How long had she been walking? Time sometimes seemed to pass differently in the Realm. She couldn’t tell if that was real or another of its illusions. It was dark underfoot and far too bright overhead. The world seemed upside down. But she pressed on. Time might be acting differently, but she wasn’t. Stupidly, possibly, but not differently. She followed the path.
It opened out into another clearing.
And the greenman crouched in the center.
As she stepped out from the tree line, it looked up, its eyes burning behind the mess of leaves and briar of its face.
Run!
Tom’s voice screamed at her down through the years. Puck’s joined it until a cacophony of panic rang through her mind.
Run, Jenny, run!
But if she ran, it would chase her. And if she ran and it chased her—
It would run her down. It would catch her.
And then what?
Jenny paused just inside the tree line, holding her weapon before her. “Where’s Jack?” It came out as no more than a whisper. She tried again. “What have you done with him?”
The thing crept forward, and she watched, fascinated, horrified. It was made of the forest, part of it. In a mostly human form, and not. It flowed and transformed as it moved—leaves, vines, briars, buds, bark, and moss. A thousand other things. The forest itself. Fluid, dangerous, alien…and yet not alien, not here in the forest where it lived.
Run, Jenny.
A small sound escaped her throat, her chest tightening so hard it hurt. The smell engulfed her, rich and moist, the scent of soil and mulch, of things springing to life out of things decaying and rotting away, back into the earth, returning anew with spring. She had smelled it before—the night it took Tom, in Branley Copse, in Sherwood Forest, in the night at the Woodsman’s cottage. Tonight, when it had attacked Puck. She knew its scent.
“What do you want?” she asked.
It cocked its head to one side, a strange feline movement that made her start. And then it dashed away from her, leaves fluttering like rags behind it.
So fast, so fluid. It flew through the clearing and into the trees at the far side.
“Wait!” she yelled, and lurched after it, clumsy on mortal legs, her body not cooperating as she plunged along the path, into the shadows left long by the fading moonlight. What was she doing? What on earth was she doing? It didn’t matter. She had to know. She had to know why it took Tom. And what it had done to Jack.
Red streaks rose in the sky. Dawn. The night was almost gone, but she couldn’t lose it, not now. Reckless and wild with need, she rounded a curve in the path and there it was, just standing there, studying something in its gnarled hands. Head bent, shoulders hunched, it looked like little more than a mossy stump overgrown with ivy and mistletoe, speckled in the light of dawn through the trees. It turned, just as Jenny, unable to halt her headlong rush in the mud and leaves, skidded into it. She went down as if she had hit a boulder. Thorns snagged on her clothes and skin, tearing through as if they were barbed wire. A shot of pain went through her—or was it terror?—and she slammed into the ground.
“Jenny!” a voice like the cracking of branches in a high wind reached her ears.
Jack’s voice, distorted with pain. Oh, thank God, he was alive. He was okay. But she wasn’t. The image of the broken Woodsman flashed to her mind. She braced herself for that pain.
“Jenny.” Jack’s voice again. Jack, coming to rescue her from her own stupidity. Jack, who would be too late. Her stomach plunged and she tensed—
But nothing happened.
She forced her eyes to open.
The greenman was gone, as if it had never been. The next thing she knew, Jack gathered her in his arms. This time she didn’t struggle.
“What happened? You’re hurt. What are you doing out here?”
“I saw it.” She gulped down air and tried to force the words out. “I saw the greenman.”
He touched her scratched arms, the rip in her shirt, his fingers fumbling where he tried to be gentle. “Did it…” His voice caught. “Did it do this?” He was trembling, she realized, his eyes shining. Jack—grim and hard as stone—Jack was shaking all over.
“It was the thing that took Tom. It was— Jack? What’s wrong?”
He pushed himself back from her, almost throwing himself away; all gentleness she’d thought she’d found in him a moment earlier gone.
“What were you doing out here?” His voice was a brittle crack. “Why can’t you do what you’re told?”
“I was looking for you!”
“You had no cause, no need.”
“That thing attacked Puck. It came after us both. What was I meant to do?”
Blood drained from his strained face, leaving its stark contours prominent. “Puck? Is he hurt? Is he alive?”
“Yes. I stopped it and it took off. I went after it. We—Puck and I—we’d heard a scream. I thought it had—I thought you—”
“You should leave me be!” His voice broke against the trees and the birds took flight, crying out. He cradled his temples in his fingers, bent forward as if struggling for balance. “You are nothing to me but a weight around my neck.”
She choked as he said the words and stared at him.
She was such a fool. Such an idiot. How could she have even dreamed that someone…something like Jack…How could she have allowed herself to feel anything at all?
No heart, Puck had said, and like a fool she had tried to give him one. Because she knew that feeling—like being broken inside—and she’d wanted to…to fix him, even if she couldn’t fix herself. She’d wanted to feel something.
She got to her feet. Stumbled. Then let her legs take over and she ran, blindly, tearing her way through the trees without thought of where or why. She just ran. She had to put as much distance between them as she could. Time to think. Time and space and—
You are nothing to me but a weight around my neck.
chapter thirteen
Jenny ripped her way through the forest, using her arms to pull herself forward on trees and branches, her legs pounding on the narrow dirt path, while around her the light swelled and grew brighter, the sun rising on the Realm.
Her legs and lungs ached, and eventually she slowed, too exhausted to carry on. Jack had tried to trick her. He’d lied to her. He’d made promises, then rejected her. She owed him nothing.
Jenny stumbled as she broke through the trees and out onto a sloping riverbank. The river was much wider here, deeper too. The far side was blurred and indistinct. A waterfall plunged from the cliffs to her left, into a splash pool so dark at the center it looked bottomless. She slipped and fell to her knees, then crawled to the water’s edge and scooped up the river water, splashing it onto her face, drinking it down. It cooled her skin, her mouth, soothed her burning eyes. She lingered there, panting. For how long, she didn’t know. The rushing of the waterfall filled her ears, its spray like a mist settling over her.
Then from somewhere far off she heard the music—gentle strains of an ancient melody Tom used to play. He had learned the tunes for her, when she couldn’t manage them herself, and he’d played them, one after another, for her. Just for her. This version was sad, almost plaintive, like a voice calling her. It wasn’t a flute, though. Not this time. Though for a moment she thought…like a memory…
Over the rush of the nearby waterfall, the sweet strains of music resolved themselves into the sound of a harp. Jenny sat up, wiping the water from her eyes. She had never heard a tune quite like it. After every second she thought she knew it came another where it was made anew. Old and fresh at the same time, beguiling. It stilled the trembling in her body, draining it out of her like the antidote to a poison. She got to her feet. Her mind drifted in a swirl of music. She knew the tune. Something struggled in the back of her thoughts—something she should know, something she should heed—but she couldn’t really hear it…
Where the waterfall tumbled madly down the cliff, where the wid
e pool stretched out before her, impossibly deep and bright, she saw a young man perched on a boulder. He looked about eighteen, although she knew in this place that could mean he was anything from a day old to a thousand years. He had an odd flat red hat perched atop his head at a jaunty angle. Her first thought was that he didn’t compare to Jack, but the idea slithered into the recesses of her mind before she could quite grasp it.
She stopped, hesitating, the music washing over her again. The boy before her was handsome. His golden hair hung around his ears in curls as full as wood shavings stripped with a plane. His eyes were closed, and his finely sculpted face lifted to the dawn. In one hand he cradled a golden harp, and the fingers of the other moved deftly over the flashing strings. A faint smile played on his lips, his own music enchanting him as it enchanted her.
Without thinking, she sank down to sit amid the reeds on the bank, listening to the melody. It evoked a dozen half-remembered dreams of pure joy. And though it was entirely new to her now, she felt she knew it, or that she had always known it, that it was part of her. Thoughts of anything or anybody else bled from her mind.
The final notes trailed away, leaving an emptiness she couldn’t fill.
The young man opened his eyes, the color of cornflowers, so blue they seemed to glow from within, and he smiled a smile that made her smile back.
“That was…” She struggled for a word, but anything she said would demean it.
His glorious smile broadened. “It was,” he agreed, and slid the harp into the safety of its leather case. “I didn’t realize I had an audience. It’s an old tune. They call it ‘Hurry to the Marriage.’”
She knew it now. Though he played it as a tragic lament—not the jaunty, jumpy melody Tom had preferred—it still swept her along like the river itself. She knew it like she knew her own brother. Memory mixed with music; it sang to her of Tom and all she had lost.
The harpist must have taken her silence for ignorance, or dismay, and smiled. “Do you play? I could teach it to you.”
She shook her head ruefully, remembering suddenly Mrs. Whitlow and the exasperated music teachers at St. Martha’s. “I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve never been very musical.” That had always been Tom’s realm.
The young man climbed down lightly, and Jenny’s eyes focused on him again. Only on him. He moved with the same grace as his music. Though water dripped from the hem of his loose white shirt, the rest of his clothes were dry. His feet were bare and she could make out a light webbing between his toes. The slight imperfection captivated her.
“I could teach you to play,” the harpist said, slowing his approach. “I can teach anyone. It’s my gift, and it’s only right to share gifts with others.” She smiled at that thought, tempted beyond words. Though she’d never admitted it, not even to herself, she’d always wished to be half as skilled as her brother. To have half his talent. To have people listen to her, to look at her with that kind of wonder. His gifts. What would it be like to be able to do that…to make such music…
The harpist crossed the open space carefully, closer to the water than to the trees. One might say he crept toward her, but Jenny recognized it as the caution of any wild creature approaching something unknown. She swallowed hard. This close he was even more handsome. His skin caught the light and shimmered like mackerel scales. His eyes captured hers. “You’re hurt,” he whispered. “Let me help you.”
Scratched and grazed as she was, she barely felt it anymore. Blood had hardened on the wounds, dirt smeared her skin and clothes. She couldn’t think of what to say, so she just nodded.
She was meant to be doing something…looking for Tom? Yes. And someone was meant to be with her. Helping her. He’d promised when she’d given him…The musician knelt beside her, took out a white handkerchief—who used a handkerchief these days?—and dipped it in the river. Carefully, with the delicacy of a surgeon, he reached out.
Jack. Jack had been helping her. Hadn’t he?
Then why did even just a thought of him sting?
The harpist touched her skin and it felt like the music returned, swirling around her, through her like water. Her heart was the rhythm that he needed, his music the melody her heart wanted to hear. For a moment, she wondered what his name was, wondered why she didn’t ask, but it didn’t do to question anyone too closely here. She felt the truth of this firmly, but couldn’t quite say why. Besides, it was rude. If she started pestering him with questions now, he might take offense and leave. The last thing she wanted to do was lose sight of him. Everyone else she had met had been flawed, or plain, or simply ugly in comparison—except for Jack’s eyes. The rogue thought sprang into her mind, but slid back down into its depths just as quickly. Jack’s eyes weren’t perfect. They didn’t even match. Their brilliant green and blue drew her into his lies, deceived her. They weren’t perfect and neither was he.
But this harpist was. She blushed, her cheeks fiercely hot.
Gently, he took her hands. Though cold, his touch sent shudders of warmth through her, an unexpected reaction that left her stunned. His gaze probed hers, pushing smoothly past her defenses, seeing all she had hidden away. He saw the turmoil and grief that had brought her here, saw her guilt and regret, and understood it.
“Let me help you, Jenny,” he murmured. Slowly, carefully, he used the handkerchief to clean the cuts on her arms, to soothe her skin.
But once finished, the handkerchief laid aside, he didn’t stop touching her. Fingertips traced chill lines from her temple to her jaw, marked the curve of her neck and paused at the hollow in the base of her throat.
She swallowed, found her mouth dry as sand and opened it for more oxygen. Her tongue moistened her lips and his mirrored hers. He played with her hair and smiled. She couldn’t see enough of his smile.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Beautiful maid, fear me not. I can make the pain leave. The pain in your body and the pain in your heart. I can take it away. Don’t fear me.”
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t afraid, even though her heart raced and he could surely feel the pulse leaping wildly where his fingers touched her neck. She felt her eyelids respond to his request and he pulled her toward him, even as she leaned in to his kiss.
The musician’s lips were as gentle as ripples lapping against her skin. She sighed as he pulled her still closer. His hand cupped the back of her skull, his fingers burrowing into her hair, knotting its length in his fist. His other hand closed on her neck, the caress tightening.
“Jenny, no!” A voice rang out from the forest. “He’s the queen’s harpist. He’s the Nix!”
Jack? She opened her eyes, tried to jerk back, but the harpist wouldn’t release her. His hungry lips pressed to hers and his eyes, wide open, gazed on her, terrible in their greed. He held her against him, locked to him, body to body, mouth to mouth. Blue light blossomed deep inside his eyes, unnatural and horrifying. The sound of the waterfall thundered in Jenny’s ears. She tried to scream, but her lungs could not draw the breath. Deep inside her something vital strained like taut tissue paper.
It held for a moment as she struggled to escape, her desperate eyes catching a glimpse of Jack sprinting toward her, his stone knife drawn, his face stretched tight in fury and fear.
It held for just an instant longer, one in which she realized that he would never reach her in time.
And then it tore.
As the river creature broke his kiss, some vital part of her was wrenched from her body into his. He flung what remained of her toward Jack. Her limp frame tumbled, unfeeling, into the long grass. It took a moment for her to realize she wasn’t falling. She just wasn’t there anymore. She was spinning in a void, lost and untouchable. Locked away, like a firefly in a jar. She was inside the harpist, trapped. He turned and dived into the water. She heard Jack scream her name, saw him gather her body in his arms, but she was far away now. Water roared around her. Water flooded her senses, drowned her, deafened her and blinded her. The harpist arced through the rive
r like a pike, down to the darkest depths, where she knew no more.
chapter fourteen
Puck came running from the trees, but Jack didn’t see or hear. He knelt over Jenny’s body, calling her name and rocking her back and forth. Though she still breathed, her consciousness was not there anymore. Jack knew it. A hollow ache followed the certainty, a pain so deep it seemed to be gouged inside him. This was his fault.
Puck gave a cry. He came up short behind Jack.
They had both seen enchanted slumber before. There was rarely a cure. Cursing beneath his breath, Puck closed his hand on Jack’s shoulder. He was trembling.
“What happened, boy?”
Jack opened his mouth and faltered. What could he say? He’d found her in the forest, hurt, bleeding, and he’d lost all control. The thought of her in danger, the thought of her hurt, of Puck hurt, of what the Kobold might have done…
Of Puck’s betrayal of them both.
Jack rounded on Puck now. “You—you set the course for these events. You betrayed me. Her. You went to Oberon.”
Puck shied back.
“You told the king.” Jack’s voice scraped along the sides of his tightening throat.
Puck paled, took another step back. “I had no choice, Jack. You know how it is. How he is. You could no more keep it from him than I could.”
But Jack hadn’t gone off in search of Oberon to greedily spill the tale of a May Queen in the forest. He’d been trapped. Forced to leave Jenny unprotected. Except for Puck, whom he had foolishly relied on.
And then the greenman, as Jenny called it, had run riot.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. A sound escaped his throat. He opened his eyes to realize he was clutching Puck by the arm, his fingers tightening. The hobgoblin’s eyes stared back at his, wide and shining, but he didn’t make a sound.
Jack released him and looked away. At the waterfall, at the forest, at anything but Puck. He finally raised his eyes to the hobgoblin’s, struggling to keep his gaze steady.
The Treachery of Beautiful Things Page 13
