Page 39 of Prince of Flowers
“But isn’t that one of the great joys of life? Experience, even if the experience means the stench of rotting flesh. Besides, I’d need to see one for myself before I can conjure it. In all my travels to Earth, I — ”
I smirked at him expectantly. He sat up and glowered.
“Oh, fine. Fine! So I visit every now and again, all right? Perhaps I sneak back and forth through the portals between Earth and the Verdance more than the average fae should. And why not? A prince should be free to explore and discover.”
I clucked my tongue, teasing. “That’s an explorer’s job, not a prince’s job.”
Sylvain folded his arms and huffed.
“But why did your people leave in the first place? Ages ago, I mean. The fae were as great as any of the powers of the Earth.”
“Right,” he said, reluctantly at first, but I recognized the spark of interest in his eyes. “The fae were as great as the gods, the angels, the demons. The gods have their domiciles, the others have heaven and hell, and yet they still squabble over the Earth. I wish I could tell you a single answer, but our scholars have argued over this for centuries.”
“And what have you concluded?” I asked. “Again, not mocking. I really want to know what you think.”
Sylvain inhaled slowly, eyes distant as he considered his answer. “Perhaps at some point my people felt the need to focus on our own realm instead of straddling the line in between. Why stay here and be at war with the entities when we had the Verdance to worry about? That’s my thinking, at least. Earth, I believe, can be a nice place to visit. Except for all the gods who seem to think it belongs to them.”
It was strange, how what he’d said still smacked of an attachment to my world, an unspoken possessiveness. “So that explains the resentment,” I said. “Between you and the gods. I remember how you were with Aphrodite.”
He picked up the book he stole from my bedroom. “So that explains the resentment,” he said, like that was his final answer. “I’m all out of words, Locke. Fancy that. You’ve finally talked my ear off.”
I laughed. “You’re the one who asked me to.”
Sylvain shook his head. “I’m joking, of course. Thank you for indulging me. Thank you for listening. Now I suppose it’s back to suffering through this horrendous book.”
He lifted the book to his face, opened the cover. Something fell out, rustling as it dropped onto his bedroll in a heap. I blinked.
“Sylvain. Is that a gossip rag?” I bent closer. “Gods, it is. That paparazzi stuff with all the celebs on the covers. Yikes.”
He snatched the magazine up, stuffing it back between my history book’s pages, cradling it all to his chest defensively. “I understood virtually none of the words that left your lips moments ago, but I know when I’m being insulted.”
“Where did you even find that thing?”
His eyes darkened. “One of your stupid gas stations that you leave all over the place. You and your consumption. If the Withering doesn’t ruin your beloved Earth, then good old pollution will.”
I sat there in shock, knowing that anything I said to the contrary would make me sound like the asshole. I wasn’t very well educated about environmental issues, but surely taking the side of oil spills and deforestation would make me the bad guy.
“Whatever,” I mumbled, tucking myself into my bedroll. At least his good mood had lasted long enough for me to learn a couple of new things about the Verdance. And a couple of new things about him, too.
I imagined Sylvain sneaking back into the Verdance with some stolen old magazines, a pile of weathered, brittle books, like a reverse magpie. Too unrealistic. Too ridiculous. I stifled a laugh, not wanting to annoy him further.
As I settled in, I thought I heard the flipping of pages from Sylvain’s bedroll.
16
I wokeup to a bloodcurdling roar, startled, but so groggy I must have been on the wrong end of a REM cycle. I sat up with bleary eyes and my hair in my face, shaking as I pulled my clothes on, flinching when a second roar came.
What the fuck was that? A wildcat? I picked up the closest thing within reach and tossed it at the sleeping lump on the other bedroll. Sylvain snorted and woke up with a start.
“Some warrior you are,” I hissed, “alert senses and all. Something is prowling around the outside of the tent.”
“I am a warrior-prince,” he hissed back, untangling himself from the bedding. “I fight well, but I sleep well, too.”
Always something with this guy. Where was my shoe? My other shoe? It came flying at my head. I caught it in one hand. Oh, right. The thing I’d thrown at Sylvain.
“Get ready,” I said, grimoire in hand as I approached the tent flap. He furrowed his brow and nodded. “On the count of three. One, two, and — ”
We burst out of the tent, sloppily dressed and barely ready to rumble. But there was no wildcat in sight. I turned in an irritated circle, scratching my head.
