Aris
FIFTEEN MINUTES HAD PASSED SINCE PERCY HAWTHORNE FLED. Fifteen long
minutes that stretched like an eternity when Aris knew his wife was waiting for him. He would have given anything to be with her for every second of the pain she was suffering, but for her sake, this was something he had no choice but to do.
Aris crossed through the moors beyond Thorn Grove. The Hawthorne boy had stolen a horse and disappeared into the woods bordering the estate, seeking refuge near a quaint cottage. Trailing his finger across one of the thousands of gossamer threads woven through these woods, Fate learned that the cottage had recently belonged to Charlotte Killinger, a young lady Percy once thought infatuated with him, as he’d wrongly believed about a myriad of women.
“Charlotte cannot help you,” Fate whispered against the black night. There was little moonlight as he made his way into the forest, though the cottage itself was situated in a small clearing where silver light slipped through bare branches. “She no longer lives here.”
A wry stallion that tried biting at Aris as he approached the cottage was all he noticed at first glance. Its reins were fastened around a tree, the knot hasty. On those frostbitten limbs of his, Percy wouldn’t get far without a horse.
With each step forward, Fate ran his fingers along threads that only he
could see. Threads that showed him the weaving of the world, all a place had been and all it was to become in this lifetime. He saw those who’d lived in this cottage. Felt the beating lives of the trees as he watched every soul that had traversed them. He saw Lillian and Elijah Hawthorne journeying into the forest’s depths as he gifted her a garden that would become one of her greatest loves. Saw a heartbroken woman named Marjorie Hargreaves mourn the loss of her son. He turned his head and the vision changed to Signa Farrow on horseback as she rushed toward a fire, then to Blythe arm in arm with Charlotte as they took a turn about the grounds.
He saw Percy, too. Saw how often he’d crept through the shadows to steal the belladonna berries. Saw his nefariousness unravel, premeditated. Most importantly, though, Aris saw where Percy was hiding now.
Percy Hawthorne was not a boy who deserved to live. But Aris was no bringer of death, especially when his wife had bestowed a blessing, accidental or not. But death was not the only way to ensure that this monster never again showed his face to the Hawthornes.
“You cannot hide.” Aris was every bit a predator as he sauntered toward a well situated on the outskirts of the property. “Not from Fate.” He plucked a blueberry from a thriving bush and popped it into his mouth, sensing his wife’s touch upon it.
Perfect. It was perfect.
Situating his elbows on the worn stones of the well, Aris stretched forward to peer down into its dark abyss. Percy was clutching a ladder with hands that shook so fiercely Aris wondered whether he might break it. The legs of Percy’s pants and boots were in the water as he curled against the ladder, trying to make himself as small as he could against the shadows.
“Hello, Percy.” With his words, every glimmer of the stars and every ounce of moonlight swept toward Aris. He consumed them, skin aglow in light that beamed down. The boy winced, ducking against the sight. “Why don’t you come out of there?”
“You’re not him, are you?” Why Aris sensed even the slightest hint of relief in Percy’s voice was beyond his understanding. “You’re not—”
“Death?” Aris finished for him. At his back a million threads wove themselves around the well. “I am much worse.”
The only warning of Fate’s embrace was a darkening of his molten snare before his threads stretched down the well, forming shackles around Percy’s
wrists and neck. He did not yank Percy out; that would be too easy. Too quick. Instead, Aris took his time, relaxing against the stone as he lifted the boy inch by inch in a casual expenditure of power until Percy was on his feet before him, struggling for breath that Aris barely allowed him to have.
All the while, Aris kept his eyes locked on Percy’s. How unnatural they were. How hideous, just like the rest of him. “I never expected we’d have the chance to meet.”
Percy’s knees quaked. He let out a sound so pathetic that a better man might have taken pity on him. But Aris was no better man.
“Please.” Percy’s skin was as colorless as snow, the life leached from it just like his eyes. He was an abomination, and as he reached forward, Aris stepped back and brushed off his shirt before it could be fouled. “I never meant to—”
“Save your breath. I know precisely who you are and how much pain you’ve caused my wife.” Aris closed the distance between himself and Percy, setting his gloves aside so as to not soil them before he flattened his fingertips against Percy’s temples. One by one the threads surrounding him slackened, and as Aris pressed, they began to rework themselves.
If Blythe wanted her brother alive, fine. It wasn’t like Aris had any choice in the matter. But Fate was not kind, and he had no intention of changing himself any time soon.
“This world will never be charitable toward you.” Each word was as clear and precise as the next, not a warning but a curse. “You will not be pitied but reviled. All who see you will avert their stares and shut their doors to you. Never will you see any of the Hawthornes again, for you are to run far from this place. Run until your bones ache and your feet bleed, and then keep going. You shall never again speak with your sister or seek comfort from anyone you’ve ever known.
“You have no home,” Aris continued, his thumb grinding into Percy’s cheek as he held the boy’s face upright, forcing him to maintain Aris’s stare. “And you never will. You shall want for everything, yet you shall have nothing. You may not die for a lifetime more, but every day you will wish to. Every day you will ache and want to end the miserable life that you are hereby cursed to. And every night when you are thinking about those things, you will remember me. You will know that I am always there, watching you. And that, if I wanted to, I could make your life even worse.”
There was no cottage. No woods surrounding them. It was as if all the light in the world was solely with Aris, who shone with such luminance that Percy screamed as threads sewed his eyes open, forcing him to look upon Fate’s splendor.
“You will remember me,” Aris whispered, “and with every breath you will remember all that you have done to earn such a fate.”
Only then did the threads unravel, and Aris turned away to slip back into his gloves as Percy dropped unceremoniously to his knees. Aris cut a path toward the horse and had barely grasped its reins when he sensed Percy stirring behind him. Half blinded, the boy grappled for a rock that he tried to throw at Aris’s head. It would have been a painful blow—lethal perhaps, had it hit a human—but Aris never turned. His magic halted the rock, sending it flying back at Percy as he mounted the horse.
“Best of luck to you, Percy,” he said. “You’re going to need it.” And with a snap of the reins, Aris was gone.
