Her eyes trailed upward, following the strands of seaweed that were still damp — living and growing from the throne. The crystal chandeliers were trembling.
And then she saw Tav.
Tav blazed into focus, bright and hot and fierce. They were dressed in black and gold, and looked more like a mythical creature than a human with spiky hair. Eli could taste the steel on her tongue, and her human senses came flooding back. She was still invisible, still a ghostly figure of energy and intention. But she was also a lovesick girl missing her broken blade.
Eli had come here to save Tav, but she had been mistaken: Tav did not need saving. They were not the weak one. Proud in their vulnerability, burning with black-and-purple flames, the ghost of feathers following their footsteps, Tav was as terrifying as any of the witches.
What were they?
They were a god.
(Gods were stories humans told each other to make sense of the chaos and beauty that shaped and unravelled their pieces of dirt. Eli was often more human than she liked to admit.)
They opened a hole in you, Eli thought, hand going to her chest. They reached inside the Heart and survived.
Tav moved between worlds like it was nothing. They had channelled the power of the Heart. And now they danced with the Witch Lord as an equal. They — not Clytemnestra, not Kite, not Eli — held the power to heal or destroy worlds.
The Heart was drawn to them, to the fine bones of their wrists and the magic essence that was more like wings than honey. The Heart had always been drawn to them, but Eli thought it had been her desire that animated every touch, every look, every press of her skin against Tav’s. But maybe the Heart knew that only Tav could free it from its shell, from the broken husk of a weapon that no longer had a purpose.
What did Tav need Eli for? She was only a vessel for the Heart. A thing. No one. Pride struggled with fear as the invisible girl watched a god moving in a dangerous dance, every step an act of war, an elegant pattern of parries and lunges glittering with gold. Without the Heart, Eli would be no one again. A broken tool. A flawed weapon. She would never be powerful enough to be Tav’s equal. She needed to keep the Heart to deserve their touch, to be worthy of their love. Eli felt herself begin to fall, again, into to the endless cosmos of the Heart.
She was not a person, not a girl, not someone.
She was the light that the trees drank thirstily. She was the calcium in the stone. She was the decaying bones and flesh of dead animals rotting under the soil. She was —
Tav made a sudden turn, and Eli’s eyes fell on the Witch Lord, the rival god, the nameless horror who used made-daughters like windup toys and cast them aside when they were broken. The villain in the fairy tale.
She knew that face.
She had kissed that face.
She loved that face.
Kite.
Eli inhaled sharply, smelling blood and sea salt, and reality came rushing back in. Dizziness overwhelmed her body as she became suddenly and unbearably real.
The room wavered.
Ever-burning essences, floating heads, and thousands of eyes stared at the intruder standing in the centre of a black-and-white checkered floor.
Eli had materialized.
The moment before the witches descended, Eli felt a stab of regret at her mistake, at her arrogance for thinking she could control this body, for thinking that she had become invincible.
She had delivered the Heart right into the hands of the Witch Lord.
Sixty-One
THE HEALER
Tav felt Eli’s presence a split second before she materialized, her entrance heralded by a memory of crushed petals and honey. Tav saw Eli’s reflection in the glossy pearls that served as eyes in the Witch Lord’s face, saw the moment the serene mask twisted with hunger.
The Witch Lord was done playing with the mouse; she had a Heart to capture, and this time it would be harder than trapping a firefly in a jar. She let go of Tav and reached for Eli, her silverpinkgoldgreen essence pouring from her mouth like a swarm of silverfish.
Tav had never seen a witch extend their essence from their body; they knew they could shed their skin, but the process was painful and made them vulnerable. But the Witch Lord had magic that no one else did.
Tav did the only thing they could think of — they grabbed the Witch Lord’s wrist and pulled her back. The essence split over Tav’s body, shuddering away from a stray feather that had fallen from Tav’s hair and onto their shoulder.
It was afraid to touch them.
The essence re-entered the bluegreen nymph who still looked so heartbreakingly like Kite that Tav found it unnerving.
“You promised to eat me first,” said Tav.
“I’ll let you live if you bring her to me,” said the Witch Lord.
“No.” Tav’s grip tightened. They imagined their hand as a door closing shut over flesh and magic, trapping the Witch Lord’s body and essence. They imagined their fingers as the gears of a lock intertwining. There was no key. Their magic flared up, fusing to the Witch Lord’s, and iron shavings scattered across the floor.
The pearly eyes gleamed in the red light, and the Witch Lord smiled. Her wrist grew spines, and then scales, scratching and piercing Tav’s palm. But they held on. They were a closed door. A thousand tiny spiders appeared on the Witch Lord’s skin and crawled over Tav’s hand and up their arm. Tav held on, staring into the Witch Lord’s eyes.
Just a bit longer, they thought. Sweat stained their shirt, and their breathing was ragged. Just hold on a bit longer. Their shoulder blades started to itch horribly.
The Witch Lord’s hand
