To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

I’m going to die.

Baze’s sword whistles through the air, nicking my shirt and sending me stumbling down The Plank—the felled tree that stretches from one side of the deep, ashen pond to the other. His follow-up jab has my foot sliding too far to the side, and my arms windmill.

The glossy water may look serene, but the lofty marshes circumnavigating the lagoon are a fence that contains the sinister truth. Something I’m trying not to think about as I totter on the ball of my right foot.

I find my center of gravity and fall into a crouch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples.

“Orlaith, focus.” Baze points his wooden sword at me. “A little blood is no excuse to slack off.”

I doubt he’d have the same attitude if his dick was bleeding.

“You’re not playing fair,” I rasp, unfurling like an emerging fern frond ... though nowhere near as glamorous.

His eyes widen, upper lip peeling from his teeth.

I shuffle back.

“And you’re not shielding yourweakness.” He makes another dextrous stab for my innards, but I leap out of reach. “And I’m playing more than fair. I didn’t make you wear a blindfold, though I have one on hand in case you continue to move like molasses,” he purrs, donning a sharp smirk.

“I am not moving like molasses!”

“Are too.”

I hiss, bounding forward, swinging so fast I nick a hole in his shirt. I smile, reveling in the win ... forgetting my flank is wide open until his sword collides with my ribs, knocking the air out of me.

My foot slips and the last thing I see before I strike the surface of the pond is Baze tipping his head to the sky.

The water snatches me with an icy grip, the stark chill of it shocking my lungs and almost convincing me to suck a breath. I kick, sword still captive in my closed fist, legs churning.

This pond isn’t like the ocean. It’s not salty and swirling and home to my best friend. It’s still and stagnant and it smells just a little bit like dead things.

I break the surface and gasp, dashing a slimy piece of weed off my face, caught in the crossfire of Baze’s cutting glare. “Help me up!” I shriek, trying to ignore the splashing sounds that certainly aren’t coming from me.

“Did you keep hold of your sword?” he drawls, as if we have all the time in the world.

I wave the thing above my head.

“Lucky ...” He crouches, watching me with a bemused expression. “But really, I should make you swim to the edge for leaving yourself so open.”

Something brushes against my foot.

“Hand!” I squeal, and he finally reaches out. I lunge forward, grasp his palm in mine, and curl my legs as he hauls me free of the frightening water and plonks me on the log.

I gulp air, sodden hair an anchor down my back.

Baze kneels, features hard, eyes frosty like the ground on a stark winter’s morning. “That was sloppy, Orlaith.”

“You almost left me for selkie bait,” I sputter.

He frowns. “You do that in a real battle and you’re dead. It won’t be a wooden sword smacking you in the ribs. It will be a very real, very metal one sliding through your heart.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because this”—he gestures to me with a bat of his free hand—”is not the girl I’ve been training for the past five years. I know you’re still getting used to the new sword, but that was a novice mistake I haven’t seen you make since you were seventeen.”

I hate every word coming out of his mouth right now, mainly because they’re so painfully accurate.

Rolling my eyes, I pluck a piece of weed from my hair and lob it at the pond that’s now deadly still.

Toostill. I swear I can feel countless pairs of eyes assessing me as the wounded prey I certainly smell like.

“You’re awfully haughty for a man with a black eye,” I mutter, glancing toward my freshly planted willow, hunting for happiness in its shooting branches.

Nothing.

Baze pushes to a stand, casting me in the long line of his shadow. “This isn’t about me, Laith.”

“And my care factor is at an all-time low.”

“I can tell. Is it because you kissed the Ocean Drake?”

I turn so fast I almost lose my balance. “How do you kno—”

“Is that why you’re out of sorts?” he continues, brow so arched it’s almost hidden behind the mess of hazel hair hanging over his forehead. “It’s the tail, isn’t it? Or maybe his pretty scales? Some girls like shiny things.”

“You’re an ass,” I spit, cheeks burning.

“That’s not very nice,” he drones, wearing a frown that does nothing to hide the glimmer in his eyes. “I just saved your life.”

If looks could kill, he’d be selkie chow, and I’d be free to go check the nabber and gift Shay his first mousy meal in days.

“You’re the one who told Rhordyn, then?”

He shrugs. “Rhordyn doesn’t really need me to tell him anything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly that.” He gestures for me to stand, and I groan, pushing up, a little light-headed from blood loss and certain I’m about to slip straight back into the pond without the slightest bit of coercion. “Now, left hand.”

My shoulders and heart drop in unison. “But you know that’s my weak one. And I’m bleeding.”

“Correct.” He jerks his chin, and I reluctantly trade hands. “Let’s pretend it’s from your arm and not your”—his gaze darts down, then up again as he clears his throat—”nether regions.”

I nearly drop my weapon and cost myself another chilly dip in the pond of death to retrieve it. “How about I stab you in the crotch so we’re equally disadvantaged—”

He strikes too fast for me to trace, but I move on pure instinct and slide back.

“That’s it.” A lopsided grin curls his lips and rinses me with rapture. It’s the one that breaks across his face whenever he’s semi-proud of me, and I live for it.

He strikes again, but I arc to the side, and his sword breezes past my ribs. His next move is swift—a brutal shot for my neck—but I manage to defy gravity and swerve the attack, ducking low before I shift all my weight onto one foot and kick the other out ... straight at his feet.

He goes down hard, his splash so boisterous I’m sure every selkie in the pond heard it.

My smile is smug, sword swaying through the air as I stare down at the churning water. After a few seconds, he breaks the surface, eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them.

Embracing the log with one long arm, he reaches his other out to me. “Quick, before they eat me.”

I roll my eyes and extend my hand, then realize his own is empty ...

“Wait, where’s your sword?”

His mouth pops open, then he’s launching up, snatching my hand, yanking—

I fly through the air.

The cold water is just as unmerciful the second time round. Just as daunting—rife with the threat of pin-like teeth that latch onto your vulnerable bits and shake.

I break the surface, gasping, both hands empty.

“You fool.” My gaze snags on what appears to be a pale rock breaking the surface not too far away, wearing a wig of brown waterweed.

It’s deadly still ... at least until its large, inky eyes blink open.

“Now we have to swim to the edge,” I hiss, watching the slitted nostrils on the selkie’s flat nose flare.

“And fast,” Baze mutters, luring me to glance in the direction he’s looking—seeing six, eight, twelve more heads break the water’s surface and cast their gloomy eyes on us. “Seems they’re attracted to the scent of blood ...”

“But what about our swor—” My heart leaps into my throat, clogging my spill of words as they dunk below the surface in unison.

Selkies ... they attack from beneath.

“Forget the fucking swords,” Baze grates out. “Our toes are more important.”

He churns toward the reeds, leaving me choking on the wake of his double standards.

If it were just my sword, he’d have me underwater, hunting through three feet of muck while fending off the swarm with my bare hands. Big commitment for a sword I’m not particularly fond of.

I take off after him, all too happy for it to stay down there and rot. Fingers crossed the next pair Baze pulls out of his ass is made of a softer, less strident wood ...

A girl can hope.