A trust that extended to me, we discovered when I tried to approach the loud one again. I half-expected it to gouge me with a talon. The harpy just kept its eyes on Oliver, who swung onto its sibling’s back, a male with dirty hair and huge wings.
Steeling myself, worried I was about to be bucked off and fall right into the sea, I climbed onto the harpy I was still petting.
It didn’t buck me off, but the creatures we’d chosen shrieked and fidgeted, unaccustomed to our weight. There was no time to let them adjust—the adults were nearly upon us now. Oliver directed his harpy with more gentle words, and since I didn’t share a weird, mystical connection with mine, I pressed my heels into its feathered sides.
The monsters abandoned their nest without hesitation. Without knowing if they could fly, much less with riders. There was something enviable about their complete lack of fear, even if part of it was due to stupidity. For a handful of breath-stealing, stomach-churning seconds, we were all falling.
But the wind caught the creatures’ wings, slowing our descent, pulling us upward. I started breathing again, and the four of us soared into the bloody horizon.
I felt what Gwyn must feel every time she sat atop her heavenly mount. Like my choices were limitless. Like I was truly free. And for an illogical moment, I wondered what it would be like to keep going. Fly into the distance and never think about the blood-filled life that kept taking everything from me.
The frantic cries of their parents ripped the sky in half.
I tore my gaze away from that burning skyline and searched for Oliver. A moment later, I found him already looking back, riding to the left and slightly behind. He inclined his head in a wordless question—once again, he’d already figured out what I planned to do. Or part of it, at least. The old Oliver would’ve tried to stop me or urge me to run, but this stranger simply waited for my answer.
Feeling warmer, suddenly, I just nodded. As one, we both signaled to our harpies. They turned willingly enough; they were too young to discern friend from foe.
We weren’t their enemies, anyway—Oliver hadn’t lied about that. I didn’t hurt children, not even pretend ones that lived inside my head.
But these harpies’ parents didn’t know that.
I tugged gently at the feathers along the nape of the harpy’s neck, and she understood, drawing up short in the air. Her wings flapped harder, struggling to keep us in place against the wind currents.
The adults reeled back, their expressions tight with fury and caution. I raised my voice to breach the distance between us. “Let us reach the beach in peace, and cause us no more harm once we’re there! Swear a blood oath to this and we’ll let your children go free.”
I didn’t press the talon against my harpy’s skin. Instead, I held the makeshift weapon off to the side. My meaning was still clear—I could have it across her throat in a single swipe.
One of the adults came forward, and I knew she had to be my harpy’s mother. The truth was in how she held herself, her face twisted with viciousness. I stared back, chin held high, unafraid. I had faced real enemies, and this creature was nothing compared to them. She was only a piece of myself. She was beautiful, in her own way. She was terrifying, too, but it was obvious she’d do anything for the ones she loved.
I knew this, because the harpy had just sliced herself open with her own talons. Blood dripped down her stomach and fell into the sea. Her wings flapped harder to keep her suspended.
“We will let you reach the beach in peace, and cause you no more harm once you’re there,” the mother snarled, sounding anything but peaceful.
There was one flaw in my plan—to complete a blood oath, I needed to cut myself and mingle my blood with the harpy’s. That was absolutely not happening, so my only hope was that, like the giants, harpies weren’t very intelligent. Nodding goodbye to the flock of furious parents, I looked away and steered mine toward land. Oliver followed my lead. We finished our journey unhindered, followed only by wind and rousing moonlight.
The second our feet hit solid ground, the creatures we’d been riding launched off the sand and flew frantically in the direction of their parents, who still hovered in the air where we’d left them.
“Well, goodbye to you, too,” Oliver muttered. He stared after the bird hybrids, wearing an expression of genuine puzzlement. “I really thought I’d bonded with mine.”
It was such an Oliver thing to say. A smile touched my lips at the thought, startling me, and I reached up to touch it. My mood became pensive.
As promised, the harpies had left us alone, so I turned to start our search for the memory.
Night was nearly upon us now, and there wasn’t a single star in the sky. Just roiling clouds and, beyond them, a deep and vast darkness. The air around us felt heavier, thicker. A storm was coming. My mom used to say that rain was a good omen, but something felt ominous about this one. Lightning flashed, making everything turn white, like the skin left behind by a newly-shedded snake.
“There’s not much here,” Oliver observed, turning to survey the length of the beach. I followed his gaze, and he was right—by all appearances, this place was just a lonely stretch of damp, rocky sand.
There was one part of it we couldn’t see, though. I waited until Oliver looked at me and then nodded at a cluster of stones. They rested on the line where grass met sand. “Let’s look behind that.”
He nodded back. Less than a minute later, we rounded the first boulder, and I faltered at the sight of a lone campfire.
Whoever made it must’ve chosen this spot because the rock provided some protection against the wind. But the flames still quivered and flattened in equal turns, struggling to survive against the relentless gusts that tugged at my own hair and clothes.
Oliver touched my arm, and I gave him an inquiring look. He nodded at something behind me. I turned around quickly, raising the talon in an instinctive movement. When I registered who stood there, I sucked in a breath. My hand lowered, and the talon slipped from my dazed fingers.
Mom and Dad came down the grassy slope, walking toward the fire.
Their faces were hard and somber. Mom held me in her arms, just as she had been during the memory from the cave, even though I was too old to be carried like that. There was a… looseness to the way I rested against her.
Giving in to the impulse, I moved closer to study my younger self. A frown weighted the corners of my mouth. I jolted when I saw that the other Fortuna’s eyes weren’t completely closed. Thin, white slits were visible through her half-cracked lids. It looked, I thought with a chill, as though her eyeballs had rolled back into her head. I kept staring, trying to pinpoint why I was so bothered by the sight. After another beat, a burst of intuition went off inside me like fireworks.
The younger Fortuna wasn’t sleeping. She’d been drugged.
Unease trickled through my veins, but there was no time to wonder why I’d been sedated—Mom’s attention shifted, looking at something inland. I followed her gaze.
More figures were coming down the hill, their clothes flapping like wings. I couldn’t see their faces until they drew close enough to the fire, allowing its light to flicker over them. Witches, I thought. There were no outward traits to support this, like the fae with their pointed ears or vampires with their hot skin, but I knew.
Every one of them was female, and there were nine in total. The number was significant—it was a multiple of three, which appeared often throughout the bible. Three was a number of magic. Power. Possibilities. Doubtless it was why I’d undergone three trials to obtain my queenship.