Page 36 of The Surrender

From the first moment that I welcomed the babe into my arms, I stitched the tattered strings of my heart together.

A new memory, a first feeling to rewrite the history of my empty arms whenever I’d yearned to hold a child. These moments are the needles scrawling delicate ink upon my skin.

When Zephella invites me to a labor, to a birth just after the man with brown hair, brown eyes, and brown wings has burst into the treehouse, I freeze. Caught halfway between my whole body lurching with willingness and my heart retreating into the barest recesses of my chest like a frightened creature.

“I am a midwife,” explains Zephella as she gathers a sack bound to a strong rope she heaves over her shoulders. “You are welcome to come.” She doesn’t mention the Kings.

The brown-winged man lingers near the door left ajar, his fingers tight, shoulders edge. His throat bobs, showing his anxiety even more than his eyes.

Licking my lips, I gaze down at little Sylie. It would be safer to stay here. Safer to simply be in this place with the life in my arms. I consider the small handful of births where I failed...and the price I paid for that failure. Invisible icy fingers crawl along my spine. An unseen force I’ve been running from my whole life spreads into my veins to poison my blood. I’m frozen in that place.

They all fade from Kyan’s touch when his knuckles stroke my cheek again. A reminder of how I’m not a half-ghost anymore. Chest warming, blood thawing from the simple caress, I muster a faint yet strong smile and nod my acceptance to Zephella.

“Come, then. We have no time to waste.”

As soon as I step outside behind Zephella, the three Kings waiting for me smile. Well, what passes for a smile from Merikh which is more of a softened frown. The shadow of Kyan’s wings eclipses me and the sleeping child at my chest. I don’t have the chance to offer them more than a passing glimpse.

Not when I must quicken my steps to keep pace with Zephella and the man with the brown wings. While they may not fly, the feathers fused into their arms give their bodies more lightness. Now and then, I notice how they flutter above the walkways—an interconnected system of bridges and staircases and paths to bind the treehouses as one village.

Several feet ahead of me, they cross another bridge and turn another corner, disappearing from sight. I may have feathers, but I simply wear mine. I’ve never felt more imprisoned by gravity. Then, Kyan plucks me from the ground with his strong arms, raising me higher. His wings striking the air and stirring the branches of the trees. I breathe a relieved sigh. He bears me in a honeymoon hold, so I am free to cradle the sling housing the precious cargo. The other Kings have no trouble keeping pace.

The fallen angel must dodge and swing to evade the branches clawing at one another from the thrust of his wind. Wherever he flies, villagers retreat into their homes or close their curtains. I’d swear they reserve their icy features with narrow-slitted eyes for me...not Kyan. My pulse hammers. I part my lips and look at the babe as the wind ruffles the dark fluff on her head. If I remind them of some ancient torment, would it have been better for me not to have come? Or...

Something flutters in my chest like frantic moth wings. Could I possibly gain their trust? Have I even gained Kyan’s? As he bears to the left, making for a larger treehouse in the center of the village where Zephella and the man enter, I look up. Meet his eyes even as he curves his wings to prepare for a landing.

He lowers his chin. Pupils dilating. Grip strengthening. Claws extending. And I tilt my head to the side to welcome whatever words Shadow has for me.

“Show me those wounds in your soul so dark. Show me those scars and your pretty cursed marks,” he bids me in a whisper, a breath like cold feathers caressing my skin and raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

I swallow hard, understanding what he wants. But he’s landed before the treehouse, and Zephella has entered. Eager for a gap of distance between me and Kyan’s demon, I take longer strides and hurry into the larger house. The layout is similar to Zephella’s but only more expansive. And more clutter, more books, more plants, or what serves for plants in the Waste. I smile at the weeping roses. And the bigger tree in the center.

“Make haste!” caws Zephella, her beak and eyes targeting me as she makes her way up the winding staircase to the second floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, Kyan and the other Kings linger beyond the doorway, understanding they are not invited to this moment. Without a second’s hesitation, I clamber up the stairs, supporting Sylie’s neck with one hand while I grip the railing and watch my footing on the strong but crude wooden steps.

The second floor leads to a large rotunda of a bedroom with six arched windows and a bed against the far left wall. The quiet groans and labored breaths are familiar sounds, but each one pierces through the fabric of my consciousness to dredge up a thousand memories. I stop a few feet short of the bed. Struggle to control my breath from the sight of the birthing mother lying upon several thick blankets.

On one side of her, the brown-winged man holds her hand. No, more like she’s locked his palm in a death grip—strong enough to break knuckles. But despite his strained neck muscles and the color drained from his face, he doesn’t voice one peep of a complaint. On the other, Zephella advances toward the bed where a tall man stands nearby with his hands folded as he speaks tender, encouraging words to the mother.

Curious, I lift my brows as I take a moment to study him. Soft black strands of his hair cascade down his back in a neat plait. His skin is pale but not sickly. The muscles in his cheeks are calm as he stares at the birthing mother with thick lashes framing his deep-set eyes. When he shifts them to my figure, I almost shrink from their color—a mirrored version of mine. The icy gray of his spectral orbs could pass for the twins of my eyes. They pierce. A perception so sharp, I feel his gaze knifing right to my core. And then, the corners of his lips curl into a welcoming smile. One that seems to hum its warmth into my belly. He nods a silent greeting.

I break first. And swing my eyes to the bed.

“Damn!” hisses Zephella, and my chest tightens in concern from how she’s pressing upon the mother’s belly. “The baby turned. Fine naught a few days ago. Quintessa, come here,” she commands.

My feet have sealed to the floor. A tremor shudders through me. My breath hitches. My heart rate gallops while my blood thunders in my ears. A baby in breech. The cord wrapped around the boy’s neck. Skin so white. Lips too blue. Eyes hollow. Soul stripped away. My vym was not enough to save him. I failed. The terror tears through me. My trauma ices my veins with the essence of tragedy. And the sleeping child in my arms feels heavier than a millstone.

I’m ready to run again when a firm nudge upon my back jolts me out of my memories. I spin to find the Lord of the Court of Storms behind me. His massive wings splayed, skirting each wall. Despite the shadows surrounding me, his sudden presence steadies my spasming chest. I suck a deep breath to fill my struggling lungs as he curves his wings around the edges of my body.

“Time to show me your pretty haunted heart. Time to show them your pretty binding art,” Shadow croons, but his brutal eyes suggest no humor. They and his wings hemming me in allow me no escape.

“Kr-Kronos,” I begin, but my voice is so hoarse and cracked from raw fear, I must try again, “Kronos said he devoured my vym.”

Yes, I survived the Hag’s trial, found Drago’s soul, and died in the process. Our spirits met in that shadowland in passing, but I can’t possibly know what happened in those moments. Drago didn’t speak of it. And we’ve had no time to discuss it here in the Court of Storms. Did my vym return when he gave me half his soul?

My mind scrambles through the questions and possibilities. In the background, the mother’s groans deepen. Zephella curses, alerting me to the urgency.

Kronos said the gods ate my half-soul he was saving for himself. Pieces of my soul and pieces of theirs come to me every time we couple. Does that include my vym? I gaze down at my trembling palms, at the scrollwork of ink over the scars.

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