I look down and drag a finger across the mark, assessing the shape, the depth of the injury that would have caused such a thing. Three smaller marks form a semicircle around it—the design of the underside of a sword hilt, thrust hard enough to leave an impression behind.
With enough force to rip through skin, bone, and heart. A killing blow.
“I died?” I can barely contain my horror. Is that why I was in the ground? Then what brought me back?
A whisper at the back of my mind once more, as soft as a rustle of feathers. Accept. You must accept now.
The pixie’s impatient snort interrupts my thoughts. “Yes. Now can we get to the part where you give me a damn hug?”
I almost smile, but then another voice brushes across my mind, quick as a heartbeat. A young woman’s words, filled with grief: I can’t heal this. I blink back the sting of tears at that. “How long have I been dead?”
The pixie’s hands fist at his sides as if he’s resisting the urge to touch me. “Two months, nineteen days. I’ve kept count.”
Two months, nineteen days. And I can’t recall any of that time, or my life before that.
I search my mind again, and all I can grasp are impressions, remnants of profound joy and grief. Of chasing monsters through the night. Of intimate touches and whispered promises. Nothing that tells me who I am, or how I came to be in a forest, surrounded by miles of dead trees, with no memory.
I lower my blade and slide my fingers down my bare, blood-and-dirt-coated arms. As if I would find the answers there. As if everything should suddenly become so clear.
Nothing.
Beneath the grime is smooth, unblemished skin. And yet . . . that seems wrong. I may only remember fragments, but my fingers recall the feel of uneven skin, marred with half-moon marks. The shape of teeth. Dozens and dozens of bites that speak of loss and loneliness.
“I can’t remember,” I whisper.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” the pixie says. He plants his hands on his hips. “Do you remember dying?”
“No.”
“How you got those freaky eyes?”
“No.”
“How you gained the power to level a whole forest?”
I let out a small laugh despite myself. “Still no. Listen—”
“You remember me, right?” the pixie bursts out. When I shake my head, his face falls. “But . . . I’m Derrick. I lived in your closet. You’re my companion.” He waves his hands frantically. “I made your dresses!”
I frown down at my dress. “You made this?”
Now Derrick looks insulted. “No, I did not make that. That is hideous. I made you things with ribbons and flounces and you looked like you belonged on the top of a fancy cake.”
When I just blink at him, he takes my moment of uncertainty to fly over to me. Then, before I can even protest, Derrick is tangled in my hair.
I almost push him away. I open my mouth to tell him, Stop touching me, because I’m starting to feel things. Too many things. Killing is easy, it’s instinctive. It doesn’t require thoughts or memories or regret over my empty mind. It doesn’t come with a name that’s more like a burden.
Then the pixie’s hands slide through the strands of hair just behind my ear, his cheek presses briefly to mine, and I can’t say the words. Each touch is enough to break through my violent urges to speak to the parts of me I’ve forgotten. Something in me that knows he’s doing this to make sure I’m really here. Alive.
How long have I been dead?
Two months, nineteen days. I’ve kept count.
One inhalation, another, as he breathes in my scent. Derrick frowns. “You smell different.”
His wings fluttering against my skin are so utterly familiar that I shut my eyes. My body relaxes. All my fighting instincts and roaring power are calmed by the immediate comfort his scent and touch brings, a sense of home. I can’t help but reach up to stroke his wings. I’m home. I’m home. He’s my home.
“What do I smell like?”
“You, but not.” Derrick sniffs again and scowls. “I don’t like it. It reminds me too much of—” He presses his lips together, the halo around him flashing crimson.
“Now, now,” I say gently. He looks upset, and something tells me an upset pixie is never a good thing. But I have to know. “You can’t start a sentence like that and not end it.”
“Fine,” he bites out. “You smell like him.”
I suddenly find it painful to swallow and I don’t know why. “Him?”
Derrick’s wings are fanning gently, his jaw tight. “There’s a lot you’ve missed. Let’s save that conversation for later. I just got you back.” He looks me over, pausing at the mix of soot and dirt on my face. Suddenly, his light goes dim and he looks stricken. “Oh, god. Please don’t tell me you’ve been wandering around all this time—”
“No,” I say quickly. Then, more quietly: “I came out of the ground and couldn’t remember how I got there.” And there was no one there to remind me. “You didn’t leave me behind?”
Derrick’s shocked eyes meet mine. “Of course I didn’t—” Then he realizes what I just said. “You came out of the . . . ? Bloody hell. Bloody hell. No wonder you pointed that sword at me. No one else was here except those goddamn Unseelie.”
Now he’s prodding my temple with his wee fingers, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head when you came back?” Derrick asks, all concern now. “You humans have very fragile heads. Your brain isn’t about to leak out of your ears, is it?”
I wince when he touches a shallow cut along my hairline where a branch must have snagged me while I was running. “Um. I don’t think so.”
“Good. Can you count to five?” He waves a hand in front of my face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I pull away. “Stop that. I’m not an idiot and I don’t have a visual impairment.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know?” he asks, clicking his tongue. After another minute of inspection, he says, “The good news is, you have no serious injuries and your head isn’t broken. Congratulations.”
“And the bad news?”
“You came out of the ground, you don’t have a memory, and you’re standing there staring at me like a fuddled sheep. Also, you smell. Just a bit.”
I glare at him. “Any other helpful observations? Theories about why I can’t recall anything?”
Derrick pulls back, tapping a finger against his lips. “I’ve never heard of someone coming back after being dead as long as you, especially not one who didn’t have a body to return to. That, and your fragile human brain, is probably to blame for the memory loss.” He snaps his fingers. “I know someone who can help you.”
“Who?”
“Aithinne, of course.” When I just stare at him, he sighs. “She’s the Seelie Queen. She talks a bit like she’s outrageously drunk most of the time, but she’s harmless unless she wants to kill you. But first things first.” He motions to the bodies at our feet as if I should know what to do with them. “We need to dispose of these. Quickly. We’ve spent too much time here as it is.”