“Ready, Attie?” Iris whispered, her fingers wrapping around the sword’s hilt.
“Yes,” Attie replied. “Don’t forget the wax!”
Iris had forgotten it amidst the wonder and terror of the under realm. She reached into her pocket and found the wax ball, quickly dividing it and then stuffing some into each ear.
It was like sinking underwater.
She could no longer hear the hiss of the pools, the ringing magic of Dacre’s flute. She could no longer hear Attie’s voice or her footsteps, or the first note her friend coaxed from the violin strings. Iris could only hear her own breath and her heart, pounding a steady rhythm in her ears.
She unsheathed the sword. It glimmered, like the steel was laughing, amused to find itself reflecting the under realm.
Iris let it bite her palm. Her blood flowed like a bright red promise, and she took the hilt again.
She felt Attie nudging her.
Iris glanced behind her, only to see Attie’s eyes were wide with terror, her fingers slowing on the strings as she backed away.
“Iris!” Attie’s mouth shaped her name.
Iris whirled just in time to see Dacre loom over them, his eyes glowing like embers, his blond hair shimmering. He reached out his hand to strike them; the girls scattered, Iris going left, Attie going right.
Iris ran a few steps along the winding stone path, minding the pools. But she turned, watching Dacre’s shadow fade through the steam. He was chasing Attie, which meant Attie had to stop playing to evade him.
Iris pursued him, sneaking up from behind. Dacre was crouched forward, preparing to lunge for Attie, who was gripping her violin by its neck, unable to play as she dodged and ducked.
With a grunt, Iris swung the tip of the sword out in a wide arc.
She knew that her cut would come up short. It only grazed Dacre’s long hair. The strands instantly broke, drifting down as a thousand golden threads.
He paused, as if he felt the sting of every broken strand. Slowly, he turned, looking at Iris with such malice that it made her heart stutter.
She stepped back. He crept forward.
He smiled, revealing the flash of his teeth, and he licked them, like he was imagining how her death would taste. And then he raised the flute to his lips and blew.
Iris didn’t know if Attie was playing again. She didn’t know how long her friend would have to play before the magic snared him, but she was rattled by the fact that Dacre wasn’t slowing. The violin didn’t seem to have any effect on him, and Iris was beginning to believe that Enva had fooled her.
All you divines do is lie, Iris’s mind cried as she ran from one bone-and-chain-littered path to the next, feeling Dacre gain on her. You care only for yourselves.
She thought he was on her heels until he emerged from the steam before her. She slid to a halt and flinched as Dacre struck her hard across the face.
She felt one of her back molars dislodge as she spun and hit the ground, only a handbreadth from a sulfur pool. She coughed up blood and her tooth. Her heart was frantic, its rhythm throbbing in her ears.
But she still held the sword in her bleeding right hand. And she was too slow as Dacre set his boot on that wrist, threatening to press hard. As he did, Iris winced, knowing he would grind every tendon to dust.
The only thing that stopped him was a sudden windstorm. Iris panted, her eyes stinging. Hair whipped across her face as she lifted her chin and saw the eithrals hovering above them, flying in circles. Dacre had called them back to aid him, and Iris didn’t know if she should weep or laugh, to realize the bombing had halted, but only because the eithrals would now pick her bones clean after Dacre was finished with her.
The sight of the beasts made her incendiary. She fought and flailed, teeth grinding as she worked to slip her way free.
Dacre pressed his foot harder on her wrist. She cried out in pain as his long, cold fingers slid into her hair, moving down to her throat.
This was the end, she realized, freezing as Dacre prepared to snap her neck.
Iris swallowed, tasting the copper of her blood. The salt of her sweat.
She closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, but it was strange how fear seemed to wane, leaving behind nothing but brilliant stars in her mind. And in that lacuna of darkened time, she found herself waiting for the impossible.
For the magic to still gather.
* * *
Roman held his breath, straining to hear over the gurgle of the pools around him.
To his utter shock, a violin was playing in the distance. Its wistful lullaby claimed the underworld like myrrh-hearted perfume on the wind. He had never given much thought to how music tasted or smelled, but this song was reminiscent of the brine of the winter sea, strawberry cake on the first day of spring, the fragrance of moss-covered woods just after the rain.