Page 29 of Into the Heartless Wood
Saved you from my sisters and the wood.
I did not want my sister to kill the child.
A deep, dreamless sleep. A dawn I thought I would never see.
What would you call me then, Owen Merrick?
I would call you Seren. Star.
The brief touch of her fingers as she stole the memories away. The violets on the windowsill to remind me I had forgotten.
Searching the wood for her, without really understanding why.
Her hands, one viselike on my arm, one pressed brambly against my mouth, shoving me into the oak. Letting it eat me.
I don’t understand.
I try to count the seconds I am frozen like sap in the heart of the tree. But terror claws behind my eyes and I feel myself sliding away.
Then comes a wrenchingcrack.
I tumble onto sweet grass, into the gray light of the burgeoning dawn. I sob for breath, choking and gasping, convulsing on the ground until my head has convinced my body that all is well. I live. I breathe.
Her silver feet are a handbreadth away. I look up to find her watching me, her eyes impassive. They are not quite the yellow I remember—they are the color of amber, of honey. There are dark marks on her arms, like someone took a knife to her. Violets bloom bright in her hair.
“My sister,” she says. “Just ahead of you on the path. I could not let her see you. She would have devoured you whole.”
I blink at her, still gulping air.
“I did not mean to leave you so long. I had to be sure she was far from here before I let you out again. You are a fool, to wander the wood alone.”
I try to stop my hands from shaking as I push myself to a sitting position. I’m too winded yet to stand. “Thank you,” I manage. “For hiding me.”
She tilts her head to one side like a curious bird. “I am glad the oak did not kill you.”
My staggering relief evaporates. “Couldit have?”
“My mother’s trees are powerful. It could have squeezed your heart and eaten your soul, as easily as I could.”
I’m still struggling a little to breathe. I gulp air, not foolish enough to think I’m even remotely safe with her. “And will you? Eat my soul?”
Her face goes blank, cold, more tree-like than I have ever seen it. “I should have killed you when first I saw you.”
“But you didn’t. You saved me. You saved Awela, too—you didn’t let your sister take her. Why?”
I remember the answer she gave me before. I try to reconcile it with the brutal monster who slaughtered all the passengers on the train:I heard her laughing in the wood. I did not want my sister to silence it.
To my utter shock, the siren crouches beside me, so we are eye level with one another. Her leafy hair is tangled, messy, and the wounds on her arms are deep, barely clotted.
“You offered your soul for hers.”
“Awela is my sister. I love her. Anyone would have done the same.”
The siren shakes her head. “They would not. Humans beg for their own lives. Not for others. I have seen it. Again and again.”
Memory flashes through my mind: the sound of screams and breaking bones; blood on silver hands. I remember what she is, and am suddenly aware of her nearness. She could crush me like a gnat. I push myself to my feet, put distance between us. I stand well clear of the oak.
She rises, too, steps past me. I draw a sharp breath: A large patch of her silver-white skin has been stripped from her left shoulder, halfway down her back, exposing raw, pulpy flesh the color of sap.
