I just saw her at the market. How contagious is this thing? “What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
No. “There must be something—”
“Go home, Rose. Stay in, and bar the door.”
“I can’t. Ma—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Leelah’s expression softens. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
My heart is pounding; my skin is burning under my dress. I have to think. What was it Leelah told me earlier? “You said the curse ended when the king found the cure. He could help us, right?”
She presses her lips together. Her gaze strays up to the ruins, high on the hilltop. “They say the king has the power to save us,” she admits. “But no one has seen him for years.”
I turn but the hilltop looks the same. There’s no palace, just a pile of gray-green rock and a thorny tangle of scrub bushes barring the way. “And he’s up there, right?”
“So people say. But he’s asleep. The only one who can wake him is an Omega. His perfect mate.”
“But there aren’t any Omegas. Is there any other way to reach him?”
Leelah shrugs helplessly. “I only know the legend. The love of an Omega will break the spell that binds him, and bring him to life.”
“Okay. Got it. Thanks.” I think I saw a Disney movie like that once. As a kid, I used to love that shit.
“It’s the only way,” Leelah says. “The village council have written to Medea City to petition the advisors who rule in the king’s stead. But they don’t have the power to stop the curse. Only the king does.”
“According to legend.”
“Yes.”
“But no one’s seen the king for years, and the only one who can petition him is an Omega… who doesn’t exist. Do I have that right?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Sounds like a super efficient form of government.”
“I suppose,” Leelah says, not getting the sarcasm.
There’s another Alpha patrol marching up the road. If I sneak out of Leelah’s garden now, I’ll be able to get to the river before they see me. “Thank you.” I hurry away.
“Rose? What are you going to do?”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I call, and wave. Pulling my hood up, I dart across the road. I crouch down until the Alpha soldiers pass, then continue down the riverbank.
The cliff topped with the rocky ruins looms up ahead, casting a shadow over the village.
This is crazy. There’s got to be more to it than some ridiculous legend about magic and curses and mythical unicorn Omegas.
The king has the power to save us, Leelah said. And at the core of all fairytales is a grain of truth.
“Hold on, Ma,” I say, dragging my forearm across my sweaty forehead. “I’m going to get help.”
I pick my way carefully along the riverbank, my mind made up. If the king has the cure, I’m getting it. No matter what it takes.
For Ma.
THREE
Rose
The path to the castle is lined with thorns. I pull my cloak tight as I power up the hill. The heat of the day is fading. I’m still hot, but less so. Moving helps. A strong floral scent is rising from my skin. It’s weird, but as long as I don’t break out into the rash that heralds the curse, I can deal.
All too soon, the worn stone path is completely blocked by towering tangles of the thick, greeny-black vines. They’re a million times worse than the baby tendrils growing in our garden. I duck and twist, fighting my way around them, but after a few feet the brambles are too dense, growing so close together, they choke out the suns.
If Leelah’s fantastical story is true, the king’s grief created this barrier between himself and the world.
“Newsflash, fucker.” I unsheath the giant knife I pinched from the kitchen and start slashing at the toughest roots. “This is nothing a weed-whacker can’t fix.”
After a few minutes of hacking and sawing, I’ve made some progress. Sweat is trickling down my neck, and my arm aches from the repetitive chopping motion. I take a moment to massage my sore bicep, and before my eyes, a pale green tendril sprouts from the nearest vine and grows to block my path.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I push the tiny shoot away. I’ve never seen a plant grow so fast. This isn’t right.
This is magic. A ghostly prickle runs up my spine. “No, it’s not,” I say. “This isn’t magic. There’s a practical explanation.” Bamboo grows pretty fast, right? But not that fast, a little scaredy-cat voice inside me whispers.
The vines crowd around me. When I rise to my tiptoes, I can barely glimpse the castle ruins, bathed in dusky light. The suns are setting. It’s already dark in the thicket. What will I do when night falls?
When I turn back around, I’m facing a wall of brambles. The wispy tendril I pushed aside has thickened, and ten more of its brother and sister vines have joined the fray. My little break cost me a bunch of progress, and if the vines keep growing around me like this, I’m going to be trapped.
I struggle, thrashing, slashing wildly at any vine within reach. This is what I get for believing stupid not-so-urban legends.
“Let me through,” I mutter, as if the vines are sentient. They’re acting more like fauna than flora, by Earth’s standards.
The thick stalks knit themselves into an impregnable mesh in front of me.
“Where’s an Omega when you need one?” I grumble. “Typical, fairytale bullshit.”
After a second to catch my breath, I press on, hacking at the vines.
“Only one true love can break the spell,” I mock. “Twue wuv. Mawage.” I spout the minister’s lines from Princess Bride. “‘Mawage is what bwings us together. And wuv, twue wuv… Shit!” My knife catches on a thorn and flips out of my hand. It goes end over end then plummets, almost skewering my foot.
“That’s more like it. None of those fairytales show the aftermath of the relationship. When you come home and catch him cheating with your best friend.” Something twinges in my chest and I rub it away. Am I speaking from experience? I reach for the memory, but it’s a shadowy blur. I get the sense that my relationships on Earth—at least some of them—ended badly.
I recover the knife and resume hacking in savage fury. I don’t care if I have to weed-whack my way up to the king’s door. I’m not letting Ma die.
When my arms grow tired, I stop chopping and just push myself forward, protecting my face with my hands and my makeshift machete. A prickly stalk trips me and I fall, clutching at the thicket to hold me up. My free hand catches on a vicious thorn.
“Fuck!” I shout, and drop into a crouch to inspect my torn palm. The thorn is as big as a railway spike, and sharp as a cactus tine. Blood wells up on my skin. I hiss and squeeze my hand into a fist to see if pressure will stop the bleeding.
It doesn’t. Blood oozes between my fingers and drips to the ground. “Fuck,” I whisper again. My earlier unease is turning into despair. I squeeze my eyes shut to fight back the tears, and try to breathe. But like the blood on my hand, a tear spills out.
I haven’t cried in… I don't know how long. I didn’t cry when I woke up on a strange riverbank, on a strange planet, with no memory of how I got there. I don’t really miss New York, or scrambling to make rent and find scholarships for med school. Sometimes I wonder what happened to my impressive succulent collection, but that’s about it.