Page 55 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

“It’s illumination moss,” Mármaro answered my unasked question. “It first started appearing a few months ago. Handy to have around when wandering through the woods at night.”

“Very,” I said while coquettishly lowering my lashes in my attempt to make my acting seem real, then brushed down the front of myself to rid any excess dirt or mud and reached out for Mármaro’s hand.

It felt wrong to hold a hand other than Steele’s. He’d understand. I needed to make Mármaro believe me. Believe I’d chosen him.

With his sword, he hacked away at the plant life. The trees wept from the loss of a branch or vine. It caused me sharp, physical pain. The longer I stayed in Roshambo, the longer I connected with the air, the ground and the trees, the deeper that connection became.

Too caught up in his own goals to see the reality spreading out before him, the ground subtly cleared the path winding the way they wanted us to go. The tree cover grew lighter and sparser to the right, where the first signs of rock and mountains elevated the landscape. Where Mármaro thought we headed. To the left the outliers awaited my arrival. They called to me. Welcomed me home. And I couldn’t wait to get there.

I bent down to caress a wildflower growing through the crack of a rock. In truth I called to the wind to put my plan of action into play. Free from Vráchos lands, I needed the trees,my trees, to make a diversion and they complied splendidly.

A rustling came from behind an outcropping of low bushes. Mármaro had to assume a person or animal stalked us or hid from us because that was exactly what I would think if I hadn’t staged the whole thing.

His hand raised to stop me. “Wait here,” he whispered.

I nodded.

He crept toward the outcropping. Silent and crouched, ready to spring.

Without his noticing, I stepped farther away from him, deeper into my outliers. Closer to Steele.

Then I struck. Digging my feet into the soil, I ground myself with the environment, commanding the grass into action. Slithering up his legs, the tall grasses wrapped around his calves and up over his knees. He struggled to tear his feet up, but the grass anchored him and he teetered back and forth, about ready to fall. The sword turned into a brace when stuck firmly into the ground.

“Move,” I ordered the land in front of me, and a path opened. “Lead me to the Forfex prince.”

So distracted attempting to free himself from the tangle of grasses, Mármaro neglected to see me take off. And once out of his sight, I ran like my best friend’s life depended on it—because it did.

Stones rolled and roots sunk back into the soil to keep my pace unhindered and make sure I didn’t trip or roll my ankle. The wind pushed me from behind to gain speed. Back home I would’ve probably broken records.

“Millie,” someone finally screamed in the distance, from behind, not ahead. Mármaro, it appeared, had figured out I’d gone missing.

Twenty-One

Flesh to the rescue, prince

THE BLOOD PUMPED FASTER, POUNDING IN MY HEART to the point of pain, but I had to keep pushing forward. Tired, my muscles about two seconds from seizing up on me, the path finally opened up to reveal a beautiful lake. Bright pink, no doubt from the algae. I’d seen pictures of lakes like this in places like Australia on the internet back home.

Simply put, it was magnificent.

There wasn’t a ripple of movement in the water. The word pristine came to mind.

I bent over bracing my hands to my knees and chugged down the fresh air. With my wind-knotted hair and sweat-glistened skin, I must’ve looked like a real winner. It was a good thing that I knew with everything in me that Steele loved me and wouldn’t care how I looked when he got me back, so long as he got me back.

But speaking of Steele, there was no Steele in sight. I forced myself to stand straight and began to search.

“Steele?” I called out.

Nothing.

“Steele?” I called again, but there was still no response and I started to panic. What if he hadn’t gotten to the water in enough time? Or what if the thingies in the water that were supposed to heal him but hated men decided to finish the job the warecats’ started? “What do I do?” I asked the air.

The wind left me. The trees remained quiet. Eerily quiet. What in the holy-whoseit-whatsit was going on?

“This isn’t a good time to leave me alone,” I shouted to absolutely no one as I bent down to touch the tips of my fingers to the surface of the lake. Warmth spread throughout my whole hand. The water held a viscous quality, making the liquid more like a thin oil than water, and it smelled of the sweetest perfume—honey, citrus and lavender. However, the beauty of the fragrance faded quickly, marred by a muddy, chemical smell. A kind of burning-swamp plants-and-plastic scent bordering on acrid.

I wrinkled my nose.

At the same time, from the center of the lake, the tips of several heads pierced the tranquility. Their hair flowed—silver and shimmering. No fewer than seven women formed a wide circle. Seven bare-breasted—no, as they rose it became abundantly clear, fully-naked women. Beautiful rounded curves. Their skin glittered like starlight. And in the center of the circle the body of a man emerged. Laid flat. Encased in a bubble that popped when it hit the air.

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