Home > Surrender : A Lily of the Valley Novella

Surrender : A Lily of the Valley Novella
Author: Evie Kent

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Surrender

 

 

Snap!

My head shot up at the breaking of a tree branch. Something sturdy, rough, alive. It was a purposeful noise, hardly accidental damage caused in passing; the herd of white-tailed deer that called Harper’s Grove their home was down in the meadow this evening, munching on grass and wilting wildflowers. Fattening up for the impending winter.

Winter.

I swallowed thickly, my whole body still, tense. Was it that time of year already? Had the seasons slipped away from me so swiftly, like fine sand through my fingers? With a soft sigh, I abandoned my lengthy examination of a smattering of maitake mushrooms—Grifola frondosa, Hen of the Woods. They made their homes on the rootstalks of dead oaks. The one before me was ancient, a creature worthy of a far grander funeral than a proliferation of mushrooms.

Snap.

Another branch. Not a twig, not something fallen crushed underfoot. A shiver crept down my spine, slow and cautious. When it reached the base, it skittered outward. Little jolts of adrenaline tickled my core, eliciting a rush of telltale goose bumps along my bare arms.

It couldn’t be…

The climate had been so fair this season, kissing every inch of my woodland territory, blessing it. It had been an easy summer, hot but not humid. Sunny. Harper’s Grove, my beloved forest, had sucked it all in—the heat, the sun, the blissful summer breezes—and now, with the snap of a tree branch, possibly a maple, she exhaled it all out.

Snap. So much closer now. Eight, maybe ten feet away. Behind me. His gaze scorched across my back, coaxed the hairs on the nape of my neck to rise.

So. It was time, then.

Fingers trembling, I closed my notebook with its handwoven case, its yellowing parchment, a year’s worth of diligent notetaking set aside for the time being. I tucked it into my wool bag, the one that hung off my shoulder each day, lost in the plentiful layers of soft pink chiffon that spilled down my legs like my favorite waterfall. A constant companion, my trusty satchel—forgotten, for now, until I could return for it.

After all, it would only slow me down.

My pointed ears twitched ever so slightly at the whisper of boots over the earth. The gentle crush of leather and metal, foreign to this grove, to the dirt, the undergrowth, the peeking tree roots—save but once each year. Familiar footfalls signaled an unwelcome arrival, and I steeled myself for what was to come.

Fallen leaves crunched in long, even intervals, forcing my gaze to dart about—to the dusting of sunset orange and ruddy copper littering the forest floor, up to the greenery clinging to its branches. Greenery that curled at the edges, touched by decay.

All signs pointed to it—the descent into darkness, the change in the seasons, the rise of the wicked.

And now he was here, the shadow over my shoulder, inching ever closer. I needn’t look to see it, a reaching hand adorned with rings, black-tipped fingers cursed by magic. Still as a hare who’d sensed a lurking predator, I waited. I counted the steps. I stared down at the mushrooms. A harsh breath sounded behind me, a sharp exhale—so close, right… there…

My heart launched into my throat as I shot up, darting around the dying oak, my bare feet strong and calloused, accustomed to traversing the terrain. If he wished to catch me, me, a mistress of flora, a fairy of the Seelie Court, then he would have to sprint. He would have to push himself as hard as he dared—and then some.

Harper’s Grove blurred around me, a cool wind whipping through my hair, my skirts, skimming over my rosy cheeks. I zipped around logs and stones, avoided the thorny grasp of dry underbrush. Not a thing here would slow me, for this was my home and he was the stranger.

Behind me, the shadow crashed through the landscape—graceless as a human, noisy as a troll. Branches broke. Thorns caught. Fabric tore; he cursed, his rough timbre shattering the evening’s serenity, rousing a dozing owl in a nearby spruce. She hooted indignantly, and a little smile touched my lips; I couldn’t agree more. Typical man, thundering about, ruining the peace and quiet.

Only this man sought to do more than ruin the peace of my grove. So, so much more…

I needed to find my willow. Older than the dead oak, it was the largest tree in the forest, the only one of its kind. Around its base, a fairy ring in the grass. In its trunk, a gateway between worlds. If I could reach it, I could pass between this one and my own—back to the Otherworld, back to the court I called home. Not that I had a true place in the court; a fairy of no noble ancestry, I proved my worth in knowledge, experience. A botanist, an expert in all things green and growing. A shepherd of the forest in the human realm.

And tonight… a sacrifice.

Around the bend, along the trickling stream, across the felled birch—my willow tree. Eighty feet tall and thriving. Touched by fae magic, it warmed my insides, settled my racing heart, fueled my legs to pump harder. He had fallen behind, the man, unable to keep pace with me. Willow branches speckled in little green leaves swayed and whispered in the wind, beckoning me home. Almost there. So close. Almost—

I shrieked when something snared tight around my ankle. Reaching, grasping, clawing hands shot up from the earth, made of dirt and grass and moss. They coiled around my left foot, stopping me so abruptly that I stumbled, then snaked around my right, trapping me in place. My breath quickened for the first time since I’d heard that initial branch snap. My heart thundered again, beating fiercely, defiantly against its cage, and I ducked down, panicked fingers ripping at the restraints.

To no avail.

For this was magic—dark magic. My eyes narrowed, heat storming in my chest. Dark magic in my forest, a forest I’d spent a full century healing and nurturing. He dared—

I squeaked when the ground swallowed me, dirt scrambling up my bare calves, leaving no hope for escape. Clever man. Horrible man.

Warlock.

He strolled toward me now, his breath somewhat ragged, and even with my back to him, I could sense his smile. No, a sneer. Victorious, smug, patronizing, handsome. I pictured it well in my mind’s eye, the arrogant lift of his lips, an expression to haunt my dreams.

Ahead stood my willow, around it the faint golden shimmer of my fairy circle. Its branches fanned out, brushed the ground and swayed to torment now, so close, yet so desperately out of reach.

Teeth gritted, I tried to free myself, tugging under my knees, wiggling my toes. His magic held firm, cold and hollow against my skin. I stilled when he stopped behind me, so close the hum of his presence tickled the back of my neck, threatening to go lower, to delve beneath my loose bodice, to dance along the jeweled belt around my waist. Mustering my dignity, I straightened, substantially shorter than him now that the earth had taken me, and then rolled my shoulders back. Never would I cower before him. Never.

“Hello, Ríona.”

My hands fisted at my sides, some of the white-hot fury in my chest delving into my belly, between my thighs. I so hated how he said my name, how he claimed it for all the grove to hear.

Ree-in-ock. A rolled r. Emphasis on the last syllable, something that should be soft as a sparrow’s wing so severe on his tongue. He caught his breath quickly, yet roughness clung to his words. Harsh and deep. Gravelly. Dangerous.

Fear roiled in my gut.

Fear, anger, dread…

Desire.

I despised each one for the power it had over my mind, my body, but I loathed the last most of all.

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