Page 35 of Enslaved

I nod. His glamour has cocooned me in warmth, but my body shivers nonetheless. I wrap my arms around myself, holding tight. “Yes,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Wind whips against my face, hurling stinging droplets of rain at every exposed inch of skin. Thanks to the Prince’s spell, I scarcely feel it. It’s as though it’s happening to someone else, some other Clara in a different reality.

In truth, I’m not sure the spell is altogether necessary. Not at the moment at least. Not with the Prince seated so close behind me on the back of the wyvern, his legs framing my body, one arm wrapped firmly around my middle. My back rests flush against his broad chest, and I am painfully aware of how his unbuttoned shirt hangs open, as per usual. What is not usual is the single layer of linen between me and his bare skin. It doesn’t feel like much.

Heat unrelated to any fae glamour or spell pools in my gut.

I close my eyes. Gods on high, I must stay focused on the mission at hand! My life in recent history has been fraught with danger, but this? This might be the deadliest risk I’ve yet taken. Not just the dive, the swim, the drowning . . . but Seraphine herself. If I should make it to her palace alive, will she meet with me? Will she take a bargain or even permit me to live? I must be quick-witted and careful. And not let myself be distracted by the feeling of a large, strong hand pressed flat against my stomach, or the thumb resting just under the curve of my breast.

The Prince removed his coat before we set off but retained both his shirt and trousers. He wears a warming glamour as well, though he claims his fae blood should be sufficient protection in the depths. I’m not in the least disappointed that he felt no need to strip off a few more layers. It makes no difference to me. None at all.

The wyvern glides smoothly despite the wind and rain. Condensation beads and rolls off its pristine feathers. It’s such a beautiful being, this daydream of the Prince’s. I’d not thought him capable of inventing such loveliness. I suppose not all of us are born with darkness in our souls. Some have more to offer the world than monsters.

My brow darkens. I stare ahead over the wyvern’s arched neck, watching the far horizon, which never seems to draw any nearer. The Hinter Sea is so vast. Some say it’s endless. I’m not sure how either the Prince or his wyvern are navigating, but suddenly, sooner than I expect, the wyvern banks and begins a stomach-lurching descent. A little scream bursts from my lips.

The Prince’s arm tightens. “Don’t worry, Darling,” he murmurs into my ear. “I’ve got you.”

Oh gods! The things that voice of his does to me! My limbs go all weak and trembly, until I could almost melt into him. I tighten my grip on the wyvern’s feathers, force myself not to lean back into those strong arms, not to turn my face toward his, not to press my lips—

No! What is this stupidity? Even if I wanted to kiss anyone, now is not the time, not fifty feet above freezing ocean water, descending in a terrifying spiral. And I don’t want to kiss anyone. Certainly not him. I want to save Danny. I want to save Oscar. I want to accomplish this mission and get on with my life.

But why can I not get over the awareness of his lips hovering so close to my ear? The rhythm of his breathing, the expanding and contracting of his chest? I close my eyes again, unable to bear the sight of that spinning ocean below. But this makes it worse. Any slight movement of his is so exaggerated. The way he shifts in his seat, the way he adjusts his hand. The way he tips his head so that his nose just grazes my ear. Everything, every fractional movement sets off small thrills throughout my body.

“Here we are,” he says.

I gasp, my eyes flying open once more. The wyvern has settled into a holding pattern, gliding some twelve feet above the choppy waves. I look around. This stretch of ocean looks no different from the rest. “Are you sure this is it?” I ask.

“Quite.” The Prince reaches into the front of his shirt and withdraws the two flowers he’d hidden there for safekeeping. “It’s time to use these. Remember what you were told. It won’t stop water from filling your lungs, it will simply prevent it from killing you for three hours. It’s up to us to return to land and empty your lungs before the magic fades.”

My heart careens against my breastbone. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure I have the courage to go through with this. But as the wyvern continues its gliding circle, I accept the orange flower and hold it up to my face. It’s slimy, disgusting.

The Prince follows the crone’s directions first, biting the long stem and holding the two yellow stamens up to his nostrils. He breathes in sharply, and the stamens disappear. He squeezes his eyes tight, grimaces, then relaxes. The flower clings to his face like a parasite. It’s awful, and even when he signals that everything is well, I must force myself not to tear it off him. “It’s not too bad,” he says, talking around the stem, his voice a bit nasal. “A little strange, but . . .”

Instead of finishing that thought, he stands. Right there, on the wyvern’s back, as we dip closer to the water. “Come, Darling,” he says, holding out his arms to steady himself. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Without ceremony, he leaps. His lean, athletic body forms a perfect swan-dive, entering the water without a splash. The wyvern keeps on gliding, and I twist in place, straining to look back, to see if he surfaces again, perhaps to signal to me one last time. He does not. I look at the hideous flower. A shudder rushes through my body followed by a little whimper. But I can’t very well leave the Prince down there in the ocean alone, can I?

Holding the flower up to my face, I wince as the little stamens tickle my lip. Then, with a deep inhale, I draw them up into my nose. They creep much higher than I expected. It feels wrong. I want to scream and fling the blighted thing into the sea. I’m still able to breathe, but it’s difficult. How is this going to help me underwater? I suppose I must simply trust in the crone’s magic, trust she wasn’t lying to me. The fae cannot lie, after all. Then again, I’m not altogether certain sheisfae.

Before I can twist myself into knots of second-guessing, I stick the stem in my mouth, gag at the awful flavor, and pull one leg over the wyvern’s neck. Now I sit with both feet dangling over the water. Hoping the wyvern’s slow circle has brought us back within range of the Prince, I count to three and . . . push away.

The fall is greater than I anticipated. Perhaps it’s just a trick of my perceptions, but it feels as though I plummet for a small eternity, my chemise flapping up to my waist, my bare legs kicking beneath me. Suddenly, water closes in overhead. Part of me knows the icy impact should shock me to the bones. But the Prince’s magic holds. Though cold surrounds me, it can’t quite reach me. If anything, I’m warmer now than I was while flying, comfortable and safe in this enveloping glamour. What’s more, there’s light. My whole body is coated in a golden sheen which illuminates the water for a few feet around me. But this only shows me how alone I am. No sign of the Prince anywhere. No sign of anything—just darkness.

My body jolts. On instinct, I start to pull for the surface. I can’t bear to be down here in this murky world under wave by myself. My lungs are already beginning to burn, and I can’t . . . I won’t . . .

A hand grips my arm.

My heart lurches with terror, images of merfolk and monsters filling my head. But when I whip about, it’s the Prince who shimmers before my vision, illuminated by glamour glow. His eyes stare at me above the petals of his flower. He shakes his head and signs that I should breathe. But I can’t. I can’t! If I breathe, I will draw water into my lungs. And I’ll drown. But I have to drown, right? That’s part of the deal. I cannot enter Seraphine’s kingdom otherwise.

My lungs are burning, and the dark ocean surrounds me, and panic thrills in my blood. It’s one thing for a crone to tell you her magic flower will keep you from dying; it’s another thing entirely to believe it.

A sudden gleam sparks in the Prince’s eye.Hope.He thinks I’m going to give up. He thinks I’m going to turn around, defeated at last. He thinks this is it, the end of my quest.

I will not give him that satisfaction.

I draw a breath.

Water pours into my mouth, around the flower stem. It chokes down my throat, into my lungs. My body jerks, jolts. It hurts more than I expected. It hurts to watch the last of my air bubbles speed to the surface. It hurts to let the water in, to feel it filling my lungs, my chest. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and I . . .

The Prince pulls me to him. He holds me against his chest as terror and panic and pain rush through me in waves. I can do nothing but cling to him, cling to his strength. I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on the feeling of his arms around me, of glamour protecting me. Slowly, I draw another breath. Of water. The flower stamens in my nostrils tickle but remain in place. I breathe liquid into my lungs, breathe it out again, and the stamens filter each breath.

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