Expelled from her prestigious boarding school following a violent incident, eighteen-year-old Lacrimosa Arriscane returns home in disgrace to discover her family on the point of financial ruin. Desperate to save them, she accepts a marriage of convenience… to Therion, the chthonic god worshipped by Lark’s isolated coastal hometown.
But when her betrothal goes horribly wrong, Lark begins to vanish from the mortal realm. Her only hope is to seek help from Alastair Felimath: the brilliant, arrogant boy who was her first heartbreak, and his alluring older sister, Camille. As the trio delve into the folklore of gods, Lark falls under the spell of the Felimath siblings.
Ensnared by a fervent romance, they perform a bacchanalia with hopes the hedonistic ritual will repair the connection between Lark and her bridegroom. Instead, they draw the ire of something much darker, which seeks to destroy Therion—and Lark as well.
The words echo through my mind like the ringing of the iron Saltswan bell. I feel as though I’m hallucinating again. I wait for the rush of pounding darkness, but this is strikingly, terribly real. My hands begin to shake; I close the book and press it to my chest. Thinking of smoke and chants and howls. The chamber at the bottom of the mine, the toppled brazier, spilled liquor, an echoing silence.
Alastair gently takes the book from me and sets it aside. “Did you know there’s a pivotal moment in The Neriad where Naiius—the hero—rages at the gods?”
I shake my head. “I only know the scene where Naiius goes into the forest; there was a Caedmon sketch of it in the gallery. It was an alternate panel for The Dusk of the Gods, but he never used it in the final version.”
Camille looks between us, her mouth twisted in amusement. “I can’t believe it,” she says to me with a teasing grin. “You’re almost as much of an embarrassing nerd as Alastair.”
But I’m trembling, my blood has become ice. “What does this phrase mean?”
“It’s an ancient idiom, and Naiius uses it in that scene. He condemns the gods to be gone—not just from the mortal world, but the chthonic realm as well. The Salt Priest at your betrothal has done the same to Therion. You can’t speak with him. He’s been banished. Permanently.”
I stare at Alastair, wishing hopelessly for a way to dismiss his conclusion. Even Camille looks stunned, the teasing smile wiped from her face. I knot my hands into the too-long sleeves of my brother’s shirt, thinking of the visions I’ve seen—Therion, trying to reach out to me. If he is truly gone, how could that be? “I don’t believe you, Alastair. I have to try to speak with him again. I have to know—”
Shakily, I pick up the obsidian mirror. I’ll take it to the altar in the grotto caves, sip from the chthonic liquor there, call to Therion just as I did on the day I promised to marry him. If that doesn’t work, I’ll go to the mine.
My fingers close around the handle of the mirror. The polished surface is flat and opaque, featureless as a becalmed sea. But when I touch it, the glass begins to ripple. A slow hum starts up within me, echoing against my bones.
I clasp a hand to my mouth. My fingers come away stained with indigo. Noise fills the room, a buzzing static. Pain spikes at my temples. It’s the same way I felt at the entrance to the mine when I touched the new salt. And I can’t let go of the mirror. I can’t move.
I sit as still as carved marble. The light around me darkens piece by piece. Alastair tries to take the mirror from me. I tighten my hold, the motion involuntary. He clutches my wrist as he tries to work my fingers loose from the silver handle.
“Lacrimosa,” he says, choked. His head bows forward. His eyes shutter closed. When he looks at me again, his irises are bright as amber. Like the eyes of a swan. Like the eyes of a god. “Lark.”
The world seems to speed and slow all at once. His features shift—boy to swan to god—the planed lines of Therion’s mortal guise slipping back and forth into Alastair’s features.
Distantly, I hear Camille crying out—but it’s as though she’s far away, back at Saltswan, calling our names from the library window. The space around me begins to soften. Like the world is melting away.
With a sound like an indrawn breath, water cascades into the room. It pours down the walls and covers the floor, rising and rising. I struggle, trying to stand up, but tangling strands of kelp are around my chest, my waist, my throat, trapping me in place.
Alastair leans over me. Everything is blurred and brushstroked, like we are in the heart of an oil painting. His teeth are clenched, his eyes bright as flames. In Therion’s voice, he says, “You are mine, Lacrimosa. I refuse to let you go.”
Excerpted from Tenderly, I Am Devoured, copyright © 2024 by Lyndall Clipstone.
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