She scuttled backward across the ground, boot heels churning up roots and rock. A scream hung in the back of her throat, one she wouldn’t let loose, and her eyes couldn’t leave Eammon. Power curled up from her center, blooming like a vine, nearly solid. Nearly a weapon.
Eammon slammed his sliced hand to the shadow-churned dirt. The monster’s sharp teeth came down, and he backhanded it away, the desperate movement sending blood drops flying. Where they fell, the darkness on the ground healed for a moment, but it was like rain on a house fire, too little and too weak. The thing roared.
Red stopped, hair tangled in branches, teeth set and chest burning. It wasn’t fear that drummed her heartbeat, not anymore— it was anger, anger to see Eammon bleeding himself dry, anger that he had to.
Shatter-edged magic climbed through her veins like ivy.
Every movement was unthinking instinct. Red stood, arched her fingers, and the Wilderwood arched with her, synced to her movements. With a snarl, she thrust her hands forward, the taste of earth in her mouth and green in her veins, gathering every bit of magic she could from the thin thread of it winding through her frame.
The forest followed her lead.
That tearing-metal scream reached a crescendo as vines wrapped the beast’s awful length, squeezing until the gore-caked sides split, opened. The creature whipped from side to side, tangling in reaching branches, ripping itself on thorns grown long and sword-sharp until it fell with a sound like a thunderclap, pieces of it breaking away as it hit the ground, stinking of decay. The parts that landed in the shadow-pit sank slowly down; the parts that landed outside the ring of darkness sat like lumps of meat. Unattached to the whole, rot set in quickly, eating through the flesh like acid.
One more screech, one more thrash, and the monster was gone.
Slowly, Red straightened her fingers, and as she did, the Wilderwood sheathed its weapons. Thorns shrank, branches bent back, vines slithered into the underbrush. The forest settled and was silent.
The shadow-pit still marred the ground, but nothing rippled beneath it. Next to the edge, Eammon slumped on his knees, eyes wide. But then he looked to her, and pushed himself up, and walked across the forest floor like he was a compass needle with her as north star.
Her whole body felt numb. Red nearly swayed toward Eammon’s waiting warmth, caught herself. “What was that?”
“I told you to run.” His bloody hand raised, like he might touch her, then fell away empty. “You don’t know what could’ve happened, you could—”
Red grabbed his sliced hand, jerked it toward her so he would follow. “And leave you alone? You keep asking me to do that, and I won’t, Eammon.”
His eyes on her mouth, his non-bloodied hand curling to touch her cheek, like his body couldn’t keep up with his words. “It’s for your own good.”
“I won’t,” she murmured again, and there was so little space between them that she barely had to move to press her lips to his.
One beat of surprise, both of them frozen. Then they melted together, easy as water running downhill, as breath pulled into waiting lungs.
One of Eammon’s hands gripped her hip, the other coming up to cup the back of her neck. She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth like it was something she could claim; he made a low noise in his throat, arm cinching around her waist, pulling her so close there was no room for light between. Red’s fingers sank into his hair, pulling it loose from its knot to sweep softly against her wrists. When her nails brushed his scalp, his breath hitched.
Red pressed as close as she could, something deep and desperate pulling at her. She’d kissed and more than kissed, but never with this need— like they were two pieces fitting back together, like her edges were meant for his hollows. His fingers dug into her hips, the ground fell away, then her back pressed against tree bark. Her only lucid thought was sharp disappointment when his mouth briefly left hers, and savage satisfaction when it came back.
Then— a harsh breath against her collarbone as Eammon straightened. “No.”
Confusion pushed through the warm muddle of her thoughts. Her feet were on the ground again, and she had no memory of how it happened. Her lips felt tender, his blood was in her hair. Around them, the growth of the forest seemed to arch in their direction, the edges of ferns and leaves greening.
Eammon’s jacket lay on the ground; he bent to pick it up, his back to her. His hand hung by his side, the palm still lacerated, but his fingers bent in and outward, casting off the memory of her skin.
“Why?” Her throat felt tight, only enough space for one word.