Wicked is the Curse.

40 | To the woods

Chapter 40 | To the woods.

"You look tense," The Pretender eased, smiling indulgently. "Relax."

Her honeyed words soothed over Aire's muscles like a , sinking deep. She shivered at the feel of it, tongue-tied for a long moment as her body lulled into a moment of blissful calm. The wind continued to howl. Aire blinked gormlessly at the Pretender; her hands were lax by her sides.

"Good," The Pretender soothed, as if calming a squalling infant. "Relax."

Warmth loosened her aching limbs. It slipped down her back and her legs, her legs that had carried her so far, threatened to buckle – if only for her body to be cradled by snow. How nice would it be to relax. The snow was so soft.

Aire swayed. Sloane took a step forward and the sound of crunching snow broke through Aire's lull. As if speaking with a mouth full of thorns, Aire spat out, "You are not my sister."

"But I must be, Aire." She sounded so sure, and those words were so warm and buttery that doubt trickled in like a disease. Aire's conviction, forged from iron, trembled. Seconds ticked by and the Pretender's face distorted. A stronger nose. A heavier brow. That wheat-gold hair glimmered, brightening into the full gleam of a full moon. "I have missed you dearly."

Aire blinked, shaking her head.

The image remained.

Pain, grief, tore at her chest. And I have missed you. The words pinched in her throat. The pain helped clear her mind. The hair was too silver, too un-natural. Nothing glowed as bright as the moon.

"You are not," Aire said, even as the image clung like spider-webs. Speaking it aloud helped. "You are not Ríona."

Briars snaked from the snow, briars sliding from the rumpled snow that had been marked by footsteps and speckled with blood. The woman before her blurred. Ríona. Eimile.

Pretender. High Queen.

Briars snaked around Aire's ankles and the bite of long thorns into her skin shook her confusion. Aire stood straighter. "You are not the High Queen."

Those briars reached for the Pretender. The barbs were sharp, but the rot stayed beneath her skin. For once, listening to her command.

"Sloane," The Pretender's command was like a whip. "Protect your Queen."

For a second, Sloane seemed to resist. Aire watched as a sliver of panic crossed the Pretender's face as briars stuck into her boots and Sloane hesitated behind her.

"Sloane," the Pretender was harsher this time. "Protect me."

Aire forced her lax body forward. The Pretender's mouth was her most dangerous weapon and if her mouth could not work, then her vile words could not warp minds. Gaela was a half-sight, melting into the snow around her. Aire struck the Pretender hard, the heel of her hand cracking into the Pretender's nose.

Aire felt the nose give under her blow. Briars held her legs tight and unable to reel back, the Pretender fell onto her arse.

"You are not Ríona Aryshalin."

Aire stood over her. Briars seized the Pretender's wrists. The thorns cut into her skin. Aire's hair whipped around her, a while halo of moon-silver hair. Something welled inside of her, fear and freedom. Finally, someone saw her for who she was. Even it was the Pretender and Sloane.