Chapter 30

Naxi was running harder than she ever had in her life.

Thorns and pebbles stung her feet. Brambles lashed her face. The gnarled trees of Faewood shot by in a blur of green and grey and brown on either side, their branches reaching out to her at every step – as if to snatch her hair and clothes. As if to stop her before she could do something hopelessly, monumentally stupid.

Like going back.

She did now slow down.

She should not be doing this. Even now, the voices were there in the back of her mind, reminding her that she was a demon, that she lacked compassion, that she did not care . She might die if she kept running. She might get grievously hurt. She had every bloody reason in the world to stand still and rethink her choices in life, and yet she … didn’t.

Standing still meant giving up on Thysandra.

And selfishness lost its meaning in the face of that thought.

Past the swords and arrows. Past the graveyard clearings. Up, up, up the hill, to where the mountain slope rose sharply from the earth. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her legs burned with the effort, and still she did not slow down.

How long would it take Nicanor to act?

The image of that mauled corpse wouldn’t leave her mind’s eye. She didn’t feel sorry for Gadyon, or at least not in the way Inga or Silas did – that deep, nauseous sorrow, as if they needed to feel the dead male’s pain on his behalf. But the archivist had been kind. He’d cared. Even if she couldn’t share in whatever his feelings must have been, she rationally, intellectually knew that he should not have died – and much, much more importantly, that no one else could follow him into hell.

She did not think she would survive it, finding Thysandra in that same spot, the hounds gnawing at her lifeless face.

Why , why had she left?

Hadn’t Mirova taught her what happened when she left?

It was the same old song all over again, a cruel, discordant tune that made her head spin. She walked, and behind her back, the world collapsed. Or not the world, even, but—

Home .

Where was that fucking mountain?

Be quick , Silas had told her, his face betraying the turmoil within him for once. He may already have set his plans in motion. We may already be too late.

She should have bitten off the bastard’s fingers when he’d looked at Thysandra with those greedy eyes.

Thysandra. Thysandra . With her stupid sense of duty and her stupid distrust. With her stupidly stunning smile. With her locks and her daggers and her ever-ready supply of red – with her fiercely guarded heart that had begun to open up at last … Perhaps it was selfishness, going back. Perhaps it was not that she wanted to spare Thysandra the pain but that she would hurt just as much herself, having to live in a world in which Thysandra was not happy.

Was that empathy?

Naxi no longer cared whether it was or not.

Because there , at long last, was the grey wall of the mountain’s slope, looming between the foliage. And there was the gate she’d been looking for, its irregular shape dark, specks of light flickering in the shadows beyond.

She staggered into the Labyrinth half-sobbing with exhaustion, trickles of blood running down her scraped and scratched legs. Around her, the caves vibrated with worry. Relief to see her again. Most of all, growing steadily stronger as Naxi pushed herself farther into the mountain, the sort of fury that felt like a question.

Who hurt you? that feeling asked. Who do we need to hurt?

Despite herself, Naxi laughed. High-pitched, hysterical laughter, like a declaration of war.

‘Let’s kill some fae, sweetheart.’