I stretch out my hand desperately to Arien, but Rowan’s grip tightens on my arm; I can’t get loose.
“No,” he rasps, a harsh plea beneath his breath. “No, no, no.”
My heart spikes sharp with terror as the mud rises up over Arien’s hands. It covers his wrists, his forearms, rising until he’s submerged to his elbows, his face only a kiss from the ground. Blotches of shadows—of magic—shift and swirl under the surface of his skin. He grimaces, teeth bared in a snarl, the muscles cording in his neck with effort.
“Please!” I sob. “Please, it’s going to kill him!”
Arien screams.
The sound comes from everywhere, all at once. This isn’t his voice, not any sound I’ve ever heard him make, even when gripped by the worst of his nightmares. A scream, a roar, a howl, all tangled together. The cries fill my ears, my blood, the world.
Rowan shoves me away. He goes toward the wound, toward the torn-up mud. He grabs Arien roughly by the back of his shirt, pulls him to his feet and away from the water. I rush forward and catch Arien in my arms. My foot twists, and we fall down together, hard against the ground.
I hold him tight against me. He’s stopped screaming now. His eyes are blank.
“I’ve got you.” I brush his hair back from his sweat-damp cheeks, leaving dark streaks of mud on his skin. “I’ve got you.”
Clover stands beside Rowan at the edge of the wound. “You’ll have to…” She trails off, her face anguished.
Rowan takes off his cloak, dropping it heedlessly into the mud behind him. His hand goes to his wrist. His fingers hook under the edge of his sleeve. He pushes it up past his elbow, baring the skin above the black line of his glove.
He has a knife in his hand. Small and neat, the blade fitted into the handle. He unfolds it in a quick, practiced motion. The steel has a sharp, silvered edge that gleams as it catches the fading sunlight. My stomach twists, sickened by the horror of what is happening.
Rowan puts the blade to his wrist.
Everything happens so swiftly. The images separate into flashes.
His skin.
The knife.
A cut.
He carves into himself without any hesitation. That image—of everything—is what lingers when I finally wince my eyes shut. How steady his hand is when he drives the blade deep into his arm and slices himself open.
Rowan kneels in the mud and shoves his opened wrist against the ground. A coil of earth rises up and binds his arm, wrapping around him, climbing higher until it snares his throat. He stays terribly, terribly still, not even resisting as it starts to pull him downward. His arm—the one he cut—is now completely buried in the earth. His head bends, his mouth opens, and the strands of darkness slither inside.
“Rowan.” I whisper his name, a sharp, hurt sound.
His head snaps up. Our eyes meet. His skin is veined with dark all along the sides of his neck. The thornlike scars that wreathe his throat stand out, angry and raised. His eyes are crimson, bloodshot, his pupils huge and black.
This is the darkness I glimpsed when I first saw him. The shadows that limned his edges, always just out of reach. Now it’s here, laid bare. I watch as he changes, as his gaze turns cold, as he is overtaken by feral, cruel hunger.
He stares at me, unblinking.
“Violeta.” It’s the first time he’s said my name. His voice is like the hiss of the waves against the shore. “Violeta, get away from here right now.”
I let the whole world close down. I shut out the sound of the lake. The feel of the ground as it trembles. Clover’s voice, frightened and urgent. I let it all fade away until there’s only Arien’s hand in mine—our skin gritted with mud, his fingers gone cold. I get to my feet. He moves like a sleepwalker as he follows me.
When we reach the place where the forest thins to the narrow garden, we almost collide with Florence, who is coming down from the house. I shove past her. She calls out to us, but I don’t stop. I don’t turn.
I grip Arien’s hand tight, and I start to run.
Chapter Seven
Hand in hand, with the silent trees around us, it’s like we’re in the woods near the wayside again. Now that I know the truth, I wish I’d never turned back that night. When the wolf wounded Rowan, I should have left him there on his knees, taken Arien, and run far, far away.
I drag Arien into the overgrown, weed-tangled garden at the front of the house. I slump back against the wall, trying to catch my breath, as a plan takes shape in my mind. We’ll run along the drive to where the arched iron gateway opens onto a road. If we follow it for long enough, we’ll find the village we passed on the way here.