.

I thought so too. He writes back. Maybe we're special. Maybe Aletha isn't happy we've taken so long.

I swallow hard, shifting to sit with my back against a thick tree trunk, this one not as rotten as the ones at the top of the hill. Still, the smell is almost unbearable, a sour scent that screams of fresh death.

Beyond that, why are you angry, my Matched?

I chew on my lip, ignoring his question for a moment.

Someone pissed me off I finally write back.

Tell me who, and I'll make sure they never do it again.

I smile down at the gold handwriting on my skin, tracing the letters with my fingertip as I savor the threat, the territorial way he makes it. He doesn't even know what I look like. We've made sure to never get too personal about that, and yet he's so ready to defend me.

What if I'm the one who is in the wrong?

That's not possible he answers.

My grin deepens, even as I shake my head.

You think I don't know you he continues but I do. I may not know your name or the color of your eyes, but I know your heart, your soul. You showed me your spirit, your fire, your strength in the first days we started writing each other. You showed me your kindness as you indulged my little inquiries about your life and you showed me wit when I tried to pry more details from you.

I swallow hard, my heart lifting at his words, at the way he's been a constant support and comfort since he crashed into my life, despite never truly knowing each other.

You, my Matched, could never be on the wrong side of anything in my eyes.

Happiness, or the tease of it, threatens to spill tears over the rim of my eyes. I force them back, sucking in a sharp breath of the terrible scents around me. That's enough to make them water on their own, so at least I have a valid excuse if anyone caught me wiping my eyes.

Sometimes I wish you were here I write back before I can stop myself. I allow myself this little moment of vulnerability because the clock is ticking.

I know it in my bones, the closer we get to Lingate, the more certain I am that I won't leave the palace alive. I'll be lucky if I can kill the Collector but it'll be a goddess damn miracle if I can wipe out all three enemies at once. The odds aren't in my favor, and if I fail? I'll be executed or collected, spending years in a cage subject to Goddess knows what? No…death would be a welcomed reprieve from that.

And I honestly thought I'd have no regrets. For the longest time, while I trained and gathered my strength, I never thought I'd miss this world. Better off going into the unknown and reuniting with my parents. But then Six happened…

Tell me where you are, and I'll come to you.

He would too. I know he would.

I'm traveling. Won't be in one place too long.

Always running he writes back.

Why did you choose the name Six I ask, desperate to change the subject. When we decided not to tell each other our real names?

Easy. That was the number of times I'd thought about you since I opened my eyes that morning.

I bite back my smile, my blood warming at the thought of him waking up in a cushioned bed, wearing nothing but a sheet, hair ruffled. It always amazes me how easy it is to fantasize about him when I have zero idea what he looks like physically.

But I didn't need to know.

He was my Matched, and try as I might to deny it, I liked him. Maybe more than liked.

Are you asking me to tell you my real name?

No I answer quickly. You're Six. My Six.

As long as I'm yours .

I rub the gold script, tracing the words until they fade beneath my skin.

He goes quiet, and it's then that I notice the sensation…like an internal line being severed. I stand up, studying the feeling. It's new, just like the way he knew I was angry. Maybe it's the proximity to each other, maybe it's what he said, and Aletha is forcing us to feel each other in the hopes we'll complete our goddess-blessed Matched bond.

But it doesn't matter.

He's my Six, yes. He'll remain my Six. Because I'll never get to know his real name. Not with the path I'm on, the one where he most certainly can never follow.

I wipe the dirt and frost from my trousers, leaving the cover of the decaying trees, the sky shifting from orange to purple as night claims the day.

Thanks to Six, I'm calmer, at least. I won't bite Zev's head off if he greets me with his usual silence, and that's something. I can't guarantee his safety if he opens his fucking mouth though?—

A bloodcurdling scream cracks the night air, which sends me racing toward it.