Page 6 of Curse of Thorns
The desk in the corner is larger than before, more ornate. Dark mahogany instead of white, a nice contrast. There’s a huge quadruple set of shelves covering the far wall full of books and a few knick-knacks. I cross the room, eyes pinned to a shoe wedged between two sets of leather-bound books.
A female’s lovely black heeled boot.
My breath comes out shaky as I stare at it. Had he had it back then? I didn’t notice.
I clear my throat and turn back to him. “So, how’re the plans to save the world coming?” I ask him casually, trying not to show any more emotion than necessary. This place brings up memories, good and bad. Memories better left buried.
My breathing is just a tad too shallow, heart-pounding too fast.
He watches me closely. His hair has grown since the end of the trials. Black locks, slightly curled at the ends are swept to the side so they don’t fall into his eyes. He’s wearing a casual tunic, the sleeves rolled to his elbows exposing his intricate black thorn tattoos. His eyes are bright silver.
“Not as well as I’d have hoped.” His eyes darken.
My eyebrows rise, but I shrug. “You’re not dead yet. Can’t be all that bad.” I smirk, but it fades as I notice his expression. Something is wrong.
“It’s... not good, I’ll tell you that.”
I purse my lips. “What is it?”
“You can’t tell anyone.” He lifts his shoulders in a lifeless shrug. “No mention of it. Not even to my father.”
I laugh. “Your father? You’re joking, right?” With any luck, I’ll never even be in the same room with that man ever again.
He shrugs. “You could assume he knows and let something slip in passing. He doesn’t; he doesn’t know.”
“Well, I’m very good with secrets.” I walk past the white cushioned bench and sit on the windowsill that overlooks a small copse of white-leaved trees in the courtyard below.
“I was supposed to enter the Schorchedlands three weeks ago.”
I open my mouth but stop and snap it back closed. Rev stares at the ground, his expression grim.
“Why haven’t you?” I say casually, but anxiety curls in my stomach. This mission is everything. To him and the realm.
He sits on the silver sheets of his massive four-poster bed that I have very purposefully not glanced toward. His hands fall into his lap, and he stares at them. This is a very different Rev than the one I know. Confident and proud, strong and determined. This Rev almost seems... defeated.
“In order to enter the Schorchedlands,” he begins slowly, “you must pass through the wall of thorns. It is impenetrable for a physical body—only bodiless souls can pass.”
I nod absently. It’s called “fae hell” for a reason. It is the permanent home for souls too wicked to find peace in the afterlife.
“The only exception is the Wicked Gate. The Wicked Gate is the only way in or out for anyone other than a wraith. And she will only allow one being to enter and return with their body intact every ten years.”
“Yes,” I prompt him to go on.
“Well, the gate refused me passage.”
Rev meets my eye, the color dimming. My stomach sinks.
“Why?” I breathe. “Someone else has already passed?”
He shakes his head.
“Then, what?”
“I went three weeks ago. The queen wanted to keep the journey quiet as long as possible, knowing my time inside may be longer than the courts expect and they would get nervous. So, I went without anyone knowing. I approached the gate, slit my arm, and pressed the blood against the door. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing at all?”
“It whispered to me. A message. It said,the one who enters must belong.You cannot pass. And then it flung me backward onto my damn butt.” He sighs. “I tried three times. It stopped whispering to me and wouldn’t even let me approach any longer.”
